Itsviviannnnn

Stage Lights & Stolen Glances - (Fluff/Romance/Comedy/Slight Angst)

Inspired from Disney series *my fave* (Sonny with a Chance) Sonny as you/reader and Jeon Jungkook as Chad Dylan Cooper.

Plot: Two rival TV shows: Laugh Out Loud (your comedy sketch show) and Heartstrings High (Jungkook’s teen drama). You’re bubbly, talented, and a little clumsy. He’s charismatic, cocky, and used to getting attention not until you start stealing it without even trying.

Parts: Story 1, Story 2, Story 3, Story 4 Bonus

2. Stay - (Angst/Drama/Mature themes/Fluff/Rated M)

Reader/Y/N x Jeon Jungkook

Parts: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8(Final), Epilogue, Bonus

3. Our Timing - (Fluff/Romance/Rated M/Slight Angst/Comedy/Poly/Slice of life/Drama)

Reader/Y/N x TaeKook x Jungkook x Taehyung

Parts: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9(Final)

4. The One He Can't See - (Drama/Angst/Slice of life/Romance/One sided love AU/Love Pining/Rated M)

Jungkook Seven MV inspired x Reader/Y/N

Parts: Part 1, Part 2(Final), Part 3(3D MV inspired), Part 4 (Cont.)

5. Aftermath - (Heavy Drama/Movie & Game inspired/Angst/Gore/Action/Thriller/Horror/Dark Romance/AU/Yandere/Silent Hill Creatures)

Silent Hill: Revelation inspired au which is my favorite horror movie/game💕❤️💖

Jungkook x Reader Y/N x OC x Taehyung x Jin x Yoongi

Parts: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7 (Final)

6. Shadows Between Us (Aftermath continuation/Part2) -

(Heavy Drama/Movie & Game inspired/Angst/Gore/Action/Thriller/Horror/Dark Romance/AU/Yandere/Silent Hill Creatures)

Silent Hill: Revelation inspired au which is my favorite horror movie/game💕❤️💖

Jungkook x Reader Y/N x OC x Taehyung x Jin x Yoongi

Parts: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, Part 12, Part 13(Final), Epilogue

Bonus 1, Bonus 2

7. The Boy Behind Walls - (Heavy Drama/Movie inspired/Angst/Thriller/Horror/Dark Romance/AU/Yandere)

Jungkook x Reader Y/N

Parts: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5,(Final)

8. Mine To Break (Season 1) - (Drama/Angst/Slice of life/Romance/Rated M/Heavy Smut/Rated M/Mature/R18+)

Jungkook x Reader Y/N

Parts: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Bonus 5 / Part 8 the final Season 1, Epilogue

Bonus 1

Bonus 2

Bonus 3

Bonus 4

Bonus 5 / Part 8 the final Season 1

Bonus 6

Bonus 7

Bonus 8

Extras/Friends Requests:

One Shots:

Somebody Like You

Crimson Vows

*I also have fanfics here: Asianfanfics feel free to explore🙂‍↕️ those are my first ff's too that I made way back there🥹🥹🥹 my root.

‼️I worked hard on this fanfic, so please don’t copy or plagiarize. If you’d like to share it, just link it back to me. 💜

When you graduated top of your class with a marketing degree and a job already lined up, you weren’t big-headed to assume you would be given a lot in the beginning. No, you knew that you were the new kid on the block and needed to prove yourself first, needed to work your way up from the bottom. But what you definitely didn’t anticipate was working up from thefigurative trenches, almost exclusively doing busywork—constantly making coffee runs, catering business lunches, printing out endless spreadsheets.

Eighty-thousand dollars in debt, and you are a glorified intern.

While you’re positively itching to hit the ground running and get your hands dirty, your job isn’t too bad. The people there are all nice and welcoming, the complimentary coffee in the break room is decent enough for your dwindling bank account, and every quarter the company sponsors an employee barbecue where everyone can fraternize and enjoy free food.

“Apparently it fosters unity and teamwork,” your coworker Joy informs you as you both stand in the food line. “Seokjin—that’s our CEO—is really big on unity and teamwork.”

Joy is also a member of your marketing team. Though friendly, she has zero filter and thus always has a lot to say about everything—which has helped you when it comes to learning the ropes about the company, but has also had you clutching your imaginary pearls in certain situations where you found her topic of choice inappropriate. 

Despite only being a year older than you, her title of Marketing Associate instead of your measly Assistant means that she technically outranks you, though she doesn’t usually enforce that fact (unless there was something that needed to be copied or filed, of course). Still, she immediately took you under her wing when you first started and is the closest person to a friend you have at work (even though her daily coffee order is always so ridiculous, you are convinced that she has to be fucking with you—or at least engaging in some form of mild hazing).

“I think it’s nice,” you reply truthfully. “I’ll never say no to free food, and they let us out early and everything.”

“I mean, pretty sure you can get the hotdogs twelve in a pack at the dollar store,” Joy quips, raising her eyebrows at you pointedly. “But sometimes the boys from Sales take their shirts off and play soccer, so there’s that.”

Your eyes dart to said Sales Boys against your will, gaze drawn to Jung Hoseok as he chats animatedly with his teammates by the tables. You’ve only spoken to him once or twice, but his fiery red hair and even brighter smile caught your attention immediately, your heart rate accelerating at the sight of him in hallways mere days into starting your new position. Who better to have a mild work crush on than a sweet-talking salesman who winks at you sometimes in passing?

An appreciative noise has you turning back around, embarrassed at being caught ogling how shapely Hoseok’s butt looks in his dress pants today, but it’s just Wendy from Accounting, Joy’s best friend and thus a harmless, familiar face. Wendy has cut in front of a few editors to join you and Joy, and the way that she smiles at you lets you know she’s up to no good. “He’s cute, huh?” she asks, leaning towards you conspiratorially. “I would definitely give him the good ol’ suck behind the dumpsters over there, if you catch my drift.”

“Err…yeah, I do,” you reply awkwardly. She had been explicitly clear—keyword explicit—so there definitely isn’t any room for misunderstandings. Is this truly appropriate work function conversation? From the way the editors behind you are politely clearing their throats, you think not.

“Behind the dumpster?” Joy asks curiously. “That sounds unnecessarily smelly. He’s standing right next to some sturdy tables that I, for one, would take great advantage of—”

“I’m gonna go get us some drinks,” you announce loudly, your neck heating up. “Can you grab me a hot dog, Joy?”

“Sure,” she says dismissively, already distracted by her sudden debate with Wendy about the most convenient place to suck off salesman Jung.

The whole conversation is making you uncomfortable. You are not a prude—far from it—but there is a time and place for everything, and your coworkers’ blasé attitude towards inappropriate topics at company functions on company time rattles you a bit. So instead of engaging in the risqué discussion further, you make your way to the cluster of brightly-colored coolers that presumably hold beverages, sidling up to the only other person lingering the area.

“Anything good?” you ask cordially, making your coworker, who had apparently been deep in thought while considering his beverage options, startle a bit.

He’s tall, his large frame covered in the appropriate business casual attire of nice jeans and a powder-blue button-up. When he turns his head to look at you, you’re met with large, dark eyes blinking in surprise from behind wire-rimmed glasses. Said eyes dart around for a moment before determining that you were, in fact, speaking to him.

The man clears his throat. “Just the usual,” he says, voice soft. Timid.

“The usual?” you repeat. There are little hoops dangling from his earlobes, and you brush off your surprise at seeing them, returning your gaze to the coolers. Water, a clear soda, a cola. “The basics, you mean. Well, can’t really complain, right? Seeing as it’s all free. I think it’s really nice of them.”

Your companion seems surprised at your words. “It is,” he agrees softly, eyes meeting yours for a second before dropping back down to the cooler. “Um, are you...are you new?”

“Damn, I guess my cover’s blown.” You shoot him a wry smile. “Yeah, I just started a couple of weeks ago. What gave it away?”

“It’s just—no one else here really cares about these barbecues anymore,” he admits, looking at you, but not quite. More like, in your direction. “Everyone has forgotten to appreciate the little things.”

“Nothing is a given,” you shrug. “So you need to appreciate things when you can. And besides, those lots of little things can really add up without you realizing it.”

He finally seems to look at you properly, and the weight of his large, gentle brown eyes throws you off for a second. “They can,” he agrees, lips slowly drifting up. 

“What do we have over here?” a loud voice interrupts, a hand falling to your shoulder. You look up, and are met with the brightness of salesman Jung.

“Ah,” Hoseok says with a wink, reaching into the cooler. “I love Sprite.”

“Me too,” you reply automatically, and then immediately want to smack yourself. Because you don’t—carbonated beverages make you break out. But your mouth had formed the lie without your permission.

Embarrassed, you reach into the cooler, grabbing three water bottles. “See you later,” you squeak, avoiding eye contact as you make your escape.

Joy and Wendy are already watching you when you return to where they have procured a table, and when you hand them their waters, Joy raises an eyebrow. “I was wondering how long you were going to talk to that IT guy.”

“Yeah, and why did you leave when Hoseok showed up?” Wendy pouted. “_____, the universe is only going to give you so many opportunities. If you don’t want the ball, then pass it to me! Goddamn.”

“IT guy?” you prompt, hoping to slide past that last remark.

“Yeah. His name is Jungkook, I think? Mostly works with the printers, started a couple months ago.” Joy shrugs, obviously disinterested by the topic. She reaches for the ketchup bottle in the center of the table and squirts some on her hot dog. “This is the first time I’ve seen him at a barbecue, though. Honestly, I’m surprised he even came out, because the IT dudes generally keep to themselves. They rarely leave their little tower,” she adds with a dismissive wave.

Wendy scoffs in disinterest. “Who cares about Jeremy! Hurry up and eat, I’m sure Sales is gonna start their soccer game soon.”

“Soccer game?” you ask distractedly. A glance back to the coolers shows Jungkook is gone, and you don’t see him in the immediate vicinity.

“The sales department likes to play soccer during these things,” Joy reminds you. Her expression brightens. “Hey, maybe Hoseok will take his shirt off again! Let us pray.”

To your coworkers’ disappointment, Hoseok did not take his shirt off. But they certainly had a good time watching his athletic display across the grass anyway.

Monday morning—the start of the workweek, but also, rather depressingly, the end of the weekend. Everyone tends to be more tired and grumpy on Mondays (yourself included), and this is why your team considers it essential that you always stop by their preferred coffeeshop and bring in their drinks for a morning pick-me-up. You’re the lowest on the ladder, so you weren’t exactly sure how to refuse when you were asked one day if you would mind picking up some drinks for everyone, and then, after that, people kept sending you their orders like it was expected of you. The café is technically on your way to work and everyone always pays you back, but it’s still pretty irritating to have to forgo those extra precious minutes of sleep just so you can beat the long lines and get to work on time.

Today, you’re lucky enough to get ahead of the morning rush, but that means that you end up trudging into the building much earlier than you anticipated. You hope the coffee’s insulated cups do their job properly, because you really don’t have the energy to listen to Joy huff and puff about having to reheat hers.

Your trek to your cubicle slows when you realize that someone is already there, sitting in your chair and typing away on your keyboard. Their back is to you, swathed in an olive button-up, and it’s not until you get close enough to curiously crane your head to see their face that you recognize him. The guy from the barbecue last week—the one by the coolers.

He startles a bit when he sees you approach in his peripheral vision, eyes darting up at you in surprise.

“Hi.” You raise the tray you’re holding in an awkward greeting. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to creep up on you.”

“That’s okay, _____,” he replies softly, wide eyes blinking a little from behind his round glasses. “I can get kind of spacey when I’m focused on something. I was just doing some updates on your machine and didn’t see you.”

“You…” Your head tilts curiously. “You know my name?” 

A small smile touches his lips as he points to your computer. “I’m updating your machine,” he reminds you.

Not to mention the fact that he’s literally sitting in your cubicle, you name tag clearly posted on the frosted glass that separates your space from Joy’s. An embarrassed chuckle leaves you when you realize your dumbass mistake. “Oh. Duh. Wow, that was a stupid question. Let me just get out of your way.”

“No, no, I’m clearly the one in the way!” His head shakes apologetically. “I couldn’t do this update remotely and I thought you didn’t clock in for another half hour—sorry about that.”

“I don’t,” you confirm. “But I tend to get here a little early so I can sort out everyone’s coffee order.”

A brow raises in surprise. “Do they really have you making coffee runs?” he asks incredulously.

You hmm in confirmation, moving to set the coffee on everyone’s desks. “Rite of passage, I guess,” you call over the divider as you work. Joy’s order today isn’t as over the top as you know she can be, but you were still rather embarrassed to order it (vanilla latte with oatmilk—one and a half pumps cinnamon, one pump hazelnut, an extra espresso shot and extra foam with honey drizzle). The barista had looked at you tiredly but hadn’t voiced her obvious judgement when she rung you up. 

“I guess,” you hear him say, but he doesn’t sound too convinced. 

Coffee distributed and hands finally free, you return to lean against your cubicle, hovering as he continues to quickly type and click. You look at him pointedly, a small smile creeping across your face. “Speaking of grunt work, I hear you’re the printer guy.”

His lips quirk. “I’m also the expert at updating Microsoft Word, just so you know.”

You laugh, and his eyes crinkle in amused response. “Oh, well excuse me, sir.”

“I’ll let it slide this once. Since you’re new.”

“And so are you. That’s why you’re the printer guy.”

He just lets out a puff of air that sounds suspiciously like a laugh. This close, you can now see the tiny holes that are trailing up his earlobe—he clearly has multiple ear piercings, not just the ones you saw at the barbecue. There is no jewelry in them now, though. 

“Jungkook, right?”

It’s his turn to look surprised, and you find yourself satisfied by the flush creeping up the back of his neck when he ducks his head in confirmation. 

“Us newbies gotta stick together,” you stage whisper behind a conspiratorial hand before leaning decidedly away. “Anyway, let me stop bothering you and go make some coffee.”

His eyebrows scrunch in clear confusion. “Didn’t you just bring some?”

“…Yeah, I am only just now recognizing just how bizarre this must seem,” you say sheepishly. “But none of those were for me—fancy specialty drinks aren’t really in my budget, so I tend to just brew a cup here.” 

“Did you say drinks?” a voice croaks, and when you turn your head, there’s Joy, walking towards the two of you. If her body’s sluggish movements weren’t enough to clue you in to the fact that she’s exhausted and possibly hungover, the designer sunglasses she’s wearing to tactfully hide half her face certainly do.

“On your desk,” you chirp as she walks past you without another glance. “Good morning!”

There is no response from the other side of the cubicle wall, and Jungkook frowns a bit, but you just give him a small shrug that translates to what can you do? before pushing off the wall to continue your trek to the kitchen. “You want one?” you offer. “I make a mean cafeteria coffee. Trial and error has taught me the exact temperature of tap water to use to make it taste less like sludge.”

His mouth smoothes back out at your joke, and though you wait for him to call you out on your ridiculous declaration, his gaze is already back on your computer. “No thank you,” comes his soft reply.

With a nod to yourself, you move to complete your task and leave Jungkook to work on his. When you return minutes later, newly-filled mug in hand, he’s already gone.

Today starts out pretty typically. After bringing everyone’s coffee, you settle into monitoring the company’s social media accounts. (When Joy first delegated this task to you, you were a bit confused, as social media is so vital to brands nowadays that handling it is technically a whole other full-time job. But it turns out you don’t have to do much above the intern level anyway—just answer customer questions and escalate issues if need be.)

Your manager has been out traveling for a week, but today she finally comes back to the office, and it makes for a nice change of pace when she hands you all of her scattered, hurriedly-scribbled notes and asks you to please transcribe them into something more cohesive and legible. Well, not nice, exactly (because at the end of the day, this is still busywork), but if you have to reply to one more Facebook comment with instructions that are clearly already on the product packaging, there is a pretty likely possibility you will scream. 

This is at least slightly less mind-numbing. Instead of copy-pasting things from a prewritten script, you get to try to make sense of what your boss had been trying to say when she wrote turkey club in the corner of a page filled with random numbers and dates. Was this important? Was it simply her plans for lunch that day? You and your fancy college degree have the pleasure of trying to figure that out while Joy and Alan, the web manager, get to actually do important things that are in their job descriptions.

Still, like every day, you try to dampen your frustration, try to keep a positive attitude. Because ultimately, this is an opportunity to grow your boss’s confidence in you, and that’s exactly what you want. Though you’re a little disheartened by all the busywork, you remind yourself it will all be worth it in the end. Your hope is that if you put in the time, you’ll eventually be trusted with more of the nitty gritty stuff. 

(You know…the stuff you actually got your degree for.)

But no matter how positive you are, things of course don’t go as smoothly as they should. After you’ve done a pretty fantastic job (if you say so yourself) of organizing and typing everything up, you send your manager the digital version. And, because you know the email may accidentally get buried in her inbox, you decide to print a physical copy for good measure.

You give the printer pretty simple, straightforward directions. One copy, double-sided (to do your part to save Mother Earth), the whole document typed in plain old black and white. But when you walk over, there’s nothing waiting for you in the printing tray. No humming to clue you in to the fact that the printer was working on your job. Nope. Instead, the admittedly ancient machine is quiet and still, and it stays that way for long enough for you to walk back to your computer to press the print button again, just in case you forgot to do so the first time. Still no dice. You frown, opening the paper tray to make sure it was full, then opening every other compartment that can possibly be opened to make sure there isn’t a paper jam somewhere.

Nothing.

Irritated, you stalk back to your desk, your first inclination to check with Joy and see if she has been having any of the same issues, but you find her chair empty. Probably got pulled into a meeting that they don’t find it necessary to loop you in on, even though it will ultimately be you who does all the grunt work for any action items the meeting produces.

Positive, you remind yourself, falling back into your chair and drumming your fingertips against your desk in thought. Maybe it’s not the printer at all. Maybe it’s your computer. You search your desk drawer for the introductory employee contact sheet HR had given you when you first started, and there he is—Jeon, Jungkook.

For a second, you consider sending him an email, but the green dot that displays he’s online has you shooting him a message instead. Much less formal, but likely quicker for the both of you.

You Hey Jungkook! Sorry to bother you, but I can’t print for some reason You The printer over here is ignoring me, and I don’t think I’m set up to print by the art directors

Despite what you originally assumed, he doesn’t answer immediately, obviously focused on something else. Still, you only have to wait a few minutes before you hear the soft ding you were waiting for. 

Jungkook Jeon Hi, _____. You mean the large printer by the marketing department, correct?   You Yes! I tried a couple times, but I don’t think the job even went through You Thought it best to just ask the printer guy 🙂

There’s a pause, one long enough that you worry that he’s forgotten about your lighthearted exchange from this morning. Shit. That was stupid of you. You’ve probably offended him. Fuck.

But if Jungkook is upset with you, he’s professional enough that it doesn’t come across at all in his next message. If anything, he just seems a little preoccupied. 

Jungkook Jeon Hmmm, let me check it out for you. Mabel can be a little uncooperative. You Mabel? 

Silence again, this time for a good five minutes. You answer some emails so you’re not just sitting there twiddling your thumbs. 

Jungkook Jeon Sorry, was running some diagnostics in the background to see if I could find the problem  IT kinda calls that printer Mabel because we’re pretty sure she’s worked for the company for longer than all of us combined. Seems fitting

You can’t help but snort at that. Cute, and likely not inaccurate. Mabel, it is.   

Jungkook Jeon One of these days Mabel’ll finally retire, but it won’t be today—looks like she’s running fine. Do you mind checking for me and seeing if you can access the marketing server? 

A few clicks, and when double clicking on the server icon doesn’t bring up the same list of folders it usually does, it confirms the conclusion the both of you have already come to—your computer is the problem, not Mabel.

You No dice 😕 Jungkook Jeon Got it. I think something went weird with your network connection after I updated your machine this morning. I can fix that for you! You Awesome! I appreciate it! Jungkook Jeon Of course! Can’t have my sparkling reputation as the Printer Guy tarnished so easily 😉 You LOL

You allow him remote access to your computer when a pop-up prompts you to, and he gets you up and running before your manager’s meeting is even over.

Lunch has always been an interesting—albeit potentially exhausting—part of your day. You learned early on that attempting to take the break you were legally entitled to at your desk did not stop anyone from continuing to ask you for things. Unfortunately, there weren’t many solutions to this problem—you didn’t get paid enough to be able to consistently eat your lunches out, and you lived too far away from the office to go home for lunch instead. So, you started taking your lunch break a little earlier than most of your other coworkers did, ensuring that the cafeteria was pretty empty and allowing you the space to decompress and eat your bagged lunch in peace. 

And as things usually went with this company, it didn’t take long for that peace to be interrupted. Once she noticed you disappearing from your desk, curiosity had Joy tagging along one day, and after that, it only took a couple weeks before both she and Wendy joined you. 

(Later, you would have the great idea to simply enjoy your bagged lunch in the park a few blocks away, but the weather wasn’t always great and at that point, the other two started to expect you to eat with them.)

So that’s exactly how you’re spending your lunch now—scarfing down the soup you made a few days ago that you’ll eat until it’s completely gone, while Joy and Wendy giggle and gossip to each other. As much as they apparently want to eat lunch with you, they tend to be pretty nonplussed by how you never contribute much to their inane conversations. 

And you’re fine with that. In the time it’s taken them to get comfortable invading your zen time, you’ve learned how to properly tune their tittering out. You’re good at nodding at the right times, at throwing in perfectly placed hums that indicate you’re listening, even when you’re not.

Today, it’s a sudden, uncharacteristic pause in their chatter that prickles against your diverted attention.   “That’s weird,” you hear Wendy mutter, and that officially throws you out of you mentally making your grocery list. The intrigued way she’s looking behind you makes you reflexively turn, and that’s when your eyes set on Jungkook.

He hadn’t been there when you first sat down for lunch, but he is now, sitting alone a couple tables away. He’s the only other person in the cafeteria, but from the AirPods in his ears and the way his eyes are focused on his phone screen, you doubt he’s even noticed this fact.  

Joy’s lips downturn slightly into a puzzled frown. “Hmm. IT guys never come down voluntarily from their tower.” 

Your head tilts as you mull over that. That isn’t exactly true. You have only seen Jungkook in passing a few times over the last couple weeks, but those few times prove IT aren’t exactly the antisocial specters the two women in front of you keep painting them as. You have even exchanged the short pleasantries with him that are socially expected when crossing paths at the coffeepot.  

“Wonder what he’s doing here?” Wendy says, not nearly quietly enough in your opinion. Embarrassment  flashes hot through you, inwardly chastising yourself for continuing to associate with such casually judgmental people. You’re already mentally preparing to apologize for your lunch mates when a covert glance out of the corner of your eye shows that Jungkook’s still paying your group no attention, taking distracted bites from his sandwich as his head bobs slightly to whatever is playing through his headphones.

“Whatever,” Joy says with a dismissive shrug, and then just that easily, the two are back gossiping about Cindy in HR.

From then on, you notice that Jungkook continues to eat lunch in the cafeteria at the same time as you. Sometimes, he beats you there, already at his designated table and munching on whatever he brought that day. If your eyes meet, he’ll send you a small smile in greeting before immediately dropping his focus back to his phone. If you’re there first and throw him a wave of acknowledgment, he always returns it, as is polite and expected of two coworkers who don’t know each other beyond their forced proximity.

And you think nothing of it, too busy being your department’s errand girl, the person who gets assigned all the tasks no one else wants to do. The amount of interaction you and Jungkook have is only marginally higher than what you have with Namjoon in Finance, who periodically reaches out to you for any missing receipts for charges on the Marketing department’s credit card.

This slowly starts changing as you begin to have more and more technical problems. You being assigned to put together multiple PowerPoints and research whatever market trends tickles your boss’s fancy means you constantly have an ungodly amount of tabs and applications open. This means you’re not really surprised when your computer—an older model that is definitely on its last leg—starts freezing and giving you pop up errors. A force restart seems to fix the problem, but a new one emerges—now, no matter how many times you hit the print button and walk over to your designated printer, nothing awaits for you to pick up. Even scrolling through the printer’s print history shows no record of your jobs being in the queue. It’s bizarre—you even make sure to confirm you’re connected to the servers, and that doesn’t seem to be the issue this time.

Frowning, you make your way back to your desk and scroll down your chat messages until a familiar face appears.

You  Hey Jungkook! I can’t seem to print—think something weird is going on with my computer today

A soft sigh of frustration escapes your lips, fingers drumming irritably against your desk. It isn’t even noon, but the day is already looking to be a long one.

Resigned, you settle in to wait for him to answer you in the chat, but the little bubbles that indicate he’s typing never pop up. Instead, you’re surprised when movement in your peripheral produces Jungkook himself, slowing in approach of your desk, though his focus is still on his phone screen. He must have gotten your message in the midst of doing something else. 

“Oh! Hi,” you greet him eagerly. “Just the person I was looking to see.”

He looks up at you from beneath the curtain of his bangs, a small smile touching his lips as he stuffs his phone back into the pocket of his slacks. “Just the person I was looking for,” he returns. “What seems to be the problem?” 

“Mabel is being a bitch again,” you say with an irritated sigh. “Every time I try to print, nothing is happening.” 

Jungkook snorts, amused, and it’s only then that your brain registers exactly what you just said. Swearing at work is unprofessional so you make it a point not do it, but that one slipped out so casually. “Oh—sorry.”

But if Jungkook is offended, it certainly doesn’t show in the responding chuckle he lets out. “That’s definitely on brand. I can fix that—let me take a look.”

You move to relinquish your seat, but he’s already leaning over you before you can do more than shift your weight. So you just let go of your mouse so he can control it instead, scooting to the side a bit and trying your best not to think too hard about how he’s close enough for your clothes to brush. Christ does he smell good.

Jungkook clicks around a bit, no doubt checking to make sure your computer is up to date and connected to everything it’s supposed to. “Is this what you’ve been trying to print?” he finally asks, brows furrowed in concentration.

You blink at the question, realizing with dawning horror that you were accidentally distracted by his proximity. You clear your throat, shaking your head a little at yourself in an attempt to clear it of all thoughts that aren’t solidly on the task at hand. “Yeah.” 

He clicks the print button, just as you have done for the past ten minutes, then straightens with a shrug. “Let’s give our old girl a visit and see what her deal is.”

You stand, following him around the corner to the copy room, where Mabel has proudly taken residence for who knows how many years. The fact that you can already see she’s humming with activity as the two of you approach has your eyebrows knitting in confusion.

Jungkook seems equally confused, reaching in the tray for the stack of paper that was just spit out and turning it over to confirm both of your suspicions. The report you’ve been trying to print for the last twenty minutes sits in his hand, likely still warm from how quickly and easily Mabel completed Jungkook’s request. He holds it up for you to see, his big doe eyes peering at you quizzically through his glasses. “This printer was the one that wouldn’t work for you?” he asks.

“Yeah, I definitely sent it to this one. Repeatedly,” you insist. Embarrassment prickles across your skin. “I swear it wasn’t working two seconds ago!”

Jungkook smiles when he hands you the papers, and it somehow softens his naturally cherubic face even more. “You just wanted to say hi to me, huh?” 

“Clearly Mabel likes you more than me,” you sniff at his teasing. “Sorry for wasting your time.”

“You didn’t,” he says simply. He hovers for a few more moments as you check to make sure all the pages are there. “Let me know if you have any more issues, okay?”

“Will do,” you agree, mind already back on your work as you both turn to part ways. “Thank you so much for your help!”

“Anytime.”

“Didn’t you have a date last night?” Joy asks. 

It’s lunchtime again, early enough that the three of you are still the only ones in the cafeteria. While both Joy and Wendy are munching on some overpriced salads they had delivered from a restaurant a couple blocks away, you’re eating a boring ham and cheese sandwich that you haphazardly slapped together in your rush to get out the door this morning. Vaguely, you do remember Wendy mentioning something about an upcoming hot date, but she was always rambling about a hot date, and frankly, you don’t care enough to keep up with any details. Everything you know about her love life—and her, in all honesty—has been dumped onto you without you having any say in the matter. 

“I did,” Wendy squeals, excited as always to have the opportunity to talk about herself. “His name was Miles. We’ve been talking on Tinder for the past week—he was really sweet and seemed to want to get to know me. Last night he took me to a nice restaurant, really wined and dined me.”

“Wow,” Joy says, eyebrows raised. “That sounds promising. When are you gonna see him again?”

“I’m not,” Wendy scoffed. “He was nice and all, but he’s only 5’7. It’ll never work out.”

“True.”

You’ve been trying your hardest to zone them out, but the longer Wendy prattles on, each sentence more baffling than the last, you can’t help but interject, “Doesn’t the app let you filter out height preferences?”

Wendy pauses, a raise of an eyebrow betraying her surprise at you finally participating in her lunchtime shenanigans. “Not on the free version.”

“So why did you even entertain him if you knew you would never consider him seriously?” 

“..because I wanted to go to dinner?” Wendy replies flatly, the look on her face doing nothing to hide how stupid she thinks your question is. “Besides, he got what he wanted out of the deal. After dinner I took him home and let him fuck.” 

The flippantly casual way she throws out the vulgar word feels like a record scratch, especially since the three of you are, in fact, still very much on company premises. Wendy doesn’t seem to notice just how much she’s scandalized you, continuing to prattle on at full volume about how the sex was pretty good for a Tinder date, even though he refused to eat her out. 

At this point, you’ve long slowed in your chewing, now entirely too incredulous by the absurdity of the situation you’ve found yourself in to eat. 

“You didn’t suck him, did you?” Joy asks.

Wendy scoffs. “Of course not! I’m not giving head to some random anyway, especially if he’s not gonna give me mine first.”

“Can we not talk about this?” you mumble.

They both turn to stare at you, judgement plain on their faces. Wendy snorts. “Wow, _____. I never took you to be a prude.”

“I did,” Joy slides in under her breath.

You let out an agitated huff. This is ridiculous. “I’m not a prude.”

The two of them share a look. After a pause, Wendy finally asks in a way that indicates that it doesn’t really matter what you say because her mind is already made up, “Then what’s the problem?”  

Aside from this conversation being a massive HR violation?

Wendy continues smugly, as if she’s figured you out, “Talking about oral hit a nerve…interesting.”

Yes, Wendy! you think sarcastically, fighting the intense urge to roll your eyes. The whole rest of the convo was good and dandy—oral was definitely the line, though! 

Joy just looks at you, her eyes narrowing the longer she does. Her scrutiny makes your skin prickle in irritation. “You have gotten head before, right?”

“Okay!” you say sharply, stuffing the uneaten half of your sandwich back into the bag. “One, that’s neither of your business, and two, this conversation is completely inappropriate. Let’s change the subject, please.” 

It’s quiet for a moment, both of them visibly surprised by your response. Joy actually looks a tiny bit proud that you stood up for yourself, but Wendy just sniffs and mutters, “That obviously means no.” Ultimately, they both back off, choosing instead to chatter about the newest design of Joy’s nails.

You exhale a tiny sigh of relief. Wendy was hitting the nail too close to the head and you truly didn’t feel like explaining your life story to a nosy coworker who was nothing more than your acquaintance, at best. Now that they’ve finally let you out of the hot seat, you’re fully planning to spend the rest of your lunch hour zoning out in relative peace. 

But before you can properly dissociate, you hear someone cough behind you. 

Your blood runs cold. You already know who it is—no one else tends to eat lunch this early.

“How long has he been sitting there?” you whisper, already dreading the answer.

Joy waves an unbothered hand. “I don’t know, like five minutes?”

Five minutes. Long enough to have heard… 

You’re immediately mortified, and it must show on your face, because Wendy just snorts and says way too loudly for your comfort, “Oh, relax, this is probably the most action he’s gotten in months. I’m doing him a favor.”

What the fuck. WHAT THE FUCK. “Are you serious right now?”

“Calm down,” Joy says, rolling her eyes. “Look, he’s not even listening to us.”

And a slow, discrete turn of your head confirms what she says—Jungkook, in an ugly salmon button-up today, has his earbuds in, eyes downcast to his phone screen, lips soundlessly forming the words to whatever song he’s listening to. You feel a tiny bit of relief, but embarrassment still roils deep in your belly, suddenly making your half-eaten sandwich completely unappetizing.

You stand, grabbing the brown paper bag that contains the remnants of your lunch and hoping against hope that you’ll be able to bolt without him noticing.

“Oh come on, don’t be like that,” Wendy sighs, annoyance bleeding into her tone. “I told you I didn’t realize you were a prude. We can talk about something else.”

You bristle, but tamp down the urge to defend yourself and point out again that you aren’t a prude, you just don’t want to be the office harlot either. “It’s not that,” you lie. The judgmental look in Joy’s eye only softens when you say, “I just remembered I forgot to print the printouts for the meeting this afternoon. I’ll see you guys later?”

“Sure,” Joy says dismissively, and Wendy says nothing at all. They’ve already moved on, no longer interested in your swift escape, attention eagerly back on the details of Wendy’s weekend. That’s works perfectly fine for you—you’ve had enough of being the center of attention for the day.

Blessedly, Jungkook doesn’t even look up when slink past him and out the door.

 It’s hot.

Third quarter is well underway, which means that it’s time again for the quarterly company barbecue. That also means it’s hot as balls. 

You suffer quietly, trying not to add to the stank atmosphere Joy and Wendy are already creating due to the heat. It’s an ambitious goal, especially since you’re already sweltering beneath your blouse—which was reasonable to wear within the chilled walls of the office, but feels rather ridiculous now, under the relentless beat of the sun. Despite being grateful for the free food and break from your maddeningly boring work, you can’t help but mentally yearn for the indoors, where there’s proper shade and air conditioning and decidedly less bitching. 

“I don’t know why they don’t just cater something for us to eat inside,” Joy mopes, dabbing at her brow with what you already know from experience to be a cheap, scratchy napkin. “How is anyone supposed to enjoy themselves if we’re melting?”

“It’s probably a ploy,” Wendy quips. “The more uncomfortable we are, the more likely we are to get back to work.”

“The date’s been on the calendar for months,” you point out wearily. “They had no way of knowing there’d be a heat wave today. Besides, the company’s already paid for the food. I doubt they intended to purposely waste that money.”

Joy scoffs in retort. “The company also knows throwing an outdoor event in July is the same as throwing one in Satan’s asshole.”

Wendy sniggers, but you don’t answer, biting back your response that outdoor barbecues are common during summer, and at least they don’t have you out here in the snow. Because honestly? This is only your second quarter with the company, and who knows what the fourth quarter barbecue looks like. 

All you can do is free some of the buttons on your blouse, undoing as many as you can while still being office-appropriate. As it is, you now have a little cleavage peeking out, but with how hot it is, you figure no one will say anything.

“Look,” Wendy says with an unsubtle tip of her head. “Looks like the soccer game is still on, at least.”

Fluttering the hem of your blouse in an attempt to get some circulation, you reflexively respond to her prompting, eyes following her line of sight. A few tables down, the Sales team has finished their meal and appears to be actively gauging coworker interest in joining their game. From the decently-sized group that’s starting to form by the open field, you think they’re pretty successful, despite the heat. 

Joy groans, lifting her long hair with a hand in an effort to cool off the back of her neck. “I don’t know how they’re doing all that when it feels too hot to breathe.”

Inwardly, you agree with her, but Wendy just gives a lazy shrug and says, “Hey, if we’re gonna roast to death, at least we’ll be properly entertained.”

“True,” Joy muses. “And they’re gonna be sweatier than usual.”

Wendy’s eyes glaze over a bit at the thought. You grimace, amazed that these two always seem to have their heads in the gutter. That’s my cue. “I’ll be right back,” you say, brushing off the back of your slacks as you stand, but they pay you no mind when you walk away.

You’ve already finished your meal, but it can’t hurt to take another look at the coolers. It’s so hot that you’ve already downed your first beverage, so a new one is in order. When you arrive to the area, two people from Customer Service pass, nodding at you in acknowledgment as they make their way back to their table. You’ve only just started to reach for a cooler lid when you hear someone address you again. 

“Hey,” a familiar voice says timidly behind you. “How’s it going?”

You reflexively turn your head, simultaneously surprised and not at all to find Jungkook standing there. He’s got on a long-sleeved button-up despite the heat—grey, checkered with a red and navy plaid—and you can’t help but wonder how he’s not sweltering. Though, the noticeable sheen on his face and the way his damp bangs are starting clump together tells you he just might be. 

“I’ve had better days,” you answer honestly, swiping the back of your hand across your forehead. Before you can catch yourself, that same hand is vaguely gesturing at him, head to toe. “How are you not melting?”

His lips twitch, amused. “I definitely am,” he admits. “I actually hoped no one was over here so I could stuff some of the ice from these coolers down my shirt without being judged.”

You snort. “Hey, who’s judging? Certainly not me. Knock yourself out; just make sure you leave me some.” 

He taps his chin, jokingly in thought, but to be honest, he does mildly look as if he’s actually considering it. “Well, we wouldn’t want the beverages to get cold…”

“Eh, there’s probably not that many in here anyway. They could probably consolidate coolers.” To prove your point, you bend over, cracking open one of the red ones next to you and peering inside. The expected assortment of generic sodas greets you, looking admittedly very refreshing floating in their ice bath. “See, this one isn’t even full.”

You angle your torso a bit so you can meet his eye properly over your shoulder, but as soon as you look up at him, his gaze hurriedly skirts away, color crawling up the back of his neck. You stand with a frown, confused by this, but ultimately brush off his weird behavior when you notice Namjoon from Accounting sidling up to the two of you. 

"Hey guys,"  he greets you, a friendly smile dimpling his cheeks. "We're getting some people together for a soccer game. I know it's really hot, but would either of you want to join?"

You’ve often seen Namjoon chatting with Hoseok in passing, and twice have even seen them leave the building for lunch together, so it doesn’t surprise you that the accountant is helping recruit for the Sales team's traditional barbecue pastime. What does surprise you, however, is that when he casually claps a hand on Jungkook’s shoulder, the younger man first responds by blinking owlishly at him behind his glasses, and then, a few seconds later, giving him a nod of assent. 

Obviously you don't know Jungkook very well—not at all, really, outside of your ongoing feud with Mabel. But you didn't take him to be the type to be into playing outdoor sports, particularly in this weather, and you certainly didn't expect him to agree so easily. A smile from Namjoon and suddenly all thoughts of stealing cooler ice are gone. 

Namjoon turns back to you, but you're already shaking your head. "Nope, no thank you! Y'all have fun. I'll just supervise from over there in the shade."

"Fair enough," he chuckles, and then he's leading Jungkook across the open field to meet up with the others.

Mildly more interested in the game now, you take this as your cue to grab the beverage you came for—a can of a Lipton knockoff and a bottle of water for good measure—and return to your table.

Joy and Wendy are still yapping when you approach, though in your absence, Joy has apparently decided to move to Wendy’s side of the table. It only takes you following their line of sight to quickly recognize why—that side of the table has an unobstructed view of the upcoming soccer game. Well, unobstructed, so long as you change your seat too. Awkward about intentionally getting in the way, you pause for only a moment before ultimately reaching for the end seat perpendicular to them instead. 

When you lean over a little to pull your chair out from under the table, Joy finally deigns to acknowledge you, ticking an eyebrow. “I can see down your shirt,” she tells you offhandedly. 

Your head snaps down, and you realize she’s right—undoing those few extra buttons has made the billowy fabric more susceptible to gravity, particularly when you leaned over. You yourself could see your whole chest and the basic bra that supported it, and at this angle, you doubt your blouse covered much of that from Joy’s gaze. A hand immediately snaps up to press the material back in place, but before you can even get properly embarrassed, her attention is ripped from you, eyes wide at something behind you.

“Holy—”

Wendy's jaw drops. Your head reflexively turns in the direction they're gawking at.

And before you can stop it, your jaw drops too.

Your tablemates have been known to be dramatic, and are certainly the type to stretch a fact or two. But it’s only now that you fully understand their fixation on these Sales soccer games, because yes, sometimes they do indeed take their shirts off. Like now.

Other than one girl from Compliance, all of the game’s recruits appear to be men, and as such, the group has chosen to distinguish teams by shirts vs. skins. And while the sudden appearance of skin naturally draws most people’s attention, your attention only gravitates towards one person. Cause what the fuck.

You almost don't recognize him, your brain rapidly shuffling through the information it's collected about him over the past few months and struggling to reconcile with what your eyes are actually seeing. Because the Jungkook you know wears glasses and long sleeves and has an unassuming hairstyle that looks suspiciously like a bowl may have been involved at some point. 

But the person you're looking at now? Glasses have been discarded, apparently no longer needing optical assistance, and he’s ditched the button-up, sweat making the white sleeveless tank he has on underneath spottily transparent and divulging the dusk of his nipples. Now that you can properly see the taper of his slim waist, his shoulders are proportionally more broad than you realized. And, since he clearly has no regard for your rapidly rising blood pressure, Jungkook decides now is the perfect time to reach over said shoulders, grab fistfuls of damp fabric, and pull. The sight of him slipping the shirt over his head—the ink of his hair sinfully mussed, the muscles of his back rippling with the movement—has you reflexively swallowing, mouth dry.

He's absolutely ripped. 

There's no other way to say it. A superior specimen, built and honed in a way that's only possible through years of hard work and discipline. He's still lean enough that you can rationalize how you’ve never picked up on that amount of muscle hiding beneath his unassuming dress shirts, but you're still gobsmacked. 

Your mind spins, struggling to come to terms with the near impossible fact Jungkook actually pulled a Clark Kent on you. Well, pulled a Clark Kent if Clark Kent was also covered in gorgeous ink, pigment swirling up his right arm from wrist to shoulder. From this distance you can’t see the exact designs that make up his intricate sleeve, but you can tell it was composed with a purposeful eye. 

Jungkook is absolutely ripped and tattooed. Jungkook. Printer guy Jungkook.

Flustered and trying not to be, you quickly look away, clanking your jaw shut and trying to focus on the plastic tabletop instead. Dear god, this is embarrassing. You really just gawked at your coworker! He was minding his own business and your jaw just reflexively unhinged like a degenerate. God, you hoped he didn't see that.

But any mortification you have is apparently not shared by the other two at your table.

“Is that Justin?!” Wendy demands rather shrilly, eyes wide, and the volume of her question would embarrass you even more if your brain could process any other reaction right now other than straight static. “Justin from IT?!”

You swallow thickly, your responding correction weak and delayed. “Jungkook.” 

“Finally,” Joy groans, pushing her plate away dramatically. “Some good fucking food!”           

You can’t help it then—your eyes drift back up, lured to the soccer players once more and zeroing in on him immediately. Seemingly unable to stray from his form, the heat already producing a sheen over his golden skin even though the game hasn’t started yet.

Surrounded by a few surprised male coworkers, Jungkook’s slightly hunched into himself, shy at the sudden attention. Even with the distance, you can see how Hoseok claps Jungkook on the back, just as animated over his newly revealed physique as the members of your table. But while everyone else is excited by this revelation…

Across the field, Jungkook innocuously turns his head in your direction. Like magnets, his eyes hone in on yours, your gaze locked for a few seconds until another loud What the fuck?! from Wendy frees you from the spell and you hurriedly look away again, a completely different kind of heat washing over you.

Jesus, you need to get ahold of yourself. There’s no way he was actually looking at you—it’s too sunny, and he’s not even wearing his glasses! He probably can’t even see that far.

But when you brave another peek in that direction and realize you can literally count his abs from here—

What the fuck, indeed.

Mutely, you watch the game unfold, not as self-conscious when it becomes clear that the whole office is doing the same. Though Joy and Wendy have been very salacious in their excitement for it, the soccer game is evidently a company barbecue highlight for others as well. And you’re sure Jungkook joining the fray has only added to the interest, as he’s a completely new addition to the equation.

And to your continued astonishment, Jungkook is good. He’s fast and lithe and brazen. He proves to you, again and again, that he can kick the ball with such ferocious accuracy that the other team’s goalie eventually stops trying to get in his way and simply resorts to trying to protect their vulnerable body parts instead. His intensity only entices reciprocal energy from everyone else, and what has traditionally been a lighthearted game between coworkers has now transformed into a group of competitive men who feel they now have something to prove. 

Joy and Wendy are delighted by this development, squealing and cheering and tittering amongst themselves. You sit quietly, still trying to mentally process this new development, but when you start to feel embarrassed by just how much you’re staring, you decide to call it a day. No one really notices when you stand and gather your trash, and luckily the distraction of the game means you’re able to slip out without any fanfare.

This quarter’s barbecue being on a Friday means you’re blessed with a weekend to decompress and regroup. Unfortunately for you, the office doesn’t just…move on from the event like it has in the past. Instead, this particular barbecue was apparently such a success that you continue to hear chatter about it for the next week, mostly in passing. But while everyone else makes small talk about how much fun they had, Joy and Wendy choose to hone in on the only thing they truly consider worthy of discussion—Jungkook. 

Today, just as they have every day for the past few months, they join your table when you take your early lunch. However, to their increasing irritation, the object of their current fixation isn’t here. In fact, Jungkook hasn’t showed up to the cafeteria during your lunch time since before the barbecue, and you inwardly have to admit it’s a little strange without him. You sat at different tables and the two of you never really said much to each other beyond the expected niceties, but you’ve gotten used to his presence all the same. 

You actually have barely seen him at all, with Mabel on her best behavior this week and Jungkook seemingly busy with something that has kept him mostly out of common areas. Still, with your embarrassingly strong reaction to him at the barbecue, it’s probably for the best. You’re a little wary of what your first proper interaction is going to be like, and you’ve been mentally preparing yourself to be as normal as possible. 

Your female lunchmates don’t seem to have that same mindset.

“Does he just not eat anymore?” Joy huffs. “I literally haven’t seen him all week!”

Wendy picks at her salad, lips twisted in a displeased grimace. “I actually saw him yesterday.”

Joy’s head snaps to her. “What?! You didn’t tell me that. What happened?”

“Since casually running into him doesn’t seem to be working, I figured I’d try getting him to come to me. So I unplugged my keyboard and messaged him, but he didn’t show up for like 40 minutes,” Wendy sighs irritably. “And when he did, he looked at me like I was a moron.”

Your lips twitch in amusement before you can stop them. Joy immediately says exactly what you’re thinking. “Well, you are a moron. You sat there for 40 minutes with your keyboard unplugged!”

Wendy soldiers on like she didn't hear her, undeterred from her gossiping. “So he came over in his ugly button-up and judged me! Plugged the keyboard back in and walked away without even saying anything.”

Despite not properly running into him all week, you actually did see Jungkook’s shirt in passing yesterday as he was turning down a hallway at the far end of the office. Wendy’s right—it had been an ugly puce. You found it endearing.

“He didn’t even roll up his sleeves,” Wendy mourned. “The least Jamal could have done was give me that.”

You pause in the chewing of the tuna sandwich you brought from home, exasperated. “Jamal,” you repeat flatly. “Really?”

Wendy waves her hand at you dismissively. “You know who I mean!”

“I mean, he’ll probably be more willing to talk to you if you treat him like an actual person.” Your quip is reflexive and indignant, and it kind of throws all three of you off guard. Joy raises an eyebrow at you and your sudden vexation, but you still add, though more subdued, “You know. Making an effort to remember his name is a good start.”

“Damn, who pissed in your Cheerios?” Wendy sniffs, though she doesn’t seem very offended by your callout. Over the months you’ve superficially gotten to know her, you’ve come to notice that she doesn’t really take much seriously—a simultaneously admirable and frustrating trait. “If you wanted dibs, you could have just said that.”

You feel heat flush up your neck, denial attempting to sputter from your lips, but true to form, Wendy has already moved on, tittering about how it’s about time the office had some proper excitement that wasn’t just meetings and spreadsheets.

“And speaking of meetings,” Joy pipes up, passing you a nonchalant look, “don’t forget to order those sandwiches for the client meeting tomorrow.”

“Sandwiches?” Your mind blanks. You knew your boss was hosting some clients in the office—had even been working on a lot of grunt work to prepare for it—but no one had mentioned anything to you about any sandwiches. “I thought she was wining and dining them?”

Joy let out a mildly irritated huff. “No, they have to catch an early flight home, so the plan has changed to a working lunch. Weren’t you listening in Monday’s meeting?”

No, you hadn’t been listening, because you weren’t invited to the Monday’s meeting. So it looks like a plan had been made and tasks assigned to you…without anyone bothering to communicate that. Typical.

You close your eyes for a second, jaw working as you attempt to tamp down your ever-brewing frustration. If they intend on you ordering from the usual place, it may be too late to cater for delivery, which means you’ll probably be stuck figuring out how to transport multiple giant platters from a restaurant five blocks away. 

“Do you mind forwarding me the request you sent? I must have missed it,” you respond neutrally, knowing full well the original email had never been sent to you. You stand to leave, the rest of your lunch break instantly soured by the revelation that you apparently have time-sensitive action items that are encroaching dangerous territory. “Just want to make sure I get the order correct.”

Joy nods, attention already back on Wendy and only half-listening. In the meantime, you’ll have to research alternatives, just in case.

While you’re lucky enough to find an acceptable last-minute catering option that will also, blessedly, deliver, that doesn’t mean you’re free to take a breather. 

It’s now the end of the day, and one by one, you see everyone around you log out and head for the elevator. Even Joy, who leaves right on time, despite knowing just how many tasks your small team still needs to complete for the big meeting tomorrow. What’s left is mostly grunt work, and while you are undoubtedly a grunt, it’s been clear for a while now that Joy no longer sees herself to be included in that category. So even though having more hands on deck would speed things along considerably, she still gathers her purse and gives you a cheeky finger wave on her way out.

At some point, the cleaning lady makes her rounds, scooting past you with a murmured apology to empty your trash can, but eventually even she disappears. Hell, even the sun abandons you, the soft glow fading from all the windows and stranding you with the cold fluorescent lighting that only remains on in your part of the office, because the lights have motion detectors. 

And so it’s just you, kneeling on the carpet and surrounded by a gazillion binders. Ensuring relevant reports and Powerpoint presentations are accurate and sending digital copies to your boss for her to have on-hand. Attempting to print physical copies and assemble them into binder portfolios your clients will be able to follow along with during the meeting. 

Attempting, because Mabel is, of course, choosing now to live up to her bitchy reputation. She won’t print on the right-sized paper. She won’t collate. She won’t be cooperative at all, and you’re too exhausted for this shit. Physically and mentally exhausted, trying your hardest to rein in the frustration that’s slowly expanding in your chest, crawling up your throat and triggering a familiar burning behind your eyes. It’s not fair. 

An exasperated noise escapes you without thinking, a loud, guttural thing. None of this is fair.

“_____?”

