czy

You set the glass down and take a look around the bar. 

The place is called Coyote’s—it’s the first place you stumbled upon on your drive home from work. There's a coyote skull mounted above the door, walls wood-paneled and covered in neon beer signs and old license plates. The floor is sticky with mysterious liquids, heels glued to them when you walked in. Somebody’s boots are keeping time to the Zac Brown Band song bleeding out of the speakers, and two men in actual, non-ironic Wranglers are playing pool in the back while eyeing the girls in skimpy outfits. 

It’s a disorienting environment, especially when you’re still dressed in a blazer and slacks after your first day at your new job. 

You had upped sticks in need of a change from New York City, without bothering to think much about the vast differences between Austin, Texas and New York City. 

New York City bars had exposed brick and cocktail menus with names like “Forbidden Muse” and men who wore blazers for their fancy, high-paying finance jobs. Nobody dared to wear cowboy boots, definitely not when they were surrounded by their stuffy superiors. 

New York City was crawling with men that were exactly like your conniving, narcissistic ex-boyfriend, Daniel. 

Fucking Daniel.

You take another sip of the whiskey you don’t like.

You’d caught him on a Wednesday. Not even a Friday night—a Wednesday. He couldn’t even be bothered to cheat on you on a respectable day of the week. You had come home early from work, key in the door, bag on your shoulder, and there he was in your shared apartment. Balls deep in a girl who was, insultingly, very pretty.

Then, he had the nerve to act surprised to see you in the apartment you two shared. 

Texas was never supposed to be in the cards. In fact, it wasn’t even a blip on your radar. It was a job offer that paid two times what you made in New York, but giving up your city lifestyle had sounded deranged. You only applied because a very eager recruiter reached out to you and begged you to. 

But getting cheated on really put things into perspective for you, and before you knew it, being a marketing director at a regional firm in Austin that paid good money, offered a fresh start, far enough away that you wouldn’t have to see Daniel’s face sounded ideal. You’d accepted it at 11PM that same Wednesday, half a bottle of wine deep.

You look down at your outfit again. Silk blouse underneath your blazer, tailored slacks and pointed heels. Nothing like the girls line-dancing by the jukebox, batting their eyelashes flirtatiously at the men with cowboy hats on. 

Honestly, you didn’t think cowboys were real up until you landed in Texas three days ago. Lo and behold, they’ve managed to outdo your wildest fantasies. 

Clearly, you’ll need to redo your wardrobe if you plan on enjoying your new gig. Your boss wore a bandana around his neck in the office, and if that was the norm, you were either severely underdressed or accidentally cosplaying as someone’s accountant.

You take another slow scan around the room, mostly to give yourself something to do that isn’t drinking whiskey you hate and thinking about Daniel.

The women here seem to move differently. Easy and dallying, hips finding the beat of the music. A line of them near the dance floor step and turn in unison, boots striking the wood, and there’s something hypnotic about it—they laugh without covering their mouths, take up space without apologizing for it. Not for the first time tonight, you feel like you’re watching a nature documentary from behind glass. The men in Texas are far more shameless, with no pretense of disinterest. A guy in a tan Stetson tips his hat when a brunette catches him staring. She grins back, winking. 

Your gaze drifts toward the back, toward the crack of pool balls and low laughter. Groups of men pile around the table, clearly big-dicking each other. They all look similar. Tall, muscular, chiseled, charismatic…

Your eyes land on the far right of the pool table, where one man in a black cowboy hat stands. His arm is covered in tattoos, hair poking out underneath the hat in what you assume is a mullet. His tongue pokes out, toying with the lip rings adorning his bottom lip. 

And despite the commotion buzzing around the bar, or the game of pool that’s been ongoing for at least an hour, he’s not paying attention to any of it. He’s watching you. 

Your neck snaps back toward the direction of the bar, struggling to focus as the bartender, Stacey, pours bourbon into a glass for a patron. You’d barely gotten a full look, but you’d caught enough, you think. Broad shoulders filling out a black button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbow, black cowboy hat pulled low and a black bandana tied loose at his throat. 

Fuck. You need another drink. Or about two shots of straight whiskey to handle the kind of eye contact that man is making with you. 

“Uh, Stacey?” You’d only learned her name an hour ago, but now’s as good a time as any to use it. She whips to face you, blond hair tousled from the rush. “Am I able to get another glass of whiskey?”

“Sure thang, sweetheart.” She grins. 

While she pours, your eyes make a point to not care about the man staring you down across the room. He can’t possibly be looking at you, what with your corporate outfit, heels, and resting bitch face. There are better options in this bar, ones who know how to two-step and ride a horse. 

Stacey places the glass of whiskey in front of you. “This one’s on the house. Looked like you needed it.”

Before you can protest, she tosses you a wink and saunters off to serve two men. Clearly, you’re not as unreadable as you thought you were. 

The brown liquid slithers down your throat, burning your lungs. The thing about drinking whiskey neat is that you’re not going to remain a respectful amount of tipsy for long. Instead, you’re going to teeter on the line of drunk, something you don’t normally allow yourself to get. 

And transparently, drunk you wants another look at the dark-haired cowboy. 

Maybe you should let her. Maybe you should stop being so weird about it. It’s not like you’re not going to marry the man. Maybe you just need to get fucked.

Your eyes scan the crowd, lingering on every man wearing the same black bandana, half-convinced one of them might transform into him. With each passing moment, your heart skips in your chest like a toddler playing hopscotch. 

Maybe he went home. Probably realized the women here were duds and made his grand exit. Honestly for the best. You can’t even remember the last time you flirted with someone who wasn’t Daniel, and look how spectacularly that turned out.

You down the rest of your whiskey in one go. Stacey whistles playfully from the sidelines. All you can manage is a feeble smile in response. It feels as though the lights dim a little lower, the sound of boots hitting the hardwood floor echoing in your ear. Euphoria pumps through your bloodstream, and then Country Girl (Shake It For Me) starts blasting on the jukebox, and well—your brain just sort of short-circuits. 

“Can’t possibly be comfortable in that outfit, sugar.”

Warm breath fans against your ear, woodsy cologne trailing close behind. Your heart thumps, almost as if the organ knows who it is before you do. 