Your head snaps over your shoulder in surprise, not at all expecting anyone else to still be in the building. It’s Jungkook, because of course it is. Brows knitted in confusion, a black leather jacket thrown over his marigold button-up for some reason. He’s standing near the doors that exit into the lobby, evidently about to begin his trek home before you unwittingly paused his endeavor.

“What are you still doing here?” he asks, but before you can even deign to answer, he’s already taken a few steps towards you and followed up with a clearly concerned, “Are you okay?”

You take a breath, struggling to calm the storm within you. None of this is his fault, nor his problem, and you should just force a smile on your face so he can be on his way and leave you to your self-pity. But you’re tired, so tired, and simply don’t have the capacity to pretend anymore. You swallow around the lump in your throat, and when you do speak, the thickness of your voice betrays the tears that you’re fighting to keep at bay. “No.”

This only seems to alarm him more. He’s standing next to you now, as close as he can get with the array of binders and papers you have scattered on the floor around you like a fortress not meant to keep anyone out, but rather, to keep you inside.

“What’s the matter?” he asks gently.

“Oh, nothing,” you snort derisively, blinking rapidly at the ceiling in an effort to try to stop the inevitable. “Nothing. It’s just well past 7pm and I’m still here in this godforsaken building attempting to print out and hole punch and assemble twenty copies of this presentation. I can’t even get the printer to do what I’m asking it to! And there’s no fucking reason I should still be here because the could have been done last week if my boss didn’t keep making nonsensical changes based solely on vibes. And tell me why there are six people on my team but no one thought to help me or take any sort of ownership of this at all—as per usual—or even buy me a fucking coffee for once! I haven’t eaten a proper meal all day but everybody just assumes they can go home because things will magically get done like they always do because they will! I will always make sure that they will! Every day it becomes increasingly clear that nobody in this fucking company gives a flying FUCK about me or my free time or my sanity—”

If he’s put off by your potty mouth, Jungkook certainly doesn’t show it. He just manages to catch your gaze from behind his glasses and simply replies, “I do.” 

Your never-ending rant rapidly dissipates on your tongue, brain struggling to comprehend what he just said. “…What?”

“I care,” he repeats softly. “How can I help?”

The sincerity in his tone renders you mute, too stunned to do anything more than watch as Jungkook drops the backpack he’s had slung over a shoulder onto the floor, tossing his newly removed jacket on top of it without much thought. He’s unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling up his sleeves, the reemergence of an ink-covered forearm making your brain stutter even more. Now that there’s much less distance between you, you can more accurately make out the shape of a delicate tiger lily, the languid form of a snake.

Jungkook clears his throat, the noise snapping you out of your stupor and making you realize you were just staring at him in silence, for who knows how long. Dammit. “What do you need?” he tries again. 

“Um, first we can start with Mabel,” you croak, mouth now embarrassingly dry. “No matter what I do, she refuses to collate.”

Jungkook shoots you a smile that softens his whole face. “Lucky for you, I’m the printer expert, remember? Don’t worry. We’ll get this fixed and be out of here in no time.”

He holds out a hand and you reflexively grab it, allowing him to guide you to your feet. Together, you make your way to the copy room, where Mabel has stubbornly been giving you hell all night. Jungkook gets right to work pushing buttons while you stand to the side, awkwardly shifting your weight a little from foot to foot.

“So why are you still here?” you ask, curiosity finally forcing you to voice the question that’s been looping in your mind since he first appeared. “It’s late.”

“It is,” he agrees, focus still on the printer. He kneels down, opening the paper tray. “There’s this huge system update that’s set to roll out next week. My whole team has been hunkering down and pulling late nights.”

Oh. That explains why you haven’t seen him around much since the barbecue. “That’s tough.”

“We’re finally almost done,” he shrugs. “And I’m clearly not the only one working overtime.”

You don’t say anything when he looks up at you pointedly, so he turns back to the printer, pulling a stack of paper out of one of the trays.

“I think this may be part of the problem. Someone put the wrong-sized paper in here. Or, at least, Mabel thinks it’s wrong. She’s confused.”

“Well, she can join the club,” you mutter, and he puffs out a laugh, shutting the drawer and pressing some more buttons.

“Come on, let’s try again.”

Something touches your elbow, and though it shocks through you like he electrocuted you, you have the good sense suppress any embarrassing reaction to what you quickly realize is just his hand. Instead, you let him guide you back to your desk, trying not to focus too intently on the heat of his skin on yours. 

Jungkook waits for you to login to your computer, clicking around and changing some settings once you step back and allow him free rein. Then, you can hear a distant hum coming from the copier room, and you know immediately that he’s succeeded. Dutifully, he goes to check anyway, returning to you with a stack of perfectly collated paper.

“Thank god,” you groan. “Now let me just print fifty more of those so I can start organizing these binders.”

With the crisis averted and his job done, you fully expect him to gather his pile of stuff and hustle to the elevator before you can trap him into doing anything else. Instead, Jungkook goes to pick up the additional copies from the printer for you, and he actually gets down on the floor next to you to start putting everything together. He watches you assemble one binder for reference, but then he’s easily doing the same and doubling your completion speed. 

And slowly, gradually, your nervous system calms. The two of you work like a well-oiled machine in what would be comfortable silence, if your brain wasn’t so loud. Now that you’re not actively panicking, a completely different feeling starts to seep into you—embarrassment.  You can’t believe that Jungkook actually caught you on the cusp of a breakdown, during which you looked so pitiful, he felt morally obligated to stop what he was doing and help you.

“I’m sure you have somewhere to be,” you say after a while with a grimace. He’s way too nice and you’re way too pathetic. “I didn’t mean to ruin your night—I promise you don’t have to stay with me. Now that everything’s printed and organized, most of the work’s done. I should be out of here in no time.”

“Well, I promise you didn’t ruin anything. And with two of us, you can be out of here in less time than that.” He looks up with a soft smile from where he’s hole punching a stack of paper, the muffled ka-chunk of the device punctuating his point. “I don’t mind, _____. Really.”

“But I do,” you murmur, looking away. Unable to meet his eyes. “I really appreciate your help, but I feel bad taking up so much of your time.”

“Well, don’t. I didn’t really have plans tonight anyway, and I’ve been working so much that it’s probably better that I get in some socializing time.”

“Not that I’m very good company,” you snort derisively.

There’s a pause, one long enough that you wonder if he heard you. But then he’s moving a little closer to you, tipping slightly sideways to tap his shoulder against yours. Reflexively, you turn back to him, finding his eyes kind.  

“We all have our off days, and that’s okay. But they’ll dull your shine if you let them. Don’t.” He bumps your shoulder again. “Besides, you and I have to stick together, remember? Or did you not really mean it when you told me that?”

You did tell him that, didn’t you? Months and months ago. You're surprised that he even remembers that.

There's an amused quirk to his lip, one that you can't help but feel yourself soften to, even as his focus turns back to the task at hand. And all at once, you feel yourself flooded with gratitude. You've been thankful for his help this whole time, of course, but now you almost sag with it, the relief at knowing someone is finally in your corner, the sudden sense of security and support visceral and a little overwhelming.

Before you fully realize what you're doing, it's you who leans closer, aiming to give a him a grateful kiss on the cheek. But your lips don't quite land on their intended target, because just before you succeed, Jungkook unconsciously senses your increasing proximity and reflexively turns his head back to you.

It's his lips yours coincidentally brush against, the accidental kiss timid due to his surprise and your chaste intentions. But the kiss is also soft, his lips plush and rather easily yielding to yours. 

Quickly realizing your mistake, you pull back, eyes as big as saucers. You stare at him in stunned silence and he stares back, eyes all pupil.

A horrified apology is immediately crowding the back of your throat, but right before you set it free, Jungkook's Adam's apple bobs, an errant tongue absently swiping across his lips. 

Huh. This isn’t exactly the reaction of someone repulsed by an unwanted kiss. He still hasn't said anything, but he hasn't moved away from you either. He's just watching you. Waiting. 

...Waiting?

With caution but with clear intent, you lean back in, and to your surprise, he meets you halfway, noses bumping a little before he tilts his head and your lips slot perfectly together. 

This kiss is immediately different from the last. Jungkook mindlessly drops he binder he's holding, body angling more solidly towards you so he can properly meet the rapidly rising intensity. Well, meet may be the wrong word, because he's the one whose hand quickly reaches up to cradle your chin, gentle pressure a silent request to  for you to tilt your head a bit more. And when you comply with the change in angle, it's him who deepens the kiss, the slow lave of his tongue coaxing your lips to part, open and wet.

You pant hot into his mouth and he breathes you in, offering no resistance when you push even closer, hands wandering across his shoulders, fingers ghosting up the back of his neck before drifting to idly toy with the hair at his nape. He hums contentedly, not unlike a purring cat, and does it again when your tongue joins his in a slow glide. 

You lose yourself in the sensation of it all, unable to notice anything beyond the heat that is rapidly building between you like fireworks ready to explode. Your head spins, swimming with endorphins and high off the smell of him. The taste.

A playful nibble of your lip unexpectedly has a rather desperate keen escaping your throat. You pause, making to pull back in your embarrassment, but the sound only seems to activate Jungkook, who follows you in your attempted retreat, mouth chasing yours in its reluctance to part. It's only when your back finally touches the floor that you realize he's slowly guided you there. You've been in a haze, too swept into the plot of the movie you've somehow found yourself in to do anything but be pulled along.  

As naturally as breathing, your find your knees have parted, and Jungkook easily slips into the space you've created for him, almost trancelike. As if he doesn't even realize he's doing it, too focused on exploring the fever of your mouth. He's leaning most of his weight on the hands he has posted on either side of your head; even still, every single millimeter of you that does touch him is sparking like live wires, euphoric goosebumps rippling across your skin. You let out a shaky breath that fogs his glasses, but even that doesn't stop him, just makes him pull back from you just enough to be able to whip them off and toss them somewhere, wholly unconcerned.

Emboldened by this, you sling a leg over his hip, and he eagerly accepts your invitation, settling on you properly. You're covered in him now, pelvises properly flush, and now that he's caged you in, Jungkook takes the opportunity to glide his lips away from yours and trail across your jawline instead. You shiver, every atom of you buzzing at his touch, and his mouth continues its trek, sucking hot down the column of your throat with just enough pressure that you know color will bloom there later. 

Your hips reflexively jump at his ministrations, your skirt riding further up your thighs, and the hard press of him against your panties has you swallowing down a moan. He freezes for a fraction of a second, but then his hips respond to the lure of yours with a more intentional roll. A contented sound rumbles in the back of his throat, tongue dipping to meander across your collarbone.

This is crazy. This is crazy. But you can't quite find it in yourself to care much as the two of you rut against each other on the office floor, your hand gliding up his back to root in the hair at his nape. 

Your hips undulate restlessly, eager to meet the crest of his wave, and Jungkook matches your intensity, catching your earlobe between his teeth. Your shared grind is measured but deliberate, and even through his pants you can feel the hard shape of him pressing right against your aching core. A particularly pointed roll has Jungkook shuddering hot into the shell of your ear, and that is what finally tamps down the last of your restraint and triggers something much more primal.

Dizzy with want, your hands scrabble between you and aim for the button of his slacks, eager to be properly introduced to what’s underneath. But to your slow horror, Jungkook freezes at the touch, motionless for a few breathless seconds before he actually starts lifting off of you and pulling back. It’s only when he’s completely sat up and is staring at you that the full weight of what you’ve just done hits you like a freight train.

Holy shit. Holy shit. 

You really were just dry humping. A coworker. And you were doing it on the premises of the place that pays your fucking bills! Making out, dry humping, and you were actively aiming to do much more if he hadn't stopped you. 

What the fuck has gotten into you? 

You scrabble upright, dizzy with the mortification rapidly seeping deep into your bones. Stupidly, you blink at him, paralyzed with embarrassment but unable to look away. A deer in headlights.

Jungkook stares right back, eyes dark and all pupil. Dazedly, you wonder if you look as fucked out as he does—there’s a smattering of red across his cheeks, and his hair has been thoroughly mussed by your own hands. A tongue dips out to swipe over kiss-swollen lips, stealing your attention away from the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

And suddenly, you’re able to kickstart into gear.

“I am so sorry,” you burst out, panic nearly choking you. “That was highly inappropriate and I seriously don’t know what came over me—”

It takes you a few moments to register that he’s moved back in, and that it’s the returned press of his lips that interrupts your babbling apology before it can properly catch its stride. You’re almost too afraid to respond in kind, as if you’ll somehow scare him away again, but the insistence in his kiss practically knocks the breath from your lungs. Patiently, he coaxes your rigid lips back pliant. And only when it’s clear you won’t try to run away does he lean back a second time, but only enough to see your eyes properly.

“No,” he murmurs, breath fanning hot over you. “That was very much appropriate.” 

You’re not quite sure how to respond to that, too shell-shocked by this turn of events and actively battling your triggered fight or flight response. “Um. Then…then why did you…”

Jungkook’s eyes flutter closed, as if he’s gathering himself. “I want to,” he mumbles, seemingly to himself, but then he’s looking right at you again, gaze heavy with resolve. “It’s just…do you mind if I try something first?”

That throws you for a loop. Your jaw opens then shuts again while you contemplate his question, as well as your answer. “I mean, I guess? It depends on what it is.”

That you don't instantly reject him visibly unwinds a tension in his body that you only now realize was there. A rather feral look crosses his face, immediately inciting goosebumps to ripple across your skin in anticipation. But then the intensity of his expression dims, edged with something more contemplative. Jungkook gives you a pensive nod then stands, looking around curiously. “Hey, where does that viper sit?”

You blink, bewildered. “…The who?”

“The one who’s always with you at lunch.” He locks eyes with you, tongue poking through his cheek. “You know. The one who’s on your team but still had no second thoughts about leaving you here tonight by yourself.”

Joy. He’s talking about Joy. 

The question makes you pause in suspicion, but you still hook a thumb towards the cubicle next to yours, on the other side of your shared wall. “There. Why?”

“No reason,” he says with a sly grin, holding out a hand to you. You take it without question and he easily helps you to your feet. But then before you can process it, he’s slid both hands around your waist and easily lifted you off the ground, already in route to the exact cubicle you called out. You yelp in surprise, your arms reflexively circling his neck—your legs, his middle—in your body’s scramble for balance. But Jungkook’s hold on you is secure, grip moving down to the back of your thighs instead, and now that your chests are once again flush, you can actually feel his chuckle. His amusement provokes yours, and you can’t help but giggle as he carries you over to Joy’s cube as easily as if you weigh nothing.

Clearly, his exercise routine is working out for him.

After using a hand to sweep some objects out of the way, Jungkook carefully sets you down on Joy’s desk, right next to her monitor. Your mirth only grows at the feeling of whatever printouts she left for later review crinkling under your weight, at the sight of displaced pens rolling off the edge and disappearing to the ether that is the floor.

Jungkook has set you down, but he doesn’t pull away, just leans down and recaptures your eager lips. He’s tall enough that he’s kind of hunching over to kiss you, neck really craned, but he doesn’t seem to care much about that, kissing you with the same ferocity as moments before, when the two of you were entangled on the carpet. And you can’t help but match his fervor, hands reaching to guide his slim hips even closer, into the widening gap you naturally create for him between your legs. 

Time constricts and expands, an endless and meaningless concept. Because all that matters now is the tongue he slips past your lips to slide against yours, slowly, like he’s savoring the taste of you. All that matters is how fucking great he smells—like clean laundry and smoke and warm skin speckled with sweat—something you’ve always caught whiffs of, but now completely surrounds you, invading all your senses and sending your lust into overdrive. 

“Is this what you wanted to try?” you pant hotly when your lips finally separate for a moment in your quest for air. “Defiling Joy’s desk?”

He’s leaning his forehead against yours while he also attempts to catch his breath, and he’s so close that it would be hard for you to miss his amused flash of teeth. “Sort of. I’d like to defile it more thoroughly, though. Starting with this.” 

Jungkook leans in for one last kiss, one that starts at your mouth, moves to your neck, and to your surprise, continues down the line of your body. Over your collarbone, careful hands popping open a few buttons of your blouse so he can nestle more surely into the curve of your breasts, warm lips skating across eager skin. For a few moments, he actually nuzzles his face into your middle, a gesture you find rather sweet before he incites a shiver through your body by licking against your clothed navel. And before you can fully realize what’s happening, he’s slipped to his knees.

You look down at him in surprise, body still slotted between your legs, but this time more eye-level with the secret, needy part of you that has been thrumming excitedly with every beat of your heart. “What are you…”

“You’re always doing everything for everyone else,” comes his murmured reply. “Will you allow me to do something for you?”

Your brain is still so hazy from the spell of his mouth that it takes you a moment to recognize what’s happening. What he’s asking for. But when his large palms are hot against the naked skin of your thighs, gentle pressure urging them to part even more, it all hits you like a truck. Your eyes dart around, paranoid. “Jungkook,” you hiss. “…Here?”

“They’re too cheap to put cameras anywhere other than the lobby.” He turns his head, lips pressing reassurance into the side of your knee. “And no one’s here.” His reminder as gentle as the kisses he continues to adorn you with. “Just you.” Kiss. “And me.”

He’s right, you know. No one else is here to witness the series of bad decisions you’ve just made—to witness the ones you’re still seriously considering. 

Still, you hesitate.

Jungkook’s staring intently at you, doe-eyed and cherry-lipped and deceptively innocent despite what he’s requesting of you. “Please?” he asks again, oh-so-sweetly. Reverently prostrating before your altar, praying for the blessing of an ambivalent goddess. You. “I just…I really want to. Ever since that day, I can’t stop thinking about it and I—please?”

Your brows furrow as you try to make sense of what he’s saying, still scrambling to keep up with this current turn of events. What day? Your mind whirrs, jumping around before finally settling on an embarrassing memory you’ve willed yourself to forget. 

Lunch, where Wendy somehow got you to admit you’ve never gotten head, and Jungkook, purportedly oblivious, too busy on his phone to ever pay your table any attention. 

…Except from what he’s saying right now, he had heard every word. Heard, and filed it away for safekeeping, only revealing to you now, when he can possibly do something about it.

Absently, your tongue dips out to swipe across your lips, and Jungkook’s attention visibly strays towards the action, thumbs rubbing slow circles into your thighs and sending electricity straight to your core. God, do you want to say yes. Even though you’ve never done this before, your inexperience is not at all the reason for your reluctance. It’s the optics. You’re at work.

Your head tilts as you try to accurately take stock of the situation. You’re at work. But technically, you should have clocked out hours ago. Technically, this job has been stealing a lot of time that should have been yours to choose what to do with. Case in point—you’re the only person on your team still within a five-mile radius of this godforsaken building. Because everyone else deserted you without a second thought, designating you to be the one who struggles to print presentations for a meeting that has been on the calendar for literal months.

But. 

While it’s easy to assume they forced this fate upon you, Fate is not one easily compelled to do another’s bidding. And, trapped in the gaze of the sweet man still patiently awaiting permission to ruin you, you can’t help but wonder if this has been Her plan all along. 

For months you’ve been doing everything for everyone else, so unhappy and stressed that each day in this place only wound you tighter and tighter. So…what if you finally just let yourself snap? Did what you wanted for once? Stopped following the rules that nobody else ever seemed to and just let go? 

You exhale. Fuck it.

“Okay.”

Jungkook grins, boyishly innocuous at first, but rapidly morphing into something much more devilish as you watch. He turns to kiss your knee again, and you startle a little at the action, newly on edge. “Don’t be nervous,” he says, still holding your gaze. Making sure you can see his resolve. “I got you.” 

“Okay,” you say again, but that’s easier said than done, especially when he takes the opportunity to gently push your knees even further apart. Naturally, your skirt rides further up, and you can’t help the apprehension that washes over you at your increasing lack of modesty. Still, you hold true to your word, aggressively tamping down the urge to scramble off the desk and pretend this all never happened. But though you brace yourself for what comes next…

Jungkook doesn’t move.

Long moments pass before you can’t help but say something. “Are you just gonna look?” Because that’s all he seems to be doing, laser-focused on the juncture of your thighs.

He visibly stirs at the sound of your voice, but still doesn’t do much more than tsk at you. “Don’t rush me,” comes his light reprimand, eyes still locked on what you’re sure at this point is a growing dark spot on your panties. “I don’t half-ass things and I definitely won’t rush this. No one’s here, so just relax and enjoy the ride.”

Your jittery nerves have you reflexively mouthy, but your retort swiftly dies on your tongue when his hand finally moves further up your skirt—further inward—and two fingers pointedly press right against that dark spot and glide over your clothed lips. You gasp, fighting against the urge to snap your legs shut when he slowly circles your clit and sends sparks dancing down your legs. 

“Better?” he murmurs.

“Much,” you squeak.

“Good,” he says, eyebrows knitted in thought as he circles and circles. Your thighs twitch, and he leans forward like he can’t help himself, nose pressing solidly against you with a long, audible inhale.

A fascinated oh falls from your lips, heartbeat accelerating excitedly in your ears, but Jungkook only responds by nestling further against your pussy, tracing the length of your lips with a slow, wet swipe of his tongue through the fabric. He breathes hot against your clit and you inadvertently buck at the stimulation, only inciting the wicked curl of his lips. He looks up at you darkly through the curtain of his bangs, and something unexpected and primal simmers beneath your skin.

“Can I have these?” he asks huskily, lightly snapping the elastic of your panties against your skin. 

You clear your throat, suddenly wishing you had the foresight to put on something more interesting today than your unassuming cotton undies. “Have as in you won’t give them back?”

He lets out an amused puff of air, tilts his head. “I haven’t decided yet.”

You nod your assent. You’re now impossibly invested in where he plans to take this, and it’s not like you don’t have more pairs at home. “Knock yourself out.”

Immediately, his hands are up your skirt. They’re big, but they’re also gentle, caressing your thighs and even taking a slight detour to the meat of your ass before continuing their mission to the band of your underwear. When he starts to pull, you help him, shifting your weight so he can slip the fabric over your hips and down your legs.

Jungkook’s Adam’s apple dips when his eyes are finally able to feast on you without a barrier. “So fucking hot,” he mutters, almost to himself, and then without further warning, his mouth seals around your sex.

You whimper in surprise, not at all used to the sensation of someone kissing you there. And kiss you he does, carefully at first, judging your reaction. But when you do nothing but grip the edge of the desk, biting your lip in an attempt to stifle the rather desperate sounds crawling up your throat, he swiftly devolves into kissing you with the same passion as he had the lips on your face. His tongue laps at you with sure, even strokes, dragging across the seam of you and then through it, making sure to slide along your clit on every upstroke. 

Your breath quickens, jaw falling slack. You weren’t sure what you imagined oral sex to be like before this, but you never expected how easily your body submits to his ministrations. Almost without you realizing it, your thighs part even more, hips automatically canting down to meet his eager mouth. A hand reaches for him, fingers winding through his hair and rooting there, and Jungkook hums in approval, his own hands wrapping securely around your thighs, your ass. His fingers sinking into the yielding softness of you, gently holding you steady against his face while you start to gyrate and moan.

God, does he look good down there. He’s always looked good, even before you knew what he was hiding behind those shy smiles and nerdy glasses, but something about the sight of him, jaw working as he sucks on you, lashes fluttering in pleasure in his quest to please you—

Without warning, he detaches with an audible pop, and a disgruntled sound reflexively leaves you. Breathless, you start to ask him why he stopped, but the words die on your tongue when you realize he’s staring at you again. That he pulled back for a moment just so he can get a good look at the mess he’s making of you. So he can properly see how your pussy aches and drools for him.

“Good?” he asks, voice deep and thick.

“So fucking good,” you sigh. What you know he wants to hear, but also 1000% the truth. You’re starting to understand what Wendy has been blathering about, but is it always like this? Or is it Jungkook in particular who is making you so unbelievably aroused? Is your rapidly snowballing crush on him that strong, or does pussy eating simply rank high on his skillset?

As if he can hear your thoughts, Jungkook moves to slip a finger into you, and you can’t help but moan when he breaches you, the digit sliding in so easily that he quickly adds another, thumb pressing surely into your clit as he starts a slow drag in and out. 

“Shit,” you shudder, eyes rolling back into your head. Hips sliding further off the desk, reflexively seeking the delicious stimulation. One of your hands scrabbles across the desk, unconsciously trying to root you, and you’re much too preoccupied with how good he’s making you feel to notice when you accidentally knock over a mug full of pens. A stapler clanks to the ground. “Fuck.” 

“Look, baby,” he breathes, moaning along with you when the pet name immediately makes your pussy flutter. “Look.”

At his encouragement, you do. You watch the flex of his tattooed arm as his fingers continue to disappear within you, a lewd squelch coinciding with his movements. You watch as he adds another finger, the additional stretch immediately noticeable but even more delicious. You watch him watch you, eyes all pupil, lips swollen and slick with your desire.

“More,” you whine, frenzied and greedy. And Jungkook immediately heeds your call, leaning back in. He sucks on your clit with three fingers sunk in you, expertly crooked towards your pelvic bone, and you jolt, accidentally knocking something else off the desk. Neither of you pays the resulting clattering any attention, too wrapped up in the way you writhe at his ministrations. He hums in approval, the vibrations only intensifying your ecstasy. He flattens his tongue as your hips desperately circle, letting you control the stimulation. And when it’s clear you still need more, he changes tactics and rapidly laps at you instead, as if you’re a melting ice cream cone, while he beckons, beckons. 

Your blood is volcanic, hot pressure bubbling beneath the prison of your skin, building and building within your core. The higher he takes you, the more the grip you have on his hair unintentionally tightens, but that only seems to urge him on, locking eyes with you as the thrust of his fingers turns harder and more calculated. Giving you no other choice but to finally erupt.    

You cum with a loud groan, gasping through it while your cunt rhythmically clamps down on his digits, hard. Jungkook talks you through it, murmuring encouraging words your buzzing brain has trouble deciphering because his hand still doesn’t stop, pounding right into your g-spot and making your eyes cross and toes curl with the force of it. And when you finally can’t take anymore, jerking with oversensitivity, you grab him by the wrist in a wordless plea for mercy.

And Jungkook grants it. You can tell that he wants to play with you more—wants to guide you over and over to the precipice just see the look on your face when he shoves you off—but ever the gentleman, he reins in his enthusiasm and obediently slips his fingers out of you. He takes a few seconds to admire his handiwork, eyes shining with in reverence as he marvels in the dripping, throbbing, panting aftermath that is you.

“Wow,” you say, still dizzy with endorphins. Never in a million years did you think it would feel like that.

“Yeah,” he agrees, voice thick. “Wow.” He lifts his hand, remnants of you visibly slicking his fingers and webbing between the digits, and without a second thought, sticks them in his mouth and sucks. The resulting slurping of his errant tongue is nothing short of obscene, but your cunt flutters again anyway, interest clear despite being thoroughly satisfied only moments before. And when line of your essence starts to drip down your thigh, Jungkook makes sure to lean in and catch it with his tongue.

You shiver with the feeling of him on you again, mouth hot and wet, thighs still trembling. He’s taking his time, tongue dragging a slow path back up to the source, determined to feast upon the rewards of his efforts. But you can’t take it anymore. God, he’s so hot. He’s so fucking hot and you want him so fucking bad.

You need him. Biblically. 

Near delirious, you reach for him, hands scrabbling across his shoulders, fingers trailing the back of his neck and guiding him to stand. Arms circling his waist and pulling him closer to you—close, close—Jungkook easily slotting into spread of your thighs.

He follows your unspoken commands easily and without question, looking down at you with a rather pleased smile that crinkles his eyes in the corners. Determined to steal the breath from his lungs, just as he just did to you, you lean in to lick that smile pliant and open. There’s a curious taste on his tongue that it doesn’t take long to deduce is you, and that’s only even more of an aphrodisiac, revving you up further. 

Your hands continue to roam, sliding down a little to grope his backside, startling a laugh out of him. But when your fingers tease the waistband of his slacks, his delight visibly shutters away into something else entirely.

“You don’t have to do that,” he breathes, even as he reflexively bucks into the hand you’re using to palm him over his pants. “This was about you.”

“Then let it be about me,” you counter, a mischievous smile curling your lips. Even through his pants you can tell he's hard. That he wants this just as badly as you do.  Still, when he gasps out a wait, you obediently stop your ministrations and move to take your hand back. 

He doesn't let you get far, lacing his fingers through yours and visibly considering his next words for a few moments before settling on, “What do you need?” 

It’s a simple enough question, but you can't help but be immediately reminded of him saying these exact words to you, a little over an hour ago. Now, however, they sit heavy on his tongue, heady and syrupy in hushed invitations. 

The revelation hits you all at once, heart pounding excitedly in your ears.

You need only ask. You’ve only ever needed to ask.

And since all caution was thrown to the wind the moment you agreed to let him suck your soul out through your pussy...

“You said you’ve been thinking about me? Well, I’ve been thinking about you too. For a while, even though I’ve been trying not to.” 

You’ve had his attention this whole time, but the way Jungkook's regarding you now, now that you’ve said that? He's hanging onto every word, so hyper-focused that it would unnerve you if this wasn’t exactly what you were looking for. 

“So…” Adrenaline has your fingers restless against his, but you still dive headfirst. “What I need is for you to fuck me and finish what you started.”

A beat. One where he holds your gaze, the space between you so electrified that you’re surprised you don’t see sparks. But then he’s on you again, mouth meeting yours in a frenzied clash of lips and teeth, and this time he doesn’t stop you when your hands scrabble for his fly.

Jungkook wastes no time, smoothing his hands up your legs and pushing your skirt out of the way. He lets out a shuddered breath when you stroke him through his underwear, when you reach down the waistband and grip him properly.

He’s warm and thick in your hand, and the thought of him finally in your guts damn near has you vibrating. Just like you thought before, he’s already nice and hard, but you still pump him a few times just to revel in the proof of what you’ve done to him. Velvet over stone.

And despite having all the time in the world when the foreplay is for you, Jungkook doesn’t seem to have any patience for himself. You’re only able to enjoy the weight of him in your grip for a few passes before he’s surging into action. Strategically, he grabs you by the knees and lifts, maneuvering your legs into the crooks of his elbows. The move opens you up to him further and forces you more horizontal, leaning back on your forearms, nearly pressed against the cubicle wall.  

The way he ate you out moments before ensured you’d be primed for him, your pussy soft and slick and just begging to be filled. When he finally lines himself up and begins the slow press in, your jaw immediately falls open, tongue going lax at the intense pleasure. “Oh my god,” you manage to whine, eyes threatening to roll shut.

The unhurried way he’s sinking into you is likely in effort not to unintentionally hurt you. Because after everything else, why not add another thing to the ever growing list of surprises you’re learning about your unassuming coworker—not only has he been tatted and muscular this whole time, but his dick is also fucking huge. Without even realizing it, you’ve stopped breathing, the pressure of him nudging your walls apart too much stimulation for your body to continue even subconscious functioning. 

As if he can tell your brain is actively short-circuiting, Jungkook’s hands circle your thighs, thumbs kneading the flesh in mild distraction for when he finally bottoms out. It’s only now that you can properly notice the effect you’re having on him—hair starting to stick to his forehead from perspiration, teeth grit as he struggles to stay still for you.  But you don’t want him to be still.

“Fuck me,” you whimper, wiggling in your impatience and making him suck in a breath. “Please. Give it to me.”

The resulting roll of his hips has him swearing and you seeing stars. “Fuck. You can have whatever you want,” he says, already making good on his promise with a slow grid. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll give you whatever you want.”

It’s good, so good, especially because Jungkook uses his grip on your thighs as leverage to ramp up his thrusts, easily maneuvering you over his cock in a way that has your toes curling. By the time he’s really fucking you—jaw set, brows furrowed in concentration—you’re crosseyed and mewling incoherently. You should be embarrassed by the sounds he’s pounding out of you, but you’re so focused on the overwhelming pleasure that you can’t find it in yourself to care very much. 

Chasing the high you already feel him leading you towards, you lift one of your legs to change the angle, and he catches on immediately, helping guide your ankle to hook over his shoulder with a distracted kiss against the bone. And it’s deeper this way, the angle ensuring he brushes against your spongy nerves with every stroke, only making you spiral faster. 

He notices, of course. Notices how quickly he’s taking you to your end and revels in it, sliding a hand inward and he thumbing your clit, fast and hard.

You jolt at the extra stimulation, gasping and overwhelmed. “Oh my goddd…”  

“Come on,” he croons, his dulcet tone at odds with the wickedness of his hand. His dick. “Don’t you want to cum for me?”

“I…” you choke out, struggling to form any sort of coherent thought as you feel everything get tighter. “I…”

You see his lips moving as he presumably says something else. But you can’t understand anything other than your own moaning when your pussy finally locks down. This orgasm is somehow more intense than the last one, your thighs rippling with the force of it, your hands desperately scrabbling over the desk in an effort to find something to ground you. 

And Jungkook fucks you through it, still talking, and it’s only when the whooshing in your ears starts to subside that you can finally decipher what he’s saying in between his own moaning. “There you go. Being so good for me. So good.”

Your only reply is your gasping breath as your orgasm slowly fades, replaced with oversensitivity. But you don’t want him to stop. You don’t want this to stop, reveling in the feel of him on you, in you. And Jungkook doesn’t, instead sliding your leg off his shoulder so he can grab you by the waist with both hands and properly yank you forward, moving you over his cock to his liking. 

The desk creaks with your effort, a rhythmic cacophony with the harsh smacking of his balls against your ass. You mewl, needing him closer still, and curl your legs around his hips, locking your ankles. He’s now trapped against you, but he groans like that’s exactly what he wanted, both hands gliding up the length of your body to grasp the back of your neck instead, giving him even better leverage to plunge into you, deep, deep. He leans down and rests his forehead against yours, licks into your panting mouth. 

At this point, his thrusts are turning manic, but you’re meeting every one of them, deliriously following him in his descent into madness. But when he catches your lower lip with his teeth, your breath hollows, and then, quicker than you can register it’s happening, you cum again, spasming around him with a long, high-pitched whine.

Jungkook lets you ride it out, but this time, his thrusts slow while you thrash. And it’s not until your soul finally floats back into your body that you realize he’s already pulled out of you and is bucking into his own fist instead.  

You almost took him over the edge with you, you realize. Though he clearly has incredible stamina, you have finally brought him to his limit, and everything inside you glows at the knowledge that he’s here, roughly pumping himself, moans falling freely from his lips because of you. 

Entranced, you reach for him, delighting in the whimper he lets out when your fingers wrap around his base. His own hand immediately falls to grip the edge of the desk instead, and you glide your fist up, finding his cock sticky with your juices. Jungkook just rests his head in the crook of your neck and lets you jack him off, whining through it when you match his previously punishing pace. And it doesn’t take long before he finally, finally splashes hot over your hand. Against your thigh. 

Your hand slows, twisting your wrist and milking him for every drop. Intent on extending his pleasure, just like he made sure to do for you. And you only stop when he flinches away from your touch, twitchy and shivering as he leans against you. 

Reluctantly, you let go. The two of you share the same balmy breath, struggling to calm your racing hearts. And when Jungkook finally backs away from you, unhurried in the way he gathers himself back into his slacks, there is a wildly satisfied grin on his face.

You’re satisfied too, though you try to have some sense of propriety and use a tissue from the box next to Joy’s monitor to wipe off the sticky evidence of his pleasure. Throwing away the evidence, you hop off the desk, locating your long-discarded panties and slipping them back on, smoothing down your skirt.

“So,” you tease lightly. Your head swims a little with the knowledge of what you just did, but you’re surprised to realize you feel zero guilt about it. “Is your plan to stick it to everyone who’s wronged me? If so, we should do it on Mabel next. That’ll show her.”

Jungkook laughs, a giddy, giggly thing. He’s now doing his best to pick up and replace everything that fell from Joy’s desk during your romp. “Nah, I could never disrespect her like that. That ol’ girl’s been such a great wingman these past few months.”

That’s a rather curious statement to make. You frown a little, shoot him an inquisitive sound.

“You always call me when Mabel’s not working,” he shrugs. “So when I wanted to see you, she was nice enough help.” 

You can’t help it—a smile creeps across your face, equally bashful and flattered. He wanted to see you! For months, by his open admission. “And the printer knew exactly when you wanted to see me?" you joke. “Sounds like dark magic to me.”

Jungkook’s valiantly trying to straighten and smooth out some of the papers the two of you disturbed. “Deleted some print jobs,” he replies offhandedly, clearly distracted by the task at hand. 

Record scratch. 

There’s an extended silence as your brain shuffles through different iterations of his sentence, trying to decipher exactly he meant by that. Because there's no way he just admitted to what you think he just did. “Did…did you just say you've been deleting my print jobs?” you ask incredulously. Because there’s no way.

There’s no way, yet at your words, Jungkook immediately stiffens. His lips part, but he doesn't defend himself. Doesn't say anything at all—just drops the pen he’s holding and stares at you with wide eyes.

Holy shit. Holy shit. He really has been doing it! He obviously hadn't meant to tell you that, but the relaxation of afterglow has clearly removed the filter between his brain and his mouth. 

The weight of his revelation hits you, seemingly happenstance events connecting in your mind and starting to fall into place. All the hassle and irritation that stupid printer has been giving you, and it turns out Mabel has been working just fine?! 

“Please don't be mad,” he pleads, finally finding his voice.  

“Are you seriously saying that all this time—”   

“No! No, I only did it a few times,” he sheepishly rushes to correct you. “And I promise, I haven’t done it in weeks.”

“Seriously?” 

“I just...wanted an excuse to talk to you!”

“Jungkook, you literally talk to me all the time!”

“About work! Not—” he averts his eyes, lets out an irritated breath. “It’s just. I’ve been trying to work up the nerve to ask you out.”

You blink, gaping slightly as your whirring mind tries to process what he’s just told you. “Ask me…out?” 

“I didn’t mean to do…all this.” He waves a hand over the mess the two of you are still cleaning up, clearly embarrassed. “I mean, at least not before buying you dinner first.”

Moments pass as you stare at him in stunned, disbelieving silence. Then, like a volcano erupting, laughter bursts from you, loud and sudden. Because what the fuck? You can’t believe all of this is actually happening to you. In real life. “You jackass,” you cackle. “Do you have any idea how much grief that printer has been giving me? I’m over here stressed and you’ve been gaslighting me and doing it on purpose?”

“Just a few times,” he repeats, visibly confused by the juxtaposition of the mirth in your voice and the actual words you’re saying. 

“And that doesn’t change the fact that you’re still a jackass,” you laugh. “But…” You clear your throat, suddenly somehow shy, despite everything that has occurred and been said. “…I suppose you can still take me out to dinner.”  

“Yeah?” His lips stretch into a slow, hopeful smile.

“Yeah. Now, if you want. I think we’re pretty much done here.” You smile back, quickly taking stock of the binders still scattered across the floor. Most of them are completed, but whatever else you need to do can be done tomorrow morning. “Besides, I seem to have worked up an appetite.” 

Jungkook looks nothing short of smug, but you suppose you can’t fault him that. “Well then,” he practically purrs, “Let’s hurry up and feed you.” 

Moving in comfortable silence, the two of you finish putting everything you’ve disturbed back in their original spots, gathering the last of the binders and stacking them neatly on your desk. You reach for your purse while Jungkook goes to collect his hastily discarded belongings.

“So,” you start. “Where are you taking me? It’s kind of late.” This late on a weeknight, kitchens would be shutting down soon.

He pauses in sliding his leather jacket back on, frowning a little as he realizes you’re right. “Shit,” he mutters. “I wanted to take you somewhere nice.”

“You can,” you say with an unbothered wave of your hand. “That can be next time. Let’s just find something quick now.”

“So you’re saying I get a second date?” he grins.

Oh. That is what you just implied, isn’t it? You would be embarrassed by how forward you were being if Jungkook wasn’t visibly delighted by it. Wow, he really does like you. And since the feeling is mutual, you just look away coyly and say, “If you play your cards right.”

Jungkook hoists his backpack over a shoulder, and it’s only then that you see what else he happened to be carrying in his hands when he dropped everything for you. A helmet.

You gesture towards the object with a curious incline of your head. “What’s that for?”

“My bike,” comes his easy answer, but that’s not the kind of helmet that one wears for bicycle rides. No, this one is made for something much faster. 

Now that you think about it, you’ve seen the motorcycle in the parking lot before—you’ve just never really given it a second thought. And now you can’t stop thinking about it, because the unassuming vehicle you’ve often passed on your way into the building has been Jungkook’s the whole time. Your mind is blown. How many more times is he going to surprise you tonight?  

“…Do you always drive a motorcycle?” you ask incredulously.

“Depends on the day,” he shrugs with grin. “Sometimes I take the bus, but I like to ride my bike when the weather’s nice.” His eyes are bright with pride, visibly happy to have impressed you. 

Your mouth opens and closes, thoughts racing so fast your tongue struggles to hold onto any of them. Before you realize you’re doing it, you blurt, “Alright. Are you even real?”

Jungkook blinks owlishly at you, clearly not expecting that question. “What?” 

“I thought I’ve known you for months. But was any of that real?” you repeat. “Hell, do you even need glasses?”

“Of course,” he rushes to say. “It’s all me. I can just be a little shy, is all.” Wow, he actually said shy with a straight face, as if he didn’t just finish ravaging you over multiple surfaces. “And I like to be professional, so this place doesn’t get to have all facets of me. I know you can relate.”

You can. Your constant struggle to not complain? To be professional and work hard and hope you’ll be rewarded for your efforts? Obviously that’s a reason why the two of you ended up in this situation in the first place.

He ducks his head a little, tapping the glasses he picked up off the floor in petition for their validity. “And these really are prescription. I mean, I can mostly see without them, but since I stare at computer screens all day, it’s less strain on my eyes.”

“Oh,” you say quietly, feeling silly to have even asked. But who knew the quiet IT guy who kept mostly to himself was also this? Buff and tatted with a wicked tongue that you’re now intimately acquainted with. 

Shyly, he holds his helmet out to you. He hesitates before speaking again, almost like he’s afraid of spooking you. “Wanna go for a ride?” And from the way color lightly blooms across his cheeks, you get the sense that he’s offering you more than just protective gear.

You take it without second thought.

The next day you and Jungkook get off the elevator together, a respectable distance between you, but arms still brushing too often to be casual. When you come to the hallway that will force you in separate directions, you pause.

“Have a good day,” you say. Jungkook grins, the delighted brightness of it baring too much teeth and crinkling his eyes in the corners.

“You too,” he winks. “Let me know if Mabel gives you any more issues.”

You snort at his brazenness, biting down a smile as you head to your cubicle. Your whole body buzzes, glowing from inside out.

You’re technically right on time, but you’ve definitely arrived later than usual, and that’s obvious when you head over to your department and find Joy already there waiting for you. She frowns as you approach, no doubt clocking your empty hands and wondering how she’s going to make it through the morning without her expected syrupy caffeine fix. 

To her credit, she doesn’t call you out on it, but you don’t really care if she does. You’re done playing errand boy. From now on, everyone else will have to stop before work and get their own shit, if they want it so bad.

Because it’s all so clear to you now. You’re here, and you’re going to do your best, but you’re not going to let this place wear you down to jaded slivers. You’re going to work hard and learn all that you can, but you refuse to be anyone’s lapdog. 

They will respect you. And your value will be recognized and rewarded—or you’ll simply find somewhere else where it will. 

Joy must sense your new resolve, because she simply hovers by your desk and chirps, “Good morning.”

“Morning.” 

“Did you have a good night?”

Your lips quirk. “You could say that. What about you?”

“Eh, it was okay,” she sighs. “Met a guy for dinner, but I don’t think that’s going anywhere.” 

So while you were stuck here last night, having a grade-A meltdown, she was on a date. That tracks.

Joy chatters on while you put your things away, not seeming to notice or care that you’re not particularly interested in what she’s saying. And while this would normally irritate the living shit out of you, today, it doesn’t. 

Today, your eyes can’t help but glaze over as your mind drifts back to how your night went. Today, you just hum agreeably until she gets bored with you and decides to go back to her own cubicle.

And when you hear her ask over the wall if you’ve seen her stapler, you just smile and smile.   

On the other side of the aisle, Namjoon leaned back in his chair as if he had not just submitted manipulated digital evidence into court with the confidence of a man who knew someone higher up would make the consequences disappear. He looked at you as if he expected you to flinch. You did not. You stood slowly, buttoned your blazer with calm hands, and looked from the digital records on the screen to the judge, then back to Namjoon. 

“I did not think you could get any lower, Namjoon. But here we are.” 

A few people shifted in their seats. Namjoon’s mouth curled. “Anything for the money.” You smiled then, but there was nothing kind in it. “Then I hope they paid enough for what is left of your conscience.” The courtroom changed after that. You could feel it before anyone said a word. The pressure. The sudden attention. The way the defence counsel’s polished confidence slipped for half a second before he covered it with a lazy laugh. The way the men in the second row, men who had no reason to be there except intimidation, stopped pretending they were bored. 

The case was supposed to be about digital manipulation, privacy breaches, financial coercion, and a young woman who had been brave enough to testify against people everyone else was too frightened to name. It was not supposed to lead to hospitals. It was not supposed to lead to missing women. It was not supposed to lead to bodies found along mountain paths with organs missing and official reports that always seemed to close too quickly. But you knew what happened when powerful people were given enough time to clean a crime scene. They called murder a tragedy. They called evidence unreliable. They called survivors unstable. They called corruption procedure. 

You had spent your career learning how to stand in polished rooms and say, no. No, that file was altered. No, that witness was coerced. No, that girl was not lying. No, you would not let money rewrite the truth. That afternoon, the judge granted a continuance for further forensic review. Namjoon was furious enough to stop smiling. The prosecution team looked like they had been given oxygen. The young victim’s mother cried quietly into both hands. You should have felt relief. Instead, as you left the courthouse through the lower car park, you felt watched. It was late enough for the sky over Seoul to have turned grey-blue, rain threatening in the clouds. Your heels echoed across the concrete. Your phone was in one hand, your bag in the other, your keys already threaded between your fingers because you had grown into a woman who understood that being calm did not mean being careless. Two men stood near the lifts. They were not looking at you directly. That made it worse. Your phone buzzed once. 

Unknown Number: Do not use the lift. 

You stopped. The men did not. One of them glanced at you from the corner of his eye, too quick to be accidental. Your thumb hovered over the message. Your pulse changed, but your face did not. Another message came through. 

Unknown Number: Do not use the lift from the car park. Walk to the main lobby. Now. 

You looked once at the lift doors. Then you turned. You walked toward the stairs with the measured pace of someone who had remembered an appointment, not someone whose spine had gone cold. Behind you, the men moved. Not fast. Not yet. You pushed through the stairwell door and climbed up one level, then another, heels sharp against concrete. Your phone buzzed again. 

Unknown Number: Security desk. Front entrance. Do not look back. 

You did not look back. By the time you reached the main lobby, your lungs had tightened and your hand hurt from gripping your keys. The security desk was bright, busy, and watched by several cameras. You walked straight to it and asked, calmly, if someone could escort you to your car because two men from the lower level had been following you. The guard’s expression changed. The men did not enter the lobby. That told you enough. Later, after a uniformed officer had taken your statement, after your car had been searched, after you had been told that perhaps you were understandably shaken after a stressful hearing, you sat in the driver’s seat with both hands around your phone and typed a reply to the unknown number. 

You: Thank you, whoever you are. 

For almost two minutes, nothing happened. Then: 

Unknown Number: No worries. 

You stared at those two words for far longer than they deserved. No name. No explanation. No demand. Just that. No worries. As if he had not stepped out of nowhere and shifted the direction of your life by inches. As if inches were not sometimes the difference between getting home and becoming another file. You did not know yet that the man behind the messages had no surname. You did not know that people in the underground said ghosts did not have surnames. You did not know that he had been watching corrupted traffic feeds for three days, following traces of altered evidence backward through servers that were never supposed to speak to one another. You only knew he had seen danger before it reached you. And that night, when another message came telling you not to go home, you listened. 

He directed you to a small guesthouse on a quiet side street, the kind of place that did not advertise itself brightly and did not invite questions. There were fewer useful cameras nearby. That was what he said. Fewer useful cameras, fewer blind spots for people who understood how to use them. You should have been more frightened by how much he knew. You should have gone to the police, or your boss, or one of the detectives assigned to the case. But the police had not seen the men in the car park before he had. He had. So you went. The older woman at the front desk gave you a key without asking for your card. She only looked at your face for a moment too long, then said, “Second floor. Do not use the front door again tonight.” 

You paused. “Did he send you?” Her mouth tightened. “Sleep if you can.” In the room, you locked the door, pushed the chair beneath the handle, turned off your personal phone, and sat on the edge of the bed with your coat still on. The wallpaper was old. The heating clicked too loudly. Outside, tyres hissed along wet road. For the first time that day, your hands shook. There was a soft knock at the door thirty-seven minutes later. You did not move until your phone, the one you had turned off, lit up with a message. 

Unknown Number: Open the door. She is safe. 

You looked through the peephole. The older woman stood there with a paper bag in her hands. Inside was a cheap phone, a charger, a bottle of water, a toothbrush, and a packet of crackers. The phone had one contact saved. Jungkook. You stared at the name. It did not feel real. It felt like a word someone had typed because a ghost needed to pretend to be human. The phone buzzed. 

Jungkook: Use this from now on. 

You sat slowly on the bed. “And if I do not?” The phone buzzed again. 

Jungkook: Then they keep finding you faster than I can. 

You did not like the way that answer landed. Not because it was dramatic. Because it was practical. You typed back with cold fingers. 

You: Who are you? 

Jungkook: Someone with a common enemy. 

You: That is not an answer. 

Jungkook: It is the only one that matters tonight. 

You stared at the screen, your thumb hovering, anger and fear twisting together inside you. “I am not in the habit of trusting anonymous men who know where I sleep.” The reply came quickly. 

Jungkook: Good. Do not start now. 

That stopped you. Another message followed. 

Jungkook: Ask for proof. 

Your throat moved. 

You: Fine. Prove you are not one of them. 

He did not call. He did not tell you to trust him. He did not send some empty reassurance about being safe or protected or chosen by fate. He gave you proof. A file appeared on the phone, then another, then another. Metadata from the altered evidence Namjoon had submitted. Access logs. A time stamp discrepancy. A route map showing the men from the car park entering the courthouse twenty minutes before you left. A freeze-frame of one of them near the lift. Then one final message. 

Jungkook: They were not there to scare you. 

Your mouth went dry. 

You: What were they there to do? 

A long pause. 

Jungkook: Move you. 

You understood enough. You did not sleep much that night. Every sound in the hallway became a footstep. Every car passing outside became someone waiting. At some point before dawn, you sat on the floor with your back against the bed and read through the files he had sent you until your eyes burned. When morning came, you called your boss from the clean phone and told him the truth. Not all of it. Not Jungkook. Not yet. But enough. 