Slowly, you turn to face the owner of the voice. 

The first thing you see is a black bandana. Your eyes travel further up, up, up, until they snag on the plumpest mouth you’ve ever seen on a man, two metal rings looped through the bottom lip. They continue their climb, landing on captivating eyes that sink their teeth into you. Dark brown tresses poke out from under the brim of his hat, but you can still make out every inch of his sharp features. 

“Never seen you ‘round here before.” He raises an eyebrow. “Anyone with that outfit on gotta be from the East. Ain’t seen a girl in heels in this bar in my whole life.”

“Maybe I like standing out,” you say, tilting your chin up and puffing your chest out. The whiskey’s doing wonders for your nerve. “Someone’s got to remind you boys what real shoes look like.”

The edges of his mouth curve upwards, pondering if he’s impressed or amused by your bite. Secretly, you hope it’s both. 

“Sugar, those things are a workplace hazard. You’re tellin’ me you can run in ‘em?” Under the dim lights, his eyes twinkle, setting your chest ablaze with something other than the burn of whiskey. 

“I don’t need to run anywhere. I’m a New Yorker. We walk at a fast pace in 7-inch heels.” You’re not well-versed in the whole flirting thing, but this has to be what it’s like… right?

That gets a real laugh out of him, head tipping back, and you feel an absurd little spike of pride at having caused that sound. 

“That so?” He moves from behind you, leans an elbow against the bar, angling his body toward you. He travels in languid movements, like he’s got nowhere else on earth to be. “And here I thought you Yankees just had bad manners and worse weather.”

 “We’re not rude,” you scoff. “We’re blunt. Honest. There’s a difference.”

He takes a step closer, and the scent of him encroaches, your brain turning fuzzy. “Mm. Didn’t realize those were the same thing.”

“Cousins. Close enough.” You shouldn’t have downed that drink. Now you really need another, because you’re certain you won’t make it out of this conversation in one piece.

“Then let me ask you somethin’, since you’re so honest.” His eyes flicker to your parted lips before jumping back to your eyes. 

“Go ahead.”

The music comes to a halt, and Carrie Underwood’s voice blasts through the speakers. You’ve never really liked her music all that much, but her misplaced pep talk might be exactly the kind of bad influence you need.

His head tilts in your direction. “You ever met a Southern boy before me?”

“Can’t say I have.”

“So you must not have heard ‘bout Southern charm, sugar. That’s supposed to be our whole thing down here.” His eyes dare you, jaw twitching with glee at the way you press your thighs together.

“I’ve heard that.” Carelessly, you shrug. “Haven’t seen much evidence of it yet.”

“Keep talkin’ like that and I might have to prove it to you,” he says, voice only a little mocking. 

Your body can’t help but lean in his direction, like sunflowers facing the light on a warm summer’s day. “I’d like to see you try, cowboy.”

“Mm.” The man hums, studies you for another moment. Then, he straightens and reaches for the brim of his hat. “Well. Where are my manners?”

He pulls the hat off his head, revealing disheveled chestnut hair that’s longer than you anticipated. You want to run your hands through it, know what it feels like to tug on the locks. The gesture is almost comically formal against the backdrop of the bar, but on him, it doesn’t look like a joke at all. He reaches for your hand. His palm is warm, calloused, swallowing yours whole. “Jungkook.” His eyes don’t dare leave your face. “And who do I got the pleasure of speakin’ to?”

A shuddering breath escapes you, legs clenching. 

“[Y/N],” you stumble over your words, trying to find your voice. 

“Pretty name for a pretty girl. Must be my lucky night,” he grins, and you have to wonder if he says that to every girl who isn’t from here. You stick out like a sore thumb in this bar, but how his eyes track your every movement suggests he doesn’t mind one bit.

“What’re you drinkin’, sugar?” he asks, nodding toward your empty glass. Oh. That. You had almost forgotten it was there, lonely and sad. 

“Whiskey.”

His eyebrows lift, mouth curving into disbelief. “You sure about that? You don’t seem like a whiskey girl to me.”

He’s right, which only makes it worse. Turning to the bar, he lifts two fingers. “Stace. You mind makin’ one of those strawberry margaritas for our city girl here?”

Stacey’s already grinning cheek-to-cheek before she even gets close, eyes flicking between the two of you. “Absolutely.”

While Stacey works, you take the opportunity to look at him properly without the panic of being caught. He’s tall, like most cowboys that are written in romance novels. His chest looks like it could double as a wall. A very nice wall you wouldn’t mind being pressed against. 

Stacey slides the margarita across the bar, sugar-rimmed and flamingo pink. “Here you go, hon.”

“Add it to my tab,” Jungkook says, not bothering to glance over.

“Of course, Kook.” She tosses you another friendly wink, and the swell of confidence bubbles up inside you.

He nudges the glass another inch toward you with two fingers. It’s a little dominant, something you’re not normally used to. But you follow the order, taking a sip. It’s exactly what you wanted. Cold, candied, the tequila barely whispering under the sugar, and you have to stop yourself from outright moaning at the bar.

“So why you out here, sugar?” he asks, “Don’t seem like a bar for a girl like you.” Jungkook places his hat atop his head again, and you’re almost devastated to see his hair go. 

You set the glass down, lick a stray grain of sugar off your bottom lip. His eyes stalk the movement. “I live here now. I work downtown.”

His gaze doesn’t move from your mouth fast enough. “Like a corporate job?”

“Indeed.” As you speak, you notice his pupils are blown so wide there’s hardly any brown left. He hasn’t moved his eyes from your lips. “And I’m assuming you ride horses?”

He barks out a laugh, loud enough that a couple heads turn near the pool table. “A little more than that.” His finger points off toward the back of the bar, toward a broad-shouldered man laughing with the group by the pool table. “That’s Namjoon. Owns a ranch a few miles out. I handle his shit. Y’know, paperwork, horses, bulls, all of it.”

“So you’re a rancher.” You toy with the straw in your glass, and you can’t miss the way he seems entranced by every move you make. 

“I’m a lotta things.” His tongue runs over his bottom lip. “Rancher’s one of ‘em.”

“What are the others?” 

There’s something lingering in the air. New city, new boy, new life. You’re back to square one, the bottom of the societal food chain. You get to forge your own path here in Austin. For one night—and maybe other nights—you get to be someone else. 

“Depends who’s askin’.”

“I am,” you retort coolly. 

“Then I guess you’ll find out,” he leans in, lips brushing against the shell of your ear “Eventually.”

The bar noise fades around you, Carrie Underwood’s righteous fury bleeding into another tune, until it’s just the two of you and a few inches of space neither of you seem all that interested in closing yet. “Hmm,” you hum. “Horses and bulls sound dangerous.”

He chuckles. “Knowin’ how to handle somethin’ wild is mostly about knowin’ when to be gentle and when not to be.”

“Is that supposed to be a metaphor?” 

“Could be." He shrugs. “But also, I just really like my job, sugar.”

“As do I,” You take another sip, making a point to pucker your lips around the straw. 

Jungkook’s gaze is different, far more scandalous than any other man you’ve been with. It almost feels dirty when his eyes scan your face. “Figured someone like you’d be home by now. What is this, your first night out since you got here?”

It is, in fact, your first night out since you got here, and you’d rather die than confirm it.

“I wanted to immerse myself in the culture,” you say instead, lying through your teeth with admirable conviction. “It’s one of my greatest fantasies, actually. Cowgirls, horses, the whole lot of ’em.”

“Oh really?” he smirks. You’re distracted by the strand of hair flopping from beneath his hat, and you wonder if the curtain matches the drapes. “How ‘bout cowboys?”

“I’m still gathering data on them.” You tap the rim of your glass thoughtfully. “Field research, if you will.”

His knee brushes against yours as he leans in. The man has never heard of personal space. “I would love to hear your findings.” 

“Well, actually, I think I need to run a few final experiments.”

“Like what?” He tuts, fingers migrating from the bartop to your pant-covered thigh. They linger, not pressing down harshly. “Humor me, sugar.”

A burst of confidence rushes through you. You get one chance, and you really, really, really don’t want to make the same mistakes again. Reaching up, you pluck the hat right off his head. 

It’s heavier than you expect, but soft in your grasp. Warm, like it’s been sitting against him long enough to steal some of his body heat for itself. You settle it on your own head, tipping it back so it doesn’t slide down over your eyes. You must look ridiculous, blazer and silk blouse under a cowboy hat that’s seen ranch work.

But how he’s looking at you, you might as well be wearing nothing at all.

Jungkook’s jaw goes taut, gaze darkens, and the fingers placed on your thigh flex before relaxing. 

“Well, sugar.” His voice drops several octaves, and the whole bar spins on its axis until you nearly topple over. “If you’re gonna wear my hat, you know what they say?”

Your response is no louder than a whisper. “What?”

Smirking, he leans in until his breath ghosts your ear. 

“Wear the hat, ride the cowboy.”

Oh god. 

Your eyes flicker down to his lips, then his captivating eyes, and he follows suit. If he really wanted to, he could probably kiss you right now, could take you right on the bartop and you’d let him. The sugar from the margarita and the whiskey swirls in your stomach, mixing with butterflies you haven’t felt in years. There are moles scattered across his face, a few near his lip and some under his cheek, and you think that you could connect them into a constellation if you had a pen and several more drinks.

But then he steps back, and tips two fingers toward the brim of the hat that’s no longer on his head.

“I’ll see you ‘round, sugar.”

He strolls off toward his friends, and you blink into the void, hat heftier on your head than when you first put it on. 

God help you, you really want that ride. 

Frankly, this is the most desperate thing you’ve ever done. 

That’s really saying something, considering one time, you sprinted after a situationship four blocks down Fifth Avenue in four inch heels, caught your foot on a crack in the sidewalk, and introduced your face to the concrete in front of a hot dog stand. Or, there’s also the time you showed up to a first date a week early, realized halfway through appetizers that something felt off, checked your phone, and had to sit alone with a bread basket before leaving. 

All of that pales in comparison when you realize you’re sitting at the same bar, in your corporate outfit, awaiting a man who you may never lay eyes on again. 

You take a nervous sip of your strawberry margarita, the periphery of your eyes doing more work than usual. Coyote’s is quieter tonight, a few stragglers nursing drinks at tables, and playing something slow on the jukebox. No pool game in the back, no men in cowboy hats, no broad shoulders filling out a black button-down. 

You’ve probably made a colossal mistake. 

“Need a refill on the marg?” Stacey circles back after tending to some older men at the end of the bar, brows raised.

“Nah, I’m okay,” you sigh. “Thanks though.”

Slowly, Stacey looks around the bar, stares at the drunk men at the end of the bar, and decides you’re more worth her time. She places both elbows on the bartop and leans in. “You lookin’ for someone special, hon?” 

“No!” you yelp, practically leaping out of your stool in dissent. “Absolutely not. I just—don’t even know anyone here. I just like the margaritas.”

“Uhu,” Stacey nods, something in her eyes twinkling. 

“I really do. You make a mean marg.”

“Sure you do,” she toothily grins. Her eyes pan over your outfit, a similar vibe to the one you wore yesterday to work. Today, you’re wearing a silk blouse and a pencil skirt that jugs your curves. “You know, most people take their work clothes off before they come out for a drink.”

“Well, I came straight from the office.” You square your shoulders, puff out your chest as though you have something to prove. 

“Two nights in a row?”

“I’m testing out the bars in the city,” you quip. 

“Mhm.” She doesn’t believe a single word coming out of your mouth, and she’s not even trying to hide it. “What is it you do, exactly?”

“Marketing director. I just started.” You take a sip of your cocktail to bide time as Stacey widens her eyes in shock. 

“No kidding.” Her eyebrows lift. “What brought you all the way out to Austin? You don’t exactly scream Texas, no offense.”

“None taken,” you giggle. You’re not entirely sure how your silk blouse and skirt could come off as anything but condescending, uppity New Yorker. “Believe it or not, an ex-boyfriend who doesn’t know how to keep his dick in his pants.”

Stacey’s pupils blow up, and she throws her head back to cackle, loud enough that one of the older men down the bar glances over. “Oh, honey,” she says, reaching for the cocktail shaker without seeming to realize she’s doing it. “You’re gonna have to give me more than that.”