He went quiet in the way he always did when he was angry on your behalf. He had been your mentor long before he became your boss; after you lost your family, he had taken you in professionally and emotionally without ever making you feel like a burden. He did not tell you to be brave. He did not tell you to come in. He said, “Where are you?” You looked at the small window, at the pale morning beyond it. “Somewhere safe for now.” 

“For now is not good enough.” 

“No,” you said. “It is not.” 

There was a silence, then a long breath. “Tell me what you need.” You closed your eyes. That was why you had survived this profession as long as you had. Not because the system was good. Not because the law always worked. Because sometimes, rarely, someone inside it cared enough to stand beside you when the ground shifted. 

“I need time,” you said. “And I need the court to accept that the evidence has to be reviewed properly. No shortcuts.” 

“You will have both.” After the call ended, you looked at the clean phone. 

You: Why me? 

Jungkook did not answer immediately. You imagined a man somewhere in a dark room, surrounded by screens, deciding how much truth to give you. You hated that you were imagining him at all. Then the phone buzzed. 

Jungkook: Because you hurt them in public. 

Another message. 

Jungkook: And because if they silence you, they bury the girl with you. 

You swallowed. 

You: That is not comforting. 

Jungkook: It was not meant to be. 

You let out a quiet, humourless laugh. 

You: Do you ever say anything normal? 

Jungkook: No worries. 

You stared at that and, against every reasonable instinct left in your body, almost smiled. It took two days for him to tell you what he needed. A dead drop. Your personal phone and laptop had to be removed from your possession, copied, mirrored, stripped, hardened, and rebuilt. He sent instructions with the patience of someone who expected you to question every step. You did. He answered every question. He never demanded faith. He gave logic, routes, timings, camera angles, alternatives, contingencies. 

“You sound like you do this often,” you told him over text, sitting in your office long after the others had left, the city glowing beyond the windows. 

Jungkook: That is not a question. 

You: It can be. 

Jungkook: Then ask it properly. 

You leaned back in your chair, tired enough to be honest. “What are you, Jungkook?” This time, he did not answer for a while. Then: 

Jungkook: Useful. 

You wanted to be irritated. You were. But beneath that, there was something else. A strange, reluctant steadiness beginning to form around the shape of his presence. Not trust. Not yet. But recognition. You had spent years reading evidence, statements, tone, omission, motive. Jungkook was careful. Too careful. But careful did not always mean false. Sometimes careful meant wounded. Sometimes careful meant experienced. Sometimes careful meant he knew exactly what happened to people who spoke too soon. You left your laptop and phone in a locker at a subway station three nights later. He had chosen the station because it was busy enough to hide in and old enough that half the cameras were badly positioned. You wore a cap, mask, and long coat, your heart loud beneath your ribs. When you walked away, it felt like leaving part of your life behind. Within an hour, the clean phone buzzed. 

Jungkook: I have them. 

You: And? 

Jungkook: You have terrible password habits. 

You looked down at your phone, offended despite everything. 

You: I am being hunted by a criminal network and this is what you choose to criticize? 

Jungkook: It is relevant. 

You: I hate you. 

Jungkook: No, you do not. 

You did not answer. He was correct, which made it worse. For two weeks, you did not go home. You worked from the office, slept badly on the narrow sofa in your mentor’s spare conference room, changed in the staff bathroom, and lived on coffee so milky it barely deserved the name. The court accepted further forensic review. The prosecution team dug deeper. The detectives you trusted kept their circle small. Your boss walked you to your car every night even when you told him not to. 

Jungkook worked without sleeping properly. You could tell from the timestamps. Sometimes he messaged at 3:14 a.m. to ask whether a file named one thing had ever been saved under another. Sometimes he sent you a fragment of code with a note that he had found malware embedded three layers deeper than expected. Sometimes he told you to delete an email without opening it. Sometimes, at dawn, he sent only: 

Jungkook: Route clear. Leave in twelve minutes. 

He did not soften things. That should have made him harder to like. Instead, his precision became part of your days. He never told you that you were safe. He told you what had been checked. He told you what was clean. He told you what to avoid. He told you when a building entrance had a camera blind spot and when a car had circled twice. He gave you facts, and the facts held. Two weeks after the dead drop, as you sat alone in the office with your shoes off and your glasses slipping down your nose, the clean phone buzzed. 

Jungkook: You can go home now. I made it safe. 

You read the message three times. Home. The word did not feel the way it used to. Still, you packed your files, put on your shoes, and called your boss from the corridor. He did not like it. You could hear that in the silence. But he knew better than to mistake your fear for fragility. 

“Call me when you are inside,” he said. 

“I will.” 

“And if something feels wrong—” 

“I leave.” 

“No,” he said. “You call me and then you leave.” 

You closed your eyes briefly. “Yes.” When you reached your penthouse building, every light felt too bright. Every reflection in the glass doors showed too much behind you. The receptionist smiled in a way that almost made you cry because it was ordinary and because ordinary had begun to feel like a country you had been exiled from. The clean phone buzzed in your pocket. 

Jungkook: Lobby clear. Lift clean. Camera feed stable. Go. 

You went. Your penthouse was exactly as you had left it and not the same at all. The cream sofa. The glass table. The neat shelves. The city beyond the windows. Your life preserved like a museum display while you had been elsewhere learning the shape of threat. You stood in the doorway for a long time. Then you typed: 

You: Thank you. 

Jungkook answered almost immediately. 

Jungkook: Lock the door. 

You did. Over the next weeks, his messages became part of your mornings. Route clear. Use south entrance today. Delay five minutes. Do not take the usual road. Leave now. Stay inside. Camera issue on level three. False alarm. You learned the rhythm of his protection before you learned the shape of his face. He learned yours in different pieces. Not through the cameras inside your home—he was careful about that boundary after you made it sharp—but through the way you worked, the cases you sent, the questions you asked, the fury you folded into polite legal language. He saw the victims you refused to reduce to evidence. He saw how often you asked whether the young woman and her mother were still safe before you asked about yourself. He did not compliment you. 

He sent better firewalls. One night, after a brutal day of reviewing hospital connections and financial records linked to missing-person cases, you missed your 8 p.m. check-in by twenty-six minutes. When you remembered, your stomach dropped. You called him before texting. He answered on the fourth ring, voice rough with sleep. “Are you hurt?” It was the first time you heard him. Low. Tired. Controlled even through the edge of alarm. His voice did not sound like the voice of a man who spent his life behind screens. It sounded warm in a way you did not trust yourself to think about for long. 

“No,” you said quickly. “No, I am fine. I am sorry. I forgot.” A pause. “You forgot.” 

“I was reviewing the hospital donor list.” 

“At eight in the evening.” 

“I did not say it was wise.” His exhale came through the line, quiet and strained. “I do not check inside unless you fail to respond and there is reason to believe you are in danger.” You sat back slowly. “You have not checked?” 

“No.” 

“You could.” 

“Yes.” 

“But you did not.” 

“No.” Your throat felt strange. “Why?” 

“Because access is not permission.” You looked across your apartment, at the dark reflective windows and the cameras you had agreed to let him reinforce, and felt something loosen painfully in your chest.  “Okay,” you said.  “Okay?”  “If I do not answer and you think I am in danger, you can check. Internal cameras. Emergency only.” 

“I need a safe word,” he said.

“A safe word?”

“So you can know it is me if I ever have to reach you fast and cannot explain.”

The idea should have frightened you. Instead, the steadiness of his voice made fear feel like something that could be organized, named, planned around.

You thought for a moment. “Pomegranate.” Silence. Then, almost softer, “Pomegranate?” “It is hard to say by accident,” you said. “And easy to remember.” “That is very practical.” “Also mythological.” A pause. “Hades and Persephone,” he said. “You know it?” “I know enough.”

“Then you know pomegranates come with consequences.” Jungkook was quiet long enough that you wondered if he was smiling. You hated wondering that. “Pomegranate,” he said. “Good.”

The word became a strange comfort after that. A red seed tucked beneath your tongue. A reminder that even the underworld had rules if you knew how to speak them. The first real false alarm happened during a storm. Rain beat against the windows hard enough to blur the city. The lights in your building flickered once as you stepped into the lift from the underground garage. Your clean phone glitched, screen going black, then bright, then black again. Somewhere above you, during a power transfer, the elevator camera went briefly dark. By the time the doors opened on your floor, the phone had come back to life with six missed calls. Your heart kicked. You answered the seventh. 

“Why did it take you that long to get upstairs?” Jungkook’s voice was calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that had teeth beneath it. You stepped out of the lift, looking both ways down the corridor. “The lift did not stop.” 

“Your phone went dark.” 

“The screen glitched.” 

“The camera went down.” 

“For how long?” 

“Too long.” You unlocked your door and got inside, chest tight. “Jungkook.” He said nothing. 

“I am inside.” 

Still nothing. You leaned back against the door. For a second, you could hear only the storm and his breathing. Then he said, much quieter, “I am seventeen minutes away.” You closed your eyes. That was not a reassurance. It was a confession. Seventeen minutes away meant he had measured the distance. It meant he had thought about the worst thing happening inside that gap. It meant he had built systems and still understood that bodies could move faster than code in the wrong circumstances. 

“I am okay,” you said. 

“I do not like okay.” 

“I know.” The silence changed. You opened your eyes, wincing because you already hated yourself for saying it. “Sorry.” 

“It is fine.” 

“It did not sound fine.” 

“It is not useful for me to be anything else.” 

You pressed the back of your head against the door and stared at the ceiling. You were learning that Jungkook did not break loudly. He narrowed. Months passed in increments of danger and ordinary life. 

Court dates moved. Files multiplied. The young victim and her mother stayed hidden. More names surfaced, then disappeared behind sealed reports, dead ends, or people suddenly transferred out of departments. A hospital donor connected to the case boarded a private flight. A detective you did not fully trust began asking questions he should not have known to ask. Someone tried to breach your workplace server and found Jungkook waiting like a shadow with teeth. You kept working. So did he. Your life became smaller, but not empty. Your penthouse remained beautiful, expensive, controlled. You still had silk blouses, cream trousers, gold earrings, court shoes lined neatly near the wardrobe. You still drank coffee too late and highlighted documents in three colours. You still stood in rooms full of men who underestimated you because you were calm. But now, every morning began with a ghost. 

Jungkook: North route is bad today. Use the bridge. 

You: Good morning to you too. 

Jungkook: It is raining. 

You: That is not a greeting. 

Jungkook: Take an umbrella. 

He was always like that. Practical before kind. Care disguised as instruction. You learned to read the warmth by what he remembered: how you liked your coffee, which entrance made your shoulders tense, which courtroom had the bad camera angle, how late was too late for you to still be working without having eaten. You started asking about him too. 

You: Have you eaten? 

Jungkook: Yes. 

You: Liar. 

Jungkook: That is an accusation. 

You: Your timestamps say you were working from 11 p.m. to 6 a.m. 

Jungkook: That does not prove I did not eat. 

You: Did you? 

Three minutes passed. 

Jungkook: No. 

You: Eat. 

Jungkook: Bossy. 

You: Accurate. 

He did not reply for ten minutes. Then: 

Jungkook: Eating. 

You smiled at your desk like an idiot and pretended not to. The day he saw you in the pool was the day you forgot to tell him your route had changed. Your building’s gym was quiet after court hours, the pool lit blue and silver beneath the ceiling lights. You had gone down because your body felt like a clenched fist. Because your mind had been full of missing women, medical reports, shell charities, and a photograph of a mother holding the hand of a daughter who had not stopped shaking since testimony. 

You swam until your arms ached. Then you floated on your back and stared at the ceiling, ears underwater, world muffled. For ten minutes, no one wanted anything from you. No one needed proof. No one needed courage. No one was asking you to be the face of a fight that was slowly eating through every ordinary piece of your life. When you got back upstairs, the clean phone was waiting on the kitchen counter with one message. 

Jungkook: Message me when you are back upstairs. 

You froze. Then another: 

Jungkook: You forgot to update me. 

You looked toward the internal camera in the corner of the living room, suddenly aware of your wet hair, bare feet, loose shirt over your swimsuit. 

You: Did you check inside? 

Jungkook: No. 

Your shoulders lowered. 

Jungkook: Gym camera. Then pool. 

You stared at the phone. You should have felt exposed. Instead, what unsettled you was the softness that followed. 

Jungkook: You looked peaceful. I waited until you were done. 

You read it twice. Then you wrote: 

You: I was. 

He did not answer for a while. When he did, it was only: 

Jungkook: Good. 

You did not know then that somewhere far from your apartment, Jungkook had sat very still in front of a wall of monitors and watched you float beneath blue light like something the world had not managed to touch. You did not know that, for a few minutes, his mind had gone quiet. You did not know that seeing you safe had felt like peace to him before he had the language to admit why. You only knew he had waited. And, somehow, that mattered. The first time you heard his voice properly for longer than a crisis was after a work dinner you had not wanted to attend. 

It was supposed to be small. A few prosecutors, two detectives, your boss, and one senior consultant who liked the sound of his own voice enough to fill any silence. The hearing had gone well that week. Not a victory, not yet, but enough progress that everyone’s shoulders had lowered for one evening. You drank more wine than you meant to. Not too much to understand danger. Enough to soften the edges of it. You messaged Jungkook from the restroom, leaning against the marble sink with your phone in one hand and your lipstick slightly faded. 

You: I may not update properly when I leave. 

His reply came almost immediately. 

Jungkook: How many drinks? 

You: Rude. 

Jungkook: Number. 

You: Three. 

Jungkook: Actual number. 

You frowned at the screen. 

You: Four and a half. Maybe five if we are counting the one I did not finish. 

Jungkook: We are counting it. 

You: You are annoying. 

Jungkook: I am sending someone. 

A man was waiting outside the restaurant forty minutes later, holding an umbrella in one hand and his phone in the other. He was not dressed like security. That made him better security. You stopped beneath the awning. “Who sent you?” His mouth twitched. “Hades.” Your drunk brain took a second. Then you laughed. The man did not ask why. He got you home safely. He walked you into the lobby, waited until the lift doors closed, then disappeared before you reached your floor. Inside your penthouse, you kicked off your heels, left your coat on the sofa, and dropped onto the cushions like your bones had dissolved. The clean phone rang before you could decide whether the ceiling was moving. You answered with your eyes closed. “I am alive.” 

“You are drunk.” 

“You are observant.” 

“Drink water.” 

“Bossy.” 

“Accurate.” You smiled despite yourself, rolling onto your side. His voice was clearer through the phone tonight, low and close, threaded with exhaustion he did not bother hiding. 

“Jungkook?” 

“What?” 

“Are you handsome?” Silence. Then, flatly, “Go to bed.” You opened your eyes. “That is suspicious.” 

“It is practical.” 

“No, it is suspicious. Why does it matter if I ask?” 

“It does not.” 

“Then answer.” Another pause. 

“Quite the contrary.” You sat up too quickly and had to grab the arm of the sofa. “Quite the contrary? That is such an annoying thing to say.” 

“You asked.” 

“You could be lying.” 

“My face is not relevant to your safety.” 

“Your voice tells me otherwise. You are lying.” 

“I am hanging up.” 

“No, wait.” You leaned back, smiling at the ceiling now. “Why does it matter if you are handsome or not?” 

“It does not.” 

“It matters to me.” 

“Why?” 

You closed your eyes, warmth spreading through your face. “I need to have something to fantasize about.” The silence on the other end changed so sharply you felt it through the phone. For one beautiful, wine-soft second, you thought you had broken him. Then your phone buzzed. A photo. You opened it. And stopped breathing. You did not know what you had expected. A shadow, maybe. A blur. A man careful enough to hide even while revealing himself. Instead, he had sent a photograph taken in low light, face half-turned toward the camera, dark hair slightly messy, mouth unsmiling, eyes so sharp they made your chest tighten. He looked like someone the city would forget only because he commanded it to. Beautiful in a way that felt unfair. Dangerous in a way that made sense. 

“Oh,” you said softly. Jungkook said nothing. You zoomed in before shame could catch you. 

“If I had a voice and a face like you, little lamb,” you murmured, “I would never shut up about it.” Jungkook’s inhale was quiet. Then he said, “Drink water.” You laughed. “That is all you have to say?” 

“Brush your teeth.” 

“You are impossible.” 

“Go to bed.” 

“Sir, yes, sir.” 

This time, the silence was longer. When he spoke again, his voice had lowered by a fraction. “Please go to bed. Good night.” You woke the next morning on the sofa with a headache, a dry mouth, and Jungkook’s face still open on your phone. For one full minute, you stared at it in horror. Then you remembered what you had said. You dropped the phone onto your chest and covered your face with both hands. “No.” The clean phone buzzed against your sternum. You moved two fingers apart and looked. 

Jungkook: Drink water. 

You considered throwing yourself off the balcony. Instead, you typed: 

You: I am sorry. 

Jungkook: No need to apologize. 

You stared at the message. Then, against your better judgment, you opened the photo again. He really was too handsome for his own good. The case moved faster after that. Or maybe it only felt that way because everything began breaking at once. The forensic review exposed enough manipulation to damage Namjoon’s submission badly. The young victim’s testimony held. Financial routes began connecting to logistics companies, private clinics, shell donors, and names that made even seasoned prosecutors go quiet. 

At the next major hearing, several men tied to Black Loom’s logistics chain were taken into custody. Not the whole network. Not yet. But enough that, for one afternoon, the air changed. You walked out of court with your spine straight and your hands steady. Your boss squeezed your shoulder once. The detective at the back gave you a nod that felt like a promise. The victim’s mother held you so tightly your ribs hurt. You messaged Jungkook from the courthouse steps. 

You: We got them. 

For once, he did not answer immediately. Then: 

Jungkook: You wounded them. 

You smiled faintly. 

You: That sounds like congratulations in your language. 

Jungkook: It is. 

Your smile faded as rain began to mist the steps. 

Jungkook: Be careful tonight. 

You looked up at the darkening sky. “Always.” The judge was found dead the next morning. Your boss called first, voice hollow. Then the detective from Violent Crimes, speaking in clipped sentences that told you more than his words could. The official line forming too quickly was suicide. The detective did not believe it. You did not either. The victim and her mother were still safe. That was the first thing you asked. The detective answered before you finished the sentence. 

“They are safe. I checked myself.” 

You sat on the edge of your bed, the clean phone in your lap, and felt something cold and enormous move beneath the surface of everything. Black Loom was not a gang. Jungkook said it later, after you sent him the details. He had been quiet for a long time, long enough that you knew he was moving through systems you did not have names for. 

Jungkook: This is bigger than the men in court. 

You: How much bigger? 

Jungkook: Hospitals. Donors. Police contacts. Private security. Judges. International routes. 

You closed your eyes. 

You: Organ trafficking? 

The answer came too slowly. 

Jungkook: Yes. 

You thought of the bodies found along mountain paths. The missing organs. The hospital donors. The powerful man whose transplant rumours everyone dismissed because no one wanted to be sued into silence. Your hand tightened around the phone. 

You: I need names. 

Jungkook: You need to stay alive long enough to use them. 

After that, the cameras started behaving strangely. One second freezes when you entered police buildings. Traffic cameras turning too neatly along your route. A lift camera going grainy, then clear. A parking garage feed skipping exactly three frames when your car passed. Jungkook noticed before anyone else. Of course he did. You were in a police building reviewing statements when his message came through. 

Jungkook: Your steps are being followed. 

You looked at the fluorescent hallway, at the officers moving past with paper cups and tired eyes, at the camera in the corner. You typed: 

You: I understand. 

Then you put the phone away and walked into the meeting with your face calm. That was the thing about being afraid for long enough. Eventually, fear became another room you learned to work inside. The breach happened on a Thursday. You remembered that because it had been raining all day, the kind of rain that made the city silver and miserable, and because you had thought, absurdly, that you wanted to cook something instead of ordering in. Something normal. Something warm. Jungkook cleared your route from work. The building lobby was clean. The lift was clean. The hallway camera was stable. You entered your penthouse, locked the door, and placed your clean phone and laptop on the coffee table before going to change. Your blouse was half-unbuttoned when the lights flickered. Not off. Just once. You stilled. In the living room, the clean phone began ringing. You stepped toward the bedroom door. Then the cameras went dark. 

Far away, Jungkook saw every feed from your penthouse black out at once. He did not swear. He did not panic. Not outwardly. He moved. The clean phone and laptop on your coffee table lit up white. Then they died. By the time you reached the living room, there was a thin curl of smoke rising from both devices. Your heart stopped. The apartment was too quiet. Somewhere near the service entrance, something clicked. You backed away slowly, one hand reaching for the nearest heavy object. A glass paperweight. Useless, but better than nothing. Your personal phone was gone. Your clean phone was dead. The cameras were blind. The windows reflected only your own pale face back at you. Then the balcony door shifted. You ran. Not toward the front door. Too obvious. You ran toward the corridor, toward the guest bathroom, because it had no windows and a lock and maybe, if you were lucky, enough time. 

You were not lucky. A dark shape moved from the hall. You swung the paperweight with both hands. A gloved hand caught your wrist before it connected. You fought so hard your shoulder burned. You kicked, twisted, drove your elbow backward, tried to scream, but the figure was faster, stronger, silent in a way that made terror split open inside you. He forced you backward, one hand clamping over your mouth, the other locking your wrist, pushing you into the bathroom. You heard yourself make a sound you did not recognize. The door shut behind you. You tried to bite him. He caught your jaw. 

“Pomegranate, little lamb.” 

Everything stopped. Not your breathing. That came fast and broken against his glove. Not your pulse. That kept trying to tear out of your throat. But the world itself narrowed around those two words. Pomegranate. Little lamb. Your eyes snapped to his face, but he was wearing a black mask, hood pulled low, rainwater dark on his shoulders. His voice came again, lower now. “It is me.” Your knees almost gave out. 

“Jungkook?” He released your mouth slowly but did not step away until he was sure you understood. Even then, one hand stayed near your arm, not gripping now, only ready. 

“You scared me,” you whispered, and hated how small it came out. His eyes moved over your face, your throat, your hands, your blouse, the paperweight still on the floor. Checking damage. Counting breaths. Measuring the seconds he had lost. 

“I had to get you out of sight. The apartment is compromised.” 

“My phone—” 

“Gone. Laptop too.” Your stomach dropped. He saw it and answered before you could ask. “Your files are safe.” You stared at him. 

“The devices are gone,” he said. “Your files are safe.” 

Only then did your body begin to shake. Not because of the files. Not really. Because the man who had been a voice, a message, a shadow in your systems, was standing in front of you with rain on his clothes and violence still coiled in his shoulders. Because he had crossed the distance between digital ghost and flesh in seventeen minutes or less. Because he had saved you and frightened you in the same breath. Jungkook looked toward the bathroom door. “We have to move.” 

“How did they get in?” 

“Service access. Maybe cloned credentials. Maybe someone in the building. I will know later.” 

“You will know later?” 

“Yes.” 

The certainty in his voice should have sounded arrogant. It sounded inevitable. He removed his jacket and put it around your shoulders without asking. It was warm from his body despite the rain. Dark fabric swallowed your half-buttoned blouse, your shaking hands, the last fragile illusion that your penthouse had ever been safe. You followed him through your own home like it belonged to someone else. The living room smelled faintly of burnt circuitry. The balcony door was open a fraction. Rain tapped against the glass. Your beautiful apartment, with its cream sofa and polished floors and quiet luxury, had become a stage after the audience had left and the knives remained. 

Jungkook moved through it without wasting a motion. He checked the corridor. The service entrance. The lift feed on a small device in his hand. He guided you through the back route, not the main lift, one hand hovering near your lower back but barely touching unless he had to. In the underground garage, a car waited. You did not ask where he had got it. You did not ask how many laws he had broken to get to you. For once, you were too tired to ask the correct questions. Only when the building disappeared behind you, swallowed by rain and distance, did you look at him properly. He had removed the mask. The photo had not lied. If anything, it had been merciful. 

In person, Jungkook was more difficult to look at because he was real. Dark hair damp from the rain, jaw tense, eyes fixed on the road with an intensity that made the air inside the car feel charged. He was dressed in black, not stylishly, not carelessly, but like someone who had never wanted to be seen and had dressed accordingly. You should have said thank you. Instead, what came out was, “You are taller than I thought.” His fingers tightened briefly on the steering wheel. Then, after a pause, “That is what you want to say right now?” You looked out at the rain-blurred city and let out a breath that was nearly a laugh and nearly something worse. “I am in shock.” 

“That is fair.” 

“And you broke into my apartment.” 

“I entered through a compromised access point.” 

“That is a very criminal way to phrase that.” 

“I am a very criminal person.” 

You turned your head back toward him. He did not smile. That was the first time Jungkook told you the truth plainly, without softening it into usefulness. He was not a police contact. Not a private investigator. Not a clean informant with a badge waiting somewhere. He was the thing criminals feared only after everything they owned started collapsing around them. A ghost in the system. And now you were in his car, wearing his jacket, leaving behind the last place that had belonged only to you. 

“Where are we going?” you asked. 

“My house.” 

You did not ask if it was safe. You knew he would not take you there if it was not. Jungkook’s house did not look like the home of a ghost. That was the first thing that hurt. You had expected concrete, glass, black walls, screens glowing in every room, something sterile and expensive and impossible to understand. Instead, he drove into a quiet neighbourhood where the streets were narrow and old trees bent over garden walls. His house sat behind a gate with chipped paint and warm lights glowing behind rain-streaked windows. It looked lived in. It looked like a place someone had once loved. 

Inside, the air smelled faintly of wood, dust, clean laundry, and coffee. There were shelves that did not match, a worn sofa, a kitchen table with scratches along one edge, a hallway where shoes had once gathered in pairs. It was not polished like your penthouse. It was not designed to impress anyone. It was warmer than it should have been. Jungkook locked the door behind you, then checked two systems near the entrance. He did not touch you again until he had to guide you down the hall. 

“You can take the bedroom,” he said. “Bathroom is across from it. Towels are in the cabinet. I will get you clothes.” You looked at him. “Where will you sleep?” 

“I will not.” 

“Jungkook.” 

He glanced at you. You stopped. His face was too controlled. That was the problem. Not cold. Not indifferent. Controlled so tightly that you could see the strain only because, by then, you had spent months learning how he hid care inside logistics. 

“Okay,” you said softly. “Show me the room.” 

The bedroom was simple. Clean sheets. A heavy blanket. Curtains drawn over the dark window. A lamp already turned on. On the chair near the wardrobe, he placed a folded black hoodie and sweatpants that looked too large for you. 

“I need to check the perimeter,” he said. “Then rebuild your phone access and contact your boss through a safe route.” You nodded. He hesitated at the door. It was so small you almost missed it. 

“Do not go into the workroom yet,” he said. “It is not about you. It is sensitive.” The honesty of that was stranger than a lie would have been. 

“All right.” 

“If you need me, call out.” You held his jacket tighter around yourself. “Will you hear me?” 

“Yes.” 

He left. You showered with the bathroom door locked, though you knew locks meant less than they used to. You put on his clothes. The hoodie swallowed your hands and smelled faintly like him beneath laundry detergent and rain. Not cologne. Not smoke. Something warm, impossible, alive. Summer. You sat on the edge of the bed afterward and stared at nothing until your eyes burned. Your penthouse was gone. Not physically. You knew the building still stood, the furniture still arranged, the city still visible from those tall windows. But it was no longer yours in the way a place stopped being yours once fear entered before you did. 

Your old life had not ended with a gunshot or a scream. It had ended with a camera feed going black. There was a soft knock on the door. You looked up. Jungkook stood in the hall with a glass of water in one hand and a phone in the other. No mask now. No jacket. Just black clothes, damp hair, tired eyes, and a stillness that belonged to someone who had spent too long surviving by becoming difficult to read. 

“I need to call your boss,” he said. “You can speak to him. I will route it.” 

You took the phone. Your boss answered on the first ring. The moment you heard his voice, something in you gave way. Not completely. You did not sob. You did not collapse. But your face crumpled for one second before you pulled yourself back together. 

“I am safe,” you said first. Your boss went silent. Then he exhaled in a way that made you realize how frightened he had been. 

“Where are you?” 

“With someone who can protect me.” 

“That is not an answer.” 

“No,” you said, glancing at Jungkook. “But it is the safest one I have.” Jungkook looked away first. Your boss did not like it. You knew him too well not to hear that. But he trusted your judgment more than his fear, which was why you trusted him in return. 

“You work remotely,” he said. “No court appearances. No office. Not until we know what happened.” 

“I can still help.” 

“I did not ask whether you could. I told you what is going to happen.” 

Despite everything, you almost smiled. Jungkook raised an eyebrow, as if he could hear enough to understand. You looked down. “Yes, sir.” After the call, Jungkook took the phone back and ended the routed line. Your hands were steadier now. 

“Thank you,” you said. 

“You already said that.” 

“Then hear it twice.” You looked at him fully. “You saved my work. The files. The case.” 

“I saved your life.” 

“You saved both.” Your voice grew quieter. “You do not understand what those files mean.” 

“I do.” 

“No. You understand systems. You understand data.” You tightened your fingers around the glass of water. “But I am the one who has to stand in court and make people listen. I am the one whose full name is attached to every argument. Every challenge. Every accusation. If those files were gone, if the chain of evidence was damaged, if they could say I was careless—” 

“They cannot.” You stopped. Jungkook’s voice had not risen. It did not need to. 

“They cannot,” he repeated. “Everything was mirrored before I triggered the burn. Forensic images. Metadata. Original structures. Access logs. I have them.” 

You stared at him, and the room blurred for a moment. He shifted, uncomfortable beneath gratitude. “You are the face of this. I understand that. But I can stand behind you. I can give you everything I have from the dark.” There it was. Not a promise. A position. You were the face. He was the shadow. And for the first time since the car park, you felt the shape of what the two of you could become if the world kept forcing you together. Not trust. Not yet. But something with teeth. Something that could survive being afraid. You took a breath. 

“Then we keep going.” Jungkook looked at you for a long moment. Then he nodded once. 

“We keep going.” 

The first quiet stretch after danger never felt peaceful. You slept in his bed while he sat somewhere beyond the closed door and rebuilt the world around you in silence. And somewhere deep in the city, Black Loom began to realize that the woman they had failed to move had not been alone at all. She had found a ghost. Or maybe the ghost had found her. Either way, the dark had answered. 

For the first few days inside Jungkook’s house, you learned the shape of captivity when it was built by someone trying to keep you alive. 

It did not look like chains. It looked like coffee placed beside your laptop before you asked for it. It looked like a blanket folded over the back of the sofa because you had fallen asleep there once and woken shivering. It looked like a black phone that never left your reach, a laptop hardened so tightly it felt less like a device and more like a locked room, and a man who moved through his own house as if every window, camera, sensor, lock, and shadow had to answer to him before he could breathe. Jungkook did not tell you that you could not leave. That would have been easier to hate. Instead, he gave you facts. The penthouse had been compromised. The building staff could not be fully cleared yet. The service entrance credentials had been cloned or purchased. Black Loom had seen enough to know your home was reachable and possibly enough to know someone else had intervened. Until he knew exactly how much they knew, you were not safe outside controlled movement. 

“I do not guess with your life,” he said when you argued on the fourth day. 

You were standing in his kitchen wearing one of his hoodies, your hair tied messily back, your laptop open on the table between you. You had spent the morning reading witness statements until your eyes stung, and the walls of his warm old house had started to feel like they were moving closer one inch at a time. 

“I am not asking you to guess,” you said. “I am asking you to let me step outside for ten minutes.” 

His face did not change, but you had already started learning the smallest ways he tightened. The stillness at his shoulders. The pause before he answered. The way his eyes moved to the nearest window and back to you as if he could see danger through plaster, brick, glass, distance. 

“You can be angry with me,” he said. “You can hate the house. You can hate the cameras. You can hate that I am the person telling you this. But I am not opening a door until I know what is behind it.” 

You wanted to snap at him. You wanted to tell him that your life had not belonged to Black Loom before, and it would not belong to him now, even in protection. But then he pushed a folder across the table. Inside were stills from the service corridor outside your penthouse. A blank patch in the building log. A cloned access card. A man looking up toward a camera a second before the feed died. Your anger did not disappear. It lost its footing. Jungkook leaned back, giving you space without leaving the room. “I can show you every reason. Every time.” You looked down at the images, throat tight. “That is not the problem.” 

“I know.” You lifted your eyes. He seemed to realize what he had said a moment too late, mouth closing around whatever came next. You let it pass because his face looked tired enough already. 

“The problem,” you said quietly, “is that I had a life.” His gaze lowered. 

“I had a home. I had routines. I had terrible takeaway from the place near work because the delivery driver knew my building code. I had a barista who knew my coffee order. I had a pool downstairs and sunlight through the windows in the morning. Now every simple thing has to be checked, cleared, secured, permitted by threat level, and I am grateful because I know you are keeping me alive, but I am also angry because I did not choose any of this.” 

Jungkook did not interrupt you. He did not defend himself. He stood across from you in black clothes, with one hand resting near the edge of the table, and listened as if every word mattered more because it hurt. 

“I am not angry at you,” you said. 

“You can be.” 

“I am not,” you repeated. “But I need to say it aloud before it becomes something ugly.” 

He nodded once. “Then say it aloud whenever you need to.” That was the strange cruelty of him. He made it difficult to resent him because he never tried to own the suffering his protection could not prevent. He did not pretend the house was freedom. He did not call confinement safety and expect you to thank him for the name change. He only built the walls as carefully as he could and stood there while you hated them. So you stayed. 

You worked from his living room while he disappeared into the workroom at the end of the hall, the one room he had asked you not to enter. You learned its sounds before you saw its insides: the low hum of machines, the soft rhythm of keys, the occasional quiet voice when he spoke to someone through an encrypted call. Sometimes, past midnight, you would wake on the sofa and see a thin line of blue-white light beneath the door, proof that Jungkook had not slept. He made terrible coffee for himself and perfect coffee for you. That annoyed you more than it should have. 

“You do know you are allowed to drink something that tastes good,” you told him one morning, watching him swallow coffee so black it looked punitive. He glanced at your cup. “Yours tastes good.” 

“You made mine.” 

“Yes.” 

“So why do you hate yourself?” His mouth almost moved. Almost. Then he looked back at his screen. “I do not hate myself. I am efficient.” 

“You are drinking punishment.” 

“You are dramatic before nine.” 

“You are drinking punishment before nine.” 

He said nothing, but the next morning his coffee had milk in it. You did not comment. He knew you noticed anyway. Your boss checked in every day at first, then every other day when he realized you were still working more than resting. He did not ask for Jungkook’s name. You suspected he wanted to. You also suspected that if you gave it to him, he would quietly run every legal and illegal check he could get away with, then hate whatever he found and still accept that you were safer here than anywhere else. 

The case did not slow just because your life had narrowed. If anything, Black Loom’s shape became clearer once Jungkook had you close enough to work without delay. You sent him court filings, financial notes, names from evidence logs, and half-formed theories. He sent back routes, metadata, bank structures, hidden ownership links, and sometimes only a single line that made your stomach drop. Hospital donor again. Same shell charity. Do not open that attachment. Police contact is dirty. Judge was not suicide. Those were the worst words. Judge was not suicide. You had known it, but knowing and seeing proof were different cruelties. Jungkook did not send everything at once. He had learned, somehow, when proof would steady you and when it would bury you. That frightened you almost as much as it comforted you. Two weeks became three. Then four. Then six. 

You started measuring time by the ways the house accepted you. A mug you used more than the others stayed on the dish rack instead of being put away. Your case folders spread across half the living-room table. Your blazer hung beside his black coat near the door. A spare charger appeared near the sofa because you always forgot yours in the bedroom. Jungkook noticed everything. He never made a show of it. The only thing he refused to give you was the outside world. By the seventh week, you felt the lack of sunlight beneath your skin. It was the morning the envelope arrived at your workplace. Your boss called first. He did not describe it over the phone. That told you enough. His voice had gone very careful, the way people sounded when they had chosen each word before speaking because the wrong one might break something. 

“What happened?” you asked. Jungkook was already standing on the other side of the living room, watching your face. Your boss exhaled. “A package came for you.” Your fingers tightened around the phone. “From Black Loom?” 

“We believe so.” 

“What was inside?” Jungkook crossed the room silently and stopped beside you, not touching, only there. Your boss said your name once, softly, and that frightened you more than an answer would have. 

“What was inside?” you repeated. 

“A finger.” The room lost sound. For a moment, you could see only the pale wall across from you and Jungkook’s shadow stretching along it. 

“The victim and her mother?” you asked. 

“They are safe,” your boss said immediately. “I checked. They are safe.” Your knees almost gave out. Jungkook’s hand closed around your elbow before you hit the table. Not gripping hard. Not pulling. Just anchoring. 

“There was a note,” your boss continued, each word heavy. “‘If you do not stop, they will keep coming.’” 

You closed your eyes. That was the point. Not only to threaten you. To make you feel responsible for every piece of violence they created. To turn your compassion into a weapon they could aim back at your chest. 

“Send everything to the secure channel,” you said. Your voice sounded calmer than you felt. 

“You do not need to look at it.” 

“Yes, I do.” Your boss went quiet. 

“I need to know who it belongs to.” 

Jungkook’s hand did not leave your arm. When the images came through, he did not let them appear on your laptop first. He opened them on his own device, face cold, eyes moving over details with the precision of someone separating horror from evidence. Then he looked at you. 

“You do not have to.” 

“I do.” 

He watched you for a second longer, then turned the screen. You knew the finger before the forensic markers finished telling you why. Not because you had known his hands well. You had not. You had met him twice, maybe three times, a young man barely older than the victim you were protecting, shaking in an interview room while pretending he was not afraid. Small-time fraud. Scam routes. Dark-web access. A boy who had tried very hard to act like a criminal because acting like one was safer than admitting he had been cornered by them. You had told him once that leaving early was the only chance men like him got. He had laughed. Then he had stopped laughing when you said his name. 

“He tried to leave,” you whispered. Jungkook’s eyes sharpened. 

“He tried to leave, and they sent him to me because he had no family.” Your throat closed around the last word. “They sent him to me because I warned him.” 

Jungkook turned the screen away. You pressed both hands over your mouth, not to stop yourself from crying, but to stop yourself from making a sound Black Loom did not deserve to hear even in memory. That afternoon, Jungkook did something he had refused to do for weeks. He took you outside. 

Not far. Not carelessly. He gave you a cap, a mask, and a route so tight it felt like threading a needle. He checked the streets, cameras, exits, cars, reflections, shop windows. The café was close enough to reach quickly and small enough to clear. He sat where he could see the door and the back entrance at the same time. You sat across from him with both hands wrapped around a flat white, sunlight touching the table between you. For a while, neither of you spoke. You lifted your face toward the window and closed your eyes. The sun was weak, filtered through clouds and glass, but it was real. It touched your cheeks like something remembered. 

“I missed the sun,” you said. Jungkook went still. You opened your eyes. “I am not complaining.” 

“I did not say you were.” 

“I need to say that too.” His gaze stayed on you. 

“I know why I have to stay hidden. I know why the house is safer. I know what you are doing for me.” You looked down into your coffee. “But I missed the sun. I missed ordering coffee from someone who did not know my threat level. I missed walking somewhere because I wanted to, not because the route had been cleared.” Jungkook’s voice was quiet. “I am sorry.” You shook your head. “Do not apologize for keeping me alive.” 

“I can apologize for what alive costs.” 

That hurt more than you wanted it to. You looked at him then, really looked. He was wearing a black cap pulled low, a mask covering half his face, dark clothes loose on his frame. Even hidden, he was too noticeable if someone knew what to look for. Not because he was loud. Because stillness had a shape around him. Because his attention changed the air. 

“You did not make Black Loom,” you said. 

“No.” 

“And you did not send that envelope.” 

“No.” 

“And I am not going to stop.” 

His eyes met yours. There was sunlight between you. A table. Two coffees. A city full of cameras and monsters. For one brief, impossible moment, it almost felt like you were two ordinary people sitting in a café because you had chosen to. 

“I know,” he said, then seemed to catch himself. His eyes lowered. “You would not be you if you did.” You smiled faintly. “That was almost a compliment.” 

“It was accurate.” 

“Same thing from you.” 

The corner of his eye creased slightly above the mask. You took that as a victory. Rain kept moving down the windows long after the house went quiet and a nightmare found you. It was not dramatic at first. That made it worse. You dreamed of court filings and coffee cups, of a young man laughing in an interview room, of his hands folded on the table. Then one finger was missing. Then all the lights in the room went red. Then his mouth opened and nothing came out except Black Loom’s note, folded over and over until the paper became skin. You woke screaming. Jungkook reached your room with a bat in one hand and murder in his eyes. He stopped only when he saw you upright in bed, sheets twisted around your legs, one hand pressed to your chest as if you were trying to hold your heart in place. The bat lowered. You stared at him, breathing in broken pieces. Then you broke too. 

You moved before pride could stop you, before adulthood, professionalism, anger, dignity, fear, any of it could rebuild the wall. You stumbled out of bed and into his arms. Jungkook caught you like he had been waiting to fall with you. His body went rigid for half a second, then his free hand came around your back, the bat hitting the floor with a dull sound behind him. You buried your face against his chest and shook so hard it hurt. He did not tell you to calm down. He did not tell you it was only a nightmare. He held you with one arm around your back and the other hand cradling the back of your head, keeping you there as if the world would have to go through him to reach you. 

“He tried to leave,” you said into his shirt. “I told him to leave and he tried, and they—” 

“You did not cut off his finger.” 

“They sent him to me.” 

“They chose to hurt him.” 

“Because of me.” 

“Because of them.” You shook your head, but he held you tighter, not enough to trap, enough to insist. 

“Listen to me,” he said. “The blame belongs to the hand holding the knife.” You closed your eyes. His heart was beating hard beneath your cheek. Not as calm as his voice. Not even close. 

“I keep thinking,” you whispered, “if I had done more, if I had pushed harder, if I had protected him—” 

“You cannot protect everyone before they let you.” 

The words landed too gently to be cruel. That was why they hurt. You cried until the first violence of it passed, until the room came back in pieces: the lamp, the sheets, the fallen bat, Jungkook’s hand moving slowly over your back. His shirt smelled faintly of laundry, coffee, and that impossible warmth you had begun to associate with him. Summer in the dark. 

“I can make tea,” he said eventually. You almost laughed. It came out broken. “Of course you can.” 

“It helps.” 

“You always say that like a man who needs evidence for kindness.” 

He did not answer. You pulled back enough to look at him. He looked younger in the bedroom light, or maybe only more tired. His hair was messy from sleep he had clearly barely reached before you screamed. His eyes moved over your face carefully. 

“Will you stay?” you asked. The question changed something. You felt it in the air before he spoke. 

“Yes.” 

He stayed. Not in a way that asked anything of you. Not in a way that turned comfort into debt. He picked up the bat, set it near the door, brought water instead of tea because your hands were still shaking, and sat on the edge of the bed until you lay down again. When you reached for him, he went still. Then he lay beside you on top of the blanket, fully clothed, one arm carefully beneath your head only after you moved closer first. You rested your forehead against his shoulder and closed your eyes. 

“Are you going to sleep?” you murmured. 

“No.” 

“Why?” 

“Because you need to.” 

You were too tired to argue. The last thing you remembered before sleep took you again was his hand, light and steady over your hair, and the sense that he was watching the door even in the dark. By morning, something had shifted. Not enough to name. Enough that neither of you joked about it. The nightmare had brought back more than grief. It had brought back a name, a route, and a fragment of something the young man had once said before fear swallowed him. A place where people went when they wanted to disappear from Black Loom and often never returned. You gave it to Jungkook over coffee, still wearing his hoodie, your voice hoarse from crying. He listened without interrupting. Then he stood. 

“I cannot do this part alone from here.” You looked up. “What part?” 

“All of it.” 

That was how he took you to Haven. The building looked like nothing. That was the first sign it was important. A low industrial structure tucked behind delivery routes and old concrete, no sign, no obvious security, no visible reason anyone would look twice. Jungkook drove through two route changes, one parking swap, and an underground entrance that opened only after he sent a sequence from a device that looked older than it should have. Inside, Haven was not the dramatic lair you might have imagined. It was fluorescent lights, concrete floors, screens, cables, coffee cups, people in hoodies, people in suits, quiet conversations, tension layered beneath routine. It looked like a workplace built by people who did not have the luxury of being legal. Then someone looked up. The man’s expression changed. 

“Jungkook.” 

One word. The room stilled. Chairs scraped back. Conversations died mid-sentence. People stood, one after another, as if the name itself had pulled a wire through the room. Some bowed their heads. Some lowered their eyes. A few looked genuinely afraid. You turned to Jungkook. He did not look powerful. That was the frightening part. He looked uncomfortable. His jaw tightened, eyes fixed ahead as if he wanted to get through the moment quickly. You had known he was dangerous. You had known he had reach, skill, access, enemies. But you had not understood until then that there were people who did not just work with him. They answered to him. The ghost had a kingdom after all. A man approached from the far side of the room, older than most of the others, sharp-eyed, calm, with the posture of someone who had survived long enough to stop wasting movement. 

“V,” Jungkook said. V looked at you first, then at Jungkook, then back at you. 

“So this is her.” Jungkook’s voice cooled. “Careful.” V’s mouth twitched as if he was not offended. “I meant no disrespect.” 

“You rarely do by accident.” 

That almost made someone nearby smile, though they hid it quickly. Jungkook turned to the room. He did not raise his voice much. He did not need to. “Black Loom. Full structure. All active Korean routes. Hospital channels. Donor networks. Police contacts. Judges. Shell charities. Organ movement. Missing-person overlap. Anything tied to the man whose finger they sent her.” A woman at the nearest desk looked up sharply. “Which part of Black Loom?” Jungkook’s face went very still. 

“All of them.” 

The room changed again. Not fear this time. Focus. Screens shifted. People sat. Hands moved over keyboards. Someone rolled a chair to another station. V turned to a wall monitor and began giving instructions with quiet authority. You stood beside Jungkook with your coat still on and realized that this was what happened when the ghost asked for war. Everyone stopped what they were doing and reached for a blade. V returned after a few minutes with a black laptop and phone. He held them out to you with both hands. 

“For you,” he said. “Veni Vidi Vici hardware. Secure. Clean. Daily intelligence access will be routed through me until Jungkook says otherwise.” 

You looked at Jungkook. He nodded. You took them. “Thank you.” V studied your face, then did something you did not expect. He bowed. Not like the room had bowed to Jungkook. This was different. Less fear. More respect. 

“Thank you, ma’am.” 

You froze. V turned slightly toward the room and raised his voice enough to carry. “For those who do not know, this is the lawyer who put Black Loom’s hyenas behind bars last week.” A few heads turned. Then someone clapped once. Someone else joined. 

Within seconds, the sound spread across Haven, not loud enough to be careless, but warm enough to make your throat tighten. People who had bowed to Jungkook now looked at you with something like recognition. Not because you were with him. Because you had wounded the same monster they had been hunting from the dark. You blinked hard. Jungkook did not look at you. That was how you knew he understood. V gestured toward a side table. “The judge’s killer is tied to the same man moving the Jane Does through hospital channels. He is careful. Violent. We have partial lists of potential future victims, but some names are coded. Tomorrow, maybe, we can give you more.” 

“Give me what you have,” you said. V’s eyebrow lifted slightly. You met his gaze. “Please.” He smiled, just barely. “I see why he likes you.” Jungkook went colder beside you. “V.” 

“I said likes. Not loves. Relax.” 

The room became very interested in pretending not to hear. You looked down at the laptop because your face had betrayed you enough for one day. Jungkook said nothing. But the drive back to his house was quieter than usual. 

Outside, Seoul kept glowing as if nothing had changed; you worked at his kitchen table with Veni Vidi Vici files open on the new laptop, reading through names, routes, medical notes, missing-person overlaps, and scraps of code. Jungkook stood behind your chair once to point out a connection between a shell donor and a hospital board member. He was close enough that you felt the warmth of him along your back, close enough that his hand braced on the table beside yours. Neither of you moved for a second. Then he stepped away. You kept reading. That became the rhythm: evidence, restraint, coffee, danger, silence. The next day, Jungkook cleared a controlled visit to your penthouse so you could collect more clothes and personal documents. He did not like it. You knew that because he checked the building feeds nine times before breakfast and spoke even less than usual. 

“The building looks clear,” he said finally. “Clear enough for a controlled visit. Not long.” 

“Will you come with me?” He looked at you as if the question had offended him. You smiled faintly. “I wanted to hear you say it.” 

“I am coming with you.” 

The receptionist nearly cried when she saw you. She tried not to show it, which made it worse. She gave you the accumulated mail with trembling hands and told you she was glad you were all right. You thanked her. Upstairs, your penthouse looked untouched. You hated it for that. 

Jungkook moved through the rooms with quiet efficiency, checking corners, vents, feeds, door sensors. You packed clothes with fast hands: blazers, silk blouses, trousers, underthings, shoes, the burgundy dress you had not worn in months, a jewellery pouch, a framed photograph you did not let yourself look at for too long. Then you opened the mail. Most of it was useless. Bills. Invitations. Legal notices. Thick envelopes from institutions trying to look more important than they were. One envelope sat near the bottom. Heavy paper. No return address. Red wax seal. You did not touch it at first. Jungkook appeared beside you as if the change in your breathing had called him. His eyes went to the seal. 

“Black Loom,” he said. You looked up. “You are sure?” 

“Yes.” 

This time, he did not tell you not to open it. You broke the wax. Inside was an invitation. Elegant. Expensive. Polite enough to make your skin crawl. A formal celebration in a grand ballroom, hosted through a charity board tied to one of the hospital donors you had flagged two days earlier. No threats. No blood. No severed finger. Just your name printed beautifully on thick card, as if they were inviting you to dinner rather than pulling you toward the mouth of something. You read it twice. Then you laughed once, quietly, without humour. 

“They want me to know they are not hiding.” Jungkook’s jaw tightened. 

“They want to see who is protecting you,” he said. “They want to test how much you know. They want you inside their room so they can remind you how many powerful people stand between them and consequence.” 

You looked at the red wax broken on the table. For a moment, you saw the courtroom. Namjoon’s smile. The judge’s empty chair. The young victim’s mother crying into both hands. The severed finger in a photograph you would never unsee. The café sunlight on your face. Haven applauding because the law had managed, for once, to wound something monstrous. 

“I want to go,” you said. 

“No.” 

The word came out so fast it almost startled both of you. You turned. Jungkook stood very still, but the air around him had sharpened. “No,” he said again, quieter. You held the invitation between two fingers. “You do not get to decide before I explain.” 