“Well,” you swallow, exhale a shaky breath. And then you say, keeping your eyes on nothing but your near-empty glass, “My boyfriend of three years was always upset I was busy at work. He said I cared too much about it, but not about him. I thought I was doing a good job at dividing my time equally… but I guess not. Found him in bed with a girl on a Wednesday night in our apartment we shared.”

Your mouth is so dry your tongue sticks to the roof. Retelling the story allows you to replay the night like a horror movie film outtake reel. And everytime, you ask yourself, how could you be so stupid? So naive? So nonchalant?

Stacey slides a fresh margarita across the bar. “Please tell me you at least threw something.”

“Nope. Just stood in the doorway, said his name, turned around and left.” Even now, it’s as clear as day; you marched out, heart drumming in your chest as you fled down the stairs of your building, not even bothering to listen if he even said your name or chased after you. It didn’t matter either way, because he never once tried to beg for you back.

He let you go. 

“Men,” Stacey snorts, shaking her head. “Wouldn’t know a good thing if it slapped them ‘round the head.”

“Men,” you agree.

Sometimes, you can’t help but blame yourself, and wonder if it’s less about men, and more about your inability to care about anything but your career growth. 

“You know what your problem is?” she says, pointing at you. "You’ve been datin' the wrong kind of man. All that New York finance guy, blazer-wearing, artisanal-coffee-drinking bullshit. What you need is a little Southern charm.”

“Oh really?” You have to hide the smile that threatens to bloom on your face. 

“I’m just sayin’ what the people are thinkin’.” 

“No one, especially me, is thinking that.” Except you are. More precisely, of one that loaned you his hat and never claimed it back. 

“It’s what I’m thinking," she says, wiping down the bar. "You ever even dated someone who works with their hands? Outdoors?”

You open your mouth to argue and realize you don't have a rebuttal for that. Every man you’ve ever dated has had some stuffy job, like finance or law, which is somehow the most depressing thing that’s popped into your head all week. 

“I just need to get back on my feet,” you say instead. “New city, new job, new start. I’m not looking for anything.”

“Sure, sure.” She rolls her eyes. “I’ll pretend I believe ya.”

You slump forward on the bar. “I just need to focus on myself for a while. Get settled. Figure out what I actually want without someone else’s opinion clouding everything.”

“Healthy, but you’re no fun,” she pouts, flinging the rag over her shoulder. “Look hun, your ex sounds like a real piece of shit. But you deserve way better than that.”

“Yeah,” you swallow past the lump in your throat. “I’m starting to think so too.”

Stacey wipes her hands on the towel over her shoulder, turning back to you. “A fresh start in Austin, Texas. You picked a hell of a place for it.”

“Yeah…” Your eyes avert around the shoddy bar. You try not to make eye contact with the coyote head. “It’s a lot.”

“You’ll love it. Give it a month.”

“You think?”

“Ella Langley didn’t write Choosin’ Texas ‘bout us just for shits n giggles,” she chuckles. “People come here thinking it’s temporary and then they wake up one day and they’ve got boots and a favorite two-step song.”

A shiver runs down your spine. “Good god.”

“That’s just Texas, hon.”

You laugh, and she looks awfully pleased with herself. The two men down the bar gesture her over, and her eyes flick over your shoulder before a small smile tugs at the corner of her lips. 

“Southern charm might be closer than you think,” she murmurs, and then saunters off to her customers. 

Shaking your head, you take a sip of the margarita, and you swear it’s stronger than your last. Stacey clearly plans on fucking you over. 

“Didn’t think lightning struck the same place twice. Guess I was wrong, sugar.”

The hair on the back of your neck stands tall. Anxiety and desire blend in your stomach until the two become indecipherable. 

The sip of your margarita stalls its path down your throat, making a home, and an embarrassing croak exits your mouth. Your eyes water, one hand firmly placed on the bar, looking like one of those warning ads for choking customers.

A strong hand lands between your shoulder blades. Pats once, twice, with an ease that makes your heart rate kick up a notch. 

“Easy there. Bar’s not the place to go out.” You can hear the sarcasm in his tone, the smirk that’s probably curled upon his pink lips. 

“I’m fine,” you wheeze. 

“Uhu.” He takes the stools beside you, coming into plain view. You;re not sure what you expected him to look like this evening, but somehow, he looks even more delectable than last time. He’s sporting a new cowboy hat, a black one with white detailing that matches his jeans and top. Once he settles, he signals to Stacey for a drink with two fingers. “Surprised this place didn’t scare ya away after the first time.”

You square your shoulders, wiping the final tears from your eyes. “New Yorkers are resilient.”

“Hmm,” he mindlessly hums, letting his eyes drag up and down your figure, a clear assessment that has your thighs clenching to hide the arousal pooling in your panties. “Nice to see you again, by the way.”

There’s a smudge of something on his forearm, below the edge of his tattoos. Dirt, maybe, or grease. You wonder if he came straight from work, or errands, or whatever it is Jungkook does with his day besides looking like a wet dream. 

“Is corporate attire all you own, sugar?” He tosses bills on the table as Stacey slides a cold beer toward him. You do your best to ignore her pointed smirk. 

“Are boots and hats all you wear?” you retort. 

He laughs and leans an elbow on the bar, angling toward you the same way he had last time, almost as if his body naturally points in your direction. As you gaze into his brown irises, you can’t stop thinking, can’t slow the waterfall of thoughts gliding down your brain. You’re not from here, don’t dress like anyone in this bar, don’t know the words to a single song on that jukebox, and can’t two-step to save your life. There are women in this city right now who are objectively better suited for him. Your brain implodes trying to understand his interest in you. 

“Can I ask you something?” you say.

“Go ‘head.” He takes a swig of his beer, lips shiny from the liquid.

“Why are you over here?” 

He deadpans. “Come again?”

“I mean…” Vaguely, you gesture around the room, at the bar that’s filling up with women laughing near the jukebox. “You could be anywhere in this bar right now. Talking to anyone. So why are you sitting here talking to me?”

A flash of expressions shift across his face. “You think you’re not worth talking to?”

“Never said that.”

“Implied it,” he grins. He pauses, traces the condensation on his beer bottle. “Maybe I’m intrigued.”

A feeble laugh escapes you, but he doesn’t mirror the action. Oh. He’s not joking. “For the record, I don’t know how to ride a horse.”

He snorts, shaking his head. “You’re real terrible. Don’t know why I bother.”

“I am serious. I have no plans on learning either.”

He holds your gaze for a moment. “Never asked you to get on one, sugar.” His eyes rake over your face as if he’s searching for more, and finally, he pushes on, voice steady. “I’m over here because I wanted to be. That a problem?”

It’s an offer as much as it is an out. If you told him it was a problem, you’re certain he’d leave you alone, never talk to you again. But you really, really don’t want that. 

“Not at all.”

Jungkook nods in finality and takes a pull of his bar. Silence follows, but it’s not uncomfortable. 

“Can I ask you something now?” he says.

“Fair’s fair.”

“You don’t got someone back in New York, right?” 

“No,” you sigh. “Not anymore, at least.”

His eyebrows scrunch together. “He let you go?”

“Kind of.” You don’t really feel like elaborating, and he lets it go, but you don’t miss the way his jaw clenches, there and gone in a breath. 

“His loss.”

“What about you?” you wonder. “You’ve got to have someone, or something.”

“Ain’t got a girl,” he shrugs. His body slants toward you so that your knees brush. Your cheeks warm at the contact, but he doesn’t move away. 

“No?” Your margarita is watered down and vile now, but you take a sip anyway. 

“Ranch takes up most of my time. Sun up to sundown, most days. Not a lot of room left over for much else.”

“Doesn’t that get lonely?” you ask. 

He considers it, tilts the neck of his beer bottle between two fingers. “Sometimes… but it’s a good life. I don’t need a lot. Just the ranch and the right company, every now and then.”

His pupils are blown so wide you can’t spot any brown in them. He’s staring at your parted lips. “I could probably settle for the right girl. A good girl. Smart, funny, prettiest in the damn room.”

You think he’s talking about you. He must be. It might be wishful thinking, but just maybe, just this time…

“That’s a very specific type,” you retort. 

“Gettin’ more specific by the minute.” With that, he takes a swig of his beer, eyes never leaving yours. 

You pick up your own drink, taking a long sip that burns your esophagus. “Stacey made this too strong,” you awkwardly laugh. It feels like someone turned the temperature up on the thermostat by ten degrees, shut all the fans off. 

“Stace always does,” Jungkook shrugs. 

When he sets his beer down, you can calculate how little space exists between his stool and you. Mere centimeters divide the two of you, and you can soak up his scent, a woodsy musk. “If you’re up for it, I’d love to show you the ranch sometime. Horses get real excited around pretty girls. Scout’s honor.” He holds up two fingers. 

“You were a boy scout?” you laugh. 

“Three weeks in the 4th grade. Got kicked out for letting the ponies loose at the state fair though,” he shrugs. “In my defense, they looked very unhappy.”

He watches, mystified, as you laugh again. “I don’t know if the ranch is for me.”

“It’s just horse, open land, some fresh air. Nothing like what you’re used to, I’d imagine.”

“Exactly,” you knowingly smile. “All we have is smog, overpriced coffee, and tall buildings.”

“Can’t have that.” Disapprovingly, he shakes his head. “Come out to the ranch. I’ll make you coffee that costs nothing and tastes better than anything you’ve had in your life.”

“Bold claim, cowboy,” you tease. 

“Think you can tell I always get what I want, sugar,” he retorts. You open your mouth to reply with something witty, but a tingle, pins and needles, lands on your thigh, and when you look down you see Jungkook’s veiny hand resting. Fingers splayed wide, palm radiating heat through the thin fabric of your slacks.

“How many horses do you have on the ranch?” Your voice has gone airy. 

“Seven right about now. We lost one last spring, and Joon took it hard.” His hand doesn’t waver. Instead, his thumb moves, carelessly tracing patterns on your pants. 

“I’m sorry for your loss,” you mumble, staring daggers into how large his hand is compared to the rest of you. 

“It’s the nature of it. You get attached. Hard not to.”

“Do you…?” you pause, swallow thickly until your tone gets warbly. “Get attached?”

The double entendre isn’t lost on him. “I do.”

You are going to need Stacey to pour a glass of ice water directly over your head. His thumb traces another path up the inside of your thigh. Your mouth dries up like the Sahara desert in late August. 

You want to be someone who leans into this. Want to be the girl from night one, the one with liquid courage and reckless new-city energy. You want to tilt toward him and let whatever this is become whatever it wants to be. But underneath it, a quieter voice resides within you. 

The one that remembers thinking everything was fine right up until it wasn’t.

“I don’t know if I’m..” you start, then press your lips together. He taps your thigh twice, urging you on. “I’m not sure I’m ready to be attached yet.”

Automatically, your body is bracing for impact, like he’ll toss you on the side of the road for something shiner, something ready. 

But Jungook’s expression does not falter. He finishes the last of his beer and sets the bottle down, rising from the stool to his full height. “When you’re ready, sugar,” he reaches out, tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, “you know where to find me.”

For most, life isn’t sunshine and rainbows.

And it’s not like one wakes up and the color has drained from everything overnight. It’s small increments, tiny ones, that add up, and they’re unrecognizable until you can’t remember the last time you did something for yourself. You used to believe in love the way meteorologists believed in weather—inevitable acts of nature that happened to everyone sooner than later, in its own time, in its own particular way. You believed that people who found each other meant to find each other. 

But just like weather, the clouds part and things unravel in messy ways. The couple in your freshman dorm who were so in love you deemed it aggressive, who broke up over Thanksgiving and couldn’t look at each other in the dining hall after. Your college roommate, whose boyfriend of four years sat her down on a Sunday morning and said I just don't think I’m in love with you anymore. She sat very still for a long time after she told you, and you thought I will never let that be me.

But then it was you, it was your own demented heart, it was your own boyfriend who cheated on you, and you suddenly didn’t know which ordinary Tuesday was the last good one. 

You still don’t know if there was a last good one at all. 