“I know why you want to go.” 

“Then let me say it.” 

His mouth closed. You looked down at the invitation, then back at him. “I want to show them I am not hiding. I am not the one caught in a web of crimes and deaths.” Jungkook’s eyes moved over your face as if he was searching for fear and finding something worse. Conviction. 

“They will not attack you there,” he said. “Not physically. It is too public. Too many eyes. That is not what worries me.” 

“I know.” 

“They will make it beautiful. They will make it polite. They will put monsters under chandeliers and dare you to call them what they are.” 

“I know.” 

“They will watch you breathe.” 

You stepped closer. “Then let them.” His expression changed, not much, but enough. You had seen him in the dark of your bathroom with a mask on. You had seen him in his kitchen making coffee like care was a problem to be solved. You had seen a room full of dangerous people bow to him. But this was different. This was Jungkook faced with the one thing he could not firewall: your will. He could build walls around your body. He could not make you smaller without becoming another prison. He looked away first. 

“If you go,” he said, “I go.” Your heart did something foolish. 

“Jungkook—” 

“If you go, I go.” 

“They may know your face.” 

“They may.” 

“They may be looking for you.” 

“Then they can look.” 

“That is not a plan.” 

“No,” he said. “It is a condition.” You stared at him, anger and tenderness and fear knotting together until you could not separate one from the other. 

“You are very difficult.” 

“Yes.” 

“I have noticed.” 

“I assumed.” The absurdity of it almost made you laugh. Almost. You placed the invitation back on the table. The broken red wax looked like blood against the polished surface. 

“Fine,” you said. “We go together.” Jungkook looked at the invitation, then at you. 

“Together,” he agreed. 

Hours later, the city had gone quiet, but Jungkook had not, the red invitation sat between you like a live thing. You worked for hours trying to understand why Black Loom had sent it now. Veni Vidi Vici found the charity links, the hospital donor overlap, the family names, the shell board, but nothing that explained the invitation’s exact timing. Jungkook checked the penthouse cameras repeatedly, then the building feeds, then the route logs, then Haven’s incoming intelligence. You read until the words blurred. By midnight, your shoulders ached. Jungkook stood near the workroom door, one hand resting on the frame. The blue-white light from inside cut around him, turning him into silhouette. 

“If you have another nightmare,” he said, “wake me.” You looked up from the sofa. “What if you are in there?” 

“Then knock.” You glanced past him into the room you had still never entered. 

“You said it was sensitive.” 

“It is.” 

“But I can knock?” His gaze softened in a way he would probably deny. “Yes.” Something in your chest turned over. 

“All right,” you said. 

He disappeared into the workroom, leaving the door slightly ajar. Not open. Not closed. It felt like a beginning. You sat alone in the living room for a while after that, staring at the red-wax invitation on the table and the thin line of light cutting across the floor from Jungkook’s private room. Black Loom had invited you into its world. Jungkook had opened a door into his. You did not know yet which one would ruin you first. 

The gala approached like a threat learning how to breathe. The red-wax invitation had stopped looking like paper and started looking like a pulse. It sat on Jungkook’s kitchen table for two days while the two of you tried to tear meaning out of it. Veni Vidi Vici traced the charity board.  Jungkook mapped the hospital donor overlap. You built a list of every person invited who had ever appeared near a Black Loom case, shell clinic, missing-person file, or sealed court document. The list grew too quickly. Judges’ widows. Hospital board members. Private security donors. Old family names attached to new money and older sins. Every connection led to another connection until the room itself seemed threaded with invisible red lines. By the afternoon of the event, Jungkook had stopped pretending he liked any of it. 

He did not tell you not to go again. He had already tried once, and you had already answered him. Instead, he became quiet in the particular way that meant he was turning fear into procedure. He checked the car route, then the backup route, then the walking approach from the valet entrance to the ballroom. He checked the hotel’s public feeds, private parking angles, traffic cameras, elevator access points, emergency exits, staff entrances, and five different ways to leave without looking like you were running. You stood in the bedroom and put on the burgundy dress. It felt like a decision. 

The satin slipped over your skin in a dark wine sheen, soft at the neckline, narrow over the waist, falling cleanly along your body without armour or apology. You kept your jewellery minimal: a delicate necklace, small earrings, nothing that could be grabbed easily or missed if lost. Your hair stayed loose. Your lipstick matched the dress closely enough to make the red-wax seal feel less like a threat and more like a challenge returned. Black Loom had invited you in red. So you wore it back. When you stepped into the living room, Jungkook was already there. You stopped. For a second, the whole house seemed to pause with you. 

You had seen him in black hoodies, oversized shirts, damp hair after rain, half-lit by screens, masked in your penthouse bathroom with danger still on his hands. You had seen him tired. Controlled. Unreadable. You had seen a room full of people stand because his name had entered before his body fully had. You had never seen him like this. The suit was dark charcoal, almost black, cut with broad, structured shoulders and a layered waistcoat that made him look taller, sharper, more impossible. The shirt beneath had a dark glossy finish at the collar, something almost leather-like, held with a precise tie detail and a simple bar. A fine chain disappeared beneath the waistcoat. His gloves were black. Not decorative. Not theatrical. Practical enough to remind you that elegance did not soften him; it only gave the danger a cleaner line. He looked like old money had learned how to kill a man without raising its voice. Jungkook looked up from fastening one glove. Then he stopped too. His eyes moved over you once. Only once. But it was enough to make the room feel warmer. 

“You look beautiful,” he said. 

You had been complimented by men who wanted something from you. Men in courtrooms. Men at dinners. Men who mistook polish for permission and intelligence for invitation. Jungkook did not say it like that. He said it like a fact he had failed to prepare himself for. You looked down briefly, not because you were shy, but because something in his voice had touched a place you had not known was waiting. 

“You look…” You swallowed. “Different.” 

“That sounds diplomatic.” 

“It is not.” You looked at him again. “I have never seen you in a suit.” 

“You have seen me in worse circumstances.” 

“That is not what I meant.” His mouth almost softened. Almost. Then his gaze moved downward and paused at your ankle. 

“Your strap is loose.” You glanced down. One thin heel strap had slipped free, dangling against your skin. 

“I must have missed it.” 

Jungkook crossed the room. For a moment, you thought he would point, or offer you the sofa, or tell you to fix it before you tripped. Instead, he stopped in front of you and said, quietly, “Let me fix that for you.” Your breath caught before you could stop it. He lowered himself to one knee. The movement should not have changed the air. It was practical. Simple. A heel strap, nothing more. But you remembered Haven. The scraping chairs. The bowed heads. The way everyone had gone still because Jungkook had entered the room. The underground bowed to him. And now he knelt for you. 

He took your ankle gently, gloved fingers careful around your skin, and set your foot against his knee as if you were something precious and armed at once. He fastened the strap with slow precision, not because he needed the time, but because he was Jungkook and care was never careless in his hands. You looked down at the top of his dark head, the clean line of his suit, the chain near his waistcoat, the gloved hand at your ankle. Something shifted inside you. 

Until then, you had known he was beautiful. You had known it the morning after the photo, drunk memory burning at the edges of your embarrassment. You had known it in passing, as an observation you could put away because danger gave you better things to think about. But this was the first time your body understood what your mind had been refusing. Jungkook was not only the ghost who protected you. He was a man kneeling at your feet with enough power behind him to make rooms go silent. And he had chosen gentleness. He secured the strap and looked up. The question in his eyes was not verbal. It was worse. It was careful. You wanted to say something clever. Something that would move the moment aside before it became too large to hold. Nothing came. Jungkook rose. 

“You may create problems tonight,” he said, voice controlled again. You blinked. “Because of the dress?” 

“Because Black Loom has probably never seen you like this.”  Jungkook drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting near the gear shift, every motion so controlled it almost looked effortless. You watched the city lights slide over the dark leather of his gloves and thought of red wax breaking beneath your fingers.  The hotel rose ahead in glass, gold light, and polished stone, too beautiful to admit what kind of people it had been built to welcome. Jungkook pulled up at the entrance without hesitation.  The valet stepped forward with a professional smile, but it faltered slightly when he looked properly at Jungkook. Not enough for anyone else to notice. Enough for you to see. Jungkook handed over the keys as if the reaction meant nothing.  Maybe it did. Maybe he noticed everything and simply chose not to care. Then his hand came to rest low on your back, steady enough to guide, light enough to ask, and you walked inside together.  The warmth of the hotel closed around you at once. Marble floors caught the reflection of your dress. White flowers stood in tall arrangements along the entrance hall, too perfect to feel alive. Staff smiled with the careful blankness of people trained never to react, while the sound of rain and traffic faded behind glass and money.  With every step, the ordinary city disappeared a little more. Jungkook’s hand stayed where it was. Not possessive. Not performative. A point of contact. A quiet reminder that if the room tried to swallow you, he was already there.  Music reached you before the ballroom did, low and elegant, spilling through the open doors like a warning dressed as a welcome. Then you stepped inside.  The ballroom was built to make people forget that power had a smell.  It was all chandeliers, white flowers, polished floors, champagne, black suits, silk dresses, and the soft hum of money speaking to itself. People turned as you entered, not all at once, but in waves. A glance here. A pause there. A whisper that barely moved the lips.  Older women with diamonds at their throats. Men with politician smiles. Hospital donors. Charity patrons. People whose names appeared on buildings, plaques, and closed reports.  You leaned slightly toward Jungkook without looking away from the room. 

“Do they know?” His hand remained steady at your back. “No. They are just looking.” 

“They are looking a lot.” 

“You are younger than most of them, unfamiliar, and very hard to ignore.” 

“Was that a compliment?” 

“It was the truth.” 

You almost smiled. Then a man stepped into your path. He was closer to your age than most of the room, handsome in the polished way of someone who had never been denied anything long enough to learn humility. His suit was immaculate. His smile was easy. His eyes were wrong. 

“Good evening,” he said. “Thank you for accepting my invitation. I hope you have a pleasant night.” The room seemed to tilt by one degree. Your invitation. Jungkook’s hand did not move, but the air around him changed. You looked at the man. “And you are?” 

“Seokjin,” he said, smile deepening. “But you can call me Jin.” 

Of course. A name that sounded harmless. A name that belonged in emails and charity boards and polite introductions under chandeliers. Jin. Jin. A man who could order blood through other people’s hands and still greet you as if you were old friends. 

“You sent the invitation,” you said. 

“I did.” 

“Why?” 

“I wanted to see the woman who made so many powerful men nervous.” You felt Jungkook beside you, silent and lethal. Jin’s gaze moved to him. “And your companion?” 

“With her,” Jungkook said. Nothing else. No name. No lie. No explanation. Jin’s smile sharpened as if the answer pleased him. 

“How devoted.” 

“How observant,” you replied. Jin laughed softly. “I can see why they dislike you.” 

“They?” He lifted a glass from a passing tray but did not drink from it. “People who prefer their truths buried.” You looked around the ballroom. “You invited me into a room full of them.” 

“I invited you into a room full of people who built this city.” 

“No,” you said. “They purchased pieces of it.” 

Jin’s eyes brightened. For a moment, you understood why Jungkook had been worried. Not because Jin was loud, or obviously cruel, or reckless. Because he enjoyed this. The conversation. The theatre. The careful placement of every word where it could cut without leaving blood. 

“Come,” Jin said. “Let me show you what you came here to see.” 

Jungkook’s hand pressed once at your back. A question. You answered by moving forward. Jin did not introduce you to people so much as reveal them. He gestured toward an older woman in pearls speaking to a hospital director and mentioned, lightly, that grief had made her generous after her husband’s sudden death. He pointed out a donor whose name appeared on three clinics and two sealed investigations. A police commissioner’s brother-in-law. A charity-board member who funded shelters while privately deciding which missing girls deserved to stay missing. A judge’s widow who held court socially in the corner, smiling beneath a chandelier as if justice had not died in her house long before her husband did. 

“Black Loom is not hiding in basements,” Jin said, voice low enough that only you and Jungkook could hear. “You should know that by now.” You looked at the champagne flutes, the diamonds, the careful laughter. 

“They are standing under chandeliers.” 

“Some of them. Some only benefit from the light.” 

The room pressed against your skin. You had seen corruption in documents. You had seen it in altered files, missing reports, unexplained transfers, evidence that arrived too clean or too damaged. You had built legal arguments against it. You had imagined greed in numbers and names and hidden accounts. Seeing it breathe was different. They were not monsters in the way children imagined monsters. They had soft hands. Tailored cuffs. Polite voices. They asked about grandchildren and foundation galas and the weather. They had drivers waiting outside and names on hospital wings. They smiled as if the dead were abstractions, as if missing women were unfortunate headlines, as if organs moved through the world on their own. You could smell perfume, champagne, expensive soap, money. Underneath it, rot. Your stomach turned. Jin watched you noticing. 

“You put a few men behind bars,” he said. “Impressive men, to be fair. Useful men. But did you think that would stop anything? You cut one thread.” You turned your head toward him slowly. He smiled. 

“The loom kept weaving.” 

For a moment, you saw the severed finger. The young man in the interview room. The victim’s mother crying into both hands. The judge dead before his conscience could cost anyone more money. The Jane Does in hospital files with organs missing and names erased until they became cases instead of girls. You wanted to scream. Instead, you smiled. 

“Threads can be pulled.” Jin’s expression stilled. Just for a second. Jungkook saw it. You knew he did because his hand at your back became warmer through the silk. Then Jin laughed, delighted. “I really do see it.” 

“See what?” 

“Why he came out of the dark for you.” The words were soft. They landed like a blade. Jungkook did not move. You forced yourself not to look at him. Jin reached into his jacket and removed a small sealed card. Cream paper. Red wax. Again. 

“For your friends,” he said. You did not take it. Jungkook did. Jin’s eyes shifted to his gloved hand with interest too careful to be casual. 

“There is a name inside,” Jin said. “Or part of one. A gift. Since you have been chasing lists.” 

“Why give it to us?” you asked. 

“Because I want to see what you do with it.” 

“You want us to follow.” 

“I want many things.” Jungkook slipped the card inside his jacket. “We are done.” Jin looked at him for a long moment. Then he smiled as if Jungkook had confirmed something. 

“Of course.” 

You turned away before your face could betray how badly the room had started to affect you. You managed another fifteen minutes. Maybe less. Time became strange after Jin left you near a cluster of donors and officials, his cruelty delivered with such elegance that no one around you had realized a threat had occurred. You stood with Jungkook beside you, your posture perfect, your glass untouched, your face calm enough to belong there. Inside, your body was rejecting the room. 

Your throat tightened. Heat moved under your skin. The chandelier light fractured at the edges. Every laugh felt like a hand over a mouth. Every diamond flashed like a surgical instrument. You could almost hear the dead asking how people could sip champagne in the same world that had erased them. Jungkook did not ask in front of anyone. He only shifted closer. You turned your face toward him slightly, as if commenting on the music. 

“I am about to collapse,” you said softly. “Get me out of here. Please.” His response was immediate. No panic. No visible alarm. He simply adjusted his posture, leaned in as if you had said something amusing, then placed a hand more firmly at your back. 

“Of course,” he said, voice smooth enough for anyone listening. “We have another commitment.” 

You did not know who he told. You did not hear the excuse. You focused on walking. One step. Then another. Chin level. Shoulders back. Do not let them see. Do not let Jin see. Do not give Black Loom the satisfaction of knowing that a room full of well-dressed murderers had made your knees weak.  Jungkook guided you through the corridor with his body angled subtly between you and anyone approaching. His hand remained at your back, grounding, directing, protecting without making you look fragile. Outside, the night air hit your face like mercy. 

The valet brought the car. Jungkook opened the door and helped you inside before anyone could see your hands shaking. He took the driver’s seat, pulled away smoothly, and did not speak until the hotel had disappeared behind you. Only then did his hand leave the wheel and settle gently on your shoulder. That was all it took. You folded. Silently at first. Tears slipping down your cheeks, breath shaking, your body curling smaller in the seat as if all the posture you had held inside that room had been borrowed from a version of yourself you could not sustain any longer. Jungkook said your name once. You shook your head. 

“All those victims,” you whispered. “All those people I was trying to protect, trying to give their families closure, trying to bring home so they could be buried…” Your voice broke, and you hated that it did, hated that they could still reach you even after you left the room. “And the rich were sipping champagne as if it were another Tuesday.” 

Jungkook stared at the road. His face did not change. That was how you knew something terrible had happened inside him. Not to you. For you. In the quiet of that expensive car, beneath the passing gold light of Seoul at night, Jungkook looked at your tears and made a decision with no witness but the dark. He had promised to help you before. He had protected you, guided you, hidden you, built walls around your life with code and caution. But this was different. This was not protection as a system. This was devotion sharpened into consequence. The people in that room had made you feel small because their pride had been wounded. Jungkook would remember that. 

He would remember every face the button camera on his jacket had captured. Every handshake. Every whisper. Every donor who leaned too close to a judge’s widow. Every laugh that rose beneath the chandeliers while you stood there carrying the dead in your throat. Black Loom had aimed its blade at his pride. At you. And Jungkook, silent behind the dark, began to answer. He did not tell you that in the car. 

He did not tell you when he drove through the city with one hand on the wheel and the other still resting lightly on your shoulder as if touch alone could keep you from disappearing into the grief of that ballroom. He did not tell you when he parked behind his house, turned off the engine, and sat for one quiet second before opening his door, because even then he was calculating faces, exits, names, vulnerabilities, consequences. Jungkook did not rage loudly. He became precise. You were still trembling when he came around to your side of the car. The night air had turned cold enough to bite through the satin of your dress, and your legs felt unsteady when you stepped out. Jungkook saw it before you said anything. He removed his suit jacket and placed it over your shoulders, the dark fabric warm from his body, heavy enough to feel like a temporary wall between you and the rest of the world. 

“Come inside,” he said. 

You let him guide you. The house looked impossibly gentle after the ballroom. Warm hallway light, old wood floors, shoes near the door, the soft hum of systems hidden beneath domestic quiet. You stood just inside the entryway in burgundy satin and his black jacket, feeling like you had carried the dead home with you and had nowhere to put them down. Jungkook locked the door, checked the security panel, checked something on his phone, then turned back to you. 

“Sit.” 

You should have argued. Any other night, you might have. But his voice was not commanding for the sake of being obeyed. It was low, soothing, careful. The kind of voice he used when he had already assessed that your body had done all it could do for one evening. You sat on the sofa. Jungkook lowered himself in front of you and took your ankle in one hand. You looked down at him. 

For a second, the earlier moment returned with a different ache. Before the gala, him kneeling had felt intimate in a way you had not been ready to name. Now, when he unfastened one heel and then the other, it felt like care stripped down to its oldest language. No performance. No witness. No ballroom. Only his gloved hands working carefully over the buckles while your fingers curled into the edge of his jacket. The first heel came off. Then the second. Your feet touched the floor, and you exhaled as if the shoes had been holding you upright by force. Jungkook set them aside. “Lay down for a bit.” 

“I am not going to fall apart.” 

“You already did,” he said, not unkindly. “You did it quietly. There is a difference.” 

Your throat tightened. He helped you lie back against the sofa cushions and pulled the throw from the armrest over your legs. You wanted to tell him he did not have to do all of this. You wanted to say you were fine, or nearly fine, or would be fine soon. Instead, you turned your face toward the back of the sofa and closed your eyes because you were too tired to keep pretending strength was the same as not needing anyone. 

“I will make tea,” he said. 

Of course he would. You heard him move into the kitchen. A cupboard opened. Water ran. The kettle clicked. Small sounds. Domestic sounds. They should not have belonged to a man who could make a room full of underground operators stand by entering it. They should not have belonged to the same man who had recorded the faces of Black Loom with a hidden camera disguised as a button on his jacket and already sent them to Veni Vidi Vici before the valet had even brought the car around. But that was Jungkook. He did not divide care from violence. He simply chose who deserved which hand. By the time he returned with tea, you had fallen asleep. 

Your body had been on alert for hours, spine locked, face controlled, grief swallowed beneath lipstick and posture. The second you were back inside his house, wrapped in his jacket, your body had decided that safety was more important than dignity and shut itself down. Jungkook stood beside the sofa with the mug in his hand and stared at you. You looked smaller in sleep. Human in a way the ballroom had not allowed you to be. One hand tucked beneath your cheek, lashes damp, mouth soft with exhaustion, the burgundy dress still catching low light beneath the black fall of his jacket. His phone buzzed once. V. Faces processing. First external disruptions started. Donor accounts flagged. Two shell routes freezing before morning.  Jungkook read it. 

Then he looked back at you. Black Loom had thought it was inviting a lamb into a room full of wolves. They had been wrong about you. They had been wrong about him too.  Jungkook set the tea down, slid one arm beneath your knees and the other behind your back, and lifted you carefully from the sofa. You stirred once against his chest but did not wake. The sight of it did something ruinous to him, something he filed away with all the other things he could not afford to feel fully while enemies still had names and money and breath. 

He carried you to the bedroom and laid you down with the same care he had used on your heel strap. He removed the jacket from your shoulders, covered you properly, and stood beside the bed for a long moment. Then he bent and kissed your forehead. Barely a touch. Enough to make a vow of his mouth without waking you to hear it. His phone buzzed again. Another confirmation from V. Jungkook looked toward the hall, toward the workroom, toward the machines waiting with their maps and feeds and sharp little doors into other people’s lives. Then he looked at you one last time. 

“Nothing is going to hurt you,” he whispered. 

It was not a promise the world could keep. So he would make it afraid not to. Over the next few days, Black Loom began to bleed. Not publicly at first. Public collapse came later, in courtrooms and news reports and whispered panic inside polished offices. This was quieter. Sharper. A donor account frozen for compliance review. A private transport route exposed to the wrong customs contact. A hospital board member unable to access three offshore shells before dawn. A security contractor’s hidden ledger delivered anonymously to two people who hated him enough to use it. A banker’s encrypted archive unlocked just far enough for fear to spread inside his own house. Jungkook did not sleep much. 

You noticed because you had become too familiar with the shape of his exhaustion. The dark beneath his eyes. The way he stood with one shoulder braced against the workroom door when he thought you were focused on your own files. The half-full coffee cups abandoned throughout the house. The hoodie he wore for two days because he had forgotten clothes existed outside function. You worked too. Not because he asked. Because Black Loom had shown you its face under chandeliers, and now every document felt like a thread you could pull until something screamed. Veni Vidi Vici sent names, financial routes, coded references, partial lists. You built legal maps from illegal intelligence. You sorted what could someday survive court and what existed only to guide Jungkook’s dark hand toward the next weak point. 

The card Jin had given you contained part of a name. Not enough. Of course not enough. Enough to prove he knew what you were chasing. Enough to direct you toward the next corridor of the maze. Enough to make Jungkook’s jaw tighten every time he looked at it because Jin had not made a mistake. He had extended an invitation inside the invitation. Follow me. On the fourth day after the gala, Jungkook stood at the living-room threshold and said, “Come with me.” You looked up from the table, surrounded by files, sticky notes, and a laptop screen full of names. “Where?” 

“My workroom.” 

The words stilled you more than they should have. You had passed that door a hundred times by then. You had seen light beneath it, heard the hum, watched Jungkook disappear inside as if part of him belonged more to that room than to the rest of the house. He had told you that you could knock if you needed him, but he had never invited you in. You closed your laptop slowly. 

“Are you sure?” 

“No,” he said. “Come anyway.” 

That was honest enough to make you stand. The workroom was not what you expected and exactly what you expected at once. It was larger than the closed door had suggested, stretching into a converted back room reinforced with more equipment than any private citizen should have been able to obtain. Screens lined the main wall. Some showed camera grids. Some displayed maps, routes, financial webs, court structures, hospital networks, faces from the ballroom captured in sharp stills from the hidden button camera. There were handwritten notes beside digital ones, evidence boards beside code, red lines connecting names, locations, institutions, bodies. Your life was there. 

Your penthouse. Your office. The courthouse. The hotel ballroom. Haven. The café where you had said you missed the sun. The judge. The victim and her mother, their location blocked even on his own board. Black Loom’s suspected routes. Missing-person photographs arranged with more care than the official files had ever given them. You stood in the doorway and forgot how to move. Jungkook remained a few steps behind you, giving you room to look and room to leave. You understood that too. This was not only a workroom. It was his war room. His mind made visible. The dark he had promised to give you, with all its secrets exposed. 

On one screen, the ballroom faces shifted in a grid. Seokjin appeared in the centre, smiling politely beneath chandelier light. Around him: donors, officials, widows, directors, patrons, men who had never touched a knife because their money had done the cutting for them. On another, a list of disruptions updated in quiet green text. Jungkook had been dismantling pieces of them while making you coffee. You turned slowly. He stood near the door in black clothes, hair messy from running his hand through it too many times, eyes shadowed with sleeplessness. The glow from the screens cut across one side of his face, turning him half ghost, half man. 

“You should know what I am doing,” he said. “Before you decide you can live with it.” 

There it was again. An exit. Offered gently. Offered before you asked. Offered because somewhere inside him, Jungkook still believed people stayed only until they understood him properly. You looked back at the screens. There was horror here. Illegality. Trespass. Invasion. A hundred things you would have condemned in another context, in another room, before the law had shown you how easily it could be bought, delayed, manipulated, made useless by men who drank champagne while victims disappeared. Then you looked at the photograph of the young man whose finger had been sent to you. You looked at the judge’s name. The hospital routes. The missing women. The ballroom faces. Finally, you looked at Jungkook. 

“You thought this would make me leave?” 

His face gave nothing away. That answered enough. You crossed the room toward him. Jungkook did not move. Not when you stopped close enough to see how tired he truly was. Not when you lifted a hand and brushed a lock of hair away from his forehead. Not when your fingers lingered near his temple, soft against the place where his exhaustion lived. 

“I have seen monsters in courtrooms,” you said. “I have seen men smile while lying about girls they helped destroy. I have seen evidence vanish because someone rich made a call. I have seen the law kneel for people who should have been begging forgiveness from graves.” Jungkook’s eyes searched yours. 

“You are not the thing that scares me in this room,” you said. 

Something in Jungkook broke quietly. Not enough for the room. Enough for you.  You kissed him first, and it was not graceful. It was not planned. It was months of warnings, routes, coffee, fear, proof, grief, sunlight, nightmares, and his hand steady at your back in a ballroom full of murderers. It was the way he had knelt for your heel. The way he had carried you to bed. The way he had given you proof before trust and exits before promises. It was the way he had stood behind you in the dark long before he ever touched you in the light. Jungkook went still for half a breath. Then his hand came to your waist. Not pulling. Holding. As if he needed to make sure you were real before he allowed himself to want. The second kiss was his, and it undid you. It began measured, because Jungkook was measured in everything, because even desire had to pass through the discipline of a man who had survived by never taking what was not freely given. His mouth moved against yours with a control sharp enough to make your knees weak. His hand only tightened at your waist when you stepped closer. His other hand lifted to your jaw, bare thumb brushing the line of your cheek with a gentleness that almost hurt. 

Then you made a sound into his mouth. Soft. Ruined. His discipline split down the middle. 

Jungkook moved you back against the edge of the desk, not enough to frighten, but enough to remind you that beneath all that patience was strength he had been keeping on a leash. The desk met the backs of your thighs. His body followed. Warm, solid, impossibly close. His hand braced beside your hip. The other slid into your hair, fingers threading through it, tilting your face up so he could kiss you deeper. 

The kiss changed. It became hunger forced through discipline. Want held back only because your choice still mattered more to him than his own need. You forgot the screens. The maps. The faces of monsters watching from frozen frames. You forgot the law, the files, the house, the war waiting outside the room. Everything narrowed to the edge of the desk beneath you, his body between your legs, his hand in your hair, his mouth taking yours like he had been starving in silence and had only now found something he was allowed to taste. 

“Do you know what you do to me?” he murmured against your mouth, voice low, almost rough. “Do you know what you do to my discipline?” 

You reached for him. Jungkook made a low sound when your hands closed in the front of his hoodie. His body pressed closer, one knee nudging between yours, not forcing, only asking with the shape of him. You opened for him before he had to ask aloud, and the moment he felt it, his grip at your waist tightened. 

His mouth left yours only to find your jaw, then the side of your throat. You tipped your head back before pride could reach you. He noticed. Of course he noticed. Jungkook noticed everything. His lips touched the place beneath your ear, slow enough to make your breath catch, then warmer, open-mouthed, tasting the pulse he had spent months trying to keep beating. 

“I have counted every room in this house where I wanted to touch you,” he said, so quietly it felt more dangerous than a confession. “Do you understand that? I knew the exits. I knew the cameras. I knew every route out. And all I could think about was how close you were.” 

His hand slid from your waist to the curve of your thigh, fingers flexing once through the fabric of your dress before stopping. He pulled back. Not far. Only enough to look at you. His breathing had changed. So had yours. His forehead almost touched yours, but he did not kiss you again. Not yet. 

“Little lamb,” he said, voice low enough to make your whole body tighten, “please do not kiss me if you are not going to stay.” 

Your lips parted. “This is more than a kiss to me,” he said. “This is a vow.” 

The room went silent around you except for the hum of machines. You understood, then, that Jungkook was not asking you for a night. He was not asking for comfort, distraction, gratitude, adrenaline, or need born from fear. He was showing you the threshold before you crossed it because his heart, hidden thing that it was, had already turned sacred at the sight of you. 

You lifted both hands to his face. You kissed him again. No hesitation. No clever answer. No making the choice smaller so it could hurt less. You kissed him like staying had already happened. Jungkook made a quiet sound against your mouth, almost wounded. 

Then his hands moved. One beneath your thigh. One at your back. He lifted you from the desk as if discipline had only been waiting for permission to become strength. Your legs wrapped around his waist. The sound he made then was different. Lower. Less controlled. “Tell me,” he said against your lips. “Tell me you are here because you want me. Not because you are afraid. Not because you are grateful. Me.” “I want you.” His eyes darkened. “That is the only answer that lets me keep touching you.”  He carried you out of the workroom, and the hallway disappeared in pieces: warm lamplight, the shadow of his shoulder, your fingers in his hair, the hard line of his body beneath your thighs. Your back touched the wall just outside the workroom. The impact was gentle. The intent was not. Jungkook held you there, pinned between the wall and the heat of him, not because you could not move, but because he needed to feel that you were choosing not to. His hips pressed forward once, controlled and ruinous, and the friction pulled a broken breath from you before you could swallow it. He stopped immediately. “Again?” he asked, voice wrecked. “Yes.” His forehead pressed to yours. “Use words for me. I do not guess with your body.” Your hands tightened in his hair. “Again, Jungkook.” He kissed you like the sound of his name in your mouth had cut the last wire holding him still. At the bedroom door, he set you down just enough to turn the handle, his body still close, his breath still touching your mouth. You tried to kiss him again, impatient now, but he caught your chin between his fingers and made you look at him. “Last chance,” he said, voice rough. “If this is fear, we stop. If this is gratitude, we stop. If this is because you saw what I did to Black Loom, we stop.” You reached for him. “I see you. That is why I am still here.” 

He closed his eyes for half a second. When he opened them again, the last of his control did not disappear. It changed shape. He took you into the bedroom and set you on the edge of the bed, not dropping you, not letting you fall, placing you there with the same terrible care he gave to everything that mattered. 

Black clothes. Dark hair. Mouth marked by yours. Eyes fixed on you as if the sight required discipline. He removed his gloves slowly. One finger at a time. The leather slid free with a quiet pull, then another, then another. He set both gloves on the bedside table with a precision that made your body ache. You had seen those hands on keyboards, weapons, steering wheels, your ankle, your files, the edge of your fear. Bare now, they looked almost too human. That made them worse. 

He touched your face first. Then your throat. Then the strap of your dress. Each place he touched, he watched you. Not like he doubted you. Like he was learning the exact language of your consent in every breath, every tilt of your chin, every time you moved closer instead of away. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” he said. “I will.” You held his gaze. “Promise me.” “I promise.” His fingers slid beneath the strap and eased it down your shoulder. The dress shifted with it, satin slipping against your skin. His eyes followed the movement, and for the first time, you saw his control falter before he could hide it. His thumb brushed the newly exposed skin near your collarbone. Once. Twice. Then his mouth followed. He kissed your shoulder first. Slow. Warm. Then the hollow beneath your collarbone. Then the place where your pulse betrayed you. He undressed you as if every inch revealed had been trusted into his hands. Not taken. Trusted. The other strap fell. His palms settled at your waist, waiting until you lifted your hips for him. Only then did he draw the dress down, letting the satin slide over your ribs, your waist, your hips, his fingers following the path as though your body was a map he had spent months refusing to read and could no longer deny himself. When the dress slipped away, he dropped to one knee between your legs. Your heart stuttered. Haven had bowed to him. Jungkook knelt for you. Again. Only this time, there was no heel strap. No polite excuse for the position. His hands rested on your thighs, warm and bare, thumbs moving slowly over the inner seam of your legs. 

He looked up at you from there, and the hunger in his face was so open that your first instinct was to reach for the blanket. He caught your hand before you could hide. “No,” he said softly. His thumb moved over your knuckles. “Let me look at you.” Your face warmed. “You are staring.” “Yes.” “That was not a complaint.” “I would not have stopped staring.” 

His mouth touched the inside of your knee. Your fingers twisted in the sheets. He kissed higher. His hands held your thighs open with infuriating gentleness, thumbs stroking slow lines into your skin, his mouth trailing warmth along places no one had ever made feel sacred and obscene at the same time. You looked down at him and found him already watching you. That ruined you more than anything. 

“I want to hear what you sound like when you stop holding back,” he murmured against your thigh. 

You almost hated him for moving away. Then your hands found the hem of his hoodie. He stilled. You pulled once. He obeyed. The hoodie came off over his head, and the sight of him made your breath catch. Lean strength. Old scars. Inked shadows disappearing along his ribs and shoulder. The body of a man who had survived more than he said and trained himself to look untouchable because being touched had once meant being known. 

You touched him because you could. Because he had spent months as a voice, a warning, a message, a ghost with hands you imagined before you ever felt them. Your fingertips traced the line of one tattoo near his chest. His eyes closed. The sound he made was quiet enough to be a secret. You leaned forward and kissed the mark. Then another scar. Then another. His stomach tightened beneath your mouth. His fingers slid into your hair, not pushing. Holding. For one ruinous second, you understood that tenderness did not make him calmer. It made him worse. 

He guided your face back to his and kissed you deeper now, messier, no longer pretending at distance. He pushed you back onto the bed and followed you down, one knee between yours, body covering yours in degrees: first his hands, then his mouth, then his weight. When his chest pressed to yours, you gasped into his mouth. He heard it. Felt it. Answered it by rolling his hips once against you. Your back arched. Jungkook stopped moving again. 

“Do not keep stopping,” you breathed. His jaw tightened. “I am trying.” “To stop?” “To stay worthy of what you are giving me.” 

Your throat tightened. You pulled him down and kissed him harder. That was the end of the soft beginning. Jungkook’s mouth moved down your throat again, then lower, over your chest, over your ribs, over the places your breath broke beneath him. He did not let the moment turn vague or distant or pretty enough to hide behind. He made you feel all of it. His hands sliding under your back to lift you closer. His mouth closing over sensitive skin until your fingers dug into his shoulders. The slow drag of his body against yours. The heat of him between your legs. The way he kept watching you, like your pleasure had become the only language he still trusted. 

Then his hand moved to the bedside drawer. He paused before opening it. Your eyes followed. When he withdrew the coil of red rope, both of you went still. The rope lay across his palm, vivid and dark in the low light. Not a threat. Not a surprise forced into the room. An offering. 

“I bought it after the gala,” he said. “I thought about throwing it away.” “Why did you keep it?” His eyes lifted to yours. “Because I could not stop thinking about the red wax. Your dress. Pomegranate.” His hand closed loosely around the coil. “And because there is a story about a red thread that ties destined people together. Invisible. Unbreakable. It felt…” He looked away for a second, jaw tense. “Dangerous to want that.” Your heart hurt. “Jungkook.” “I will not use it unless you want it.” You sat up slowly, the sheet pooling at your waist, and held out your hand. He gave you the rope. It was softer than you expected. Warm from his hand. Red as fate. Red as warning. Red as all the things Black Loom had tried to turn into fear. You wound part of it once around your own wrist, loosely, and held the end out to him. His eyes darkened. “Show me.” Jungkook’s breathing changed. Not because of the rope alone. Because of what you had given him with it. Trust made visible. Surrender chosen with steady eyes. Fate placed in his hands, not as a cage, but as a vow. He took the rope back carefully. 

“Colours,” he said, voice low. “Green means continue. Yellow means slow down. Red means stop. Pomegranate means everything stops. No questions. No hesitation. No pride.” You repeated it back to him, and something in his face softened so fiercely that the rope itself felt less like restraint and more like a language the two of you had invented because ordinary promises had never been enough. 

He tied with the focus of a man writing code that could not afford an error, except this was warmer, slower, sacred. He explained each movement before he made it. Checked the pressure. Slid two fingers beneath every wrap. Asked you to flex. Asked you to breathe. Sometimes he stopped only to kiss the place he had just wrapped, as if even beauty required permission. Sometimes he asked you to pull, and when the rope held, his breathing changed. 

When he was done, your wrists were secured above you. Not painfully. Not frighteningly. But undeniably. Red rope against the sheets. Red rope against your skin. Red rope holding your choice where he could see it. Jungkook sat back and looked at you. His face changed so openly that your own breath caught. 

“What?” you whispered. He shook his head once, as if speech had become the one system he could not access. Then, rougher, “You trusted me.” Your throat tightened. “Yes.” His hand moved from the rope at your wrist down along your arm, over your shoulder, to your chest, your waist, your hip. Possessive without ownership. Worshipful without softness becoming weak. 

“My beautiful little lamb,” he murmured, and the gentleness of it made the darkness in his voice worse. “Do you have any idea what that does to me?” 

You did not get to answer. His mouth returned to your body. This time, he did not let the scene blur into implication. He kissed his way down your stomach, one hand spread over your hip to keep you grounded, the other sliding beneath your thigh to open you for him. Your first instinct was to reach for his hair, but the rope stopped you. The restraint turned the instinct into a helpless pull above your head, and Jungkook looked up at the sound it dragged out of you. “Do you want your hands free?” he asked. You shook your head. His thumb pressed slowly into your hip. “Words.” “No,” you breathed. “Keep them there.” His eyes darkened. Then his mouth lowered down to your wet core. Your head fell back against the pillow. The first touch of his tongue made your whole body jolt. Jungkook’s hand tightened at your hip, not holding you down, holding you with him. His mouth moved slowly at first, like he wanted to learn every reaction before he let himself become hungry. He found the rhythm that made your thighs tremble and stayed there until your breath broke apart. Then he stopped just long enough to kiss the inside of your thigh. You made a small, desperate sound. He looked up. There were men who would have looked smug. Jungkook looked ruined. That ruined you more. He returned to you with less patience. His tongue worked on your wet core relentlessly, his fingers pressing into your thigh, his mouth warm and precise and devastating. Every time your hips lifted, he followed. Every time you tried to close your legs, overwhelmed by the pleasure, he kissed the trembling muscle there and opened your legs again with a low murmur that sounded too much like praise to survive. His mouth left you only long enough for him to look up. “Colour.” “Green,” you gasped. His face changed. Then he slid one finger into your pussy. Slow. Measured. Watching. The stretch of his finger made your back arch. He stilled until your body softened around him, then moved again, curling his finger with a precision that made your breath snap. His mouth returned to your clit at the same time, and the world narrowed to him. His tongue. His fingers. The rope. Your body no longer pretending it could stay quiet. 

He brought you to the edge and held you there, learning the exact shape of your pleasure until you shook with it. Each time you thought he would let you cum, he drew back just enough to make you gasp his name like a plea. He pressed his lips to your skin afterward as if apology and hunger could live in the same touch. “Jungkook,” you breathed. He added another finger. Your pussy clenched around his fingers. His eyes nearly closed. “Again,” he murmured against you. “Say it again.” 

Your face burned. He moved his fingers deeper, his mouth returning to your clit with a pressure that made thought impossible. You said his name again. This time, it broke. Jungkook answered with a low sound against your skin, and the vibration of it pushed you too close too fast. Your wrists pulled against the red rope. His free hand spread over your stomach, grounding you, keeping you with him as pleasure gathered too sharply to hold. “Breathe for me,” he said, voice wrecked. “Do not disappear on me. Stay here.” 

You tried. You really did. Then his fingers curled again, his mouth found the exact rhythm that made your vision blur, and you came apart with his name in your mouth and red rope around your wrists. Jungkook did not look away. He watched your face, listened to the break in your breathing, followed every movement of your bound hands and trembling body as if your pleasure were the only system in the world worth understanding. He held you through every wave, murmuring you back into your body, telling you to breathe, to stay with him, to let him carry what you did not have to carry alone. He kissed his way back up your body while you were still shaking, mouth wet, hair falling across his forehead, eyes dark enough to steal the air from the room. You tried to turn your face away, overwhelmed by the force of being seen like that, but he followed you. “No hiding from me,” he said against your cheek. “Not now.” His fingers were still inside you. Moving slower now. Too slow. Your body jerked. “Jungkook.” “I heard you.” The words came out rough, dangerous, and too tender at once. He kissed the corner of your mouth. “I heard you, little lamb.” You almost hated him for how well he knew where the edge was. He pushed you further, dragging another kind of desperation out of you, turning pleasure into something too sharp, too bright, too much. Tears gathered at the corners of your eyes. Jungkook saw them instantly. He stopped. Not away from you. Stopped. His whole body locked above yours. “Too much?” he asked. His voice shook with restraint. You pulled against the rope and shook your head. “Words.” ”No,” you breathed. “Not too much.” His eyes searched yours. “Are you sure?” “Yes.” A pause. Then you whispered, “Please.” Something wild moved through his face. “Good.” The word was soft. Your whole body answered anyway. When he finally came over you fully, when the rest of his clothes were gone and there was nothing left between his skin and yours except heat, breath, rope, and choice, Jungkook paused. Even then. Even aching. Even shaking. Even with his mouth swollen from yours and restraint hanging by one fraying thread. He paused. You lifted your bound hands as far as the rope allowed and touched his jaw with your knuckles. “I am here.” His eyes closed briefly. Then he guided his cock into you slowly. So slowly it hurt. So slowly you felt every inch of the stretch, every tremor in his discipline, every breath he forced through his lungs to keep from taking too much too quickly. His forehead dropped near yours. A sound broke low in his throat, raw enough to make your chest ache. For a moment, neither of you moved. Your body held him. The rope held your wrists. Jungkook held everything else. His hand gripped the sheet beside your ribs hard enough to twist it. His other hand pressed to your hip, thumb trembling against your skin. 

He looked down at you, eyes dark and nearly helpless, and still found the discipline to ask without asking. Are you here? Are you sure? Are you still choosing this? You answered by lifting your bound hands as far as the rope allowed and pressing your knuckles to his cheek. He turned his face into the touch. The tenderness of it made the heat worse. Made the whole room feel too small for what had been waiting between you for months. 

“Jungkook,” you whispered. His eyes opened. You moved your hips. That undid him. 

He kissed you like he had to keep the sound inside you, like if you filled the room with what he was doing to you, the world might hear and come take it away. His first movements were slow, deep, held together by sheer force of will. Every thrust dragged a sound out of you that made his jaw tighten. Every time your pussy tightened around him, his breath caught against your mouth. He did not become careless. Not even then. But his discipline grew darker at the edges. 

His hand slid beneath your lower back and lifted you into him, changing the angle, drawing a broken sound from your throat that made his restraint fracture across his face. “Again,” he murmured. “Let me hear it again.” You could not have stopped it if you tried. He moved deeper, harder, still watching you, still listening, still adjusting every time your body answered him. 

The bed shifted beneath you. The rope pulled tight above your head. Your wrists flexed because you wanted your hands on him, wanted your nails in his back, wanted to drag him closer even though there was no space left between you. Jungkook saw it. Of course he saw it. “Do you want out?” he asked, stopping even though stopping clearly cost him. You shook your head, breathless. “No.” His eyes searched your face. “I want to touch you,” you whispered. 

Something in him softened and broke at once. He reached up, loosened one knot just enough to free one of your hands, then guided it to the back of his neck. The moment your fingers slid into his hair, his eyes closed. For one second, he looked undone by that more than anything else. Then he kissed you again and moved like the touch had given him permission to fall apart. The pace changed. No longer distant from what he wanted. His hips drove into yours with enough force to push you deeper into the mattress, his hand locked at your thigh, keeping you open, keeping you close, keeping every movement exactly where both of you needed it. His mouth moved over your throat, your jaw, your lips, stealing sounds from you and giving you his own in return: low curses, broken praise, your name spoken like something sacred dragged through fire. 

“You look beautiful like this,” he said against your mouth. “Bound for me. Trusting me. Do you understand what that does to me?” 

You could not answer. He moved harder. Your answer came as a sound. Jungkook took it like proof. “How long do you think I have wanted you?” he asked, voice rougher now, less polished, less protected. “How many nights do you think I sat outside your life and told myself wanting you was the one line I would not cross?” His hand tightened at your thigh. “You were in my house. In my clothes. At my table. Sleeping in my bed while I sat outside that door and tried not to think about what you would feel like under my hands.” 

You moaned softly his name, your walls clenching around his hard cock. He cursed softly. “Like that,” he breathed. “Exactly like that.” The filth of it hit harder because it was Jungkook saying it. Jungkook, who hid care inside instructions. Jungkook, who gave proof instead of promises. Jungkook, who had spent months holding himself back with both hands and now sounded almost angry with how much he wanted you. At the months of distance. The locked doors. The cameras. The fear. Every reason he had kept his hands to himself when wanting you had been slowly taking him apart. The rope held one wrist above you. Your free hand clung to the back of his neck. His skin was hot beneath your palm. His pace built until the room stopped being a room. It became red rope. Warm skin. The scrape of sheets beneath your back. His breath at your throat. Your name in his mouth. His body moving into yours with a rhythm that made you forget courtrooms, dead judges, severed fingers, gala chandeliers, and every monster that had tried to make your body a place of fear. 

Jungkook wanted to replace all of it. You could feel that in every movement. He wanted to ruin every memory Black Loom had left on your skin and cover it with his hands, his mouth, his voice, his name. He wanted you undone. Safe. Claimed by choice, not owned. Wrecked, but only where he could hold you through it. 

When your body began to tighten again, he felt it immediately. His forehead dropped to yours. “Stay with me,” he whispered. “Let me feel you.” You whispered his name once more. Not as a plea this time. As permission to fall with you. 

You came again with your wrist bound above you and his mouth at your throat, clenching around him hard enough to drag a curse from him. Jungkook came inside you with his face buried against your shoulder, shaking silently, holding himself so close that you felt the moment he broke as if it had happened inside your own chest. For a while after, there was only breathing. His body warm over yours. The rope still red around one wrist. The night outside the window. The screens in the workroom dark beyond the hall, monsters waiting, war waiting, consequence waiting. But not yet. 

For a few minutes, there was only the weight of him easing carefully from you, his hands already gentling, already checking. He murmured your name like an apology and a prayer. Then he reached up to untie you with the same care he had used to bind you. The rope loosened. Your wrist lowered. 

He kissed each mark, each place the rope had pressed, not because you were hurt, but because he had touched you there and needed to answer for even the gentlest restraint. He rubbed warmth back into your fingers, watched the colour return, then brought your hand to his mouth and held it there longer than necessary, eyes closed as if he were memorising the fact that you had trusted him and survived his wanting. 

“Are you all right?” he asked. You opened your eyes. He looked terrified. That almost made you cry. You lifted one hand to his face. “I am more than all right.” His eyes searched yours, unwilling to accept softness without evidence. So you gave him proof. You curled into him. Jungkook gathered you close with a breath that trembled only once. He pulled the blanket over both of you, checked your wrist again, then your other hand, then your breathing, then your face, as if there might be a hidden wound somewhere desire had left behind and he would not rest until he found it. 

“Water,” he said. You made a small sound of protest into his chest. He kissed your hair. “Not negotiable.” “You are very bossy after sex.” His mouth paused against your hair. Then, very quietly, “I am trying not to be terrified after sex.” 

Your heart squeezed. You lifted your head. Jungkook looked away too late. The admission sat between you, bare and wounded. He could tie rope around your wrists. He could dismantle criminal empires from a dark room. He could walk into Haven and make ghosts rise from their chairs. But this, your softness afterward, your body trusting his, your eyes still looking at him like he had given you pleasure instead of becoming a danger to survive, frightened him. 

You touched his jaw. “You did not hurt me.” His face tightened. You softened your voice. “Jungkook.” He looked at you. “You did not hurt me.” This time, he listened. 

He made you drink water anyway. Then he disappeared only long enough to return with a damp cloth and the kind of aching care that should have embarrassed you but instead made something inside you ache. He cleaned you slowly, checking your face with every movement, pausing whenever your breath changed, murmuring apologies when there was nothing to apologize for. You let him because care was easier for him than being cared for, and because maybe love, for now, meant accepting the language he knew until he trusted another. When he finished, he checked your wrist one more time. “It is only a mark,” you said. His thumb moved over the faint red line. “It is my mark.” The words came out low. Almost ashamed. Almost possessive. Your body warmed again through the exhaustion. His eyes lifted to yours, and the look there made your breath catch. Not ownership. Something more dangerous because it was more vulnerable. Responsibility. Wonder. Want, still. You took his hand and pressed it flat over your heart. “It was my choice.” Jungkook’s throat moved. “Yes.” Then he bent and kissed the inside of your wrist. 

Later, when you were clean, warm, and half asleep against his chest, you traced a finger along one of the tattoos near his chest. He smelled like summer again. Clean skin. Warm sheets. Something impossible beneath all that darkness. “You are very intense,” you murmured. His hand moved slowly over your back. “That sounds diplomatic.” “It is not.” His mouth touched your hair. You smiled against his skin. For once, he did not tell you to sleep. He only held you, one arm around your waist, his other hand resting over the wrist he had tied, as if even in rest he needed to make sure the place where you had trusted him stayed warm. 

Outside, Black Loom continued bleeding. Inside, for one night, the dark did not get to have either of you. Morning came softly. You woke tangled in sheets and Jungkook, your wrist faintly tender, your body heavy in a way that made your face warm when memory returned. Jungkook was awake, because of course he was, propped slightly against the pillows, one arm around you, eyes lowered to your face. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Sunlight touched the edge of the curtains. His house was quiet. Your body remembered him with every small ache, every warm place, every mark left by rope and mouth and hands that had asked before taking anything. Jungkook looked at you as if he was waiting for regret. You shifted closer instead. His arm tightened around you. Only then did he breathe. 

“You did not sleep,” you murmured. 

“I slept.” 

“You are lying.” 

“A little.” 

You made a sleepy sound of disapproval and pressed your face against his chest. His body went still, then relaxed by degrees, as if even after everything, being held was harder for him than holding. For three days, life became almost cruel in its gentleness. You made coffee badly on purpose so he would take over. He pretended not to notice. You worked at the kitchen table while he worked beside you instead of vanishing into the workroom for hours. V sent files and pretended not to know why Jungkook sounded less homicidal on calls. You ate takeaway on the sofa with your legs tucked beneath you and Jungkook’s hand resting absent-mindedly near your ankle as if touch had become a place he was learning to return to. The red rope stayed folded in his bedside drawer. Not hidden. Not displayed. Known. 

The world did not become safe. You were not foolish enough to believe it had. But for those few days, danger moved around the edges instead of standing in the room with you. You woke beside him. You watched him make coffee. You caught him looking at you when he thought you were reading. You kissed him in the hallway and felt the way his restraint still faltered, even now, as if each touch surprised him by being allowed. On the fourth day, the message came. It arrived on one of Jungkook’s dead channels, an old contact route that should not have been reachable by anyone outside a very small number of ghosts. No sender. No signature. Only seven words. We see the ghost beside the lamb. Jungkook read it once. Then again. You watched his face close. Not with fear. Fear would have been easier. This was calculation turning cold enough to freeze the air. 

“What is it?” you asked. He locked the screen. 

“Jungkook.” He looked at you, and the softness of the last few days disappeared behind something older. 

“They may know who I am.” 

The sentence did not fully make sense at first. Jungkook was careful. Jungkook was impossible. Jungkook was the man who saw everything before it reached you. Then you remembered the ballroom. Jin’s eyes on his gloved hand. His smile when Jungkook said only, With her. Why he came out of the dark for you. Your stomach tightened. “Do they?” 

“I do not know.” 

“Is it proof?” 

“No.” 

“Then it could be bait.” 

“Yes.” 

“But you are already planning to send me away.” His silence answered. You stood too quickly. “No.” 

“Little lamb—” 

“No.” Your voice sharpened, fear turning itself into anger because anger was easier to stand on. “You do not get to do that. You do not get to make this decision alone because someone sent a message.” 

“If it is true—” 

“If it is true, we deal with it.” 

“If it is true, being near me puts you in direct danger.” You stared at him. “I am already in direct danger.” 

“Not like this.” 

“Do not do that.” His jaw tightened. “Do what?” 

“Decide that your fear is logic and my choice is emotion.” That hit. You saw it hit. For a second, Jungkook looked as if you had opened a wound he had been trying to keep clean. Then the mask returned. 

“I need to isolate,” he said. “I need to know whether they have a name, a face, a pattern, a location, or only a pressure point. If they have compromised anything connected to me, I cannot investigate properly while keeping you here.” 

“Then I go to my boss.” 

“No.” 

“My penthouse.” 

“No.” 

“Another safe house.” 

“No.” 

“So Haven,” you said bitterly. His mouth did not move. You laughed once, without humour. “You already called V.” 

“I am going to.” 

“Of course.” Jungkook stepped closer, but stopped when you stepped back. That hurt both of you. You saw it in the way his hand flexed once at his side before going still. 

“I am not sending you away because I regret anything,” he said. 

“You are sending me away because you think you can protect me better if I am not close enough to be yours.” His face changed. You had named it too accurately. 

“I am sending you to people who can keep you alive if my systems become unreliable.” 

“And what about what I choose?” 

“You can hate me for it.” 

“I do not want to hate you.” 

“I know.” You looked away sharply. He went silent. That phrase again. That instinctive, soft, terrible phrase he used when he understood too much and still did the thing that hurt. Your eyes burned. 

“I stayed,” you said. “I told you that was my vow.” 

His voice dropped. “And I am trying to make sure you live long enough to regret it if you need to.” The words landed like a slap because you understood what lived beneath them. Everyone leaves. Everyone regrets him. Everyone eventually sees too much and chooses daylight. Jungkook was trying to give you an exit by force before the world took the option away. You stepped close again, anger breaking open into something more fragile. “I am not them.” 

“I know.” 

“No, you do not.” Your voice shook. “You think you do, but you do not. Because if you knew, you would understand that sending me away without letting me stand beside you does not feel like protection. It feels like you are taking my vow and deciding it belongs to you.” His face went pale beneath the low light. For a moment, you thought he might break. Instead, he reached for his phone. 

“V will be here in twenty minutes.” 

You stared at him. Then you nodded once, because if you spoke, something worse than anger would come out. You packed in silence. Not much. The VVV laptop. The secure phone. Clothes. Files. The red rope stayed in the drawer, and the sight of it nearly undid you. Jungkook saw you look. He said nothing. That was worse. When V arrived, he did not joke. That told you everything. Haven took you in like a locked hand. Your room there was small but safe, with a bed, desk, reinforced door, no windows, and systems you knew Jungkook had checked even if he was not there. V gave you new access routes, a secure message channel, and a look that held too much sympathy for a man who knew better than to offer comfort cheaply. 

“He is doing this because he is afraid,” V said after Jungkook left. You stared at the closed door. 

“I know.” 

“Not of them.” Your eyes moved to him. V’s expression was quiet. “Of being the reason you get hurt.” You swallowed hard. 

“I know that too.” 

For the next few weeks, you lived in Haven and hated every minute of safety. You worked because stopping would have broken you faster. Veni Vidi Vici gave you documents, intelligence, fragments of Black Loom’s structure. V checked on you without making it obvious. Your boss called and offered to increase security enough to move you back to the penthouse if you wanted, but you said no before he finished. He understood. You heard it in his silence. 

“If I ever had to identify a severed finger of yours because I let my guard down,” he said quietly, “I would never forgive myself.” You closed your eyes. 

“I know.” 

This time, the words were yours, and they hurt no less. Jungkook messaged through secure channels. He sent short updates: No proof yet. Still checking. Stay inside. V has the new packet. Sleep if you can. Eat something. Do not use the third terminal today. I saw the route issue. It is handled. You replied with case notes, arguments, anger folded into analysis, small details you refused to let become pleas. He responded to all of it except the parts where love pressed too visibly against the words. Around the fourth week, you found the email. 

Not because someone handed it to you. Because you had started learning how Veni Vidi Vici thought. Because Jungkook had taught you that deleted did not always mean gone, that older men with too much power and too little technical humility often believed empty folders were graves instead of shallow soil. The message came from an executive-team channel tied to Black Loom. To Jin. Coded language. Half-letters. Location fragments. Urgency hidden under formality. Your pulse changed as you read it. Then you read it again. And again. By the time V reached your desk, you had three maps open, two partial translations, and a list of possible coordinates. 

“You found something,” he said. You did not look away from the screen. 

“I found him.” V leaned closer. His face changed. Not surprise. Confirmation. You picked up the secure phone and messaged Jungkook. 

You: We need to meet. 

His reply came three minutes later. 

Jungkook: Is it urgent? 

You looked at Jin’s name on the screen. 

You: Yes. 

Another pause. Then: 

Jungkook: I will pick you up. 

You stared at the message until the letters blurred. For four weeks, you had wanted to see him so badly that wanting had become part of your breathing. Now he was coming. And Black Loom, somewhere beyond all your walls, kept weaving. 

Jungkook came for you in the rain. Of course he did. By then, you had started to believe that all important things in your life happened beneath bad weather: warnings, escapes, revelations, the first time you saw his face, the first time he carried you through the threshold of his house like the world had finally become too cruel to let you walk alone. Rain had become part of the language between you. Water over windows. Static in cameras. Wet roads under expensive tyres. The city blurred until only danger and his voice remained clear. 

V walked you to the underground exit at Haven without saying much. He had given Jungkook the files already through an encrypted channel, but you carried the physical paperwork anyway: printouts, diagrams, coded fragments, maps, names, three separate notebooks, and a folder so thick it barely closed. Some part of you needed the weight of it in your hands. Proof that the last four weeks had not only been waiting. Proof that separation had not made you useless. Jungkook was outside the inner door, hood pulled up, black coat damp at the shoulders, face sharper than memory and worse for it. 

For four weeks, you had seen him only through messages and the ache those messages left behind. Sleep if you can. Eat something. V has the new packet. No proof yet. Stay inside. Do not use the third terminal today. I saw the route issue. It is handled. Now he was real again. You stopped. So did he. V, wisely, looked at neither of you. Jungkook’s eyes moved over your face first. Then your shoulders, your hands, the files, the dark circles beneath your eyes that no amount of stubbornness had managed to hide. He looked like he wanted to touch you and had decided before arriving that he would not let himself. That hurt more than if he had stayed away. 

“You found the email,” he said. 

Your mouth almost trembled. You pressed it into a line. “I found Jin.” His gaze changed. Not surprise. Not exactly. Recognition. V opened the exterior door. “House route is clean. Two alternates ready. I will keep the Haven channel open.” Jungkook nodded. “Thank you.” 

“Bring her back if anything flickers.” 

“I will.” 

You looked between them. “I am standing right here.” V’s expression softened by a fraction. “That is usually the problem, ma’am.” Jungkook shot him a look. V did not look sorry. 

The drive back to Jungkook’s house felt like sitting beside a wound that refused to bleed. You had imagined this moment too many times during the nights at Haven. In some versions, you were angry. In others, you reached for him the second the car door closed. In the weakest versions, the ones you hated yourself for most, you begged him not to send you away again. In reality, you sat with the folder on your lap and watched rain move across the windshield while Jungkook drove in silence. His hands were bare on the wheel. You noticed that before you noticed anything else. No gloves. No barrier. Just the same hands that had tied red rope around your wrists with reverence and later touched each mark as if even chosen restraint required apology.

“How bad is it?” he asked. You forced yourself back into the work. Work was safer. Work had edges. 

“Worse than we thought structurally. Cleaner than we thought digitally.” 

His gaze flicked toward you. You opened the folder. “The email was not meant to exist outside a closed channel, but someone older in the executive chain got lazy or scared. Maybe both. It was deleted, but not properly buried. V helped me recover the residue.” 

“Older members,” Jungkook said. 

“They still think deleted means gone.” He looked back at the road. “Useful arrogance.” 

“That is what I said.” 

His mouth almost softened. Almost. That tiny almost hurt too. At the house, nothing had changed and everything had. Your mug was still in the cabinet. The throw still lay over the sofa. The workroom door was still at the end of the hall. His bed was still somewhere beyond rooms you had memorised too intimately to pretend they were only shelter. You laid the paperwork across the kitchen table, then the living-room floor when the table became too small. Jungkook changed into black clothes and came back with coffee you had not asked for. You accepted it without looking at him because your hands were not steady yet. Then you began. 

The email gave you the shape of a territory. Jin was not merely a charming Black Loom figure who liked hearing himself threaten people under chandeliers. He sat at the executive level, or close enough that the distinction barely mattered. One executive per region. Korea. U.S. routes. Japan. Several others marked only by initials and coded symbols. Under each executive, three major operatives: the people Veni Vidi Vici had started calling Black Loom’s hyenas because right hand sounded too respectful for men who fed on what others killed. 

“They expand by offering power first,” you said, kneeling beside a spread of maps and files. “Hospital access. Security. Protection. Donations. Political backing. If someone influential cooperates, Black Loom gives them more influence. If they refuse, or if they are too ethical to be useful—” 

“They kill them,” Jungkook said. 

“Or threaten families until someone breaks.” 

Jungkook stood over the map, one hand at his mouth, eyes moving through patterns faster than you could say them. He had always looked dangerous behind a screen, but seeing him with paper and evidence around him made something old and legal in your chest ache. You had once believed truth only mattered if it could be carried cleanly into court. Now you were sitting on the floor of a hacker’s house with illegally obtained intelligence spread across your knees, trying to decide which parts of it could be purified enough to hurt monsters publicly. You had changed already. You did not yet know how far. For hours, you spoke and Jungkook listened. You explained coded structures, territorial assignments, names that repeated across witness statements and donor boards, locations connected to transport routes, missing-person overlaps. Every time your voice caught from exhaustion, he noticed. Every time your hand trembled, his eyes dropped to it. 

He did not interrupt to tell you to rest. He knew you would refuse. So he waited until you reached for a folder near his knee, then caught your hand gently before you could lift it. You looked up. Jungkook was already kneeling in front of you. The room went quiet around the two of you, though no machine had stopped humming, no rain had stopped falling, no danger had left the city. He turned your hand over and kissed your knuckles. Once. Slowly. Your breath caught so sharply it embarrassed you. His mouth lingered against your skin. Not enough to become something else. Enough to tell you he had missed you in a language he trusted more than speech. 

“Jungkook,” you whispered. 

His eyes lifted. The hunger in them was not hidden well enough. Four weeks at Haven had not only separated you from his house. They had separated you from his hands, his coffee, his bed, his body beside yours in the morning, the red rope folded in a drawer like a secret both of you had touched and survived. You had missed him with a desperation that made you angry at your own heart. But he had missed you too. You could see it now in the way he held your hand as if letting go too quickly would reveal too much. You could have reached for him then. Part of you wanted to. Instead, you slid your fingers around his. 

“If you want to take a break,” you said softly, “we can take a break. You’re safe here for now. If you want to have a nap or some coffee, just tell me and we’ll do that. You’re safe with me.” 

Jungkook went very still. You had watched him build safety around you for months. Routes. Cameras. Firewalls. Doors. Warnings. Systems. Touch. Tea. Proof. You had never seen anyone give it back to him. That was why the words hurt him. His eyes lowered to your joined hands. For a moment, he looked younger. Exposed in the way of a man who had not expected to be offered shelter by the person he was trying to protect. 

“I do not know how to do that,” he said. 

“Then we learn.” His thumb moved once over your knuckles. 

“Together?” he asked. Your chest ached. 

“Together.” 

The break became takeaway on the sofa because neither of you trusted yourselves to make proper decisions near a bed yet. You ate noodles from cartons, knees tucked beneath you, documents still covering half the floor. Jungkook sat close enough that your thigh touched his. Neither of you moved away. For a while, you let yourselves pretend that the world had shrunk to warm food, rain, and the quiet glow of lamps. Then Jungkook told you about the missing-person files he had found. You told him about the deleted email residue. He said older Black Loom members were going to become the weak point. You said arrogance usually was. He looked at you then, and the softness that passed between you was almost unbearable. 

“I want to come back,” you said. His face closed by a fraction. You hated that fraction. 

“To the house,” you clarified, though both of you knew what you meant. “To this. The routine. Working here. Sleeping here. Coffee that you pretend not to make exactly how I like it.” 

“It is not safe yet.” 

“Nothing is safe.” 

“That is not the same answer.” You turned slightly toward him. “If they had anything else, would I still be in Haven?” 

“Yes.” No hesitation. That should have comforted you. It did, in the worst way. 

“What did the message say?” you asked. Jungkook looked at the window. 

“Jungkook.” 

“If they had sent anything else, you would still be in Haven,” he said again. 

“That is not an answer.” 

“It is the only useful one tonight.” You stared at him, then looked away before anger could become fear in a shape he would blame himself for. 

“One more day,” he said quietly. 

You looked back. His mouth was tense. “We try to figure everything out tomorrow. One more day before we decide whether you come back fully.” It was not enough. It was more than he had given before. So you accepted it.

Later, you joked that you wanted a nap because the bed at Haven was not comfortable and V had the emotional range of a locked filing cabinet when it came to pillows. Jungkook’s mouth almost softened before he caught it. “Of course,” he said. “Let me wrap up, and I’ll come lie with you.” 

The ordinary intimacy of that sentence nearly undid you. You kissed him softly before leaving the room, not deep enough to start what both of you were trying very hard not to start on the living-room floor with Black Loom maps beside your feet. Just your mouth to his, a promise placed gently instead of urgently. He watched you go. Then he checked everything. Penthouse feeds. House perimeter. Haven channels. Building access logs. Network walls. Traffic patterns. Camera flickers. Jin’s known channels. V’s reports. Everything that could be checked, he checked, because Jungkook trusted love only after every possible danger had been forced to answer first. 

When he finally came to the bedroom, you were awake. Of course you were. He stood in the doorway, face shadowed, and for one second both of you were back in the workroom: the threshold, the vow, the knowledge that a door once opened could never become innocent again. Then he crossed the room. This time, there was no red rope. This time, there was only reunion. His mouth found yours with less ceremony and more ache, and when you pulled him closer by the front of his shirt, his breath broke against your cheek like he had been starving for the sound of you. “Do you know what it did to me?” he murmured. “Four weeks without your hands on me. Four weeks knowing exactly where you were and still not being allowed to reach you.” 

For a while, you only kissed. That was the first true indulgence: not rushing because danger had trained both of you to count minutes, not apologising for wanting more than survival. His hands moved over your back, your waist, your face, returning again and again as if confirming that Haven had not swallowed you, that Black Loom had not stolen the warmth from you, that distance had not taught you to regret him. When you whispered his name, his forehead dropped to yours and he breathed like a man who had been holding his lungs closed for a month. “Again,” he said, low and rough. “Say it again. I need to hear it when I can touch you.” 

It was slower than the first time, but not softer for long. He undressed you with hands that paused whenever emotion threatened to outrun want, and you undressed him with the quiet certainty of someone no longer afraid of wanting him openly. He traced your wrists even without rope there, thumb moving over the places red had once marked you. “No rope tonight,” he said. “No rope.” His eyes moved to yours. “Just me.” “Just you.” His mouth touched the inside of your wrist. “Then keep your hands on me. I want to feel you choose me without anything holding you there.” 

There were fewer words because your bodies remembered enough. Still, he asked. Quietly. Are you here? Are you tired? Do we stop? And each time, you answered by pulling him closer, by touching his face, by letting your mouth find the places stress had carved into him while you were separated. His shoulders. His throat. The tense line of his jaw. Jungkook took every kiss like proof, and when your nails pressed into his back, his control slipped hard enough for you to feel it in the way his hips settled between yours. “There,” he breathed against your mouth. “That is what I missed. You not being careful with me.” 

When he finally let himself touch you the way he wanted, the hunger was softer around the edges but no less consuming. It had grief inside it now. Relief. Four weeks of restraint turning into heat. Four weeks of messages, coded channels, locked doors, and sleep that never truly came, all of it unwinding beneath his hands. He moved over you with one hand beneath your lower back, lifting you into him, the other locked around your thigh as if the shape of you against him was the first thing that had made sense in weeks. “I thought about this,” he admitted, voice wrecked. “You in my bed again. Your legs around me. Your voice saying my name like I had earned the right to come home.” 

When he moved into you, the whole room seemed to narrow to warmth, breath, rain, and the way he looked at you like the world had made one good thing and then placed it under threat. He was still careful. He would always be careful with you. But beneath the care was hunger, and beneath the hunger was the grief of four weeks spent choosing distance for the sake of safety. The vow was already there in the way you opened for him, in the way his hand slid beneath your back, in the way he paused every time your breath changed and moved again only when your body answered yes. “Stay with me,” he said, mouth at your jaw. “Not in Haven. Not in the case. Not with him. Here. Under me. With me.” 

He took his time because there had not been enough time. Because there might not be enough again. Because the house was quiet, the maps were waiting, V was hunting coordinates, Jin was somewhere inside the web, and still, for this hour, Jungkook let himself be a man coming home to the only person who had ever made the dark feel survivable. Your pleasure came slower this time, rolling through you in waves instead of breaking all at once, and he followed it patiently at first, then deeper, less clean around the edges when your body tightened around him. “That sound,” he whispered, almost ruined. “I thought about that in every room you were not in.” When he finally broke apart above you, silent and shaking, you held his face between your hands and kissed him as if you could give him somewhere to come back to. 

Afterward, he checked you the way he always did. Water. Blanket. Wrist. Face. Breathing. You let him because care was easier for him than being cared for, and because you had learned that sometimes love meant accepting the language someone knew until they could learn another. When he finally lay beside you, you curled into him. His hand moved over your back, slower now, less vigilant for a few impossible minutes.  

“Sleep,” he murmured. 

“You first.” A pause. Then, softly, “Bossy.” 

“Maybe I am.” 

His breath warmed your hair. You smiled with your eyes closed. For one more night, the dark let you keep him.

By morning, Veni Vidi Vici had found the location. Jungkook read the message while standing barefoot in the kitchen, hair damp from a shower, black shirt clinging slightly at the shoulders. You were making coffee badly on purpose, mostly because it had become one of the few harmless ways to irritate him. His expression changed before the phone lowered. 

“What?” you asked. 

“V found the place.” 

The cup in your hand stilled. Jungkook turned the screen toward you. The White Sanatorium. The name looked wrong in the clean black text of the message. Too elegant. Too clinical. Too pure for something connected to Black Loom. V’s message continued beneath it: abandoned hospital wing, private mountain estate, officially unused for years, recent movement suspected. Your stomach tightened. 

“White,” you said. 

“False purity,” Jungkook replied. 

“Organ trafficking.” 

“Likely.” You set the cup down. “We need to go.” 

“No.” You looked at him. His eyes narrowed. “Do not start.” 

“Then do not say no like I am not part of this.” 

“You are part of this. That is the problem.” 

“The problem is that I am the only one here who knows how to read some of those files in context.” 

“V can take pictures.” 

“V does not have my legal eye.” 

“Your legal eye is not bulletproof.” 

“Neither are you.” He looked away first, which meant you had won and he hated that you had won. When V called, the argument continued with witnesses. 

“Motorcycle,” you said. 

Jungkook turned his head slowly. V, on the screen, looked delighted and concerned at once. You pointed at the map. “If the place is on a mountain estate, the car is too visible on narrow routes. Motorcycle is faster, less conspicuous, easier to abandon if we need to move on foot.” Jungkook stared at you. 

“And we need at least three exits,” you continued. “Main road, service road, forest path if one exists. We do not enter until all three are mapped.” 

V looked at Jungkook. “She is starting to sound like you.” Jungkook did not answer. But he looked at you with something that moved through warmth into pain. Pride, you realized. And fear of what pride meant. You went at night. The mountain roads were dark and narrow, trees pressing in on either side, leaves moving restlessly in the wind. You rode behind Jungkook, helmet secured, arms around his waist, feeling the controlled power of the motorcycle beneath you and the cold air cutting through every seam of your clothes. V rode ahead for part of the route, then split off to take the second entrance. 

The White Sanatorium rose from the estate like a dead thing pretending to sleep. It had once been beautiful. That made it worse. Pale stone, long windows, ivy crawling over one side, a private drive cracked by weather and neglect. An old hospital wing attached to what might have been a wealthy family’s mountain retreat, abandoned officially, preserved unofficially, too expensive to decay honestly. White walls. Black windows. No lights. Jungkook helped you off the motorcycle, his hand steady at your elbow. “Stay close.” 

“I was planning to wander alone through the organ-trafficking sanatorium.” His eyes flicked to you. You shrugged. “Humour helps.” 

“No, it does not.” 

“It helps me.” 

“Then continue.” 

You almost smiled. V met you near a side entrance with two other Triple V operators. No one spoke loudly. No one used unnecessary light. Jungkook checked the lock, then a device near the door, then nodded once. Inside, the air smelled of dust, cold metal, and something medicinal that should have faded years ago. Your breath fogged faintly. The corridors were long and pale, paint peeling in strips, old signs still mounted near doors: treatment rooms, storage, records, restricted access. Some areas were thick with dust. Others were not. That was the first sign of recent use. A line disturbed near the wall. A clean patch on a handle. Footprints too new to belong to a ghost. Jungkook noticed everything. So did you, now. That frightened you more than the building. 

The deeper you went, the more the place stopped feeling abandoned and started feeling paused. As if Black Loom had stepped out minutes before you arrived and left the air holding its breath. In one records room, you found boxes stacked behind a cabinet that should have been too heavy to move. Inside were files. Missing people. Some old. Some recent. Your hands shook as you opened the first folder. A young woman. Twenty-two. Last seen near a clinic connected to one of the donor routes. No official closure. No family notified beyond a generic missing-person update. In the back of the folder, a notation you recognized from hospital logistics. Your throat closed. Jungkook stood beside you. He did not touch you, but his presence wrapped around the moment like a hand. You opened another. And another. 

“Recently handled,” you whispered. The dust along the folder edges had been disturbed. Someone had touched these within days, maybe weeks. V appeared in the doorway. “We have two more rooms like this.” 

“Photograph everything,” Jungkook said. “Do not move more than we need.” 

You kept reading. That was your flaw, maybe. Or your strength. You kept reading even when it hurt. You read because someone had to know their names as names, not entries, not routes, not inventory. You read until Jungkook’s hand finally closed gently over the folder. 

“Enough.” You looked up. 

“We need to move,” he said. 

Something in his voice made you stop arguing. He turned slightly, eyes moving to the corner of the room. A tiny red blink reflected once in the glass of an old cabinet. Camera. Active. Watching. Your blood went cold. Jungkook did not react outwardly. He did not swear. He did not grab you. He simply looked at V in the doorway and said, very calmly, “We have what we need.” V’s expression did not change either. But one of the operators behind him disappeared down the corridor. Jungkook took the folder from your hand, closed it, and placed it exactly where it had been. Then he turned to you. 

“We are leaving.” 

You nodded once. The walk out felt longer than the way in. Every corridor seemed to have acquired eyes. Every dark doorway looked less empty. Jungkook’s hand remained at your back, guiding but not rushing, while V moved ahead and the second operator took the rear. The building did not stop you. That made it worse. Outside, the cold air hit hard. V swung onto his motorcycle without a word and left first, fast enough that gravel spat behind the tyres. Jungkook put your helmet on you himself, fingers careful beneath your jaw. 

“Jungkook,” you said quietly. 

“Not here.” 

He got on the motorcycle. You climbed behind him. He did not take the road you had used to arrive. You noticed within thirty seconds. The route bent left instead of down. Narrower. Darker. Trees tighter. An escape route, not a return. Your arms tightened around his waist. Jungkook covered one of your hands briefly with his own, then returned it to the handlebar. Not reassurance. Confirmation. Something had gone wrong. You did not go home. That told you more than any explanation could. 

Jungkook rode until the mountain thinned into coastal road, until trees gave way to dark water and the city became a distant glow behind you. He stopped near an empty stretch of beach where the wind moved cold off the sea and no one stood close enough to hear anything that mattered. When you removed your helmet, your hair whipped across your face. Jungkook was already messaging V. You waited. You had learned the difference between silence that hid and silence that worked. Finally, he said, “V is checking the house.” Your stomach dropped. “You think Jin knows it.” 

“I think Jin wanted us to find that place.” The sea hissed against the shore. You looked at him. “The files were real.” 

“Yes.” 

“The camera was real.” 

“Yes.” 

“So why lead us there?” 

Jungkook stared out at the water, face cut in profile by moonlight and distant road glow. “Because he is not leaving clues by accident.” Jin. The name sat between you like the red-wax invitation had once sat on the table. 

“He wants us to follow,” Jungkook said. “He wants us to know enough to keep moving, not enough to finish it. He is careful. Too careful. The ballroom, the card, the email, the sanatorium. They are not mistakes. They are doors.” You wrapped your arms around yourself against the cold. “Doors to what?” 

“To him.” You looked away. The wind pushed at your coat. Somewhere beyond the dark water, unseen things moved with the tide. 

“Why?” you asked. Jungkook did not answer quickly. That was how you knew the truth would hurt. 

“Because I worked for him.” The world narrowed. For a second, the sea, the road, the cold, the sanatorium, all of it receded until only those words remained. You turned back slowly. “What?” 

“Before,” Jungkook said. “Years ago. Not under my name. Not my face. He never had that. I was a ghost even then. But he hired me through layers. Jobs. Systems. Information extraction. Protection, sometimes. Destruction, other times. I did not know the full structure at first.” Your voice came out too calm. “And then you did.” His jaw tightened. “Yes.” 

“What did you do?” 

“I left.” 

“People leave you,” you said softly. His eyes flicked to yours. 

“You left him.” 

“Not cleanly.” 

You absorbed that. It should have made you step back. Maybe a better person would have. Maybe the version of you who still believed systems sorted the guilty from the damned would have reached for professional distance, legal logic, clean moral lines. But you had lived too close to the dark now to pretend everyone inside it had entered through the same door. 

“What does he want?” you asked. 

“Me,” Jungkook said. The answer was too immediate. 

“And you.” That was worse. You swallowed. “Why me?” 

“Because you are useful. Because you hurt them. Because you understand cybercrime and law, which makes you dangerous in a way most hackers are not. Because you do not scare easily.” His voice lowered. “Because I came out of the dark for you.” The beach felt suddenly colder. 

“The ballroom,” you said. 

“He watched us.” 

You thought of Jin’s smile. With her. How devoted. Why he came out of the dark for you. The room had been bait. And you had both walked in beautifully dressed, hand at your back, heart already visible to someone who knew where to look. Jungkook turned toward you fully. “I am too deeply in love with you to let him pull you into his world.” The words struck harder because he did not dress them up. No poetry. No softness. Just truth. Your throat tightened around his name. 

He continued as if stopping would kill him. “Being away from you hurts. Being close to you has started hurting too because I cannot stay away. I cannot get you out of my mind. Before I knew your face, I knew your routes. Your coffee order. How late you worked. The way you asked about victims before yourself. You were on my screens and in my systems and somehow my personal hell started feeling like paradise because you were inside it.” Your eyes burned. 

“Jungkook.” 

He shook his head once. “Living with you made me feel normal. Happy. For the first time in years. And that terrifies me because nothing about my life should feel normal to you.” You stepped closer. “Does it feel wrong to love me?” His face changed. That question hurt him differently. 

“No,” he said. “That is the problem.” You breathed in shakily. 

“Loving you feels normal,” he said. “Like coffee in the morning and your files on my table and your mug in my sink. Like a life I was never supposed to have. Loving you feels like the only gentle thing I have ever done without calculation, and that makes it suicide.” 

“Do you regret it?” 

“No.” The answer came before the fear. You closed the space between you and touched his coat. Jungkook looked down at your hand as if it was the one thing in the world capable of undoing him. 

“I can adapt,” you said. “I already have. I can learn patterns. I can detect danger. I can work with V. I can—” 

“No.” 

“You do not get to decide what I can become.” His eyes lifted to yours. “I know what this world does.” 

“No,” he said, and the quiet of it hurt more than volume would have. “You know what it does to victims. You know what it does in court. You know what it looks like when it is dragged into evidence. You do not know what it does when you live inside it long enough that you start becoming useful to it.” You wanted to argue. You could not find the words fast enough. The sea moved behind him, black and endless. 

“If going back to him is what it takes to keep you out of his reach,” Jungkook said, “I would do it.” Something inside you went very still. 

“That is not protection,” you whispered. “That is surrender.” 

“For me, maybe.” 

“For us.” His jaw tightened. 

“There is an us,” you said. “Do not insult me by pretending there is not.” 

He looked at you then, and for one terrible second, everything he felt was visible. Love. Fear. Want. Grief before loss had even happened. Then his phone buzzed. V.  Jungkook read the message. House clean. No breach. No watchers found. Routes stable. You should have been relieved. Jungkook only looked colder. You returned home before dawn. Home. The word had changed again. The house was still warm, still safe, still full of your files and his coffee and the red rope in the drawer. But Jungkook moved through it differently now. Quieter. Further away though he stood in the same rooms. He checked the perimeter, then disappeared into the workroom without asking if you wanted tea. You stood in the hallway and watched the door close. Not fully. But enough. 

Over the next week, both of you worked like people trying to outrun a prophecy. You did not discuss the beach. Not directly. It lived beneath every exchange. In the way Jungkook avoided touching you unless necessary. In the way you pretended not to notice. In the way V’s messages became sharper, faster, more urgent as the evidence from The White Sanatorium unlocked other doors. The files were real. That was the cruelty. Jin had baited you with truth. The Sanatorium records connected to missing people, drug routes, mule movements, organ trafficking, private clinics, shell donors, hospital boards, and transport logs. Jungkook and Veni Vidi Vici found the digital residue. You built the legal shape around it. Together, you made the evidence impossible to bury in one place. You did not send it to one police station. 

You sent it to three. Then cybercrime. Then trusted prosecutors. Then two journalists through layers so thick even Jungkook seemed briefly satisfied. Anonymous packets. Location proof. Missing-person files. Drugs. Mules. Organ movement. Names connected to routes. Enough to make denial expensive. Enough to make silence dangerous. Enough to turn Black Loom’s own breadth against it. Over the next two weeks, the public collapse began. People were brought in for questioning. Offices went dark. Hospital donors resigned from boards. Private security firms suddenly found themselves under investigation. Prosecutors who had spent years pretending not to see certain names were forced to speak them under pressure from other divisions. The news used careful language at first: alleged trafficking routes, suspected organized network, possible medical corruption. Then the missing-person names began leaking. Careful language became harder. 

Haven celebrated the day Jin was taken into custody. It should have felt like victory. For a few minutes, it almost did. The underground room was louder than you had ever heard it. Someone had brought alcohol. Someone else had ordered enough food for three times the number of people present. Screens still ran operations in the background, but people were smiling, clapping one another on shoulders, laughing in exhausted disbelief. V handed you a drink. 

“You did good, ma’am.” You looked at the screens, at the headlines, at the blurred photograph of Jin being guided through a private entrance by officials trying very hard not to look afraid. 

“We wounded them,” you said. 

V’s expression softened. “Sometimes that is how empires start dying.” Jungkook stood near the edge of the room, half in shadow, watching the celebration with a quiet expression you could not read. You crossed to him, carrying two drinks, and held one out. He took it. 

“You should look happier,” you said. His eyes stayed on the screen showing Jin’s custody transfer. 

“I am thinking.” 

“You are always thinking.” 

“Yes.” You leaned closer. “Is everything fine?” His phone buzzed before he answered. You saw only the shift in his eyes. Tiny. Devastating. He looked at the message for no more than two seconds before locking the screen. 

“What is it?” you asked. 

“Nothing.” 

“Jungkook.” 

He looked at you then. The room around you was celebrating. V was laughing with someone near the far table. A young operator raised a bottle in your direction. Screens glowed with the first public wound Black Loom had taken in years.  Jungkook said, “Everything is fine.” You wanted to believe him. That was the last time you saw him. The first day he did not answer, you told yourself he was working. Jungkook disappeared into systems sometimes. He lost hours, half-days, nights. He would resurface with a new route, a warning, a packet of evidence, a demand that you eat something. Silence from him was not new. This silence was. 

By evening, your body knew before your mind would admit it. You messaged him again. No answer. You called. Nothing. You contacted V. No reply for nine minutes. When V finally called, his face told you before his mouth did. You were back at Haven by then because you had not been foolish enough to stay at the house once the silence became wrong. Or maybe you had gone there because some part of you knew the house without Jungkook would become unbearable, and Haven at least had witnesses for the moment your heart understood what had happened. 

“Has he come back to you?” you asked. V’s jaw tightened. 

“No.” The room tilted. 

“He cut connections,” V said. “All of them. I cannot reach him.” You sat down because your knees had stopped being reliable. 

“Did you know?” you asked. V did not pretend to misunderstand. 

“Did you know he worked for Jin?” The silence was answer enough. Your breath left you. 

“Yes,” V said quietly. “I knew.” You laughed once. It sounded nothing like you. “Of course you did.” 

“I did not know he would go through with it.” 

“With what?” V looked away. Your heart began to break before he spoke. 

“He told me,” V said, “that if things became too risky, he would go back to his old life.” 

The beach returned. If going back to him is what it takes to keep you out of his reach, I would do it. Loving you feels like suicide. Another time, he had said, when V asked if either of you wanted another drink after Jin was taken into custody. We can discuss it another time. Another time had never existed. 

“What did Jin offer?” you whispered. V’s face was grave. “I do not know the exact terms.” 

“Yes, you do.” 

“No,” he said. “I can guess.” You closed your eyes. 

“Jungkook returns,” you said. “Jin removes me from the target list.” 

V said nothing. The lack of denial finished what hope had been trying to survive. You pressed a hand to your mouth. Not to stop a sob. Not yet. To hold yourself together for one more second because if you fell apart now, you were not sure there would be enough of you left to gather. Jin would not stay behind bars. Jungkook had known that. Too many lawyers. Too much blackmail. Too many people to sacrifice in his place. Jin did not need freedom immediately to be dangerous; he only needed leverage. And Jungkook had given him the one thing he wanted most. The best ghost he had ever had. 

One Jungkook was worth twenty top-tier hackers. Quality over quantity. You saw it then with sick clarity: the ballroom had not only been a threat. It had been an assessment. Jin had looked at Jungkook’s hand on your back, his stillness beside you, the way he answered with her and nothing else, and understood exactly where to place the blade. He did not need to kill you. He needed to make Jungkook believe he could. Your lungs refused to fill properly. V crouched in front of you, careful not to touch without permission. 

“He loved you,” he said. The past tense hurt so badly you almost flinched. 

“Do not.” 

“He loves you,” V corrected, voice rougher. “He would not have done this otherwise.” 

“That does not make it better.” 

“No.” You looked at him through the blur in your eyes. “Why did he bring me here?” V’s brow tightened. 

“To Haven,” you said. “Why did he bring me here if he knew he might leave?” V’s expression changed. Softened. Broke, perhaps, in the quiet way men like him allowed themselves to break. 

“You are the only person he ever brought into Haven,” he said. “And that means something.” 

You stared at him. There were griefs that knocked. There were griefs that entered without permission. This one moved into your chest and closed the door behind itself. The only person. Not a passing weakness. Not a mistake. Not a liability he had tolerated until he could remove you from danger. The only person he had brought into the place where his ghosts bowed, where his world lived beneath fluorescent light and encrypted walls. You had been the exception. And he had still left. That was the shape of Jungkook’s love. A door opened for you. A body placed between you and the blade. A vow made in red rope. A disappearance arranged like protection. You lowered your face into your hands and finally broke. V stayed. 

He did not tell you to breathe. He did not tell you Jungkook would come back. He did not lie. He only stayed in front of you while the first wave of grief took you apart in the room Jungkook had once entered like an uncrowned king. Later, when you could stand, V walked you to one of the protected rooms. You slept at Haven because Jungkook would have wanted the perimeter checked, because even gone he had left instructions in everyone’s bones, because you did not know where else to put your body when the house still smelled like him and the world had become too large. You called your boss the next morning. For the first time since you had known him, you did not know how to sound strong. 

“I need to stop working,” you said. He did not ask why immediately. That kindness nearly destroyed you. 

“All right,” he said. You pressed the phone hard to your ear. “I cannot do it.” 

“Then you will not.” 

“The system failed,” you whispered. “We did everything. We brought evidence. We protected witnesses. We exposed them. We sent proof everywhere, and still—” Your voice broke. “I could not save him.” Your boss was quiet for a long time. Then he said, gently, “Come home when you can.” You almost laughed. Home. What a cruel word. 

“I do not know where that is anymore.” 

“I know,” he said. “But when you need me, I am here.” 

You tried to return to work twice. The first time, you opened a case file and stared at the first page until the words rearranged themselves into Jungkook’s last message that did not exist. The second time, you made it through half a meeting before someone said procedural limitations and you had to leave because the phrase sounded too much like a coffin closing. The law had been your weapon. Your shield. Your faith, maybe, though you would never have called it that. 

Now it felt like a locked door you had thrown your whole body against, only to realize the person you needed most was on the other side and the key had been purchased by a man like Jin. So you quit. Your boss did not stop you. He looked older when you told him. Tired. Heartbroken in the restrained way of a man who had already lost too many people to systems that asked for patience while monsters adapted faster. 

“If you ever need anything,” he said, “you call me.” You nodded, hands folded tightly in your lap. “Thank you. For everything.” 

“You do not stop being mine because you leave the job,” he said. 

That was when you cried. Not loudly. But enough. Haven was the one place you chose to go. V found you in the main room hours later, standing before a wall of screens you did not yet know how to read properly. 

“I want you to train me,” you said. He did not look surprised. That made you angry. 

“No,” he said. You turned. 

“No?” 

“No.” 

“You do not get to say no.” 

“I absolutely do.” 

“I need to learn.” 

“No, you want to chase him.” 

“Yes.” 

“At least you are honest.” 

You stepped closer, grief burning cleanly into fury now. “Train me.” V’s face hardened. “This is not a skill you learn and stay clean.” The room seemed to quiet around you. He continued, voice low. “You touch this side of life, it burns you. It does not leave because you decide you have had enough. It changes how you think. What you can justify. What lines look movable. You still have something close to a normal life.” You laughed. It came out sharp enough that someone nearby looked over, then quickly away. 

“My normal life is gone.” 

“Not completely.” 

“Jungkook is gone.” V flinched.

“I could not save him through the law,” you said. “I could not save him by being clean. I could not save him by trusting that evidence and procedure and enough truth in enough places would be enough. So do not stand there and tell me to preserve a life that failed the one person I needed it to save.” V stared at you for a long moment. Then he looked toward the screens. 

“He knew this would happen,” he said quietly. Your anger faltered. 

“Jin,” V clarified. “Not the details. But the direction. He knew if Jungkook went back, you would follow the wound.” You swallowed. 

“Then train me well enough to make him regret being right.” V closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, something had shifted. Not approval. Resignation. Grief, maybe. 

“If I train you,” he said, “you do exactly what I say until you are good enough to argue.” 

“I can argue now.” 

“No,” he said. “You can speak. You cannot survive.” You held his gaze. 

“Fine.” V nodded once. 

“Tomorrow morning,” he said. “Six.” 

You looked back at the screens, their light reflecting in your eyes. For months, you had been the woman Jungkook protected from the dark. By morning, you would begin learning how to enter it. And somewhere, under Jin’s hand, Jungkook would not know that the sacrifice he made to keep you clean had already begun to stain. 

Grief did not make you elegant. That was the first thing you learned after Jungkook disappeared. People liked to make grief beautiful when they spoke about it from a distance. They gave it clean metaphors. Empty rooms. Rain on windows. Flowers left beside photographs. A black dress, a quiet woman, a candle burning in a room where no one spoke too loudly. Your grief was not like that. Your grief was ugly. 

It left dirty mugs near your bed at Haven because you forgot to take them back. It made you sleep in clothes you had worn for two days. It made you read the same sentence sixteen times without understanding it. It made you furious when people asked whether you had eaten, then furious when they stopped asking because you had made it difficult to care for you. It made you sit on the edge of a narrow bed in a windowless protected room and stare at your hands because you remembered red rope there and could not decide whether the memory felt like a vow or a wound. 

For the first month, you stayed at Haven because V insisted and because some part of you understood that Jungkook would have wanted every route checked even after he was gone. That was the cruelty of him. He had left, and still his caution remained in the people around you like a second language. No one said his name unless you did first. That was worse. 

V gave you a room, a terminal you did not yet know how to use properly, and enough space to fall apart without an audience. Your boss called every day for the first week, then every other day when you stopped answering like a person. He never sounded impatient. He never sounded disappointed. He had known you before Jungkook, before Black Loom, before Haven, before your life became routes and cameras and encrypted phones. He had known the version of you who believed that if truth was documented carefully enough, if evidence was preserved properly enough, if the argument was sharp enough and the right people were brave enough, the system could still be forced to work. You tried to return to her. You really did. 

The first time you opened a case file after Jungkook vanished, you sat with your laptop in front of you for three hours and read the first paragraph until the words blurred into black lines. The second time, you joined a remote meeting and lasted twenty minutes before someone said procedural limitations with the solemn confidence of a man who had never watched the person he loved trade himself to a monster because procedure could not move fast enough to save him. You turned your camera off. Then your microphone. Then you left the call and vomited in the bathroom at Haven until there was nothing left in your body but shaking. The law had been your weapon. Your structure. Your clean blade. The thing you sharpened yourself against when grief first entered your life years ago and your boss found you standing in the ashes of a family you could not get back. He had taught you how to survive inside institutions without letting them swallow your voice. He had taken you in, not as a daughter exactly, not as a replacement for anything, but as something close enough that losing his disappointment would have broken you almost as badly as losing his love. When you told him you had to quit, he did not argue. You sat across from him in his office, hands folded in your lap, wearing clothes that still looked like your old life from a distance. Cream trousers. A black blouse. A coat cut well enough to suggest control. But your face had changed. You saw it in the way he looked at you. He knew what people looked like when something inside them had stopped negotiating with the world. 

“I cannot do it anymore,” you said. He leaned back slowly. 

“The system failed,” you continued, because if you stopped speaking, you would either cry or take it back. “We brought evidence. We protected witnesses. We sent proof to every place we could. We made it public enough that they could not bury all of it, and still Jin got what he wanted. Still Jungkook—” His name cut you. Your boss’s face tightened. You breathed through it. “I could not save him from himself. I could not save him from Jin. I could not save him by being good at my job.” 

“That is not your failure.” 

“It feels like mine.” 

“I know it does.” 

You looked at him sharply. He lowered his eyes, and for a moment, he was not your boss, not your mentor, not the man who had helped build you back into a functioning thing after loss. He was only someone who knew that sometimes the truth did not help fast enough. 

“I will not stop you,” he said. “I wish I could. I wish I had the right. But I do not.” Your throat tightened. 

“If you ever need anything,” he continued, voice softer, “you call me. Leaving the job does not mean you stop being mine.” 

That was when you cried. Not with the violence of Haven. Not the first-break kind of crying that left you on the floor with V outside the room pretending not to hear. This was quieter. Worse, in some ways. The kind of crying that came from being loved by someone who could not follow you where you were going. You thanked him for everything. Then you left the last clean room of your old life. V was waiting at Haven when you returned. He was at a central terminal, sleeves rolled to his elbows, eyes on three different screens. Around him, operators moved through dim light, talking in low voices, drinking bad coffee, pulling information from places where information did not want to be found. You stood near the entrance for a long moment, watching him work. Then you said, “Train me.” V did not turn around immediately. 

“No,” he said. 

“You have not heard what I am asking.” 

“I have.” 

“You do not even know—” 

“You want to become like him.” The words landed too close to the truth. You swallowed. “I want to find him.” 

“No,” V said again, finally turning. “You want to become something that can survive finding him.” 

The room around you kept working, but several people had gone quiet in that careful way people did when they were pretending not to listen. V stood. He was not as tall as Jungkook. Not as silent. Not as dangerous in the same way. But he had survived in the same world long enough to understand its prices, and the expression on his face held no gentleness. 

“This is not a skill you learn and stay clean,” he said. 

You lifted your chin. He stepped closer. “You think you want tools. Access. Systems. Infiltration. Surveillance. Recovery. You think you want to learn how to pull a thread from the dark and follow it until it bleeds. But that is not all this is. This changes how you think. It changes what lines look movable. It teaches you that laws are locks, and every lock can be opened by someone willing to stop asking permission.” 

“I stopped asking permission when permission failed him.” V’s face tightened. Good, you thought, and the cruelty of it did not frighten you as much as it should have. 

“He did this to keep you out,” V said. 

“He left me outside with the door open.” 

“No. Jin left the door open.” 

“And Jungkook walked through it.” 

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then V looked away first. That was how you knew you had won. Or how you knew you had both lost. Training began at six the next morning. V was not kind about it. You were grateful for that. 

Kindness would have made you softer, and softness had become a thing you did not trust in yourself. V gave you basics first. Systems. Infrastructure. How networks were built. How they failed. How people failed faster. How to trace without touching too hard. How to watch cameras without announcing yourself to the system watching the watchers. How to recover what had been deleted. How to understand the difference between absence and concealment. You hated being slow. You hated being corrected. You hated that Jungkook had made everything look like breathing when in reality it was a language built on patience, obsession, pattern recognition, and a willingness to sit with a locked door for hours until the door forgot why it had ever closed. 

“You are rushing,” V said during the third week, leaning over your shoulder while you stared at a screen full of errors. 

“I am learning.” 

“You are bleeding on the keyboard.” You looked at him. 

“Metaphorically,” he said. “Do not be dramatic.” 

“I was not being dramatic.” 

“You were about to.” 

You almost smiled. Almost. That was how the months passed. Not in healing, exactly. In conversion. Grief became discipline because grief without movement was going to kill you. Anger became study because anger alone made mistakes. Longing became pattern because Jungkook had left traces in the way he thought, not deliberately, never carelessly, but in habits you had lived beside long enough to recognize now that V taught you how to look. Jungkook favoured routes with redundancies hidden inside redundancies. He anticipated emotional mistakes better than logistical ones because he had spent months anticipating yours. He never trusted a single source of truth. He built exits before entrances. He touched systems as lightly as possible when he wanted to remain unseen and violently when he wanted someone to know a ghost had entered the room. 

You learned him through absence. That was the cruelest education of all. Some nights, after twelve hours at a terminal, you would see a line of code bend in a way that reminded you of him and have to stand up before you broke the machine with your bare hands. Other nights, you would dream of the workroom: maps, screens, his mouth on yours, the red rope around your wrists, his voice telling you that kissing him was a vow. You would wake in Haven with your throat raw and your hands empty, then go back to training because sleep had nothing useful left to offer you. The first rule you broke was small. So small it barely felt like a rule at all. 

A closed municipal camera archive tied to an old Black Loom route had been sealed under investigation access. V told you to wait because the pathway was noisy and the account attached to it could lead back to one of the few honest people still inside the system. You waited six hours. Then you found another way in. V found you at the terminal just before dawn, three windows open, camera footage downloading into a protected drive. He said your name once. You did not look away from the screen. “I found the van.” 

“That was not the instruction.” 

“I found the van.” 

“You also created a trail.” 

“I killed it.” 

“You think you killed it.” That made you look at him. V leaned down, closed one of the windows, reopened another, and showed you the footprint you had missed. Tiny. Nearly invisible. Enough. Shame and rage burned through you at once. 

“If this had been Jin’s system,” he said, “you would have told him you were coming.” 

Your fingers curled. He was not gentle when he removed your access for two days. You hated him for it. Then you learned. By the first-year mark, small rules had stopped satisfying you. You did not become reckless. That would have been easier for V to stop. You became deliberate. 

You learned how to enter systems you had once submitted warrants to access. You learned how to move through CCTV networks the way Jungkook had once moved around your life, camera by camera, route by route, not to watch the innocent, but to find the guilty before they found you. You learned how to recover accounts, crack careless archives, map shell ownership, identify decoy structures, and pull on Black Loom threads that had been left behind by people who believed money made them invisible. You also learned what V had meant. This was not a skill you learned and stayed clean. The first time you breached a private server without permission and found proof tied to three missing women, you did not feel triumph. You felt the ground shift. 