“You gonna liquidate my bar tonight, hon?” 

Stacey’s shrill voice cuts through your train of thought, and you blink back into the bar. The neon sign flickers above the bar, and the usual horny men sitting down the bar tip their hats at you.  A shudder of disgust travels through you. She’s leaning on the bar in front of you, brow arched, nodding at the margarita you’ve been nursing for the better part of an hour, contemplating the nuances of life. 

“Perhaps.”

She refills your water glass without asking and props her chin in her hand. “You know damn well not to do all that thinkin’ round my bar. Tell me what’s wrong, I might be able to help.”

“Nothing’s wrong,” you sigh, playing with the straw wrapper. You slump against the bar, the fatigue of your mind raving catching up to you. 

“I ain’t Sherlock but I can tell something’s up, sweetie.”

You could deny it one more time, but you think Stacey will dropkick you out of the bar and leave you without any more alcoholic beverages. 

For a week, you’ve avoided this very bar. Thus, you haven’t run into Jungkook in a week. It was on purpose, simply because you couldn’t give him the hope that you were ready by running into him again. But bars that you felt comfortable being alone at were far and few between, and you knew Stacey would be waiting for you. 

It’s been seven days of you daydreaming of walking into this bar and scanning the back corner by the pool table before you’ve even found a stool, of telling yourself you’re not looking while very obviously looking, and telling him you’re ready for whatever he wants to offer. And at the very least, give it a shot. 

One week feels longer than it should for a man you’ve spoken to twice. You don’t know his middle name. You don't know his family lore or his favorite pair of boots or whether he’s ever read a book for pleasure or what he sounds like when he’s just had a bad day. 

But you do know one thing: he looked at you like you were the only thing in the room, like he was ready to lean over the bar and devour you whole. 

No one’s looked at you like that in a long time. 

“Fine,” Stacey squints her eyes into evil little slits. “If you won’t talk I will. You’ve looked at that door eleven times since you sat down, and I’ve got a fresh margarita with your name on it, and sometimes thinkin’ about nothing looks a whole lot like thinkin’ about something… or someone.”

A massive gulp of your margarita slithers down your throat. Then another, and another, until you set it down and peer at Stacey with drunk goggles. Her jaw is set in a no-nonsense way, and you recognize how she’s only ever seen you at your most pathetic across this bartop.

What’s one more time to add to the tally?

“Am I stupid for not hooking up with Jungkook?”

Stacey’s face remains stone cold. She reaches for the tequila. It’s not your usual brand, a more expensive one you haven’t touched since New York.

“The thing is, I wanted to.” Stacey should really file a restraining order against you for sharing your deepest, darkest thoughts with her under the influence of one very strong margarita. “I really wanted to. He’s very attractive. And he’s not how I expected him to be, like a bimbo cowboy.”

Stacey says nothing. Continues making the margarita, pouring strawberry puree into the shaker. 

“And it’s not even, it’s not like I’m opposed to it. I am a grown woman. I know how sex works. I’ve had one night stands before, and they’ve generally been fine, sometimes better than fine, and Jungkook looks like he would be better than fine, which is part of the problem too.”

Her hair flips wildly as she mixes the shaker behind her shoulder. You barrel on, “I don't know if I’m actually not ready or if I’m just scared, and I don’t know how to tell the difference anymore between self-preservation and self-sabotage. Daniel made me feel like an idiot.”

You prop your chin in your palm. “Was it my body? My personality? Was it the way I talked too much at dinner parties or the fact that I can’t fall asleep without the TV on or just, like, was I boring? Was I just boring to him? Am I even hot?”

A glass filled with pink liquid slams in front of you, dropping with a decisive thunk, sugar on the rim. 

“Drink.”

Your nose scrunches up in disgust as the smell of tequila wafts into your nostrils. Stacey rolls her eyes, smacking your arm playfully, and you fold under zero pressure. 

“Sweetheart, even in that god-awful collared shirt, I can see you’ve got a hell of a body on you. I would throw you down on that pool table and find out for myself if I swung that way,” she nonchalantly shrugs, and it takes all your might not to spit out your drink. 

“Stacey,” you scold. 

“Nuh-uh,” she tuts, “You’re stunning, darlin’. You are not the problem. You were never the problem. The problem is a man who ain’t know what he had and traded it in for a girl who’s probably not even half of you. That’s his cross to bear, not yours.”

When you sip the margarita, the tart taste of strawberries floods your tastebuds. Stacey has ruined every margarita you will ever have anywhere else for the rest of your natural life.

She raises an eyebrow. “What are you scared of with Jungkook, specifically? Ol’ Kook has been around the block, but he ain’t dangerous.”

“Well… I’m more scared that it’ll be good.”

It even sounds ridiculous leaving your mouth. You know it’s idiotic to place all of your emotional baggage on a cowboy who wants to fuck you. 

“I’m scared it’ll be good. That he’ll be… that it’ll be good, and I’ll want more of it, and wanting more of it means having something to lose again, and I just,” you stifle a humorless laugh. “I just got here. I just put my furniture in an apartment I’ve never lived in, in a city I don’t know yet, in a state I didn’t grow up in.”

Stacey purses her lips in the way your mom usually does when you know you’re being irrational. “I’ve worked at this bar for nine years. I’ve watched a lot of people sit on that stool and talk themselves out of things, and not one of them has ever come back and said I’m so glad I stayed scared.”

“Whatever.” You wave your hand in the air dismissively. “I don’t even know why I’m getting all worked up over this. He probably doesn’t even think about me. Probably just another girl on his list to bother when he’s drunk.”

Stacey deadpans, expression souring. “Are you out of your goddamn mind?”

“Uh, I don’t think so.” Although, after two of her strong margaritas, you might be. 

Her dish rag comes flying across the bartop, smacking you straight in the arm, leaving a vibrating pain in your arm. “Ouch!---”

She flings it again, leaving another welt on your skin. “Stacey, what the fuck—”

One more on the other arm to even the score out. “Alright, enough with the smacking, I’m a customer—” “You’re my charity case and you’ll take what you can get.” She tucks the rag back into her apron. “That man has come into this bar every single night for the past week lookin’ for you, only to take one look around, find me instead, and leave lookin’ like somebody canceled Christmas. I’m insulted.”