Not because you regretted finding it. Because you did not regret the breach. That was the burn. Not the crime itself. The justification that came after. The clean, cold voice inside you that said, I would do it again. And you did. Again. And again. You crossed lines that would have ended your legal career if you still had one. You moved through systems that could have put you in prison if someone caught the shape of you. You lied to institutions you had once respected. You stole information from criminals, officials, and men whose public reputations still shone beneath plaques and donations. You broke into cameras, doors, archives, accounts. You learned where Black Loom had hidden old money and newer bodies. You learned how much of the world stayed clean only because dirt was stored elsewhere. V watched you become dangerous with the grim resignation of a man who had predicted the wound and still hated seeing it scar. 

“You are getting better,” he said one night. 

You were sitting in the dark, face lit blue by the terminal, dressed in black cargo trousers and a fitted black top beneath an open jacket. Your hair was tied back. Your old jewellery was gone except for one small piece you still wore because it belonged to a version of you Jungkook had known. 

“Is that a compliment?” you asked. 

“It is a warning.” You looked at him. V leaned against the desk beside you. “You are starting to enjoy being good at it.” You turned back to the screen. “Good. I need to be.” 

“That is not what I said.” 

“No. But it is what matters.” 

For a while, he said nothing. Then, quietly, “He would hate this.” Your hands stilled. Not because it was untrue. Because it was. Jungkook would hate the black clothes, the sleeplessness, the illegal access, the way your moral lines had blurred not because you stopped caring, but because you cared so much that clean hands began to feel useless. He would hate the calm with which you breached a camera feed. He would hate how well you had learned to think around corners. He would hate that you had learned it from his absence. 

“He chose,” you said. V’s face softened with pity you did not want. 

“Yes,” he said. “He did.” 

You went back to work. You did not ask whether Jungkook was alive. Not often. V did not have answers he trusted. Sometimes a Black Loom operation failed in a way that felt too elegant to be coincidence. Sometimes a route connected to you went cold before Veni Vidi Vici touched it. Sometimes a threat you had not yet identified disappeared from the board as if someone had erased it from the other side. V never said Jungkook’s name when those things happened. He did not have to. You felt him anyway. 

Jin’s deal had been too clever and too cruel. No messages. No calls. No ghost appearing on your screen with proof that he still existed somewhere beyond reach. Contact would cancel the agreement that kept you off Jin’s target list, and Jungkook, who loved like self-destruction was a language, would obey that term if it killed him slowly. So you learned to read absence as evidence. A route cleared before you touched it. A Black Loom account collapsing from the inside. A camera feed going dark at exactly the moment you needed it to. Jungkook was out there, working under Jin, wearing loyalty like a mask and hiding sabotage beneath obedience. He was protecting you without knowing what you had become to protect him. That was the tragedy’s symmetry. He haunted Jin’s world from inside. You haunted it from outside. 

And neither of you could touch. By the end of the second year, people in the underground stopped looking at you like a lawyer who had wandered too far from court. They moved when you spoke. Not the way they moved for Jungkook. Jungkook was still a ghost story with a pulse, an absence large enough to command rooms he no longer entered. But you had become something else. A woman with a legal mind and hacker hands. Someone who understood which evidence could survive court and which truth had to be dragged through the dark before the court would ever see it. Someone who could read a contract, breach a shell company, dismantle a false timeline, and disappear from a camera grid before breakfast. You were not clean. You were not evil. 

You were what remained when a lawful woman learned that law alone could not save the man she loved. Your public face had faded. Your name still meant something in legal circles, but less as a person and more as a cautionary silence. Some thought you had burned out. Some thought Black Loom had scared you off. Some thought grief had made you fragile. Let them. The less they understood, the longer you lived. Jin understood more than most. That was why, two years after Jungkook disappeared, the invitation came again. Not red wax this time. No need for theatre. A message through a broker who thought he was careful enough to survive both sides. A private contract request. Cyber/legal expertise. High-level advisory work. International exposure. Discretion required. Payment obscene.  V read it over your shoulder. 

“No,” he said. 

You did not answer. He swore under his breath. “Absolutely not.” You read the message again. It was not signed by Jin. Of course not. But his fingerprints were everywhere: the wording, the layered route, the arrogance of assuming bait looked different when wrapped in professionalism. 

“He knows,” you said. 

“He suspects.” 

“He knows enough.” V stepped in front of you. “This is not finding Jungkook. This is walking into Jin’s hand.” You looked up at him. Two years ago, that might have frightened you more. Now, it clarified things. 

“Then we make sure he closes it around a blade.” V stared at you for a long moment. 

“You sound like him,” he said. The words should have hurt. They did. They also made you lift your chin. 

“No,” you said. “I sound like what he left behind.”  V looked away. Neither of you spoke for a while. Then he said, “If you go in, you may not come back out the same.” You almost laughed. “V,” you said softly, “I did not come back out the same two years ago.” 

The meeting was arranged in a private room high above the city. Not the same hotel. Not the same ballroom. Jin did not repeat stages unless repetition served him. This place was colder, sleeker, glass-walled on one side with Seoul spread beneath it like something owned. No chandeliers. No champagne. No old women in pearls. Just polished stone, black chairs, a long table, and security that looked visible enough to distract from the invisible kind. You wore black. 

Not mourning exactly. Mourning had been what happened before you learned how to weaponize absence. This black was practical. Heavy boots. Loose dark trousers. A fitted top beneath a black jacket padded enough to hide shape and equipment. Your hair was tucked back. Your face calm. Your phone sat in your hand like a mirror, like anonymity, like every image of the woman you had become since Jungkook left. V waited three streets away with five operators and more systems than the building knew it had. Your boss did not know where you were. That was kinder. Security checked you badly. You let them. 

The mistakes people made around women had become useful over the years. They checked for obvious weapons. They did not check properly for access. They looked at your face and saw calm, not threat. They looked at your history and saw lawyer, not ghost. They looked at your black clothes and saw grief, not training. The door opened.  Jin stood by the window. He looked almost the same. That offended you.  Some men should have had the decency to wear their rot visibly after time passed. Jin looked polished, handsome, composed, the kind of man who could step from custody into private power because custody had only ever been another room to negotiate from. His smile arrived slowly when he saw you. 

“Welcome back” he said softly. You did not react to the phrase. You only looked at him. 

“Jin.” 

“Not Seokjin anymore?” 

“No.” 

His smile widened. “Fair.” You stepped inside. There were three other people in the room. A woman you did not know. Two men near the side wall. Security, but not only that. Operators, maybe. Or witnesses. People Jin wanted present for the shape of the moment. Then you saw the fourth. Jungkook stood half in shadow near the far end of the room. For one second, your body forgot the two years between you. 

He was still dressed in black, but differently now. Cleaner. Colder. Less like the man in the warm old house and more like the ghost people had feared before you taught him how to be touched. His hair was longer at the front, falling slightly into his eyes. His face was thinner. Beautiful still. Painfully. But hollowed by restraint, by obedience worn like wire beneath the skin, by two years of surviving inside the life he had returned to so yours could remain untouched. Untouched. The word nearly made you smile. Jungkook looked at you. No one said your name. He knew you anyway. 

You saw the recognition move through him like a wound reopening. Not in the dramatic way of widened eyes or a step forward. Jungkook was too controlled for that. It happened in the stillness. In the way his hand flexed once at his side. In the slight shift of his breathing. In the way his gaze moved over your black jacket, your boots, the equipment-hidden lines of your silhouette, your calm face, the woman standing where the lawyer he left behind should have been. He understood before Jin spoke. Of course he did. He had always been the first to see the danger. Jin turned slightly, watching Jungkook watch you. There was the reason. The real reason you had been invited. Not only your skills. Not only your legal mind. Not only cyber expertise bought through a private contract. Punishment. Jin wanted Jungkook to see the consequence of his sacrifice. He wanted him to understand that leaving had not preserved you in sunlight. It had not sent you back to courtrooms, coffee shops, silk blouses, polished arguments, and legal routes clean enough to sleep beside. It had not saved you from the dark. It had given you directions. 

“Our new cyber/legal specialist,” Jin said, voice smooth with satisfaction. “I believe you two have overlapping interests.” 

Jungkook did not look at him. He looked only at you. For two years, you had imagined this moment in too many forms. You had thought you might cry. You had thought you might hate him. You had thought you might run to him, strike him, forgive him, break him, beg him, save him. You had thought your heart would make the decision before your mind could stop it. But when the moment came, you did none of those things. You stood in the room Jin owned, wearing the darkness Jungkook had tried to keep from your skin, and held his gaze with a calm face. 

You let him see you. All of you. The lawyer. The ghost. The wound. The consequence. The vow that had not died just because he had tried to bury it under protection.  Jungkook’s mouth parted slightly, but no sound came. Maybe your name lived there. Maybe an apology. Maybe every word that had been forbidden for two years by a deal he had made with a monster who smiled at love like leverage. You did not make him choose one yet. You looked at Jin. 

“I understand you need someone who knows the law well enough to break around it.” 

Jin’s eyes lit with pleasure. Jungkook closed his. Just once. As if the sentence had gone through him. Jin gestured toward the table. “Please. Sit.” You walked forward. Not toward Jungkook. Not away from him either. Past him, close enough that the air changed, close enough that you caught the faintest trace of him beneath the colder room, beneath Jin, beneath two years of distance and silence and deals made in the dark. Summer. Still.

Your hand brushed the back of a chair. Jungkook’s gaze dropped to it. 

For a moment, you thought of red rope around your wrists. His mouth on each mark after. The workroom. The vow. I have been staying for months, Jungkook. That was my vow to you. He had left anyway. So you had learned how to stay in a different shape. You sat at Jin’s table. You opened the black folder V had prepared. You smiled without warmth. And across the room, Jungkook finally understood the cruel arithmetic of what he had done. He had not saved the woman he loved from the dark. He had made the dark learn her name.  Jungkook had left to save her from the dark. So she learned how to walk through it. 

A burst of light, flirty giggles floated through the humid air, and his head lifted immediately. There you were, sitting on the metal bench in your tiny red-and-gold cheer uniform, legs crossed so the short skirt rode enticingly high on your thighs. Kim Namjoon, the star quarterback, leaned in close beside you, his broad frame nearly crowding yours as he whispered something directly into your ear. Whatever he said made your lips curve into a slow, knowing smirk. You bit your lower lip, tilting your head slightly to give him better access, your eyes sparkling with mischief.

Jungkook’s grip tightened around the water bottle in his hand, plastic creaking under his fingers. He couldn’t tear his eyes away. He never could when it came to you. The way Namjoon made you blush and giggle like that… it twisted something sharp and hot in his chest. He wished it was him sitting there instead, him making your cheeks flush that pretty shade of pink, him earning those soft, breathy laughs. He imagined what it would feel like to have your full attention, to be the one you leaned into so willingly.

He screwed the cap onto another bottle, movements slowing as he kept watching. Namjoon’s hand rested casually behind you on the bench, fingers occasionally brushing your shoulder. The quarterback was murmuring again, low and intimate, and the way your smirk deepened told Jungkook everything. It wasn’t innocent. Nothing about the two of you looked innocent.

Unable to resist, Jungkook grabbed a few filled bottles and walked closer under the excuse of handing them out. His heart pounded harder with every step. He just needed a glimpse. Just a few seconds of their conversation.

“…bet you’re so fucking flexible,” Namjoon was growling quietly, voice thick with lust. “All those flips and splits you do? I’d have you in my bed with your legs over my shoulders, fucking you deep until you’re screaming my name. You’d take every inch so well, wouldn’t you, baby? So wet and bendy just for me.”

Jungkook’s stomach clenched. Heat flooded his face and neck as the vulgar words sank in. His cock twitched traitorously in his shorts despite the sharp sting of jealousy. He had imagined those same filthy things about you, late at night, hand wrapped around himself, biting back your name while picturing you in that uniform, underneath him, moaning because of him.

You let out a sultry little laugh, voice low and teasing. “Mmm, big talk, Joon. You think you could really handle all this flexibility? I don’t make promises… but maybe if you play really well today, I’ll think about it.” Your tone dripped with heat, playful yet noncommittal, leaving him wanting more, just like you always did. Then you rose gracefully from the bench, stretching your arms overhead so the crop top lifted and exposed even more of your smooth waist. Jungkook’s gaze traced every inch of you helplessly. As you turned to leave, your eyes swept across the sideline and locked directly onto his.

Time seemed to stop. You knew. You knew he had been standing there listening. A slow, wicked wink fluttered from you, your lashes lowering playfully before you turned away like nothing had happened. Jungkook’s breath caught in his throat. His glasses slid down his nose again, but he didn’t push them up. He was too stunned, face burning, pulse roaring in his ears.

Namjoon noticed him then. The quarterback stood up with a scoff and roughly yanked the water bottle from Jungkook’s hand. “Move it, waterboy. Stop staring and do your job,” he muttered dismissively before jogging back toward the field.

Jungkook barely felt the bottle leave his grip. His eyes stayed glued to you as you walked away toward the rest of your squad, hips swaying with that confident, hypnotic cheerleader strut. The short skirt flirted with the curve of your ass with every step, your ponytail bouncing lightly, sunlight catching on your skin. He watched the gentle flex of your thighs, the confident swing of your arms, completely mesmerized.

He pushed his glasses up one last time with a shaky finger, trying to force himself to look away before anyone else noticed how obviously affected he was. But he already knew he’d be replaying that wink and every filthy word he’d overheard, for the rest of practice. For the rest of the night.

You knew he was watching. And something in that wink told him you liked it.

Practice had finally ended. The sharp blasts of the coach’s whistle faded into the distance as the football players trudged off the field, helmets tucked under their arms and pads clanking. The golden evening light stretched long shadows across the grass while the cheerleaders began wrapping up their own routines nearby. Jungkook moved through his usual cleanup ritual, collecting stray water bottles, dragging the heavy cooler toward the sideline cart, and gathering scattered equipment. Every few moments, though, his eyes drifted back to you.

You were near the 50-yard line, surrounded by your teammates and friends, finishing your cool-down stretches. Your body bent and arched with effortless grace, one leg extended high in a standing split, the short cheer skirt riding up dangerously and revealing the smooth curve of your ass and the toned muscle of your thigh. Jungkook swallowed hard, glasses slipping down his nose again as he stared. The way your crop top clung to your chest from the sweat of practice made his mouth go dry. He watched the gentle bounce of your breasts as you switched sides, the way your ponytail swayed, the soft sheen of sweat glowing on your skin in the fading sunlight.

You caught him looking.

For a brief second your eyes met his across the field. Instead of glaring or ignoring him like most people did, you smiled, slow, knowing, and a little playful. The same kind of smile you’d given Namjoon earlier, except this one was aimed directly at him. Jungkook’s face burned instantly. He whipped his head away so fast he nearly dropped the stack of cones in his arms, heart hammering against his ribs. Shit. She saw me. Again. Embarrassment flooded through him, but underneath it was a sharp thrill that made his stomach tighten.

He busied himself with the cart, pushing it toward the locker room entrance with more force than necessary. The cheerleaders were finishing up now too, gathering their pom-poms and bags, their chatter and laughter filling the air. Jungkook kept his head down as he made another trip back onto the field to grab the last few water bottles, cheeks still warm. By the time he returned, the girls were slowly heading toward the parking lot or the gymnasium. Their voices grew fainter with every passing minute.

Ten minutes later, the field was blissfully empty.

Jungkook let out a long, shaky sigh of relief as he stood alone near the sidelines. The only sounds left were the distant hum of traffic and the soft rustle of leaves in the evening breeze. No more grunting players. No more giggling cheerleaders. Just quiet. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the hem of his black t-shirt, revealing a sliver of his toned stomach, and leaned against the cool metal railing for a moment.

But the peace didn’t last long. His mind, traitorous as always, wandered straight back to you. He kept replaying what he’d overheard earlier, Namjoon’s low, filthy voice describing exactly how he wanted to bend you, fuck you, make you scream. The images flooded Jungkook’s brain like molten lava. He imagined himself in Namjoon’s place… you underneath him, that same flirty smile replaced with something desperate and needy. He pictured you begging for him, pretty voice breaking as you moaned his name, legs wrapped tight around his waist, hips rolling up to meet every thrust.

His breathing grew heavier. He thought about how your perky tits would look bouncing with every hard snap of his hips, nipples hard and begging for his mouth. The way your tight cheer skirt would stay pushed up around your waist while he fucked you right here on the field, or in the locker room, or anywhere he could get his hands on you. He imagined the wet sounds your pussy would make around his cock, how flexible you really were, legs over his shoulders, folded in half beneath him while he pounded deep and whispered how long he’d been dreaming about this.

“Fuck…” Jungkook whispered under his breath, voice hoarse.

The ache between his legs had become impossible to ignore. His cock strained hard against the front of his athletic shorts, throbbing with every dirty thought. Glancing around quickly to make sure the field was truly empty, he pressed the heel of his palm against the thick bulge, rubbing slowly over the thin fabric. A low, shaky groan slipped from his throat at the small bit of relief. He palmed himself firmer, eyes fluttering half-closed as he leaned harder against the railing, mind still flooded with visions of you.

You moaning his name. You creaming around his cock. You looking up at him with those same playful eyes while you begged him to cum inside you. His hand moved a little faster, breath coming in short pants behind his glasses as the empty field stretched out silently before him.

The empty field felt dangerously quiet now, the distant sounds of the campus fading into nothing more than a low hum. Jungkook’s breathing had grown ragged, his palm no longer enough to satisfy the aching need burning through him. After another nervous glance around, scanning the bleachers, the far end of the track, and the locker room entrance, he convinced himself he was truly alone. His heart hammered wildly as he hooked his fingers into the waistband of his black athletic shorts and underwear, tugging them down just enough to free his throbbing cock.

It sprang out heavy and flushed, already leaking at the tip. Jungkook wrapped his hand around the thick length with a shaky exhale, eyes fluttering as he gave the first slow stroke from base to head. “Fuck…” he whispered, voice barely audible. His mind immediately filled with you again, this time far more vivid. He imagined how warm and tight you would feel wrapped around him, how your slick walls would squeeze his cock as he pushed inside you. He pictured your flexible body taking every inch, legs spread wide for him, that tiny cheer skirt bunched up around your waist while he fucked you deep and slow.

His strokes grew steadier, slick sounds barely masked by the breeze. He leaned back against the metal railing, one hand gripping it tightly for balance while the other worked his cock faster. In his fantasy, you were moaning his name— breathy and desperate— your perky tits bouncing with every thrust, nipples begging for his tongue. He imagined gripping your hips, watching the way your pussy would stretch around him, creaming down his length as you begged him not to stop. “Jungkook… please…” he could almost hear you whimpering in his head.

His glasses fogged slightly from his heavy panting. Sweat beaded on his forehead and slid down his temples as he pumped his fist quicker, thumb swiping over the sensitive head on every upstroke, spreading the precum that kept dripping out. He was getting so close already, thighs tensing, balls tightening, the coil in his stomach winding tighter and tighter—

A sharp squeak of surprise suddenly cut through the silence.

Jungkook’s eyes flew open in panic. His hand froze mid-stroke as his head snapped toward the sound. There you stood, only a few yards away, wide-eyed and frozen in place. Your gym bag was clutched tightly in one hand, your cute pink water bottle in the other. You were still wearing your full cheerleading uniform, the red and gold fabric hugging your body, but your hair was now down— long, slightly messy waves cascading over your shoulders after you’d taken out your ponytail. The surprise on your face was unmistakable, lips parted, cheeks flushing as your gaze dropped involuntarily to his exposed cock still held tightly in his fist.

“Shit—!” Jungkook choked out, face burning crimson. He fumbled desperately to cover himself, yanking his shorts back up but only managing to make the situation more awkward as his hard, throbbing length strained obscenely against the thin fabric. “I-I’m so sorry— I thought— I didn’t know anyone was still here— fuck, I’m really sorry—”

He kept stammering, words tumbling out in a panicked rush, one hand still half-covering the massive bulge in his shorts while the other pushed his glasses up his nose. He wanted the ground to swallow him whole. Of all people to catch him like this… it had to be you.

But you didn’t scream. You didn’t run away or call him a perv.

Instead, you slowly shook your head, eyes still wide but now sparkling with something entirely different, curiosity, amusement, heat. You took a slow step toward him, then another, your hips swaying gently in that cheer skirt as you closed the distance. The evening light caught in your loose hair, making it glow softly.

You stopped just a couple feet away, tilting your head slightly. “Jungkook…” your voice was soft, almost teasing. “Was that my name you were whispering just now?”

He froze, mouth opening and closing uselessly for a moment. His cock gave a helpless twitch in his shorts at the sound of your voice saying his name. The embarrassment was overwhelming, but the way you were looking at him, not disgusted, but intrigued, made it impossible to lie. His cheeks burned hotter as he swallowed hard and gave a small, reluctant nod.

“…Yeah,” he admitted hoarsely, voice barely above a whisper. “It was.”

A slow, beautiful smirk spread across your lips. You took another step closer, then one more, until you were standing right in front of him. Jungkook’s breath hitched sharply in his throat, his back pressing harder against the metal railing as if he needed something solid to keep him upright. You were so close now that he could smell the faint sweetness of your perfume mixed with the light scent of your sweat from practice. His eyes widened behind his glasses, darting across your face, your loose hair, and the way your cheer uniform still clung to your body.

The smirk on your lips never faded. It only deepened as you looked up at him through your lashes. “What were you thinking about in particular, Jungkook?” you asked softly, voice laced with curiosity and something far more dangerous.

His brain short-circuited. “W-What…?” he stammered, barely able to get the word out. His cheeks were burning, and his cock was still painfully hard, straining against the front of his shorts like it had a mind of its own.

You didn’t let him hide. Tilting your head slightly, you looked him dead in the eyes and asked with shameless clarity, “Were you thinking about fucking me, Jungkook?”

The directness of your question hit him like a tackle. Jungkook’s mouth opened, but no words came out. All he could do was nod, a small, helpless, eager bob of his head, because he didn’t trust his voice not to crack or moan. His breathing was ragged, chest rising and falling quickly as he stared down at you in pure disbelief and overwhelming want.

Your smile turned sweeter, almost affectionate, as you tilted your head the other way. Without another word, you gracefully sank to your knees right there in front of him on the grassy sideline. The sight alone nearly made Jungkook’s knees buckle. Your cheer skirt fanned out around your thighs as you settled between his legs, looking up at him with those bright, mischievous eyes. You placed your hands on his thighs, slowly running them up and down the tense muscles, feeling the way they trembled under your touch.

“Is this what you were thinking about?” you asked innocently, batting your lashes while your palms stroked higher, teasing the hem of his shorts. Jungkook could only nod again, lips parted, mouth half open in awe. His glasses had slipped slightly down his nose, but he didn’t dare move to fix them. He was completely frozen, mesmerized by the sight of you on your knees for him.

You let out a soft, delighted giggle at his stunned expression, the sound light and sweet, but it sent another throb straight to his cock. Without breaking eye contact, you hooked your fingers into the waistband of his shorts and underwear again, tugging them down just enough to free his aching length. It sprang out heavily right in front of your face, flushed dark and glistening at the tip.

Your hand wrapped around him a moment later, warm, soft, and confident. Jungkook let out a choked groan as you started stroking him slowly from base to tip, twisting your wrist gently at the head just right. Your grip was perfect, slick from how much he had already leaked while thinking about you. You pumped him with long, deliberate strokes, watching every reaction on his face with that same smirk playing on your lips.

Your hand kept moving around him in smooth, steady strokes, thumb gliding over the sensitive head every time you reached the top, spreading the constant leak of precum down his thick shaft. Jungkook’s hips twitched forward involuntarily into your fist, his breathing ragged and shaky as he stared down at you like you were some kind of dream he was terrified of waking up from. “How long have you been wanting to fuck me, Jungkook?” you asked sweetly, eyes locked on his face while your hand twisted expertly around him.

“A while…” he whined, the words coming out breathy and broken. His voice cracked slightly, sounding embarrassingly needy. “F-fuck… a long while…”

You let out a soft, delighted laugh that sent vibrations straight through him. The sound was so pretty, so teasing, and it only made his cock throb harder in your grip. “Really?” he breathed out, genuinely surprised, eyes wide behind his fogged-up glasses, as you told him you'd been thinking about it just as much “You… you’ve been thinking about it too?”

“Mhm,” you hummed, nodding as you looked up at him with that wicked little smirk. Your hand suddenly quickened its pace, stroking him faster, tighter, wet sounds filling the quiet evening air. “I’ve thought about it a lot, actually. About you fucking my tight little pussy… stretching me open with this big cock.” Your voice dropped lower, filthy and sweet at the same time. “I always figured the quiet ones like you knew how to fuck so good. All that pent-up energy… I bet you’d ruin me and still be so sweet about it.”

Jungkook moaned loudly at your words, knees nearly buckling. His hand shot out to grip the railing tighter for balance as pleasure shot through his body like electricity. You leaned in closer, warm breath ghosting over his aching cock. You guided the swollen head to your lips, smearing the shiny precum across them like gloss before tapping the sensitive tip against your tongue a few times, light, lewd little taps that made wet sounds. Jungkook shuddered hard, a broken moan ripping from his throat as his hips jerked forward.

Then you took him into your mouth. The blowjob was immediately sloppy and nasty. You sank down on him with wet, greedy sounds, taking him as deep as you could while your tongue swirled messily around the underside. Spit dripped from the corners of your mouth, running down his shaft as you bobbed your head faster, hollowing your cheeks and sucking hard. You didn’t hold back, gagging softly when he hit the back of your throat, pulling off just enough to gasp for air before diving back down, jerking the base of his cock with your hand while your lips and tongue worked the rest.

Thick strings of saliva connected your mouth to his cock every time you pulled back, only for you to spit on him and take him even deeper. The sounds were filthy— wet gurgles, sloppy slurps, and your soft, eager hums vibrating around his length. Jungkook’s knees were actually shaking now, thighs trembling as he fought not to thrust too hard into your warm, perfect mouth.

“F-fuck… oh my god…” he whimpered, one hand hovering like he wanted to touch your hair but was too nervous to do it. His glasses were completely fogged up, chest heaving, abs clenching tight under his shirt as you sucked him like you’d been starving for him.

You didn’t slow down. If anything, you took him even deeper, sucking him with messy, eager enthusiasm. Wet, obscene sounds echoed softly in the open air as you bobbed your head faster, spit dripping down your chin and onto your cheer top. Your tongue pressed flat against the underside of his cock, tracing every vein while you hollowed your cheeks and sucked hard.

Jungkook’s hand trembled as it finally moved from the railing to your face. His palm cupped your cheek gently, thumb brushing over your skin as he felt the way his thick cock bulged inside your mouth. The intimate touch made you hum around him, the vibration pulling another broken moan from deep in his chest. “You’re so… fuck— you’re so pretty like this,” he panted, voice whiny and wrecked. “Your mouth feels so good… so warm and wet— ahh, I’ve dreamed about this…” His praise spilled out between shaky breaths, eyes half-lidded behind his fogged glasses as he watched you worship his cock.

You fluttered your lashes up at him sweetly, locking eyes while you took him even deeper, gagging softly when he bumped the back of your throat. The look you gave him, innocent yet so fucking filthy, made his knees buckle again.

After a few more deep, sloppy strokes, you pulled off his cock with a wet pop, strings of saliva still connecting your swollen lips to the glistening head. You tapped his heavy length against your tongue a few times again, loving the way his eyes fluttered closed and his breath hitched every single time the wet slap sounded. “Are you close, Jungkook?” you asked teasingly, voice slightly hoarse as you stroked him fast with your hand.

He whimpered pathetically, nodding frantically. “Y-yes… I’m so close— please— I can’t hold it…” You smiled and dove back down immediately, sucking him harder and faster than before. One hand pumped the base while your mouth worked the rest, sloppy, nasty, and relentless. Jungkook’s hand stayed on your cheek, thumb stroking your skin as his hips started twitching uncontrollably.

With a choked, broken moan of your name, he came hard.

Thick ropes of cum spilled deep into your mouth, pulse after pulse as his cock throbbed against your tongue. You kept sucking him through it, milking every last drop while he shuddered and gasped above you.

When he finally finished, you slowly pulled off, keeping your lips sealed around him until the very end. You tilted your head back slightly, opening your mouth to show him the mess he’d made, your tongue coated in his cum, some of it dripping down toward your throat. Jungkook stared down at you with wide, dazed eyes, completely stunned and still breathing heavily. Then, while keeping eye contact, you closed your mouth and swallowed visibly, the motion smooth and deliberate. A soft, satisfied hum left your throat as you licked your lips clean.

Jungkook was still panting, eyes glassy and wide with disbelief as he watched you swallow. Something inside him finally snapped. He reached down, hands trembling but determined, and gently pulled you up from your knees. The moment you were standing, he cupped your face with both hands and kissed you, deep, urgent, and surprisingly bold for how shy he usually was.

You gasped softly against his mouth, surprised by the sudden intensity, but you melted into it almost instantly. Your arms wrapped around his neck as you pushed back against him, kissing him harder. What started as a passionate, grateful kiss quickly turned sloppy and messy. Tongues slid against each other, wet and eager. Soft moans spilled into each other’s mouths as you tilted your head, deepening the kiss. Spit slicked your lips and chins while you devoured each other, breathing heavily through your noses, bodies pressed tight together on the empty sideline.

Your hands moved frantically, tugging at the hem of his black t-shirt. Jungkook helped you pull it over his head, revealing his surprisingly toned chest and abs, skin glistening with a light layer of sweat. He returned the favor immediately, his hands sliding under your cheer top and peeling it off your body. The cool evening air hit your skin as he tossed the top aside. His hands were greedy but reverent as they cupped your bare tits, squeezing the soft, perky flesh with a low groan.

“God… they’re even better than I imagined,” he whispered hotly against your lips before breaking the kiss to duck his head down. His mouth latched onto one of your nipples, sucking hungrily while his hand kneaded the other breast. His tongue swirled around the sensitive bud, teeth grazing lightly before he sucked harder, moaning against your skin. You let out a shaky moan, your hand flying to the back of his head, fingers threading through his soft dark hair and gripping tight as pleasure shot through you.

“Mmm— Jungkook…” you moaned, back arching to push your chest further into his eager mouth. He switched to the other nipple, giving it the same wet, sloppy attention, sucking and licking like he couldn’t get enough of you. His free hand roamed down your back, squeezing your ass through your short cheer skirt while he continued worshipping your tits.

The air between you was thick with heat and desperation. After a few more moments of his mouth on your chest, you pulled his head back gently by his hair, forcing him to look up at you. Your voice came out breathy and needy. “Do you want to fuck me, Jungkook?”

His eyes widened, pupils blown with lust. He nodded so eagerly it was almost pathetic, fast, desperate little nods while his hands squeezed your waist. “Yes… fuck yes, please,” he breathed, voice hoarse and wrecked.

You smiled at his eagerness and gently pushed him down onto the soft grass. Jungkook lay back, chest heaving as he watched you with pure hunger. You stood over him for a moment, then slowly straddled his lap, knees sinking into the grass on either side of his hips. Your short cheer skirt fanned out around you as you reached down, pushing his shorts further down his thighs. His cock, still hard and slick from your mouth, rested heavy against his stomach.

You hovered above him, grinding your soaked panties against his length teasingly as you looked down at his flushed face and fogged-up glasses. Jungkook’s hands gripped your thighs tightly, fingers digging into your soft skin while he waited for you, completely at your mercy and loving every second of it.

You settled fully on top of him, your soaked panties pressing against his hard cock as you began to grind down slowly. The thick length slid between your folds through the thin fabric, the friction making you both moan. Jungkook’s hands tightened on your thighs, fingers digging into your soft skin as he looked up at you with pure desperation, glasses slightly crooked on his flushed face.

“Mmm, look at you,” you purred, running your hands slowly up and down his toned chest, feeling every ridge of muscle tremble under your touch. “So hard for me already… even after I just swallowed all your cum. You really have been wanting this, haven’t you?” You rolled your hips in slow, teasing circles, pressing your clit against his cock with every movement. Soft, breathy moans fell from your lips as the pleasure built, your wetness soaking through your panties and coating his shaft.

Jungkook panted heavily beneath you, hips twitching up instinctively to meet your grinding. “Yes… fuck, I’ve wanted you for so long,” he groaned, voice strained. His eyes were glued to your body, watching the way your tits bounced lightly with every roll of your hips.

You moaned louder, arching your back as you dragged your hands up to your own chest. You cupped your tits, squeezing them together and playing with your nipples right above his face while you kept grinding on him. The sight made Jungkook’s cock throb hard between your thighs. Your moans mixed with his desperate pants, the wet sounds of your grinding filling the quiet evening air around you.

“Please…” he finally begged, voice cracking. “Please put it in… I need to feel you. I can’t take it anymore— I need to be inside your tight pussy. Please, baby…” You let out a soft, amused giggle at how wrecked he sounded, still grinding teasingly over him. But you took mercy on him. You reached down between your bodies, pulled your panties to the side, and lined up his thick cock with your dripping entrance. Without any more warning, you sank down onto him in one smooth, eager motion.

The stretch was intense. A loud moan tore from your throat as he filled you completely, thick and deep in one go. You didn’t ease into it, you started riding him hard and fast right away, hips slamming down roughly with every bounce. The pleasure was almost overwhelming, bordering on too much, but you loved it. Every brutal thrust sent sparks shooting up your spine as his cock dragged perfectly against your walls.

“Fuck— yes!” you cried out, bracing your hands on his chest for leverage as you rode him with wild abandon. Jungkook’s head fell back against the grass, a loud, guttural moan leaving him.

“Oh my god— you feel so fucking good,” he groaned filthily. You grabbed his big hands and yanked them up to your bouncing tits, pressing them firmly against your chest.

He immediately groped at them greedily, squeezing the soft flesh while his thumbs rubbed over your hard nipples. “Thank you… fuck, thank you,” he panted desperately between moans, voice breaking. “Your tits are so perfect— so soft. You’re riding me so good, baby. Your pussy is so tight and wet— shit, I’m losing my mind…”

You kept riding him with relentless energy, slamming your hips down over and over again. The wet, filthy sound of your pussy taking his thick cock filled the empty field as you moaned his name like a chant. “Jungkook… fuck, Jungkook—” Each bounce made your tits jiggle in his hands, your cheer skirt bunched uselessly around your waist. The stretch was perfect, his cock hitting so deep inside you that stars burst behind your eyes with every rough descent.

Feeling bold and wanting to completely ruin him, you decided to show off just how flexible you really were. You slowly extended one leg straight out to the side, then the other, sinking down into a full split on his cock. Your thighs pressed flat against the grass on either side of his body while his entire length stayed buried deep inside you.

“F-fuck—!” Jungkook whimpered loudly, the sound breaking into a desperate moan. His eyes rolled back, mouth falling open as uncontrollable whimpers and moans spilled from his lips. “Oh my god… it's so deep— I can feel everything. You’re so fucking flexible— shit, it’s too much—”

His reaction made you grin through your own moans. Your thighs started trembling from the intense stretch and the overwhelming pleasure as you began rolling your hips again in this new position, grinding and bouncing on him with short, powerful movements. “You like that, baby?” you panted, voice dripping with lust. “You like feeling how deep you can get inside my tight pussy? I bet no one’s ever taken you this deep before, have they?”

Jungkook’s hands slid down from your tits to grip your asscheeks hard. He pulled them apart roughly, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he started thrusting up to meet your movements. The new angle made you both cry out. His cock drove even deeper, the head rubbing against that perfect spot inside you with every snap of his hips. Your moans grew louder and more desperate, thighs shaking violently around him as the coil in your stomach tightened unbearably. “I’m gonna cum— Jungkook, I’m so close—!” you cried out, head falling back in ecstasy.

“I’m close too,” he groaned, voice strained and breathy. His thrusts became erratic, hips snapping up harder as he chased his release. “Where… where do you want it?”

You leaned forward, bracing your hands on his chest as you rode him through the building pleasure. “Inside,” you begged, voice breaking. “Please cum inside me, Jungkook. I want to feel you filling me up— please, please cum deep in my pussy.”

That was all it took. With a loud, broken moan of your name, Jungkook thrust up hard one final time and came deep inside you. Thick, hot spurts of cum flooded your pussy, pulse after pulse as his cock throbbed violently. The feeling of him filling you up pushed you over the edge right after him. Your thighs shook uncontrollably as your orgasm crashed through you, walls clenching and fluttering around his cock, milking every last drop while you moaned loudly, body trembling on top of him.

For a long, hazy minute, you both simply breathed together, bodies slick with sweat and still buzzing from your shared orgasm. The evening air felt cooler now against your heated skin. You eventually rolled off Jungkook with a soft, satisfied sigh, collapsing onto the grass beside him. When you turned your head to the side, you found him already staring at you. His chest was still heaving, lips parted, fogged-up glasses sitting crooked on his nose, and his dark eyes held an intensity that made your stomach flutter.

A lazy smile tugged at your lips. Your gaze slowly traveled down his body— past his toned chest, down his abs, until it landed on his cock. He was still rock hard, flushed dark red, and glistening with your combined release. A breathy giggle escaped you. “Jungkook…” you teased, voice playful but laced with surprise, “you’re still so hard.”

He let out a shaky, embarrassed laugh, one hand coming up to push his glasses back into place. His cheeks were burning, but the hunger in his eyes didn’t fade even a little. “I know,” he panted, voice hoarse and raw. “I… I want to go again. Please.”

You quirked an eyebrow at him, mildly impressed by his stamina. Most guys would’ve been tapped out after that, but here he was, still throbbing, still desperate for more. You bit your lip, heat pooling low in your belly again at the thought. “Alright,” you said with a smirk, “then you’re doing the work this time, waterboy.”

Jungkook let out a low, breathless chuckle that sent a shiver down your spine. The sound was surprisingly confident. Without warning, he moved. In one fluid motion, he rolled over and flipped you onto your stomach. Strong hands gripped your hips and yanked your ass up high into the air, forcing you onto your knees with your chest and face pressed against the cool grass. You gasped at the sudden shift in position, instinctively arching your back and gripping the soft blades of grass tightly in both fists.

For a moment, he just admired the view. His large palms smoothed reverently over the curves of your ass, squeezing and kneading the plush flesh. He spread your cheeks apart slowly, groaning deeply at the sight of your puffy, cum-dripping pussy. His cock, still slick and heavy, slid up and down your slit in teasing strokes— dragging from your clit all the way back to your entrance, coating himself in your wetness but never pushing inside.

You whined loudly, growing impatient. Your hips wiggled back against him desperately, trying to tempt him, trying to force him in. “Jungkook… stop teasing me,” you begged, voice already shaking. “Put it in already—”

He didn’t make you wait any longer. In one sharp, powerful thrust, Jungkook buried every thick inch of his cock inside you. The sudden stretch made you squeak, but the sound quickly melted into a loud, broken scream of pleasure as he immediately set a brutal pace. There was nothing gentle about it. His hips slammed against your ass with wet, punishing slaps, driving his cock so deep you felt it in your stomach. Each thrust forced the air out of your lungs.

You collapsed forward even more, face turning to the side and pressed into the grass as he fucked you senseless. “Oh my god— Jungkook!” you sobbed, voice cracking with every brutal snap of his hips. The pleasure was overwhelming, almost too intense, but you craved every second of it. “It feels so good… your cock is so fucking big— you’re so deep—”

“Uh huh,” he groaned behind you, voice low and rough, completely different from the shy, stammering waterboy you knew from the sidelines. “Fuck, take it. Take all of it like a good girl.” You were shocked by the filthy dominance pouring out of him, but it only turned you on more. His hands gripped your ass tighter, fingers digging into your skin hard enough to leave marks as he pulled you back onto his cock with every thrust. The wet, obscene sounds of skin slapping skin and your dripping pussy taking him filled the empty field. Your thighs trembled violently, moans turning into broken sobs as he completely rearranged your insides.

Jungkook leaned over you, one hand sliding up your back to grip your shoulder for better leverage while the other stayed on your ass, spreading you open so he could watch his thick cock disappear inside you over and over again. His pace never faltered, sharp, deep, and relentless. Your mind was melting. Every brutal thrust punched the air out of your lungs and turned your thoughts into complete nonsense. You were babbling incoherently into the grass, broken moans, whimpers, and half-formed words spilling from your lips as Jungkook fucked you mercilessly from behind.

“Jungkook— ahh— fuck, fuck, it’s so deep— oh my god—” you cried, voice hoarse and shaky. His hands slid from your shoulder down to the hem of your tiny cheer skirt. He fisted the red and gold fabric tightly in both hands, using it like a handle to yank your body back onto his cock with every powerful thrust. The force of his hips made your entire body jolt forward. Your tits swayed heavily back and forth beneath you, nipples brushing against the cool grass with every punishing slam. The wet, filthy sound of skin slapping against skin echoed loudly across the empty field.

Jungkook was panting hard behind you, sweat dripping from his forehead onto your back. His voice came out rough and breathless between thrusts. “Tell me, baby… how good does it feel?” he groaned, yanking your skirt harder to pull you deeper onto his cock.

“So fucking good!” you sobbed loudly, tears of overwhelming pleasure pricking at the corners of your eyes. “It’s so deep— you’re hitting everything”

He let out a low, satisfied growl and leaned over you, hips never slowing. “Is this the best you’ve ever had?” he panted, voice dark and hungry. “Am I fucking you better than anyone else ever has?”

You nodded frantically against the grass, eyes squeezed shut in ecstasy. “Uh huh— uh huh— uh huh—” you cried out repeatedly, the words falling from your lips like a desperate chant with every thrust. “It’s the best— fuck, Jungkook, it’s the best I’ve ever had— no one’s ever fucked me like this—”

Your thighs were shaking violently. You were so close again, the coil in your stomach winding tighter and tighter with every deep stroke. Your walls fluttered wildly around his thick cock, gripping him desperately as your second orgasm hovered right on the edge— But suddenly, Jungkook pulled out.

You let out a loud, pitiful whine at the devastating loss, your pussy clenching around nothing. “Nooo— Jungkook, please—” you begged, voice breaking.

He didn’t leave you empty for long. In one swift movement, he flipped you onto your back. Before you could even finish your whine, he hooked one of your legs up and pressed it against your chest, folding you in half. He lined himself up and plunged back inside you in one hard, smooth thrust. You screamed in pleasure as he filled you again, the new angle letting him sink impossibly deeper.

Jungkook braced himself over you, one hand holding your leg firmly against your chest while the other gripped your hip. He immediately started driving into you again, hard, fast, and relentless. His hips snapped forward with powerful strokes, his heavy balls slapping against your ass with every thrust. Your tits bounced wildly between your bodies from the force, and your face twisted in overwhelming pleasure as he fucked you straight into the grass. “Look at me,” he panted, eyes dark and wild behind his glasses. “Want to see your face while I fuck you.”

Jungkook didn’t slow down even for a second. He kept you folded beneath him, your leg pressed tightly against your chest as he drove his cock into you with deep, punishing strokes. The new position let him hit even deeper, rubbing against that perfect spot inside you with every thrust. Your head fell back against the grass, mouth open in a constant stream of broken sobs and babbles.

“I love your cock— fuck, I love it so much” you cried, voice hoarse and shaking. “It’s so big… stretching me so good, Jungkook, I love how deep you are— don’t stop, please don’t stop—” Tears of overwhelming pleasure slipped down the sides of your face as you kept babbling, completely lost in the feeling of him.

Jungkook’s face hovered above yours, sweat dripping from his brow, glasses fogged and slightly crooked. His breathing was ragged and desperate as he panted, “You’re gonna cum again, aren’t you?” His voice was rough, almost commanding. “Tell me. Are you gonna cum on my cock?”

“Yes!” you sobbed loudly, nodding frantically. “I’m gonna cum so fucking hard Jungkook, I’m so close— please, please—”

He groaned at your words and doubled down, fucking you even harder. His hips slammed against you with sharp, relentless force, driving his thick cock as deep as physically possible with every thrust. Your thighs began to shake violently around him. The pleasure became almost too much, overwhelming every nerve in your body as the pressure built higher and higher. Suddenly, it snapped.

Your orgasm crashed through you like a tidal wave. A loud, broken scream tore from your throat as your entire body convulsed. Your pussy clenched hard around his cock before you started squirting all over him, hot, clear fluid gushing out around his thrusting length, soaking his abs, his thighs, and the grass beneath you. Your thighs trembled uncontrollably, eyes rolling back as wave after wave of intense pleasure ripped through you.

The feeling of you squirting around him pushed Jungkook over the edge right after you. “Fuck— I’m cumming—!” he moaned loudly, voice breaking. He buried himself as deep as he could and came hard, thick ropes of cum spilling deep inside your pulsing pussy. His cock throbbed violently with every spurt, filling you up until you felt impossibly full. He kept shallowly thrusting through both of your orgasms, panting and moaning your name like a prayer as his body shook on top of you.

Eventually, his movements slowed, then stopped. He collapsed forward, carefully letting your leg down as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. Both of you were panting hard, bodies trembling and slick with sweat and other fluids, hearts racing wildly against each other. You both stayed tangled together for a long moment, breathing hard and trying to remember how to exist as normal human beings again. Jungkook’s face was still buried in your neck, his warm breath tickling your skin while his cock gave one last lazy twitch inside you. Your fingers lazily played with the damp hair at the nape of his neck as the aftershocks slowly faded.

Eventually, he lifted his head just enough to look at you. His glasses were completely fogged up and crooked, hair a total mess, and his face was flushed bright red. He looked thoroughly ruined in the best possible way. “…So,” you breathed out with a lazy, satisfied grin, still gently clenching around him. “Does the waterboy always hydrate the cheerleaders this well, or am I just special?”

Jungkook let out a breathless, embarrassed laugh and dropped his forehead against your collarbone, hiding his face as his ears turned even redder. “I— I can’t believe I just fucked you on the practice field,” he mumbled, voice muffled against your skin. “I’ve literally brought you water like fifty times and now I just… filled you up like a hydration station.”

You burst out laughing, the sound bright and airy as you gently shoved his shoulder. “Oh my god, you did not just make a hydration joke while you’re still inside me.”

He groaned, half-laughing, half-cringing as he finally pulled out of you with a wet sound that made you both wince. “I’m sorry, that was terrible. Post-nut clarity is hitting me like a linebacker and I’m apparently still an awkward nerd.”

You grinned up at him, reaching up to fix his glasses for him. “A very well-endowed awkward nerd, apparently. I think I’m gonna need a lot more water from you during games from now on.”

Jungkook shook his head, smiling shyly as he collapsed beside you on the grass, pulling you into his side. “If you keep wearing that uniform, I’m gonna need to start bringing the whole cooler.”

You snuggled closer, resting your head on his chest while the cool night air brushed over your sweaty bodies. Both of you lay there quietly for a moment, hearts still racing, before you muttered playfully: “…We should probably leave before someone finds us. Or before you get hard again and we end up christening the entire fifty-yard line.”

Jungkook let out a soft whine. “Don’t say that. I’m trying to recover here.”

You just laughed and kissed his jaw. “Too late, waterboy. Practice is definitely over.”

you flinched, you panic becoming more apparent, as if this was all to much to comprehend for your pretty little head.

“i…” you trailed off.

“what’s your name?” he pulled out a chair next to you. 

you didn’t respond, he leaned closer to you. too close. sleazy.

“i asked you a question.”

you turned your head away from him. he chuckled.

“you look so serious. come on, why don’t you smile?”

jungkook saw your lip begin to tremble as your eyes shone with unshed tears.

jungkook’s blood boiled. he downed the rest of his drink and got up from the barstool. 

“you don’t need to know her name. that’s my girl.” the lie felt heavy behind his teeth.

the man scoffed, “your girl? you left her alone.”

“i went to go get her a drink,” his eyes flicked to you, “right, baby?”

your eyes widened in surprise, but you went along with it. “mhm,” you hummed softly.

the man looked suddenly uncomfortable, “sorry.”

he left. jungkook took his place sitting with you, acting as if it was normal. 

you gingerly placed your manicured hand on his, against scarred knuckles and ink that crawled up his wrist. your thumb traced slow, absent circles, like you didn’t realize what you were doing. he felt it everywhere.

“thank you,” you whispered.

he swallowed, jaw tightening, “yeah…”

he didn’t move his hand. he couldn’t.

you sat in silence for a little. he cleared his throat, “so, the weather tonight…”

you let out a surprised giggle, the only emotion he’d seen from you apart from fear.

“you know, i could buy you a drink, if you want—“

“no,” you interrupted, “i don’t like alcohol. makes my head all fuzzy.”

his gaze dragged over you. studying.

“what are you doing at a biker bar if you aren’t gonna get a little drunk?”

“i wanted to try something new, i guess.”

jungkook wanted to try a lot of new things with you, but he pushed those thoughts aside. 

“what’s your name?” she asked.

“jungkook.”

“hello, jungkook. do you want to know my name?”

he nodded. 

you whispered your name.

he echoed it back. 

you grinned sheepishly, “i like how it sounds with your voice.”

he let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

you shivered slightly, “it’s cold.”

without even thinking, jungkook took off his leather jacket, “here.” he draped it over your shoulders.

you froze for a moment, a blush spreading across your cheeks. then you melted, “it’s ok, really—“

“put it on. you need it.”

he saw you bite back another smile as you slid your small arms into the much too large sleeves. his heart fluttered.

the jacket was humongous on you, and didn’t match your soft outfit at all, but you looked adorable.

you looked back up at him, “can we…” she trailed off, her voices noticeably softened, “can we leave?”

“together?”

“yes.”

“okay.”

the cool breeze ran through his hair as you both walked out of the warm bar. jungkook turned into the auto store right next to the bar. 

“where are we going?” you asked.

“gotta get you a helmet,” he said, grabbing your hand, “i have a harley.”

your eyes widened, “you have a motorcycle?”

“well, you went to a biker bar.” 

“i guess…”

you were strange. he liked it.

you stopped in your tracks to stare at something. jungkook turned back. it was a pink helmet with small flower decals. 

“you like that one?”

you nodded. without hesitation, he grabbed it off the shelf.

“you don’t have to—“

“i do.”

“it’s so expensive—“

“i got it.”

that last comment silenced her again as he went up to the cashier to pay. your hand stayed in his the whole time, refusing to let go. “thank you,” you murmured, your eyes sparkling under the overhead lights.

jungkook’s hand ran through his hair as you both walked to his harley. you surveyed the area as if you were looking for something.

 “you good?” he asked.

“mhm.” you replied.

“do you want me to take you home?”

you flinched and your eyes widened, “no.”

his brows furrowed, “where do you want me to drop you off?”

your hand clenched around his, eyes fearful, “can i come over to your place?”

“are you sure?”

“yeah… i just really like you.”