Before you can even roll your eyes, the rag comes flying out of her pocket once more, aimed at your arm. 

“I said enough—”

“Then don’t roll your eyes at me.”

“I didn’t even—”

“Kook doesn’t care about girls,” Stacey continues. “Never has. He’s got his ranch and his boys and that’s the full extent of his social calendar. He doesn’t go out of his way to chase people.”

Then, as almost an afterthought, she adds, “I ain’t never seen him look at someone the way he looks at you in those little work outfits.”

Under wishful thinking and margarita-induced delusion, you have been trying to ignore the truth of her words. Even as you think about that first night when you met him, you remember it as the most natural thing in the world. Neither of you seemed to be searching for anything other than a drink in the bar. But of all the connections people make in this world, you two stumbled upon each other.

Jungkook could’ve kissed you that night, you think. You probably would’ve let him. But then he let you have the out, left you sitting there with his hat on your head, the hat that sits on your windowsill now as a reminder of your almost. 

Stacey’s expression resembles compassion, eyes softening as she watches the gears turn in your head. “Can I tell you something without you waving your hand at me again?”

“Probably not, but go ahead.”

“He did ask me about you the other day,” she says. “Asked if I’d seen you and if you were doing alright. Last night, you two just missed each other. He sat right where you’re sitting now for twenty minutes nursing one beer before he gave up and left. Kook nurses a beer for nobody.”

“He doesn’t even know me,” you snort, gathering the condensation of your watered-down drink. 

“He knows what kind of drink you like. For some men, that’s further along than most.”

And that’s a lot more than you plan on giving to anyone else but him. 

“Stacey, can I ask you something else?”

“‘Course, darlin’. Anything for you.”

You know what to do. It’s as clear as the sun after a summer storm. 

“What do cowgirls wear?”

Oh god. 

Oh god. 

Who knew cowboy boots were this tight around the calves? The white fabric digs into your skin, leaving imprints you’re sure will never erase. The hem of your ridiculously short denim shorts rise up your ass, practically digging into your thong. Before you left your apartment, you made a promise to yourself—one you’re very close to breaking—that you won’t pull those shorts down. 

This get-up can’t possibly be comfortable, but never mind what you think. It’s not about you or your outfit choices tonight. 

This was not what you had in mind when you asked Stacey what cowgirls wear. What you had in mind was something tasteful. What Stacey had couriered to your apartment via her cousin Deanna, who runs a boutique off Fifth Street, was a white lace top cropped to somewhere just above your navel, distressed denim shorts, and boots the color of fresh cream that zip up the side and are currently engaged in warfare with your calves and ankles.

You felt like a prize cow up for auction. A very well-dressed prize cow, but one nonetheless. 

You swing the door open to Coyote’s. It’s rowdier on a Friday night. The place is packed shoulder to shoulder, girls in outfits like yours and boys in their finest everything, hats and buckles and boots, the jukebox fighting to be heard over the noise of two dozen conversations happening at once. You push your way through the packed space, fighting your way to the bar where Stacey and her counterpart are furiously making drinks. 

God, these shorts are really tight up your ass.

Her hair whips around as she tries to tend to five people at once. You don’t dare try to get her attention on a busy night like this. But as if she can sense your presence, she turns around, and the shaker nearly flies out of her hand. “Good god almighty.” Her eyes grow to the size of saucers, then lets out a whistle that anyone can hear above the music. “Atta girl!”

She slaps the counter with one palm, then grabs her colleague by the sleeve without looking at him. “Pete. Pete, turn ‘round.”

The aforementioned man turns around, mimicking Stacey’s expression. “Well. Welcome to Texas, ma’am.”

You smile politely. “Thank you, Pete.”

“Told ya,” Stacey squeals, reaching for the tequila, pointing at you like she’s won first place at an arcade. “Told you. Did I not tell you?”

“You told me.”

“What’d I tell ya?”

Your brows furrow, racking your brain as you try to remember words, which for your sake, were many. “That I had a hell of a body and you’d throw me down on the pool table—”

“No!” she rolls her eyes. “That you’d clean up nice,” 

She shoots Pete a look that makes him stop ogling your tits and find the other end of the bar very interesting. She starts on your margarita, and you settle onto your stool and try not to let your eyes do the thing they want to do, which is scan the back corner by the pool table.

Three older men are nursing beers at the far end, next to a couple sharing a basket of fries. A row of women line the jukebox, scanning the room in hopes of finding their cowboy for the night. Somehow, you relate to them now more than ever. 

“Ain’t no way a pretty girl like you is all alone tonight.”

A man’s voice appears behind your left shoulder… and it’s completely and utterly the wrong fucking voice. Not the right timbre, or warmth, or scent underneath it that makes you want to lean into it. 

Said man sidles up beside you, and you peer up at him. All things considered, he’s not unattractive. Brown hair, good jaw, a Miller Lite in one hand and a handsome smile that’s probably worked on most people. He tips his hat and leans against the bar. “Colin,” he offers.

“Nice to meet you. [Y/N].” You give him your hand to shake, and he does so politely. 

“You new ‘round here?” His flirting is more than apparent. 

“That obvious?”

“Little bit.” He grins. In a life where you hadn’t spent the last two weeks being dismantled by a man with a lip ring and a ranch, you might have smiled back with intention. “Can I get you a drink?”

“She’s got one.”

Stacey slams the margarita down on the bartop with enough force to make the sugar on the rim jump, and looks at Colin with an implacable expression. “Move it Colin. This one’s Kook’s girl.”

Colin’s hands defensively come up, the universal gesture of a man who knows what hills are and are not worth dying on. “My bad. Have a good night, ma’am.”

“Sorry about her,” you call after his retreat. Colin was perfectly nice and none of this is his fault.

“Don’t you dare apologize to him,” Stacey scolds. “You’ll be fending ‘em off all night with that outfit. I hope you prepared.”

You gaze down at yourself, and a flicker of doubt moves through you. “I don’t look dumb, do I? Be honest. I can handle it.”

“Sweetheart, the only person in this bar who’s gonna think you look dumb is you.”