••••

you were the cutest thing jungkook had ever seen, laid out on his bed, waiting for him.

his black sheets were a stark contrast to your white dress. you looked up at him, all wide, trusting eyes and swollen lips. 

he knelt over you, his hands bracketing your head. he leaned down to kiss you again, slower this time, deeper. one of his hands trailed down your side, his calloused fingers skimming over the thin fabric of your dress. he found the hem, his fingers brushing against the bare skin of your thigh. you shivered, arching into his touch.

“so soft,” he murmured against your lips. his hand slid higher, pushing your dress up with it. he hooked his fingers in the waist of your panties, pulling them down slowly. you lifted your hips to help him, your breath hitching. he tossed them aside, his eyes never leaving yours.

he spread your legs with his knee, settling between them. he could feel the heat radiating from you, could see how wet you already were. he reached down, his fingers sliding through your slick folds. you gasped, your back arching off the bed. he circled your clit slowly, teasingly, watching your face as you fell apart under his touch.

“jungkook,” you moaned, your hands fisting in his sheets. “please…”

“please what, baby?” he groaned, sliding one finger inside you. you were so tight, so wet, clenching around him. he added another finger, pumping them in and out, his thumb still working your clit.

“i want you,” you cried out, your hips bucking against his hand. “i want you inside me.”

that was it. he needed to be inside you. he pulled his fingers away, making you whine at the loss. he quickly undid his jeans, pushing them down along with his boxers. his cock sprang free, hard and thick.

your eyes widened as you looked at him, a flicker of apprehension in your eyes, but it was quickly replaced by raw desire. he was big, bigger than you’d expected, and the thought of him stretching you open sent a fresh wave of arousal through you. you practically threw off your dress, leaving you bare for him.

he positioned himself at your entrance, the head of his cock nudging against your slick folds. he looked down at you, his expression a mixture of lust and something softer, something protective.

your lip trembled, “w-will it fit?”

he chuckled, his lips brushing against your ear. “we’ll make it fit, sweetheart.”

he shifted his weight, his large frame completely enveloping yours. the sheer size of him was overwhelming—his broad shoulders blocked out the light, his muscular thighs pinned you down, and his cock, heavy and thick against your entrance, made you go breathless at the thought of taking him.

he pushed forward slowly, the thick head of his cock breaching your entrance. you gasped, your hands flying to his biceps, your nails digging into his firm muscles. he was big, so much bigger than you'd prepared for, the stretch burning in the most exquisite way. your eyes blurred with tears.

"shhh," he soothed, noticing your pained expression. he paused, letting you adjust to his size. "breathe for me, baby. that’s it."

you took a shaky breath, trying to relax your muscles around him. he took that as his cue to continue, pushing deeper inch by agonizing inch. you felt so full, so completely stretched, as if he was reshaping your body to fit only him.

"look at you," he groaned, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. "little body taking me so well. such a good girl for me."

finally, he was fully seated inside you, his hips flush against yours. you felt impossibly full, every nerve ending alight with sensation. he stayed still for a moment, letting you adjust, his forehead pressed against yours.

"you okay?" he asked, his voice gentle despite the obvious desire thrumming through him.

you could only nod, words failing you as you tried to process the overwhelming sensation of being so completely filled by him.

he glanced down your body and paused when he reached your stomach. the sight made him shiver with primal satisfaction. you were so small his cock created a visible bulge in your stomach, a perfect indent of him claiming you from the inside. his eyes darkened with possessive lust as he watched you struggle to accommodate his impressive girth, your delicate body trembling beneath his much larger one.

“fuck,” he groaned loudly.

your brows furrowed, only able to say, “hm?” she hummed, but is broke into a whine at the end.

“nothing, sweetheart,” he whispered.

he couldn’t hold it in anymore.

he started to move then, slow, shallow thrusts that gradually grew deeper. each movement sent waves of pleasure through you, the slight pain of the stretch giving way to pure ecstasy. you wrapped your legs around his waist, trying to pull him deeper, needing more. you were panting like a puppy in heat.

"jungkook," you moaned, your voice breathy. "more."

he chuckled, a low, dark sound. "greedy little thing, aren't you?" but he obliged, his thrusts becoming harder, deeper, more demanding. he shifted his angle slightly, and suddenly he was hitting that perfect spot inside you that made your vision blur.

your hands roamed over his broad back, feeling the muscles flex and bunch as he moved. his large hands gripped your hips, holding you in place as he drove into you again and again.

"fuck, you feel incredible," he groaned, his rhythm becoming more erratic. "so tight around me. made just for me, weren't you?"

you could only cry out in response, your body arching as pleasure coiled tight in your belly. his thumb found your clit again, rubbing tight circles that pushed you closer to the edge. tears rolled down your cheeks. 

“more,” you pleaded.

he obliged, rutting into you at a faster past, quickening your moans and pants. “look at you. you were so shy earlier, and now you’re crying for it,” he wiped away a tear with his thumb, “so sweet.”

jungkook’s head was spinning. the room was filled with the sounds of your moans and the creaking of his bed. he leaned in to your neck to breathe you in, your sugary perfume and natural scent filling his nostrils. his eyes almost rolled back. it was all too addictive. he let out an exhale on your neck and kissed the skin right below your ear.

your breaths became quicker and more overwhelmed as you clenched around him. he knew you were close. jungkook turned his attention back to your clit, rubbing light circles. “are you close?” he purred.

“uh huh,” she said breathily.

you let out a boarderline pornographic moan when he pressed slightly harder. without warning, you came around him. he followed you soon after.

he slowly slid out, and your heart sank slightly at the loss of fullness. he gave you a soft, wet, open mouthed kiss. 

“are you okay?” he murmured.

you nodded, your eyes glimmering with adoration that he wasn’t sure he deserved.

“use your words, baby.”

“i’m good,” your voice trailed off.

he gave you a peck to your forehead before attempting to get out the bed. you panicked, eyes widening as you wrapped your arms around him, clinging.

“please don’t go,” you pleaded.

“i’m not leaving, don’t worry.”

“promise?”

“promise.”

you let him go. jungkook returned with a wet towel. he crawled back onto the bed, and spread your legs. your pussy was puffy, swollen and drooling with a mixture of both of your cum. he began wiping between your thighs with the warm towel. your breath hitched and your body tensed at the foreign feeling, but relaxed into the warmth of the towel.

“that was amazing,” you blurted.

he raised an eyebrow, “amazing?”

your cheeks went pink. you avoided his gaze.

he chuckled, “don’t get shy now, sweetheart.”

“it was… nice,” you let out.

when he finished wiping, he kissed the skin of your inner thigh tenderly. he looked up at you, “you’re nice.”

“really?”

“very nice.”

you giggled.

••••

you woke up with your cheek on jungkook’s pec. you could hear his heartbeat softly pumping against your face. it was warm. your whole body felt warm, with a new, tender ache between your thighs. 

what you two had done was reckless, idiotic. you were laying in bed with a man you had just met from a place you definitely shouldn’t have been. 

you tried to sit up, but the weight of his arm possessively wrapped around you was too much. 

“good morning,” he rasped. his morning voice sent shivers down your spine.

you didn’t respond. your heart pounded against his chest. 

his calloused thumb rubbed soft circles into your waist. he tried again, “you sleep well?”

“better than i ever had. all because of you,” you whispered.

his eyebrows rose, “really? maybe you need me every night. keep your sleep just as good.”

heat spread across your cheeks. you slid up, staring down at him. he was heartbreakingly perfect. muscular frame, colorful tattoo sleeve crawling up one of his arms, lip piercings that shone under the soft sunlight. what made you ache for him the most was his eyes. soft, wide, kind eyes that made you want to crawl into his arms and never leave. 

other guys you knew left you. you were used to a cold, empty bed. the nicer ones left a note. colder ones never texted back. you barely knew jungkook, but something about him felt different. despite his gruff demeanor, something softened when he looked at you. that shift made you feel giddy. 

but a more rational part of you knew this could never last.

you tapped his bare shoulder, “i gotta tell you something, jungkook.”

“what’s wrong?”

your heart sank, knowing this would ruin everything. your eyes avoided his, “i got a guy.”

his heartbeat spiked, “you what?”

“i wanna leave him, jungkook, i swear. i just can’t. he’s a bad guy, jungkook, i can’t just leave—“

he scoffed, “would’ve been nice to know before i fucked you last night.”

his sharp tone made your lip tremble. tears quietly blurred your vision before they fell down your face. 

jungkook’s eyes immediately softened with regret. he exhaled, running a hand through his hair.

he sat up and cupped your cheeks, wiping the tears away with his thumbs, “don’t cry, doll. i’m not angry. i’m sorry.”

“he does bad things, jungkook.”

jungkook’s eyebrows furrowed, “what does he do?”

more tears slid down your face, “it’s illegal, he knows a lot of horrible people… jungkook, he can’t know i’m here—i want to leave him so bad jungkook, i swear.” you buried your face into his chest, an involuntary sob ripping from your chest.

“shh…” he coaxed, “it’s alright, baby, i’ll take care of it. who is he?” his big, tattooed arms wrapped around you. the tight embrace brought you some comfort.

you sat up to look at him. your bottom lip trembled. “jungkook, you don’t understand. i can’t tell you.”

he sat up, then pulled you onto him so you were straddling him. his big hands found your bare hips.

“no, you don’t understand. what’s his name?”

you started to squirm, “i really shouldn’t—“

his hands tightened on you, steadying your motions, “tell me who he is. i can help you, but i need you to trust me.” he brushed a piece of hair from your face.

something inside caved. you sighed, “he’s from downtown. people call him the knife. his name is roman.”

“fuck,” jungkook muttered so low you almost missed it.

“i know,” you winced, “he’s got a reputation, and he’s done—“

“no,” jungkook interrupted, “that’s not it.”

your brows furrowed.

“that’s my fucking cousin.”

the words hung there, heavy and wrong.

you stared at him like you didn’t  understand the language anymore.

“…your what?” your voice came out thin, fragile.

jungkook’s jaw tightened. he looked away for a second, like he was deciding something—like there were a hundred things he could say and none of them are the truth.

“my cousin,” he repeated, quieter this time. “roman.”

the name sounded different coming out of his mouth. familiar. bitter. your hands started to shake.

“no… no, that’s not—” you scrambled off his lap, backing up on the bed like distance might fix it. “you’re lying.”

“i’m not,” he said. his voice was steady. too steady. that’s what made your chest cave in.

“you said you’d take care of it,” you whispered, tears building again. “how are you supposed to take care of it when it’s him?”

jungkook dragged a hand down his face, exhaling slowly. for a second, something dark flickered behind his eyes—something you didn’t understand.

something dangerous.

but when he looked back at you, it’s gone.

soft again.

just for you.

“hey,” he murmured, shifting closer. “look at me.”

you didn’t want to.

he reached for you anyway, slower this time, giving you space to pull away.

you didn’t.

his hands found your arms, warm and grounding, sliding up until he’s cupping your face again. his thumbs brushed under your eyes, catching the tears before they fall.

“don’t do that,” he muttered gently. “don’t get scared of me now.”

“i’m not scared of you,” you whispered.

you weren’t.

that was the worst part.

“i just…” your voice broke. “i don’t know what to do anymore.”

something in his chest twisted at that. he pulled you back into him, firm, one hand cradling the back of your head, pressing your face into his shoulder.

“you don’t have to figure it out right now,” he said quietly. “you hear me? you’re here. you’re safe.”

safe. the word felt foreign. fragile. you clung to him anyway.

“he’ll look for me,” you mumbled against his skin. “he always does. if he finds out—”

“he won’t.”

the way he said it makes you pause.

you leaned back just enough to look at him. “how do you know that?”

jungkook’s thumb traced along your jaw, slow, absent. his eyes studied your face like he was memorizing it.

“because i won’t let him,” he said simply.

there was no hesitation. no doubt.

it should’ve scared you.

instead, it made your stomach flip.

“you don’t know him like i do,” you whispered.

a beat. something shifted in his expression.

“i know him,” jungkook said.

and he did.

too well.

you searched his face, trying to read something deeper, but he didn’t  let you. his hand slid down to your neck, gentle, grounding, his thumb brushed your pulse.

it was racing.

“hey,” he murmurs, softer now. “breathe, angel.”

your eyes flutter at the nickname.

“i’ve got you,” he added. “you’re not going back there. not today.”

“what about tomorrow?” you asked, barely audible.

his gaze darkened for just a second.

tomorrow.

roman.

everything he walked away from.

“we’ll handle tomorrow,” he said.

you don’t notice the way his jaw locked when he said it.

or how his hand tightened just slightly on your waist.

or the way his eyes flicked, distant for a split second, already somewhere else. 

already thinking. already planning.

instead, you just nodded, small and trusting, and leaned into him again.

jungkook pressed his lips to the top of your head, lingering there.

his hold on you softened.

his expression didn’t.

because while his hands are gentle, his mind was anything but.

roman, of all people.

a humorless breath left him.

yeah.

he’d take care of it.

just not in the way you thought.

••••

jungkook had always wanted a woman just like you in his house.

you had stayed more than just the night. a whole month of bliss had passed. that month turned into six months before he could blink.

 you had brought a feminine touch to every part of his life.

after the first day staying with him, you were eager to contribute in ways he never expected from you. you cleaned his unused kitchen, your arms crossing when you saw his empty fridge.

“how do you even cook?” you asked.

he chuckled, rubbing his forehead. “i usually get takeout.”

you gave him a horrified look, “every day?”

“yup.”

you shook your head, “that just won’t do.”

he had given you $100 in cash to go to the grocery store. he had come home to the smell of dinner on the stove. he had felt himself melt.

he had loved coming home to you after long days running his autoshop. after long days of paperwork and grease-stained hands, seeing you—dressed in his clothes that were far too big for you, something warm waiting on the table—had settled something restless inside him.

it didn’t take long for you to fall into his routine.

you woke up before him most mornings, padding quietly into the kitchen while the sun barely peeked through the windows. he had woken up once to the sound of soft humming and had found you standing at the stove in one of his shirts, hair messy, completely focused.

he had leaned against the doorway, just watching.

“you’re up early,” he had said.

you had glanced back at him with a small smile. “i wanted to make you something before you left.”

“you don’t have to do that, angel.”

“i know,” you had said softly. “i want to.”

he had started leaving later because of you.

breakfast turned into something normal. coffee already made. plates set out. you had sat across from him, asking him quiet questions about his day like it mattered.

it did.

and then there were the lunches.

you had packed them carefully, like it meant something. neat containers, napkins folded just right. the first time he had opened one at the shop, he had paused.

real food. still warm. and tucked between it, a small note.

don’t forget to eat ♡

he hadn’t said anything about it that night. hadn’t mentioned the way he’d read it twice. hadn’t mentioned how he’d folded it and shoved it into his pocket instead of throwing it away.

but the next day, there had been another one.

i’m proud of you :)

then another.

come home safe

it became routine. the guys noticed.

“what the hell is that?” one of them had asked when he opened his lunch.

jungkook hadn’t looked up. “food.”

“that ain’t takeout.”

another one had leaned over, squinting. “yo… that’s homemade.”

“so?” jungkook had muttered.

“so?” the guy laughed. “man, my wife packs mine like that.”

“yeah,” another chimed in. “same here. even does the little notes and shit.”

they had gone quiet for a second.

“hold up,” someone had said. “you got a note too?”

jungkook had closed the container before they could grab it, jaw tight. “mind your business.”

they hadn’t stopped grinning.

“you got a girl, jungkook?”

he had paused. “…yeah.”

he hadn’t elaborated. didn’t need to.

he had gone back to eating, but his hand had brushed over the folded note in his pocket more than once.

you had slipped into his life just as easily at home. his place had changed without him realizing it. his laundry had started folding itself—no, you had folded it, neat stacks instead of the usual mess. his bathroom had smelled cleaner. his bed had been made when he came home, sheets pulled tight like you cared about it.

you had cared about everything.

even him.

“you’re gonna spoil me,” he had muttered one night, watching you move around the kitchen.

you had glanced at him over your shoulder, smiling. “is that so bad?”

he hadn’t answered.

because no.

it wasn’t.

he had started bringing you around the shop after a couple weeks. it wasn’t planned, just… one day, you had been there.

standing a little too close to him at first, fingers curled into the back of his shirt like you weren’t sure about the space.

“this is her,” he had said simply.

the guys had looked you over, then back at him.

“this the one making those lunches?” someone had asked.

your face had flushed. “i just… wanted to help.”

one of the older guys had laughed. “nah, don’t get shy now. you got him eating vegetables and shit.”

you had looked up at jungkook, a little worried. “you didn’t like them?”

he had scoffed lightly. “they were fine.” they had teased him about it for the rest of the day.

their wives had liked you immediately. it had been a small get-together. nothing big, just food, a few chairs set up outside the shop. you had stayed close to him at first, quiet, polite, eyes darting.

but they had pulled you in without effort.

“you’re the one packing his lunches?” one of them had asked, smiling.

you had nodded shyly.

“we’ve been hearing about you.”

your eyes had widened. “you have?”

“oh, yeah,” another had laughed. “he don’t say much, but that told us enough. jungkook’s never talked about a girl before.”

you had laughed softly, relaxing little by little.

they had asked you questions. you had answered. slowly, you had started talking more, smiling more.

by the end of it, you had been sitting with them like you belonged there.

“you can come over anytime, honey,” one of them had said. “we do this all the time.”

you had looked over at jungkook instinctively.

he had just nodded once. that had been enough for you.

he had watched you from a distance later, leaned up against a car, cigarette between his fingers. you had been laughing at something one of the wives said, head tilted back, eyes bright.

one of the guys had bumped his shoulder.

“you’re done for.”

jungkook hadn’t argued.

he had just taken a drag, eyes still on you.

yeah. he was.

and every morning after that, he had grabbed his keys, his jacket—

and your lunch.

he had checked for the note before anything else.

every time.

and then it had started shifting the other way, too. it wasn’t just you taking care of him anymore. jungkook had started noticing things. little things.

the way you lingered in front of store windows when you thought he wasn’t paying attention. how your fingers brushed over soft fabrics, pretty dresses, delicate things you never picked up. the way you put things back too quickly, like you weren’t allowed to want them.

he had noticed how you always said, “it’s okay,” before anyone even told you no.

he didn’t like that.

so he had started small. one night, you had been standing at the sink, sleeves rolled up, washing dishes he had told you to leave alone. he had come up behind you, quiet, and set a small bag on the counter.

you had looked at it, confused. “what’s this?”

“open it.”

you had dried your hands carefully before reaching in. your brows had furrowed as you pulled out something soft.

a sweater.

pretty. soft. definitely not his. your eyes had widened. “jungkook…”

“you were looking at it,” he had shrugged, like it was nothing.

“i didn’t say i wanted it.”

“you didn’t have to.”

you had stared at him for a second too long, like you didn’t know what to do with that.

“it’s too much,” you had whispered.

he had frowned slightly. “it’s a sweater.”

“it’s expensive.”

he had stepped closer, tilting his head. “and?”

you hadn’t had an answer for that. you had just hugged it to your chest instead.

“thank you,” you had murmured, smiling.

he had nodded once, but his chest had felt… lighter.

after that, it hadn’t stayed small. he had started bringing things home without warning. hair clips. soft ones. the kind you always absentmindedly touched in stores. a pair of shoes he’d seen you glance at once.

your favorite snacks—ones you had only mentioned one time.

“you don’t have to keep doing this,” you had told him one night, sitting on his bed surrounded by little things that were now yours.

he had been leaning against the doorway, arms crossed.

“i know.”

“then why do you?”

he had looked at you for a second, eyes dragging over your face, your hands, the way you held everything so carefully.

“because i want to,” he had said simply.

you had gone quiet at that.

you weren’t used to that answer. you had never been with someone who gave without expecting something sharp in return. no guilt. no conditions. no edge.

just… because.

it confused you.

it warmed you.

it made your chest ache in a way you didn’t understand.

one afternoon, he had taken you out without telling you where you were going.

“jungkook,” you had laughed softly, fingers curled around his arm, “where are we going?”

“you’ll see.”

you had pouted a little, but you hadn’t pushed.

you never really did.

he had walked you into a small boutique, the kind of place you would’ve never stepped into on your own.

you had stopped at the entrance.

“i can’t—”

“you can,” he had cut in, his hand firm at your lower back, guiding you inside.

you had looked up at him, hesitant. “jungkook, this is too much.”

“pick something.”

“no, i— i don’t need anything.”

his jaw had tightened slightly. not angry—just… set.

“i didn’t ask what you need,” he had said, voice lower now. “i said pick something.”

you had swallowed, glancing around nervously before reaching for the simplest thing you could find.

he had noticed. of course he had.

“not that,” he had muttered, walking past you. he had grabbed something softer. prettier. something that looked like you.

he had held it up against you, eyes narrowing slightly.

“this.”

you had stared at it. then at him. “…okay.”

you had let him. you had started letting him.

later that night, you had been sitting cross-legged on his bed, wearing one of the dresses he had bought you. your fingers traced the fabric like you still couldn’t believe it was yours.

“jungkook?”

“yeah?”

“why are you doing all this for me?”

he had been quieter then. leaning back in his chair, watching you.

“no one’s ever…” you trailed off, shaking your head. “no one’s ever treated me like this before.”

something in his chest had twisted at that.

his gaze had hardened for just a second—not at you, but at the thought of anyone who hadn’t.

“get used to it,” he said.

you had smiled softly, like you didn’t quite believe him.

but you had leaned into him anyway when he pulled you closer, your head resting against his chest like it belonged there.

jungkook had decided, somewhere along the way, that there wasn’t a damn thing you wanted that you wouldn’t have. not anymore.

their sex life didn’t slow down after that first night. if anything, it only got worse. or better, depending on how you looked at it.

it wasn’t rushed, wasn’t careless like that first time had been. it settled into something slower. deeper. something that felt less like impulse and more like… need.

jungkook found himself reaching for you without thinking.

in the kitchen, when you were standing on your toes trying to reach something, he’d come up behind you, one hand steadying your waist, the other grabbing what you needed. but he wouldn’t step away right after. his hand would linger. thumb brushing against your side.

“jungkook…” you’d murmur, soft, a little needy, already melting into him.

he’d just hum against your neck, like he couldn’t help himself. it was like that everywhere. on the couch, you tucked into his side, his fingers tracing absent patterns along your arm while the tv played something neither of you were paying attention to.

in bed, where nights stretched longer than they should have. you had never been touched like that before. not just physically—but like he was there with you. like he was paying attention to every small reaction, every breath, every shift. like it mattered to him.

“you okay?” he’d murmur sometimes, voice low, almost rough with it.

you’d nod against him, fingers curling into his shirt. “yeah…”

and you meant it. because with him, it didn’t feel like something being taken. it felt like something being given. freely.

jungkook noticed it, too.

the way you looked at him after. soft. a little dazed. like you didn’t quite understand what you were feeling but you knew you didn’t want it to stop.

he wasn’t used to that. he wasn’t used to someone staying close after, fingers tracing his tattoos like they meant something. asking quiet questions.

“does this one mean anything?” you’d ask, brushing over the ink on his arm.

he’d glance down at you, then back at it. “not really.”

you’d hum, like that was enough, and keep tracing anyway. he started staying. that was new. no rushing out of bed, no distance, no silence. just you, curled into him like you belonged there. like you always had.

some nights, you’d fall asleep halfway through talking, your voice trailing off into nothing. he’d look down at you, brows softening, adjusting the blanket over your shoulders without waking you.

other nights, you’d stay up longer. whispering things you probably didn’t even realize you were saying.

“i like being here,” you admitted once, voice small against his chest.

jungkook’s hand stilled for a second.

“yeah?” he asked.

you nodded, pressing closer. “it feels… safe.”

safe. that word again. it did something to him every time.

his arm tightened around you just slightly.

“good,” he muttered.

but his gaze drifted somewhere else for a moment. somewhere darker. because he knew exactly what kind of world you had come from. and he knew exactly what kind of man had had you before.

his jaw tightened. his hand moved up to cradle the back of your head, pressing you closer into him like he could shield you from something that wasn’t even in the room. you didn’t notice the shift. you just sighed softly, completely relaxed against him.

“jungkook?” you murmured sleepily.

“hm?”

“you’re staying, right?”

he didn’t answer right away.

he just looked down at you.

at the way you trusted him so easily. the way you asked like it mattered. like he mattered.

“…yeah,” he said finally, quieter this time.

his thumb brushed gently over your arm.

“i’m right here.”

and he was.

even when his mind drifted elsewhere.

even when the world outside his door started creeping closer again.

he was right there, with you.

and then there were the nights you didn’t see. the ones that started the same way every time.

you in the kitchen, humming softly, stirring something on the stove. him leaning against the doorway, watching you like he always did.

“you’re staring again,” you had smiled, not looking up.

“can’t help it.”

you had laughed under your breath. “go shower. dinner’s almost ready.”

he had pushed off the frame, stepping into you just long enough to press a kiss to your temple.

“don’t start without me, angel.”

you never did. that was the problem. because some nights, he didn’t come back in time.

it had started with a name. roman.

it had sat wrong in his mouth the second you said it. familiar in a way that made his chest go tight.

he hadn’t told you what that meant.

his blood. his past. his worst habits wrapped up in another man’s face. and if roman had you? that meant he was closer than jungkook had realized.

the first call had felt like dragging something buried back to the surface.

jungkook had stood outside his shop after closing, cigarette burning between his fingers, phone heavy in his hand.

he hadn’t saved the number. didn’t need to. he still remembered it.

it rang once.

twice.

“…well, i’ll be damned,” a voice drawled on the other end. “thought you were dead.”

jungkook exhaled slowly, smoke curling into the night.

“need information.”

a pause.

then a quiet chuckle. “course you do. you don’t call just to catch up.”

“the knife,” jungkook said flatly. “where is he?”

the line went quiet. that alone told him enough.

“…you really asking about him?” the voice came back, lower now. cautious.

“yeah.”

“you got a death wish or something?”

jungkook flicked ash to the ground. “just answer the question.”

another pause. longer this time.

“…he’s been moving,” the man finally said. “downtown mostly. got people everywhere now. bigger than he used to be.”

jungkook’s jaw tightened. figures.

“i’ll text you an address,” the voice added. “place he’s been frequenting.”

“do that.”

“kook—” the man hesitated. “whatever you’re thinking? don’t. he ain’t the same.”

jungkook’s eyes darkened slightly.

“neither am i.”

he hung up before the man could say anything else.

it didn’t stop there.

one contact turned into two.

two turned into a handful.

names he hadn’t said in years started coming back easy. faces he’d tried to forget slipping into place like they never left.

he kept it quiet. always outside. always after you’d gone to bed.

“you’ve been gone a long time, man,” another voice had said one night, static buzzing faintly through the line. “thought you cleaned yourself up.”

“i did.”

“then why you calling me?”

jungkook leaned against his bike, eyes scanning the empty lot like someone might be watching.

“i need eyes on someone.”

a low whistle. “who?”

“…the knife.”

silence.

“shit.”

“yeah.”

“you’re serious.”

“dead serious.”

another pause, then the sound of a lighter flicking on the other end.

“…heard he’s been getting bold,” the man muttered. “territory’s bigger. meaner, too.”

jungkook didn’t respond.

he didn’t need to.

“i’ll ask around,” the man continued. “but you didn’t get this from me.”

“i never do.”

the information came in pieces.

addresses. times. names of people roman kept close.

patterns.

jungkook didn’t rush it. he watched.

sat in his car across the street from places roman was rumored to be. leaned in shadows he knew too well. listened more than he spoke. he slipped back into it like muscle memory. too easy.

that part of him had never really gone away.he just buried it.

and every time he came home after it, he wiped it off, the edge in his voice, the weight in his shoulders.

he stepped through the door and found you exactly where you always were, waiting.

“you’re late,” you had murmured one night, eyes sleepy as you peeked up from the couch.

he had softened instantly.

“sorry, angel.”

you had smiled anyway. you always did.

“i kept your food warm.”

he had sat beside you, pulling you into him like nothing else existed. like he hadn’t just spent hours chasing ghosts.

like he wasn’t getting closer. like he didn’t already know how this was going to end.

because he did.

roman wasn’t the kind of problem that just… went away. and jungkook? jungkook wasn’t the kind of man who left things unfinished.

not when it came to you. never when it came to you. so he kept digging. kept calling. kept watching.

until one night, he finally saw him.

••••

jungkook had never been this late before. 

you knew his job was hard. even though your relationship with him was young, you saw the toll the work took on him. running a successful autoshop was not easy. but still, something selfish inside you yearned for the times he’d come home at 5:30, gift in hand, wrapping his arms around you immediately.

you had worn his favorite dress today. it was a pink, midi length, and tighter around the top. 

you spent extra time getting dolled up for him while he was away, trying a slightly more intricate hairstyle and makeup look.

you had stood in front of the mirror longer than usual, turning slightly from side to side, smoothing your hands over the fabric of your dress. it hugged you in a way that made your cheeks warm, the soft pink making you look even sweeter than usual.

“he’ll like it,” you whispered to yourself, a small smile forming.

you had even lit a candle in the living room. something soft and warm. something that made the whole place feel welcoming. like a home.

dinner had been ready early. too early. you had checked the time once.

5:27.

your heart had done that little flutter it always did when he was about to walk through the door.

you had smoothed your hair again. adjusted your dress. paced once, then sat down, then stood back up again.

5:36.

you frowned slightly.

that was okay. he was probably just finishing up something at the shop.

you wandered into the kitchen, checking the food again even though you knew it didn’t need it. you stirred something absentmindedly, then wiped your hands on a towel.

5:52.

your excitement had dulled just a little.

you grabbed your phone, staring at it for a second before typing.

are you on your way?

you hovered over the send button for a second—then pressed it.

the message delivered. no response. you bit your lip, setting your phone down like it might burn you.

“he’s busy,” you murmured. “it’s okay.”

you tried to distract yourself. you fixed the pillows on the couch. straightened things that were already straight. adjusted the candle.

6:18.

the food was getting cold. you reheated it. this time, you kept the stove on low.

6:41.

your excitement had turned into something softer. quieter. you sat on the couch, tucking your legs under you, eyes flicking to the door every few seconds. every little sound outside made your head lift. but it was never him.

7:12.

you grabbed your phone again.

no reply. your chest tightened just slightly. not panic. not yet.

just… that familiar feeling of being forgotten creeping in at the edges.

you shook your head quickly, like you could physically push the thought away.

“he’s not like that,” you whispered.

you believed it. you had to.

8:03.

your head rested against the back of the couch, eyes growing heavier despite how badly you wanted to stay awake.

you told yourself you’d just close them for a second.

just until you heard the door. you curled slightly into the cushions, one hand still loosely holding your phone, the other resting over the fabric of your dress like you were trying to keep it neat.

the candle burned low. the house stayed quiet.

you drifted off. soft. patient. still waiting. still expecting him to come home and find you.

you had woke, wincing at the bright light of the porch shining through the windows.

who turned on the porch light? you never—

jungkook must’ve just gotten home. 

breath hitched as you practically ran to the door, swinging it open.

you had expected to find him at the door, fumbling for his keys.

you were wrong.

jungkook was sitting on the bench, smoking a cigarette. you had never see him like this. his clothes were disheveled, his hair was mussed and messy, like he had ran his hands through it too many times.

your eyes widened when you saw his hands. rougher and dirtier than normal, your eyes widened at the mixture of dirt, dried and fresh blood on his hands. his knuckles were bleeding.

“jungkook?” you called softly, your arms crossed in a futile attempt to stay warm in the cool breeze of the night.

he turned to you with tired eyes. “hey, baby. i’m sorry i’m late…” he trailed off, putting out his cigarette.

“you’re bleeding. why didn’t you wake me?” you grabbed his hands.

“i didn’t want you to worry. you always worry—“

“come inside.”

he obeyed, following you to the couch. he sat down, and you went to the kitchen to grab your first aid kit.

“it’s nothing,” he muttered.

“this is nothing?” you grabbed his hands and put them right in front of his face, showing him the injury up close. you grabbed some alcohol and a wipe, “stay still.”

“you shouldn’t be doing this,” he rasped.

you didn’t respond.

“don’t worry, about it doll, this happens at work all of the time at work.”

you started to clean the wound.

“you’re too good for this—“

“shh,” you finally replied, “stay still.”

when the wounds were clean, you wrapped them with cloth bandages. 

“how do you know how to do this?” he asked, his voice raspy from earlier use.

you swallowed, “when i was with roman…” you already felt tears welling up in your eyes. you stopped.

his eyes darkened. “you don’t have to worry about him anymore.”

your brows furrowed, “huh? how did you—“

“don’t worry about it,” he cut you off. “don’t ever worry about him again.”

you paused. an invisible weight you didn’t even realize you still carried lifted off of your shoulders, “…really?” you looked up and jungkook with wide eyes.

“i told you i’d take care of it,” he kissed your forehead, then your lips.

you kissed him back, soft and sweet, tasting the faint trace of smoke on his lips. his bandaged hands came up to cup your face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks gently. you melted against him, your arms wrapping around his neck.

"let me take care of you," you whispered against his mouth, your voice laced with a new determination.

he pulled back slightly, his eyes searching yours, dark and intense. "you already are, angel."

you shook your head, your hands gently pushing on his chest. "no. i mean... really take care of you."

you sank to your knees on the soft carpet, your eyes never leaving his as you reached for the button of his jeans.

"what are you doing?" he asked, his voice thick with confusion and desire.

"taking care of you," you repeated, your fingers deftly undoing his zipper.

you pulled his jeans and boxers down, his cock springing free, already hard and thick. you looked up at him from under your lashes, a slow, deliberate smile spreading across your face. you leaned forward, your tongue darting out to give a small kitten lick the bead of pre-cum at his tip.

he groaned, his head falling back. "fuck, angel..."

you took him into your mouth then, your lips wrapping around his length, your tongue swirling around him. you moved slowly, savoring his taste, his reactions. his hands came down to rest on your head, his fingers tangling in your hair, softly pushing himself into your throat. you let him.

he watched you as your head bobbed up and down on his cock, “shit, baby…” he rasped, grip getting tighter on your hair. you whined around him. 

he experimentally thrust into your mouth. tears ran down your cheeks. he groaned, “now you’re crying on my dick? so cute, my little crybaby.”

your vision started blurring. your mouth was a wet, hot mess, saliva coated his length and dropped down your chin. your enthusiasm much outweighed technique as you took him in as much as you could. the wet sounds of your mouth were utterly lewd, his cock gliding into your messy, eager mouth again and again. 

you looked up at him through teary, sweet eyes.

“so good for me,” he praised, “waiting for me, getting all dolled up for me. i love this dress on you, you know that?”

you paused. 

he noticed it

the pure ecstasy of recognition made you mewl around him. your eyes rolled back. 

he chuckled, “i guess you did know that.”

you pulled back slightly, strings of saliva connecting your swollen lips to his cock. you wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, looking up at him with those wide, trusting eyes that made his chest ache.

"i wanted to look pretty for you," you whispered, your voice hoarse from taking him so deep.

jungkook's expression softened, his thumb brushing gently across your cheek. "you're always pretty, angel."

you blushed, leaning into his touch before taking him into your mouth again. this time, you were more deliberate, your movements slower but no less enthusiastic. your tongue traced the veins along his length, your hand wrapping around what you couldn't fit in your mouth.

"fuck," he groaned, his hips bucking slightly. "your mouth feels so good."

you hummed around him, the vibration making him shudder. your other hand came up to cup his balls, massaging them gently as you continued to work him with your mouth. tears streamed down your face from the effort, but you didn't stop. you wanted to please him, to show him how much he meant to you.

"look at me," he commanded softly.

you obeyed, your eyes meeting his as you took him deeper. his pupils were blown wide with desire, his lips parted slightly as he watched you. the sight made your pussy clench, arousal pooling between your thighs.

"so beautiful," he murmured, his hand tightening in your hair. "my beautiful girl."

you whined around his cock, the praise going straight to your core. you could feel yourself getting wetter, your body responding to his words, his touch, his presence. you wanted him so badly it hurt.

"i'm close," he warned, his voice strained.

you didn't pull back. instead, you took him deeper, your nose brushing against his pubic bone as you swallowed around him. that was all it took.

"fuck!" he cried out, his hips jerking as he came down your throat.

you swallowed every drop, your tongue cleaning him gently before releasing him with a soft pop. you looked up at him, your face flushed, your lips swollen, your eyes shining with adoration.

jungkook pulled you up onto his lap, his lips crashing against yours in a desperate kiss. he could taste himself on your tongue, and it drove him wild. his hands roamed over your body, squeezing your ass, pulling you closer against him.

"you're incredible," he breathed against your lips.

you smiled, your fingers tracing the tattoos on his arms. "only for you."

"i need to be inside you," he murmured against your lips.

you nodded, your hands fumbling with the hem of your dress. "please."

he helped you pull it over your head, his eyes darkening as he took in your naked body. "so perfect," he whispered, his hands tracing the curves of your hips, your waist, your breasts.

you arched into his touch, your body humming with need. "jungkook, please..."

you reached down between you, positioning him at your entrance. you sank down slowly, taking him inch by inch, your head falling back as he stretched you, filled you completely. you were so wet, so ready for him, that he slid in easily.

you both groaned in unison.

"look at you," he breathed, his eyes dark with admiration. "so beautiful. taking me so well."

you started to move then, slow, deliberate circles of your hips. you set the pace, your body moving in a rhythm that was both sensual and unhurried. his hands roamed over your body, exploring every curve, every dip. his thumb found your clit, rubbing slow, tight circles that made you gasp.

"jungkook," you breathed, your hands braced on his shoulders.

"ride me, angel," he commanded, his voice low and rough. "take what you need. you're doing so good."

you obeyed, your movements becoming more confident, more demanding. you rose up on your knees before sinking back down, taking him deeper each time. the room was filled with the sounds of your moans, the slap of skin against skin, his harsh breathing.

"that's it," he groaned, his eyes dark with desire. "just like that. you're so fucking beautiful like this. made for me, weren't you?"

you leaned forward, your breasts brushing against his chest as you captured his lips in a hungry kiss. his tongue tangled with yours, the kiss deep and possessive. you could feel the tension coiling in your belly, the pleasure building to an almost unbearable peak.

"don't stop," you begged, your movements becoming more frantic. "please, don't stop."

"never," he promised, his grip on your hips tightening, guiding your movements, helping you find that perfect rhythm that would send you both over the edge. "my perfect girl. so good for me."

you came with a cry, your body shaking, your inner walls clenching around him. he followed you moments later, his hips bucking up into you as he spilled himself deep inside.

you collapsed against his chest, both of you breathing heavily, your bodies slick with sweat. you stayed like that for a long time, your limbs tangled, your hearts beating in sync.

finally, you lifted your head, your eyes meeting his. what you saw there took your breath away—desire, yes, but something deeper, something tender and protective.

"i love you," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

tears welled up in your eyes. "i love you too," you replied, your voice thick with emotion.

he kissed you then, pouring all his feelings into it. when you finally pulled apart, you helped him under the covers, your movements gentle, careful of his injuries. you curled against his side, your head on his chest.

"stay with me," he murmured, his lips pressing against your hair.

"always," you replied, your eyes already drifting closed.

for the first time in a long time, you felt truly safe, truly home. and as you drifted off to sleep in his arms, you knew that this was just the beginning of something beautiful.

author’s note: i saw that video of jungkook on that motorcycle and i think i lost my mind!!! i hope you like this self indulgent feral mess😭😭

jimin used to think of you as background noise.

a small voice echoing through the house when he came over, trailing behind your older brother, jaehyun like a shadow that talked too much and asked too many questions. you were always there—sitting cross-legged on the floor while they played video games, peeking into the kitchen when they ordered food, lingering just close enough to be included without ever actually being invited.

“why do you always lose, chim?” you asked him once, somewhere around the age of ten, tilting your head with that blunt curiosity only kids could get away with and the nickname you had been calling him since before you could pronounce words correctly.

he flicked your forehead, not even looking up from the screen. “why do you always talk?”

you gasped like he wounded you, dramatically throwing yourself back onto the carpet. he and your brother laughed.

back then, you were just… there.

a kid with scraped knees and messy hair, who stole fries off his plate and never said thank you. who insisted on sitting too close, who followed them around even when they told you to go away, who somehow always ended up exactly where they were.

and for reasons he never questioned, he always let you.

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾

by the time you were teenagers, things shifted—but not in the way people usually noticed.

you stopped following them as much.

you only went to high school at the same time for one year—he was a senior and you were a freshman. you had brief encounters in the hallways, brief hellos and shared snacks, but nothing more. you were just settling in while he was gathering his final credits for graduation and making his way into adulthood.

he noticed it in passing, the way you notice the seasons changing without really thinking about it.

in your later years of high school, you started staying in your room when he came over. you would come down to say hi briefly before returning upstairs; music playing faintly through the walls instead of your voice filling the space. when you did appear, it was quieter now—less interrupting, more observing. less chaos, more… awareness.

you grew up. that was all.

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾

except it wasn't all. he just didn't realize it yet.

the first time something felt off, it was stupid. small. the kind of moment that shouldn’t matter.

you had just turned nineteen; fresh out of high school and falling into your first semester of college.

there was a party—your brother insisted on throwing something at the house while your parents were out, because of course he did. people everywhere, music too loud, drinks passed around like it was nothing.

jimin almost didn't come. but he did, like he always did. because why would he miss his best friend's little sister's birthday party?

he hadn't seen you since your high school graduation a few months ago—summers packed with busy schedules that just happened to be the exact opposite.

and during that summer, you had grown into your features—skin glowing, boobs plump, and ass round. the summer consisted of mastering the perfect blowout and makeup routine, skin kissed by the sun and your wardrobe upgrading after picking up a job for the summer.

for a while, the party was normal. jimin stuck near jaehyun, talking to the same people, ignoring the same chaos. until—

"jimin!"

he turned at the sound of your voice, already halfway into a response before he stopped. really stopped.

it took a second for his brain to catch up to what he was looking at.

you were a few feet away before you engulfed him into a warm hug, his arms instinctively wrapping around you. the scent of your perfume and shampoo filled his head, but that wasn't all. once you pulled away, that's when he saw it all.

the soft glow of the party lights caught on you, tracing every line of the little short dress you wore like it had been made for you, hugging your figure and riding up your carved legs that were on display.

your hair bounced with every move, falling perfectly into place and around your boobs, cleavage being highlighted in the colorful lights of the party. your makeup was flawless without trying too hard—everything about you effortless and impossible to ignore in a room full of people.

but it was more than that. it was the way you looked at him. not like a kid trying to be included. not like his best friend’s little sister.

just… like a girl. no—like a woman. and somehow, that changed everything.

“you okay?” you asked, brows pulling together slightly when he didn’t respond.

he blinked, a little too slow. “yeah,” he said, voice rougher than he meant it to be. “yeah, i’m good..."

"oh- happy birthday!" he sputtered, hands scrambling to hand you his gift. a box wrapped delicately in one hand, a bouquet of flowers in the other.

you smiled widely before pulling him into another, tight hug, boobs pressing against his chest. "aw thank you, chimmy! you're too sweet." the same, big smile you always had.

but it didn’t feel the same. not even close. something settled in his chest then. quiet. heavy. unwelcome.

the kind of realization that doesn’t announce itself loudly—but once it’s there, it doesn’t leave.

before he could respond, someone had called your name.

"i’ll be back!" you giggled, giving his shoulder a squeeze before turning around.

that little dress of yours had squeezed around your newly grown ass like it was made around it. your hips swayed effortlessly as you skipped over to your friends. he looked away in embarrassment after staring too long to be deemed appropriate.

he’d like to say that was the moment he shut it down. that he drew a line, put distance between you, remembered exactly who you were and why none of this could ever happen.

he didn’t. instead, he stayed.

watched you laugh with someone else across the room. noticed the way people looked at you now. how guys looked at you. the way you moved through the space like you belonged there, like you weren't the kid trailing behind them anymore.

and for the first time—something sharp, unfamiliar, and dangerously close to jealousy twisted in jimin's chest.

he didn’t like it. didn’t understand it.

but he felt it. and worse... he didn’t want it to go away.

but later that night, with the music loud, the drinks hitting just right, and jaehyun off somewhere with a girl, you and jimin were on the dance floor, moving and laughing together like you forgot anyone else existed.

it wasn't long before you were pressed up against him, jimin’s gifted bottle of patrón taking over your mind as you shamelessly grinded against him.

the liquor was also taking over him as he let himself enjoy it, his hand steady at your hips, breath catching while your ass grazed his cock that was strained so tightly against his pants.

just as it started to blur into something more, he leaned in, murmured something low in your ear, and smoothly pulled you away, twirling you around guiding you back into something safer before either of you crossed a line you wouldn’t be able to back from.

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾

jimin learned how to live with it. at least, that’s what he told himself.

three years later, it didn’t feel like a problem anymore—it felt like something permanent. something carved into him so deeply he stopped trying to dig it out.

he adjusted, that’s all.

you were twenty-two now, and he couldn't ignore the way you'd fully grown into yourself—how your features had sharpened, softened in all the right places. how your body carried a confidence it never used to. even your laugh was louder, brighter, your personality more alive than ever, filling every room you stepped into.

he kept his distance where it mattered. never touched you longer than he should. never said anything that couldn’t be brushed off. never gave your brother a reason to look twice.

but that didn’t mean he wasn’t always there—watching you when you laughed loudly at someone else's joke, eyes lingering just a second too long when you weren't looking.

at parties, he’d find his way closer without thinking, standing just behind you, like gravity kept pulling him in. and when it got too crowded, too loud, he’d casually pat his thigh and offer you a seat like it meant nothing—like it was just easier that way. you always accepted.

on the outside, nothing changed. on the inside—everything did.

he knew things he shouldn’t. not because you told him, not always. but because he paid attention.

he knew you hated mornings but still set three alarms you never woke up to. knew you only drank coffee if it was drowned in cream and sugar. knew the exact tone your voice took when you were pretending to be okay—and the quieter one when you weren't.

he knew when you had a bad day before you even said a word. and he always noticed when someone else didn’t.

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾

the music was too loud in the club.

bass heavy, vibrating through the floor and up his spine, drowning out most conversation and turning everything into flashes—lights, bodies, movement. the kind of place where people lost track of time, of drinks, of each other.

but jimin didn’t. he knew exactly where you were.

across the dance floor, half-surrounded by your friends, laughing at something someone said. your head tipped back slightly, hair falling away from your shoulders, completely unaware of the way people looked at you.

or maybe you were aware. and maybe you just didn’t care.

a few minutes later, you drifted closer to the bar, separating from your friends just enough. that was all it took for him to move without thinking.

“water please,” he said to the bartender before you even noticed him, sliding the glass across to you as you turned.

you blinked in surprise. “oh-! thanks, chim.”

“you’ve been dancing for like an hour,” he said, like it was obvious. “drink it.”

there was something about the way he said it—not quite a command, not quite a suggestion—that made you smile. “yes, sir,” you teased, taking a sip.

his eyes flickered slightly at that. “don’t start,” he muttered, but there was no real bite to it.

you laughed softly, leaning your elbow against the bar. “you’ve been watching me all night, haven’t you?”

the question was light, your tone playful, tipsy, and teasing. but it landed heavier than you meant it to.

he didn’t answer right away. just looked at you—really looked at you—in a way that made something shift in your expression.

“someone has to,” he said finally.

“i can take care of myself chim~”

“i know,” he said. but his tone didn’t change. "doesn’t mean i’m not going to make sure you’re okay.”

for a second, neither of you spoke, the noise of the club filled the space between you, but it felt distant. muted.

you held his gaze a little longer than usual, something unreadable flickering behind your eyes.

“come outside with me,” you said suddenly.

it wasn’t really a question. your fingers wrapped around his hand, tugging him through the crowd as he obliged, following like your own personal bodyguard.

the air outside was cooler. quieter. the music dulled to a low thrum behind the walls, replaced by the hum of distant traffic and muffled laughter from people filtering in and out.

you leaned back against the brick wall, exhaling. "needed this,” you murmured.

he stepped out a second later, the door swinging shut behind him as his eyes immediately found you. of course they did.

“you okay?” he asked, like it was automatic.

you glanced at him, a small smile tugging at your lips. “you ask me that a lot.”

“yeah,” he said simply. no apology. no hesitation. just the truth.

you studied him for a moment, like you were trying to figure something out through effect of your drinks. “you don’t ask anyone else that,” you said.

his hands slipped into his pockets, shoulders relaxing just slightly—but his gaze didn’t leave you. “you’re not anyone else.”

the words came out low, steady, and too honest. something shifted again—stronger this time.

you looked away first, shaking your head lightly like you were brushing it off. “you’re intense tonight.”

a quiet huff of amusement left him. “tonight?”

you smiled at that, but it faded quicker than it should’ve. there was a pause. it stretched long enough to feel different.

he took a step closer. not all the way, but just enough. close enough that if either of you moved a bit more, it would mean something.

“you should slow down on the drinks,” he said, voice softer now. “you don’t need it.”

your breath hitched—barely there, but he caught it. “maybe i just want to have fun,” you said.

“you are having fun,” he replied. “don’t need to overdo it to prove it.”

you looked up at him then, something almost challenging in your eyes. “and you get to decide that?”

his jaw flexed. there it was; that edge. “i get to look out for you,” he said. “yeah.”

the air between you tightened. it wasn't an argument, but it wasn't quite something else either. it was closer to both.

your gaze dropped briefly—to his mouth, then back up again so fast it almost didn’t happen. almost.

but he saw it, and for a split second—he forgot himself. his hand lifted, like he was going to reach for you. like he’d done a thousand times before without thinking.

but this time, it felt different. this time, it would mean something. he stopped. just short enough that the restraint was visible. tense and heavy.

your eyes flickered to his hand, then back to his face, something unspoken passing between you.

a question. a warning, but it was coated with possibility. the door behind you swung open suddenly, voices spilling out into the night—and just like that, it broke.

he dropped his hand, stepping back. the moment snapped like it had never been there at all.

“come on,” he said, voice back to normal, controlled again. “your friends are probably looking for you.”

you nodded, but you didn’t move right away. just looked at him for one second longer than necessary. like you felt it too. then you turned, heading back inside.

jimin stayed where he was for a moment, running a hand over the back of his neck, exhaling slowly as he stared at the ground.

because that—that wasn’t nothing. and he knew it.

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾

jimin sat in you and jaehyun’s shared living room as you both awaited his arrival for a night out with friends. it shouldn't have meant anything. it usually didn't.

“you want anything?” you called from the kitchen, voice carrying easily through the apartment.

he leaned back against the couch, one arm draped along the back, eyes flicking toward the sound of you moving around. “water’s fine.”

“wow,” you said, appearing a second later with a glass in hand. “you’re so high maintenance.”

he huffed a quiet laugh, taking it from you. “i try.”

you didn’t move away right after. just hovered there for a second, like you hadn’t decided what you were doing next. then you dropped down onto the couch beside him—close, but not unusual. never unusual.

that was the problem. everything with you felt normal; even when it wasn’t.

“you’ve been busy, huh?” he asked after a moment, tone casual, eyes fixed on the tv even though he wasn’t really watching it.

“mm,” you hummed, tucking one leg under yourself. “a little.”

he nodded slowly, taking a sip of his water. “haven’t seen you much.”

“yeah, sorry,” you said easily. “i’ve just been… doing stuff.”

something about the way you said it—vague, almost distracted—made his gaze shift to you. “doing... stuff?” he repeated.

you smiled a little at that, like you knew how it sounded. “okay, fine,” you said, exhaling softly. “i was going to tell you anyway.”

there was no buildup. no hesitation. you said it like it didn't matter. "i've been seeing someone."

it shouldn’t have hit like that. because it wasn’t even unexpected. it was always going to happen eventually.

but still—something in jimin's chest tightened, sharp and immediate, like his body reacted before his mind could catch up.

he didn’t move. didn’t let it show. just nodded once, slow, controlled. “yeah?”

“yeah,” you said, leaning back into the couch like it was nothing. “it’s not, like, serious or anything.”

not serious.

that made it worse. “no?” he asked, voice even.

“not really,” you shrugged. “i mean, i don’t know. he’s… nice, i guess.”

nice.

his jaw flexed slightly. "that sounds convincing.”

you laughed softly, nudging his arm with yours. “shut up. i’m just saying—i don’t know if he’s, like, the one or anything. i just…” you trailed off, thinking for a second. “i just want to see, you know?”

see.

like it was an experiment. like it didn’t matter. like you didn’t matter.

something dark flickered in his chest. he set the glass down a little harder than he meant to, the quiet clink against the table sharper than the conversation deserved. “and he’s good to you?” he asked.

there was a beat. a small one. you hesitated—just barely. “yeah,” you said. “i mean… he’s fine.”

he let out a slow breath through his nose, gaze dropping for a second before lifting back to you. “fine?” he repeated.

you shrugged again, a little sheepish this time. “i don’t know. he’s just not really… i don’t know.”

he waited. you glanced at him, like you were deciding how much to say. “he doesn’t really do much,” you admitted. “like, we hang out, but he’s not super… i don’t know, thoughtful? i guess.”

something in him snapped tighter. “you guess,” he echoed, quieter now.

you didn’t notice. or maybe you did, and chose not to look too closely. "i mean, it’s whatever,” you said quickly. “it’s not a big deal.”

his fingers curled slightly against his knee. “right,” he said.

because what else was he supposed to say?

don’t see him. you deserve better.

you deserve—me.

the word sat there, heavy and dangerous, pressing against the back of his teeth. he swallowed it down hard.

“you don’t seem very excited,” he said instead, tone carefully neutral.

you glanced at him, tilting your head. “should i be?”

“if you like him.”

you made a face—small, almost unintentional. “i do. i just… i don’t know. it’s not like that.”

not like that.

his gaze locked onto you. “and you’re okay with that?”

you frowned slightly. “what do you mean?”

“you’re just going to settle for ‘not like that’?” he asked, voice lower now, something sharper slipping through despite himself.

you blinked, caught off guard by the edge in his tone. “i’m not settling,” you said. “i’m just… seeing where it goes.”

he let out a quiet, humorless breath, leaning back into the couch. “yeah,” he muttered. “that sounds great.”

you nudged him again, lighter this time. “why are you being weird about it, chim~?”

weird.

he almost laughed. instead, he dragged a hand over his face, forcing himself to relax, to soften, to be normal. "i’m not,” he said. “i just—”care. too much.

he exhaled, shaking his head slightly. “i just don’t want you wasting your time on someone who’s not worth it.”

your expression softened a little at that. “i’m not wasting my time,” you said gently.

his eyes flicked back to yours. “you don’t even sound like you like him that much.”

you hesitated again. and there it was; that tiny crack. “it’s not that i don’t like him,” you said. “it’s just… different.”

different.

he held your gaze for a long second. then, quieter—“yeah,” he said. “i bet it is.”

the room fell into a strange kind of silence after that. not uncomfortable, not quite. just… heavy. like something had shifted, even if you didn’t fully understand how or why.

you leaned your head back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling. “you’re being intense again, chimmy,” you murmured.

he huffed softly like a humorless laugh, looking away. “only with you.”

the words slipped out before he could stop them. they were too honest. too close.

your head turned slightly, eyes finding his face. and for a second—it felt like you were seeing something you weren't supposed to. something he’d kept buried for years.

his jaw tightened, gaze dropping before you could look too closely. “don’t overthink it,” he added, quieter now. “just… be careful, okay?”

your expression softened again, something warm flickering there as an innocent smile creeped onto your face. “i always am.”

that wasn’t what he was worried about. not even close. but he nodded anyway. because at the end of the day—it wasn’t his place. no matter how much it felt like it should be.

and that was the problem.

because as you sat there beside him, talking about someone else like it didn’t matter—he could already feel it.

the slow, steady unraveling. the way this was going to get worse. the way he was going to hate every second of it. and still, he wasn’t going anywhere.

not when it came to you.

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾

the restaurant was nice.

not too fancy, not too casual—somewhere in the middle, with dim lighting and quiet music playing in the background. the kind of place that was supposed to feel thoughtful.

but it didn’t.

“so yeah,” your boyfriend, seojun said, barely looking up from his phone, “i might go out with the guys later tonight.”

you blinked. “after this?”

“yeah, just for a bit.” he shrugged. “depends.”

depends.

you nodded slowly, fingers tracing the edge of your glass. “oh. okay.” but he didn’t notice the shift in your tone. didn’t notice much, really.

“have you decided what you’re getting?” you asked, trying again.

“not really.” another scroll. another tap. “you can pick for me if you want.”

you let out a small laugh, like it was funny. like it didn’t bother you. “okay,” you said. “i’ll just—yeah.”

your phone buzzed softly against the table, your eyes dropping to it without thinking. it was jimin. your chest eased instantly.

jimin: you alive?

you: barely this is soooo boringg

across from you, seojun finally looked up. “what?”

you shook your head quickly. “nothing.” your phone buzzed again.

jimin: bad date? want me to come get you

you: nooo it’s fine i said yes i have to commit

jimin: you don't have to do anything

your fingers hovered over the screen. that… felt different. your boyfriend reached for his drink, not even glancing at you.

you: it’s not that bad he’s just not you

you stared at the message the second it sent. your breath caught. shit. across the table, seojun laughed at something on his phone, completely unaware.

your screen lit up almost instantly, your stomach flipping.

jimin: what does that mean

you: omg ignore me i didn’t mean it like that

jimin: yeah i know you didn’t

but something about it felt… off. you frowned slightly, glancing up. your boyfriend was already halfway out of the conversation again.

and for the first time that night—you felt it.

“are you even listening?” you asked, slightly harsher now.

“mm?” he said, looking up again. “yeah, what?”

you hesitated. then shook your head. “nothing.” because suddenly, it didn't feel worth repeating.

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾

it started out normal. that was the problem.

everyone was there at the lounge—your friends, your brother, his friends—the usual mix of loud voices and overlapping conversations, drinks passed around, music playing just low enough that no one had to shout.

jimin stayed where he always did. close enough to you to keep track, far enough that no one questioned it.

you showed up twenty minutes late. with him. of course.

jimin's eyes caught it instantly—the way your boyfriend’s hand rested low on your back, casual, like it belonged there. the way you smiled as you walked in, greeting everyone like nothing had changed.

like everything was normal. his jaw tightened slightly.

“wow, she made it,” jaehyun said beside him, lifting his drink in acknowledgment.

“yeah,” he said. but his eyes didn’t leave you. not even for a second.

throughout the night, he watched. he didn’t mean to—but he always did.

the way you laughed at something your friend said, leaning into the table slightly. the way your boyfriend sat beside you, half-turned away, scrolling through his phone between conversations.

not engaged. not present at all. jimin’s fingers tightened around his glass.

at one point, you got up to grab another drink. he moved before he could think about it, timing it just right so it didn’t look intentional. it always came naturally with you.

“hey,” he said as he stepped up beside you at the bar.

you glanced over, your expression softening instantly. “hi chimmy.”

there it was. that look. the one that always hit a little too hard. the nickname that always pulled at his heart. “you having fun?” he asked.

you hesitated, just for a second. “yeah,” you said.

a lie. it was a quiet one, but he heard it anyway. his gaze flicked past you, landing briefly on your boyfriend across the room—laughing now, finally engaged, but not with you. of course not.

“doesn’t look like it,” he murmured.

your shoulders tensed slightly. “you always say that.”

“because it’s usually true.”

you huffed softly, looking away as you reached for a napkin. “you’re so annoying.”

"and you’re avoiding the question.”

you glanced back at him, something flickering in your eyes—defensive, but not quite. “i’m fine,” you said.

fine. again.

his jaw flexed. “yeah,” he said quietly. “i know.”

“babe, you coming?” the words cut through the space between you. sharp. immediate.

your entire body went still. seojun was looking at you now, finally. one arm draped lazily over the back of his chair. waiting. expecting. like you would just fall back into place.

you glanced between you and jimin. then back at your boyfriend. something unspoken passed through your expression—something almost apologetic. "i'll be back," you said quietly.

he didn't respond. didn't trust himself. just nodded once, stepping aside to let you pass.

but his eyes followed you the entire way back. watched as you sat down. watched as your boyfriend barely looked at you before going back to whatever he was saying.

watched as you smiled anyway. like it was enough.

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾

it wasn’t one big fight. that would’ve been easier. it was smaller than that. worse, somehow.

“you’re overreacting.”

“i’m not—”

“you always do this.”

the words blurred together after a while. same argument, different night. same tone, same outcome. seojun pulling away, you trying to explain something you couldn’t quite put into words anymore.

“i just wanted you to show up,” you said, quieter now. “that’s it.”

“i told you something came up," he snapped.

“you always have something come up.”

he sighed like you were exhausting him. “why are you making this such a big deal?”

that was the moment something in you went still. because it was a big deal. at least, it felt like one. but the way he said it made you question it. made her question yourself.

“i’m not,” you said finally. but your voice didn’t sound convincing. not even to you.

you left his place ten minutes later. no real resolution. no apology. no anything. just a quiet, “i’ll text you,” and the door closing behind you.

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾

your phone buzzed halfway down the street.

jimin: you home?

your chest tightened. of course. of course it was him. you stared at the message for a second longer than you should’ve.

you: no can i come over?

The response was immediate.

jimin: yeah door’s open

no questions. no hesitation. just… there.

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾

jimin was sitting on the couch when you walked in. like he’d been waiting.

your eyes flicked to him, and for a second—just a second—you felt something shift in your chest. something familiar. something steady. something easy. “hey,” you said softly, closing the door behind you.

his gaze moved over yours quickly, taking everything in—the tension in your shoulders, the way your expression didn’t quite settle, the exhaustion you didn’t try to hide this time.

“what happened?” he asked. no small talk or pretending. just that, direct and straightforward.

your throat tightened slightly. “nothing,” you said automatically.

his jaw flexed. “don’t do that.” the words were quiet. but firm.

you exhaled, dropping your bag by the door before walking further into the apartment. “it’s just… the same stuff,” you admitted. “we argued. again.”

he leaned back slightly, eyes still on you. “about?”

you let out a small, humorless laugh. “everything. nothing. i don’t even know anymore.”

silence stretched for a second. “he didn’t show up again, did he?”

your gaze snapped to his. “how do you—”

“you always come here when he doesn’t,” he said simply.

that hit harder than it should’ve. because it was true.

you swallowed, looking away. “it’s not like that.”

“then what’s it like?”

your chest tightened. “i don’t know,” you said, quieter now. “i just… needed to get out.”

his eyes didn’t leave you. “yeah,” he murmured. “i know.”

you moved to sit on the couch beside him. closer than usual. closer than you should’ve. but neither of you said anything about it. you never did.

for a while, it was quiet. comfortable. nothing but the low hum of his tv in the background, the colorful glow hitting you in all the right places. the kind of silence that didn’t ask anything from you.

didn’t make you feel like you had to explain yourself. and that—that was the problem. because you didn’t have that anywhere else.

“he says i expect too much,” you said suddenly.

his head turned slightly. “you don’t.”

“you didn’t even let me finish.”

“don’t need to.”

your lips pressed together, something emotional flickering behind your eyes. “you’re biased, chim.”

“yeah,” he said without hesitation. "because i know you.”

your breath caught, the words settling somewhere deep. too deep.

“he’s not… bad,” you said, like you were trying to convince both of you. “he just—he doesn’t think about things the way i do.”

“he doesn’t think about you,” he corrected.

your chest tightened again. “that’s not fair.”

“no,” he said quietly. “what’s not fair is you acting like that’s enough.”

the air shifted. heavy. your gaze dropped to your hands. “i’m not saying it is.”

“then why are you still with him?”

the question hung there. simple, yet impossible. you didn't answer. because you didn't have one.

his hand moved before he could stop it, resting lightly against your wrist. not pulling or forcing. just… there. like it grounded both of you.

your breath caught softly at the contact. neither of you moved.

“you don’t have to stay somewhere you’re not getting what you need,” he said, voice lower now. “you know that, right?”

your eyes lifted slowly to his. and for the first time—you didn’t pull away. didn't brush it off or make you joke like you normally would.

“what if i don’t know what i need?” you whispered.

that almost broke him. because he did. he knew exactly what you needed. but he couldn’t say that.

his thumb shifted slightly against your wrist. barely there. but enough. “you do,” he said quietly. “you’re just ignoring it.”

your heart started beating a little faster. “am i?” you asked.

his gaze dropped—just for a second. to your lips. then back up. you noticed. “you come here every time something goes wrong,” he said, softer now. “you tell me everything. you let me—”

he stopped himself. but it was too late.

“let you what?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

his jaw tightened. because the answer wasn’t safe. wasn’t something he could take back once it was out.

but you were looking at him like that. too close. too open. too vulnerable.

“take care of you,” he said finally. the words landed heavy between you, making your breath hitch. “and you think he does that?” he added lowly.

you didn’t answer. because you didn’t need to. silence stretched, but it wasn’t empty. it was full of everything you both hadn’t said, everything you weren’t supposed to feel.

"i... i shouldn't be here," you whispered. it wasn't about his place. he knew that.

his gaze didn't waver. "then why are you?"

your lips parted. but once again, no answer left them.

his hand tightened slightly around your wrist—not enough to hurt, just but enough to stop you from pulling away if you tried. something sick and twisted knotted in your stomach, heat shamefully pooling in between your legs.

you didn't pull away.

"this isn't fair," you said softly.

"no," he agreed. "it's not." but he didn't let go of you, low eyes boring into yours.

“you deserve better,” he said finally. "you let him treat you like you're optional—and you're not. you never will be."

but this time—it didn’t sound like advice. it sounded like a promise. the way he said it, the way he looked at you made your chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with guilt.

your eyes were locked onto each others, everything else fading. the room, the noise, even the weight of what you were doing.

for a split second, you imagined it. what it would be like if this wasn’t wrong. if you didn’t have to pull away. if you could just stay here, with him, without guilt or hesitation. it was a glimpse of something softer, steadier… something that felt dangerously close to real.

suddenly, your phone began to vibrate against your pocket. you flinched this time, like it snapped you out of something you hadn’t meant to fall into.

he didn’t move. didn’t step back. but his hand stilled against your wrist as you glanced down at the screen, close to fully letting go.

your brother. of course.

you swallowed, pulling back just enough to answer it as the warmth of his hand quickly left you. "hey—"

"where are you?" jaehyun’s voice came through rough, impatient.

"i'm just—out," you said quickly, already knowing how weak it sounded.

"with seojun again?"

your eyes flicked to jimin. he was watching you. too closely. "yeah," you lied, swallowing too hard.

"don't stay there tonight," your brother said. "i can't feed your cat all the fuckin' time." the line ended.

“i should go,” you said, though you didn’t move right away.

he nodded once. but his eyes didn’t leave you. they didn’t soften or let you off easy. then finally, you got up, stepping back. slow and reluctant, like you were pulling yourself from something you hadn't quite processed yet.

"i'll see you..." you said.

his jaw tightened ever so slightly. "yeah," he said.

you turned toward the door, pausing for a second. like you everything in you wanted to look back him. but you didn't.

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾

you tried. that was the worst part. you actually tried.

“are you even listening to me?” seojun's voice pulled you back, sharp with irritation.

you blinked, realizing you'd been staring at nothing for the past few seconds. “yeah—sorry. what did you say?”

he exhaled, annoyed, leaning back in his chair. “i said i might not be free this weekend.” of course.

you nodded slowly. “okay.”

no argument this time or pushing. no asking him to try. that should’ve made things better, but it didn’t.

you were sitting too far apart. that was the first thing you noticed. not physically—you were on the same couch—but it felt like there was space between you. too much of it.

like something had already pulled away.

“you’ve been quiet,” he said after a moment, glancing at her.

“just tired,” you replied.

that part wasn’t a lie. just not the whole truth. because every time the room went quiet—your mind didn’t stay there.

it drifted. back to jimin.

the way he looked at you three nights ago. the way he said you let me take care of you. the way his hand felt against you. the way he almost—

your breath caught slightly, shifting where you sat.

“come here,” your boyfriend said suddenly, reaching for you.

you hesitated. just for a second. then you moved closer, letting him pull you in. it felt wrong. uncomfortable and just...empty. like you were there physically—but nothing else followed.

seojun's hand rested on your waist casually. you used to like it, but now, it didn't feel like anything. “you good?” he asked.

you nodded quickly. “yeah.” but your voice didn’t match.

because all you could think about was how different it felt. how when he touched you, even barely—it wasn’t like this.

your boyfriend said something else, but you didn’t hear it. didn’t even try to. "you're doing it again," he muttered.

“doing what?”

“checking out.”

your chest tightened slightly. “i’m not—”

“you are,” he cut in. “you’ve been weird all night.”

weird. you almost laughed. because for the first time—you felt like you were exactly where you weren't supposed to be.

"i think i'm just tired," you said, softer now.

he pulled away slightly, clearly annoyed now. “then why’d you even come over?” that question landed harder than it should’ve. because you didn’t have a good answer. not anymore.

you stood up before you could overthink it. “i should go.”

he frowned. “seriously?”

“yeah,” you said, grabbing your bag. “i just—yeah.”

he didn’t stop you. didn’t ask you to stay. he didn’t even try. and for some reason, that hurt less than it should’ve. because as you walked out—there was only one thing on your mind.

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾

you didn't text first. you just showed up, two knocks at jimin's door before it opened immediately. like he knew it was you. like he'd been waiting.

for a second, neither of you spoke. just stood there, looking at each other. with everything from the last time—the tension, the way it ended—came rushing back all at once.

“you went back to him.” it wasn’t a question.

your chest tightened slightly. “yeah.”

his jaw flexed. “and?"

you shook your head slowly. “it felt wrong.” the words came out quieter than you expected. but they landed exactly where they needed to.

something in his expression shifted. not surprise. something darker. something that had been waiting.

“yeah,” he said. like he already knew. silence stretched, but it wasn't empty. it was full to the brim with weight and tension.

“i couldn’t stop thinking about—” you started, then cut yourself off.

his eyes locked onto yours. “say it.”

your breath caught. “i couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

there it was. the truth. out loud and no taking it back. he moved first, faster this time. like all the hesitation in him was hanging onto a thread.

there was barely any space left between you. his hand found your waist, pulling you closer like he'd been holding back from that from doing that exactly for too long.

your breath caught sharply, hands instinctively finding his shirt, gripping lightly. "jimin..." you protested ever so weakly.

“tell me to stop,” he said again—but this time it didn’t sound like he would. not really.

and you didn't. you didn't even try. and that was all jimin needed.

before you could think, he leaned in—closing all the space left and kissed you.

it wasn't soft or careful like most first kisses. it was everything he hadn’t let himself do for years—frustration, restraint, want—all crashing into one moment, capturing your lips roughly between his.

your breath hitched against him, but you didn’t pull away. you leaned into it more than you would admit. and you kissed him back, lips moving against his in unison like you'd been waiting too.

his grip tightened slightly, holding you there like he wasn’t about to let you disappear again, like he wasn’t about to let you walk out and go back to something that wasn’t him. his other hand found your jaw, tilting it upward to deepen the kiss like he'd done that a hundred times.

and for the first time—you didn’t feel unsure. didn’t feel distant or felt like something was missing.

because whatever this was, felt like everything. and neither of you stopped, lips molding together in sync.

after what felt like an eternity, the kiss finally broke, but the space between you didn't.

your breath was uneven, chest rising and falling like you'd forgotten how to steady it. his hand was still on your waist, fingers curled slightly like he hadn’t decided whether to let go of you yet.

he didn’t.

your lips parted slightly, like you were about to say something—but nothing came out. because what were you supposed to say?

this shouldn’t have happened? i didn’t mean to? this was a mistake? because none of that felt true.

his forehead hovered just barely near yours, close enough that you could still feel him—still feel the weight of what just happened lingering between you.

“you should go.” the words came out low. rough. but his hand didn’t move, not matching the words at all.

your chest tightened. "do you want me to?" but you didn't mean to ask that. it just slipped out.

his jaw flexed. because the answer wasn’t safe. it wasn’t something he should say. but he’d already crossed the line. you both had.

"no," he said quietly, and you didn't miss the way his hand twitched against you, like his restraint was faltering.

your breath caught again. and for a second, it looked like you might close the distance again.

like you might forget everything else and just—

but instead, you stepped back. barely. but enough that his warmth left you. enough to feel it and remind the both of you what was happening.

"this is wrong," you whispered. but there was no conviction behind it. no urgency. just… acknowledgment.

"yeah," he said. but he didn't look the least bit concerned.

silence stretched, longer this time. he finally let his hand drop from your waist. slow, reluctant, like it cost him something. and you felt it immediately. the absence. it shouldn't have, but it hit you like a truck.

“i shouldn’t have come here,” you murmured. but even even as you said it—you didn’t sound like you meant it.

“you were going to,” he said. not a question, just undeniable truth.

your eyes flicked back to his, because he was right. "you didn't stop me," you said.

his gaze didn’t waver. “you didn’t want me to.”

your breath caught, because that was true too. "this is going to get messy." you meant it as a warning, but realization was just catching up to you.

'it already is."

you let out a quiet breath, shaking your head slightly like you were trying to clear it—but it didn’t work. nothing about this felt clear.

it felt heavy. complicated. wrong. but still— completely, disgustingly right. because when you looked at him, there was nothing distant about it. nothing empty or uncertain like you were used to.

“i’m not going to pretend it didn’t mean anything," he said. his voice was low and controlled, but there was something else in it now. something more raw.

your chest tightened. because neither were you. "it shouldn't have meant anything," you said. but even you didn't believe your own words.

his eyes dropped to your lips again, slower this time. more deliberate. "but it did."

your heart was racing even faster now as thick silence filled the room. because this wasn't tension anymore. it wasn't another almost moment with him like you always had. this was something real. something you both couldn't undo.

"i need to go," you said finally. and this time, you meant it.

jimin nodded once. he didn't stop you or try to pull you back in. but his eyes stayed on you the entire time, watching. holding. not letting you off easy. and just as you reached the door—

“don’t go back to him like this didn’t happen.”

the words stopped you cold. your hand froze on the handle, chest tightening. because you knew exactly what he meant.

slowly, you turned around, meeting his intense gaze. "i don't think i can," you squeaked, quietly honest. but too, terrifyingly real.

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾

you didn’t sleep. every time you closed your eyes—you felt it again.

his hand on your waist. his voice, low, tell me to stop. the way he didn’t. the way you didn’t. his plush lips moving against yours like he starved for that moment.

your phone buzzed. you reached for it immediately.

jimin: you awake

your heart skipped. it was 3 am, hours after you left his place.

you: yeah

a second or two passed.

jimin: you left too fast

you: i had to

jimin: didn't feel like you wanted to

your chest tightened, heart beat quickening too fast for the early morning. because he was absolutely right.

you: i didn't

another pause as you stared intensely at your glowing screen in the darkness of your room.

jimin: don't go back to him

your stomach flipped.

you: i have to talk to him

jimin: that’s not what i said

your breath caught. his tone, even through a screen—felt the same. certain and possessive in a way that made your pulse pick up.

jimin: you're not his anymore

your heart practically jumped out of your chest.

you: you can’t say that

jimin: i just did. come over after

you: i don’t know if i should

the response came instantly this time.

jimin: you will

your breath caught once more, chills tingling your body. because you already knew he was right.

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾

seojun knew something was off the moment you walked into his place. "you okay?" he asked, glancing up from his phone.

you nodded too fast. "yeah," you lied. but this time you hardly tried to make it sound convincing.

you stayed standing, hovering instead of sitting and getting comfortable. you didn't pretend like you normally would. "i think we should talk.”

that got his attention. he frowned slightly, setting his phone down. “about what?”

your chest tightened. but you didn’t hesitate this time. because you couldn’t. not anymore. "this isn't working."

the word landed between you two, flat and final.

he blinked. "what?"

you swallowed. “us. this—whatever this is. it’s not working.”

a pause. then a scoff. “are you serious right now?”

“yes.”

he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “this is because of last night, isn’t it? you’re still mad?”

“no,” your voice was quieter now, but stronger. “it’s not just last night.”

“then what?” he pressed. "because this feels like it came out of nowhere.” and god, that infuriated you. because it didn’t. not at all.

"you don't show up for me," you started, every last bit of hesitation in you crumbling.

“you cancel. you don’t listen. you barely even—” you stopped, shaking your head. “i feel like i’m not even there half the time.”

his eyebrows pulled together. "that's not true."

"it is."

"you're exaggerating." there it was again. that same tone, the same dismissal as always.

and finally, you felt it clearly. the difference. "no, i'm not."

he ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “so what, you’re just going to end it? just like that?”

suddenly, your phone buzzed in your hand. you didn’t mean to look, but you did anyways.

jimin: you there yet

your breath caught without you even realizing.

"you're not even listening to me," seojun snapped.

your gaze lifted slowly. "i am." but your voice didn't match—weak like he had just pulled you out of some magical trance.

"then why does it feel like you're already checked out?" he asked.

"because i think i am," you admitted quietly. the words hurt him in a way that you noticed.

"wow," he muttered, leaning back. "so that's it? you're just done?"

another buzz from your phone, your fingers tightening around it as you read the message.

jimin: don't let him talk you out of it

your heart started racing as you looked back at your boyfriend. really looked. and it finally felt clear. it finally wasn't confusing or complicated, it was just completely over.

"i'm so done," you said. it was soft, but final.

seojun let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “you’re seriously throwing this away?”

throwing it away. like it was something worth keeping.

you shook your head. "no," you said. "i've been holding onto something that wasn't really there."

he stared at you for a second longer, like he was trying to figure out when he lost you. he didn’t realize he already had.

“fine,” he said finally. “if that’s what you want.” it wasn’t anger. not fully, at least. just a bruised ego.

and just like that, it was over. you turned toward the door, and this time, he didn't stop you. your phone buzzed again as soon as you stepped outside. you didn't even have to look, you already knew.

jimin: it's done isn't it

you: yeah

your breath hitched as soon as the typing bubble appeared.

jimin: come here

and without hesitation or second guessing, you were already on your way.

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾

the door barely closed behind you before jimin was already there. too close, the heat of his body warming you up from the cold night air. like he’d been waiting for this exact moment for an anticipated amount of time.

"you came," he said. it wasn't a question.

your breath was still uneven from the walk and from everything that had just happened, to him.

“yeah,” you said softly.

“i told you that you would."

your heart was still racing as you set your bag down, but you didn’t move any further into the apartment. didn't create space between you and him.

"it's done," you said, like you needed to say it out loud. like it would make all of this real.

his gaze didn't leave yours. "i know," he said. a small pause. "because you're here."

your breath caught as silence settled between you. but it wasn't at all quiet. instead it was incredibly thick, charged with something that was already building—faster this time. stronger.

"this is… a lot,” you admitted, your voice softer now. “everything just—happened.”

“and you still came here."

that made your gaze avert over to him immediately, taking in his features and the way he looked at you. something in your chest tightened. because you knew what that meant.

"i don't think i was going anywhere else," you said.

that did something to him. you saw it in the way his jaw tightened, the way his shoulders squared slightly like something in him had locked into place. "good," he said quietly.

you let out a small breath in an attempt to steady yourself. "we should probably... slow down."

the words sounded right, responsible, and safe. but jimin didn't agree. didn't argue either. instead, he just watched you for a few seconds too long.

"you don't actually want that," he said.

your brows pulled together slightly. "you don't know that."

"i do," he replied casually. “you don’t actually want that.”

“you say that,” you started, “but this is all really fast and i just—”

your words cut off sharply, because suddenly he moved, closing the space between you in one step. his hand found your wrist once again—it wasn't rough or forceful, but it was enough to stop your pacing and put an end to your thinking.

“stop talking yourself out of it,” he said, voice lower now.

your breath caught, heart pounding so hard it echoed in your head. “i’m not—”

“you are," he said softly, his thumb brushing lightly against your wrist. grounding, yet claiming.

“you felt it,” he continued. “you know what this is.”

your chest rose and fell faster now. "i don’t know what it is,” you whispered.

“that’s not true," he said lowly in your ear.

he guided you back a step. then another. and another, until the back of your knees hit the couch and you sat without even realizing it.

and he followed, sitting closely next to you. too close. your heart was racing now. it wasn't from fear. it was entirely him. and the threateningly perfect idea of being his that made your heart ache.

"this isn't wrong," he said, quieter now.

you shook your head slightly. “it feels like it should be.”

“it doesn’t.”

“it does.”

“but you’re still here.”

that again. that truth you couldn’t argue with. before you could respond, both his hands snaked their way around your waist, firm and certain. and then suddenly, you were being pulled into his lap.

your breath caught sharply, hands instinctively landing on his broad shoulders to steady yourself. “jimin—”

his name came out softer than you meant it to. less like a warning and much more like something else.

“you keep acting like you don’t want this,” he murmured, his voice right there, close enough to feel. “but you do.”

your pulse was racing. “i didn’t say i don’t—”

“exactly.”

your fingers tightened slightly against his shirt. because being this close—his cologne and warmth making your head spin—feeling him like this, hearing the words he uttered with such confidence and possession,

made it impossible for you to think straight.

“this is going to get complicated,” you muttered, but it sounded weaker now. less certain.

"it already is," he said. he didn't care.

“i really don’t want to mess this up, chim” you admitted, a sad pout forming at your lips, eyes suddenly glossy. but it was something honest. something incredibly real and directly from your heart.

and god, did that make jimin's stomach flip. he couldn't stand to see anything that wasn't a smile on your face. he absolutely hated it. and tears? he couldn't bare to let it happen.

his gaze softened. “you won’t," he said firmly.

“how do you know?” you sniffed.

“because i’m not letting you.” the words landed heavy.

your breath caught again. “but, you can’t just decide that—"

“i already did.”

his hand shifted slightly at your waist, grounding you there, keeping you close to him and nothing but him.

“i’ve wanted you for too long to pretend this isn’t happening,” he said, quieter now. “i’m not going to step back and watch you go to someone else again.”

your heart skipped, your brain going quiet for a second. "jimin..."

"tell me you don't want this," he said. he gave you the chance again. he gave you the chance to run away back to your apartment with your brother, to his best friend, and forget this ever happened.

but you didn't take it.

and for him, that was it. his burning gaze dropped to your lips, slow and intentional. like he needed to take his time, soaking up your presence and every last one of your features in front of him.

your breath hitched as your grip tightened on him slightly. "we said we would slow down," you whispered. but you didn't move.

and then, his lips met yours once again. but this time, you didn't pause. this time, the shock and hesitation didn't exist. just the same intensity, but stronger now, deeper, like everything you two held back before was completely gone for good.

your hands didn't hesitate either. they clung onto him like you had already chosen your present and future with him, snaking up his chest and around his neck, fingers curled lightly into his hair.

he kissed you like no one else had ever kissed you before, with the utmost passion and devotion—like he had spent years dreaming about doing it every day. because he had.

you responded, lips moving against his with desire. no pause to think, no space to breathe—just the same pull as before, stronger now, like something that had been building for years finally had somewhere to go.

his hands stayed firm at your waist, keeping you close against him, like he didn’t trust you to stay if he let go. like he didn’t trust himself enough to just let you.

“you feel that?” he murmured against you, voice low, rough in a way you haven't heard before. “that's not nothing.”

your fingers tightened in his shirt, making him weak in the head. “i know,” you whispered. because you felt it all.

“i tried to stay away from you,” he admitted, quieter now, his forehead pressing lightly against yours for half a second before he pulled you back in. “you make that impossible.”

your heart was racing too fast now. so loudly that it felt as if it was echoing throughout your entire body.

“you keep coming back to me,” he said. “don’t act like you don’t know why.”

you swore you could feel your throat swell up at that. but you didn't answer.

one hand slid slightly down your side, grounding and steady; like he needed to make sure that you were really there. the other found it's way along your jaw, tilting it upwards to match his eye level.

"you're not his anymore."

the words sent something sharp through your chest. and this time it wasn't guilt.

your hands found his face for a second, pulling him back toward you, like you didn’t want the space, didn’t want the thinking, didn’t want anything to interrupt this again.

“i’ve wanted this for too long,” he said against you quietly. but his tone was coated with nothing but pain and desire.

and that did it. whatever restraint left was entirely gone as you kissed him this time. he all but melted against you, his grip tightening on you as he captured your lips hungrily in between his.

you barely pulled apart, the room filled with nothing but light breaths, small, muffled moans, and the sound of your lips moving together.

when you finally separated for the quickest breath, jimin's eyes swirled with pure darkness. "you have no idea what you do to me," he muttered against your lips before engulfing them into his once more.

it wasn't long before he swiped his tongue greedily against your lips, cheekily asking for entrance. you obliged, humming into him as he shamelessly explored your mouth with a smile.

his hands traveled father down your body, past your hips and slowly up and down your your ass, grasping it like he already owned it. you moaned desperately, tilting your head back with a string of saliva pulling from both of your lips, an unbearable heat pooling between your legs.

he saw it as an opportunity to litter your neck with kisses; starting gently at your jaw before going further down your neck—becoming more sloppy, open-mouthed, and claiming. his hands made it further past your ass, fingers tracing needily against your thighs.

“do you know how hard it’s been to stay away from you?” he murmured against your collarbone, now sucking and biting at the skin as you melted beneath him.

you could only moan in response, but that didn't stop him. "he never deserved you," he grumbled, voice low and rough with something close to anger. "i knew that the moment i met him."

before you could respond, his captured you into another kiss, growling against your lips as your fingernails dug into his neck. soon, his slender fingers slid underneath your ass before he stood up, gripping you tightly as you quickly wrapped your legs around him.

your tongues moved together while your hands tangled themselves into his hair. his grip on you was tight, firm, like holding you was his entire life's purpose.

the kiss broke apart as he placed you down on his bed gently, your body quickly being cushioned by plush comforters and pillows. before he joined you on the bed, his eyes burned into your figure—like he had to make sure that this moment was real. that the girl that never left his mind once for years, was really on his bed, in front of him.

he blinked in disbelief before desire rapidly took over his eyes, climbing on top of you and capturing your lips between his hungrily. "are you sure you want this?" jimin asked gently, voice low and quiet against your lips.

"yes," you nodded breathlessly. "i want this, chim."

his heart clenched at the nickname, almost making his head dizzy and his restraint falter. god, he just wanted to ruin you. he wanted to show you how you really deserve to be treated. he wanted to show you that he was the only right man for you. the only man that could spoil you rotten with gifts and attention—the only man that could ever treat you right and fuck you right.

he sucked in a sharp breath, his rough hands finding your chin and tilting it up to meet his consuming gaze. "you have no idea what it did to me... watching you be with someone else." he seethed, making his way to your neck and sucking the skin gently between his lips.

you shivered under his touch but you didn't ignore the way the words made your heart ache. "chim..." you whispered.

"you're mine now," he growled against your skin, littering it with wet, open-mouthed kisses. "no turning back from this. no running back to that fucker who didn't know your worth."

"no," you shook your head, unable to ignore the unbearable heat pooling between your legs. "i only want you, jimin.”

his breath became shaky against you, like the words that had just left your mouth struck something deep in him. he captured your lips between his, sucking your bottom lip into his mouth.

you tugged at his shirt with greed and he complied immediately, tugging it off with rough hands and throwing it somewhere to be forgotten.

you quickly traced your manicured nails along his curated abs like you'd done it plenty of times before, and jimin shivered under your touch like you had grazed his soul.

it didn't take long before his hands snaked their way around your top, slender fingers dipping into the hem. your hand met his, guiding it upwards until he eventually ripped your top off.

jimin shuddered at the sight of you half-naked beneath him, your doe-eyes peering up at him with desire, waiting for him, yearning for his next move. it almost made him dizzy. “so perfect, baby.”

he littered your cleavage with kisses before circling a tongue around one nipple as you cried out in pleasure. his free hand trailed down your body, finding its way between your thighs and lightly trailing against your clothed clit.

he sucked your nipple between his lips slowly before gently biting at the skin on your boob, leaving small kisses and licks after you whimpered against him.

his lips quickly found their way to your other tit, engulfing it softly into his mouth before you realized his hand was slowly pulling down your shorts and making his way through your panties.

you reacted quickly, his mouth still attached to your breasts as you shoved your shorts further down your legs. jimin pulled back, a pop! sound filling the air as your nipple hardened from the immediate cold.

he assisted you in fully taking your shorts off, discarding them somewhere in the room before fully taking in your figure.

his thick cock only strained harder against his jeans as he took in the sight of you. the sight of you that he had been dreaming of for years, fisting his dick every night to the thought of you and only you. when he hooked up with girls, which was rare—he would only do it to imagine it was you. and now, the moment was finally hitting him.

"fuck," he grunted before enveloping his plush lips with yours slowly, taking them in and swiping his tongue inside your mouth.

his fingers traced your core, still barely protected by your lace thong that you carefully chose before going out tonight. "wore these for me baby?" he murmured against your lips.

you nodded eagerly and he smirked against your lips before hooking your panties to the side and teasingly tracing his fingers down your wet folds. "they're pretty baby," he said. "almost as pretty as you."

you practically keened beneath him, legs quivering with need. he teased you a for half a second longer before inserting one, long finger inside of you. you felt your wetness gush out of you and around his finger as you moaned in pure bliss.

he plunged inside of you, his thumb slowly rubbing your clit as he added another finger.

"taking me so good baby," he murmured against your ear before placing a light kiss at your neck. "need to get you ready for my cock, hm?"

suddenly, the warmth of his body left you as he lowered himself down your thighs, adjusting your leg to sit on top of his shoulder with one hand, the other one still thrusting into you. you quickly responded, lifting your other leg on his shoulder as you whimpered in a mix of need and pleasure.

it wasn't long before his head was dipped between your legs, his lips kissing your folds while his fingers worked inside of you slow, but deep. your thighs were practically twitching against him, core dripping against his lips with anticipation.

you could feel him smile against your pussy in satisfaction as he begins to finally intrude his tongue between your folds. he licked a rudely long stripe up your pussy before he started to fully lap against you, taking in every last bit of your arousal.

"jimin-!" you moaned out, your fingers intertwining with his hair needily.

his lips wrapped around your folds as he plunged his tongue into your hole, exploring your velvety insides greedily as he growled against you. your back arched off of his bed in absolute pleasure, bliss filling your entire body—heat coiling in your stomach as he worked at you like a man starved.

soon enough, your orgasm tore through you, covering jimin in your slick. he lapped at it hungrily, his fingers slowing inside of you and guiding you to release. once you finished, he pulled away, licking your slick off of his fingers.

"such a good girl for me," he grunted before engulfing you into a kiss filled with desire, tasting yourself on his lips. you pulled back, a string of saliva caught between your lips as you looked down at his strained member.

his eyes followed your vision but before he could process it, your hands were fumbling with his belt. when he realized it, it only made him harder. a smile tugged at his lips he helped you take it off, his fingers pulling apart the button and swiftly coming off of the bed.

his member was clung tight against his boxers as his jeans pooled around his ankles, fully revealing his sculpted body to you.

you eyes trailed down him, making your way to the end of the bed on your knees. he stopped completely—his dark, low eyes following your every move as you approached him.

you pushed yourself up on your knees to meet his height, hands sneaking behind his neck, nails lightly digging in his skin as they made their way slightly down his back.

he nearly shivered as you trailed your hands down his built shoulders, shifting down his abs until your fingers found their way around the hem of his boxers. you peered up at him, his burning gaze immediately making you shudder.

you pulled down his boxers and his cock immediately sprung out in front of you—long, thick, and leaking with precum. your mouth nearly watered at the sight, but your mouth became agape.

because seojun was nowhere near as big as this.

"yeah, like what you see, baby?" he said with a smirk, lightly stroking his cock in front of your face. "it's all yours, pretty girl."

"wanna feel it all," you whispered weakly, eyes not leaving his.

"fuck," he groaned, his voice low. "yeah, wanna take me raw baby? wanna feel all of me, hm?"

you nodded desperately and jimin's hands found your shoulders and gently pushed you back onto his bed. you landed between his plush pillows before his figure blocked your view, his eyes scanning you with hunger.

he lowered himself above you, one hand planted beside your head while the other guided his cock to your sopping wet entrance, sliding it up and down your folds teasingly.

"chim-!" you whined out, pout tugging at your lips.

he kissed that pout away all before entering you slowly, your folds engulfing his hot, angry, cock and painfully adjusting around his length. you cried out in a mix of pleasure and ache. it was a kind of stretch you had never experienced before.

"shh, baby," he cooed gently. "it's okay. you're taking me so good."

after a few minutes of stillness, he pushed further inside of you slowly. your walls expanded around him as his tip soon hit the back, bulge deep in your stomach. he began to pick up his pace, almost fully pulling out before plunging back inside of you, thrusting at a steady pace.

you moaned out in pleasure, nothing but you and him and the sound of your pussy squelching from his cock existing in your brain.

"fuck," he moaned loudly. "this pussy was fuckin' made for me."

you moaned in response, clenching tighter around him as his tip started to hit your g-spot relentlessly, his thumb circling your clit. your eyes rolled to the back of you head as you took his every thrust, brain feeling absolutely fucked numb.

jimin felt like his entire body was lit on fire from being inside of you, legs wrapped around his shoulders and in the air as he explored every inch of your insides greedily with his thick, curved member. his pace was nearly impossible, hitting your pussy at an obliterating angle you didn't even know existed.

"chimmy..." you whined. "it's too much."

"no baby," he protested breathlessly against you. "look at you, taking me so fuckin' good 'cause you were made for me. weren't you baby? gonna take my cum tonight."

you simply nodded, whining in response but he wasn't having it. he needed to hear you. his free hand found your ass cheek, gently caressing it before placing a light smack!

"use your words, baby," he growled.

"yes-!" you moaned almost miserably as hot pleasure coiled tightly in your core. "i was made for you, chim- all yours-!"

"fuck," he growled darkly, his thrusts becoming sloppier but harder, fingers focused on your clit. "yeah, you're mine baby. been watching you walking away from me for years. 'm not letting that happen again."

you felt your back arching off the mattress once again, moaning loudly at his words and the way he bruised your walls.

"my pretty girl," he cooed as he felt your insides clench tighter around him. "i don't share you. you understand me?"

"yes- god, jimin- i'm all yours-!" you cried out, fingers digging into his shoulders as his pace quickened, taking you both to your orgasms.

suddenly, the heat that built up in your stomach tore right through you like a riptide, jimin fucking you through both of your releases while spilling his hot seed inside of you, plastering your walls with white. you shivered beneath him as he rode through the high, his thrusts becoming slower.

your pussy throbbed shamelessly around his thick cock as he came to a stop, burying it deeper so he could milk every last drop of his cum inside of you before pulling out.

you were simply too stunned to speak, still struggling to catch your breath as jimin placed soft kisses along your face. "you okay, baby?" he whispered gently before placing a peck in your hair.

"yes," you replied, eyes big and wide as you took in every last inch of him in front of you. "more than okay, chim."

his gaze softened immediately, moving beside you and immediately wrapping his arms around you—closing the distance between you as you melted against his chest. he breathed in your scent, the shampoo and perfume filling his nostrils and your warmth against him making his heart pump faster than he could ever admit.

and despite the butterflies that sent flying through your body, it felt completely natural in a way you both couldn't ignore. like you both had done this, cuddled up in bed together a million times.

jimin was completely enamored by you, and you could finally see it in the way he looked at you. the dark that had clouded his eyes moments ago while he was inside of you had disappeared entirely—and was replaced by something curated purely from love and devotion.

but he couldn't ignore the way dark circles tugged at the bottom of your eyes as you looked at him so deeply, his heart pulling at the thought of your day today. he pulled you in closer, one hand resting behind your head while the other slowly caressed your cheek.

"you don't have to think right now," he said softly. "just stay with me."

you nodded, a familiar warmth spreading throughout your body and finally to your heart. "i want to stay with you, chim."

he captured your lips in between his slowly, like he had to etch this moment into his brain. when you finally pulled apart, the eye contact was nearly unbreakable. and with a few more kisses and sweet nothings from him, your eyelids became more heavy.

"i've got you baby," he cooed quietly. "i'm not going anywhere. ever."

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾

you woke up slowly. your eyes opened to soft morning light spilling through the curtains, the room quiet except for the steady rhythm of jimin's breathing behind you.

jimin's. not seojun. not some shitty bum who didn't care about you. it was jimin. his arms were still wrapped around you, firm enough to keep you in place against him all night.

you didn't get up or pull away. instead, you let yourself feel it. everything from last night—clear, vivid, impossible to ignore. the way you chose him. the way it only felt right to keep choosing him.

your chest rose slowly with a breath you didn't realize you were holding. this was real. and it wasn't a mistake. it wasn't something you could pretend didn't happen.

you shifted slightly, just enough to turn in his arms. his grip tightened instantly.

“don’t go,” he murmured, voice rough, barely awake.

your heart softened immediately. “i’m not,” you whispered.

his eyes opened slowly after that, adjusting to the light, but they found you immediately, like they always did.for a second, neither of you spoke. you just looked at each other, eye contact burning while taking the moment all in.

“you’re still here,” he said quietly, like he couldn't believe it.

you almost smiled. “yeah.” like there was nowhere else you'd rather be.

his gaze searched yours for a moment longer, like he was looking for something underneath the surface. something you hadn’t said yet. “do you regret it?” he asked carefully.

you didn’t answer right away. not because you didn’t know—but because you wanted to be honest. your fingers traced lightly along his arm where it rested around you, grounding yourself in the feeling of him. in the reality of this.

“no,” you said finally. but there wasn't any hesitation or fear.

his expression shifted, relief settling over his expression. “not even a little?” he asked, quieter now.

you shook your head gently. “no,” you repeated. "i don’t.”

his hand slid slightly along your side, slower now, less urgent than before but still intentional—like he just needed to feel you there. still his. and still against him.

“i was scared i would,” you admitted softly.

his brows pulled together slightly. “and?”

you met his gaze. "i don't.”

silence settled again, but it wasn’t heavy. instead it was full of uncovered truths and the familiarity of each other.

“i think i'm just... trying to catch up,” you continued, your voice quieter now. “everything feels different.”

“it is,” he said.

your breath caught slightly. “does that scare you?”

"no," he shook his head without hesitation. “only thing that would've scared me is you walking away.”

your chest tightened, because you knew he meant that with everything in him. “i’m not going anywhere,” you said.

and when you said it—it didn’t feel like a maybe or a possibility. and he felt it. his hand stilled for a second at your waist, like he was registering the words and holding onto them.

"good," he murmured softly against you.

you shifted closer without thinking, your hand resting lightly against his chest now, feeling his heartbeat. it felt steady, steadying you into a wave of calmness you haven't experienced in a while.

“this is a lot,” you said again, but softer this time. less overwhelmed, but aware of the future situation awaiting.

“i know,” he said quietly. “but you don’t have to figure it all out right now.”

your eyes lifted back to his. “yeah?”

his thumb brushed lightly along your arm. “just stay."

you nodded. “okay.”

and for awhile, neither of you moved. you didn't rush or overthink anything—you just stayed there. wrapped up in each other, tangled in something that had been building for years, finally existing.

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾

it should’ve been easy. you'd done this a hundred times before—group settings, loud rooms, easy laughter, nothing to hide.

but now—everything felt different.

you walked in the bar first. jimin came ten minutes later, all on purpose.

jaehyun barely looked up from his phone. “you made it.”

“yeah,” you said, forcing a small smile as you slipped into your seat.

and then—jimin walked in, your breath catching before you could stop it. it was small, quick enough for nobody to notice. but jimin did, like always. your eyes met for half a second. that was it. but it was enough to thicken the tension between you.

he didn’t smile or acknowledge it. just walked past like nothing had changed—like last night simply didn’t exist.

but when he sat down across from you, too close—you felt it immediately. the shift in the energy between you, the awareness in the energy that sparked.

the way you couldn’t look at him for too long without remembering exactly how it felt to be right with him, not even a few hours ago. the way your brother was sitting right next to with the chance of smelling jimin's cologne on you.

“so what’s everyone doing this weekend?” someone asked.

quickly enough, voices overlapped, plans were thrown around. and you tried to focus. tried your best to stay present. but you failed.

because every time you laughed or moved—you could feel his eyes on you. not obvious or constant. but there. always there.

jaehyun nudged you. "you good?" you blinked. "yeah- yeah, i'm fine."

"then why are you zoning out?" he whispered a little too loudly, loud enough for jimin to hear—or maybe he was just eavesdropping too hard.

your stomach dropped. "i'm not."

across the table, jimin leaned back slightly, watching.

at some point, his fingers brushed against your knee under the table. it was accidental and barely there, but your breath caught sharply.

you pulled back immediately, but he didn't. his fingers lingered for a second longer before pulling away, like a reminder. like a warning.

your pulse spiked and you suddenly couldn't bare to look at him, even if you tried with everything in you.

"you okay?" jaehyun asked again. now you couldn’t seem look at your brother either.

"yeah," you said, a little too fast. "just need some air." and you stood before anyone could question you any further, walking out before you could even think.

and not even thirty seconds later, you heard the door open behind you. of course.

"running away again?"

your breath was slightly uneven as you turned to face jimin. "i just- i needed a second."

"you always do that," he said gently.

"you always follow."