Of their own accord, your eyes drift around the bar again. 

Stacey takes the time to add, “And Jungkook, is definitely not going to think you look dumb.”

You fight the urge to roll your eyes for the nth time since you’ve met her. 

“Move along,” Stacey says, turning back to her next customer, waving you off with the dish rag, “Go on. I’ve got work to do.”

“I haven’t seen you care about a work since the day I met you—”

“Scram, kid.”

You peel your hand off the bar like a kid being dropped off on the first day of school, a pit of reluctance settling in your stomach. 

Almost immediately, the attention begins. A few men tip their hats at you, while another does a double take while aggressively elbowing his friend in the ribs. Someone lets out a low whistle that you feel in your spine, and you nod politely, keep moving. 

It’s profoundly strange. Sure, you can recognize you’re a pretty girl. But in New York, you were invisible, which is to say completely unless someone wanted something from you. Here, people look at you like you’re someone they want to be near, no matter what they can get from you. You just wish it was one specific person doing the looking.

Migrating towards the back, you push through clusters of people, squeezing through gaps in the crowd. The women are less forgiving than the men. Some eye your outfit, then look away in disgust. 

Eventually, you find a sliver of wall near the back and stand near it, not on it, margarita held tight to your chest. From here, you can see the layout of the bar. The dance floor, the jukebox, bodies packed between you and the exit. Groups of men cluster together like men do at bars. 

“Kook! Over here, man!”

Your eyes find the source before your brain catches up. A blonde, fit man weasels through the crowd, waving down the one person you’ve been hoping to see. 

There’s no slow motion, no cinematic lighting change, no romantic song swelling up from the jukebox at the precise moment. People around him part without noticing they’re doing it, a gap opening up like the bar itself is making room for Jungkook’s grand entrance. 

Your stomach drops through the floor. Butterflies that you want to convince yourself are just anxiety or tequila detonate all at once, wings beating against your ribs so feverishly you press your hand flat to your chest to hold it all in.

This is stupid, you think. This is so stupid. He’s just a man.

He reaches his friend, and you can see him under the dim lights. Jungkook’s in a black jean jacket, wife beater underneath, black hat adorned on top of his head. He’s smiling, saying something, unaware of you pressed against this wall.

Two women near the jukebox drop their voices, heads together as they giggle. A girl in red boots nudges her friend while eyeing him. 

Fuck. You hadn’t once stopped to think about all the competition you might have. 

You wonder how many girls he’s offered a ride, or to see his ranch. 

His eyes move across the bar, and on instinct, your spine straightens. He seems to scan the bar, eyes moving through the crowd. Past the jukebox, the dance floor, past the bar.

And then, after what feels like eons, his eyes land on you. 

The noise of the bar goes fuzzy around the edges, heart leaping into your throat as you hold his gaze. His eyes drag down the length of your body, pausing at the sliver of your waist. He continues on, past the shorts and down to the boots that hug your feet. From meters away, you watch his jaw set and gaze darken. 

Jungkook tips his hat, and you raise your glass. 

Turning to the friend beside him, he whispers something brief into his ear. The friend turns to look at you then swivels back to Jungkook to shove him in your direction. 

Electricity lights behind your sternum and radiates outward, down your arms, into your fingertips where they’re wrapped around the cold glass, and you think Carrie Underwood was right. Those damn cowboy casanovas. 

He moves through the crowd in your direction, eyes unwavering from yours. His musky, tree-like scent hits you first. Up close, the black jean jacket sits across his broad shoulders. His lips are curled into a sinister smirk that would scare you if you didn’t find him unbelievably attractive. 

“Howdy, cowboy,” you grin up at him. 

Jungkook cocks his head. His hand comes out, two nimble fingers catching the hem of your lace top. Your heart leaps clean out of your chest and goes somewhere it can’t be retrieved from. “This all for me, sugar?”

“Don’t get too cocky.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “I’ll try not to.” He doesn’t bother pretending he’s not ogling you. 

“Trying to get in touch with my Texan roots, y’know?” you joke, playing with the straw in what you hope is flirtatiously.

“Yeah? C’mon then.” He holds his hand out, chin tilting up. “Give me a twirl, sugar.”

With a smile, you place your hand in his and turn, jutting your hip out. You rotate under the light and when you come back to face him, his eyes have darkened enough that you can hardly see the brown in them. 

He politely whistles, still holding your hand but bringing it down. “Well. If I knew Texas was gonna do that to a city girl, I’d have started recruitin’ from New York a long time ago.”

“You scouting for others?”

“Never,” he chuckles. He braces one hand against the wall beside your head. “You know, I’ve had a cowgirl fantasy or two as well.”

“Have you?”

“Mhm. Used to think it was about the boots." His eyes drop to your shorts, the way your hips hug the fabric. “Think I might’ve been wrong about that.”

“What’s it about then?”

“The girl wearing ‘em.”

“Scout’s honor?” you tease, and the smile that curls upon his lips sets your insides on fire. 

“Always,” he salutes. “I was getting worried I wouldn’t see you ‘round here no more.” 

From here, you can really see the height difference between you two, the way he towers over you. “I wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye.”

“Is this a goodbye, sugar? Don’t break my heart,” he says, voice rumbling in his chest. 

Involuntarily, you grin. “I wanted to make sure when I came back here, I knew what I wanted.”

For a moment, he’s quiet, expression shifting. His fingers are still intertwined with yours, and his thumb rubs circles on your knuckles. “And now what do you want?”

“Hi, Kook.”

It’s one of the girls you spotted earlier. She’s batting her eyes like she’s got a speck of dust in it, and is eyeing Jungkook in a way that makes her intention crystal clear. 

“Hey.” Jungkook glances at her for a second, maybe two, before his gaze is back on you. 

“I wanted to come over and say hi. Know it’s been a while since we last saw each other,” she purrs, ignoring your daggered eyes. 

“I guess,” he shrugs, a protective finger looping through the belt holes in your shorts to pull you an inch further into him. Suddenly, you feel painfully inadequate. She’s actually trying to dissuade him to pick her instead of you. 

“Remember when we spent that night under the stars last month? Just you, I, and a bottle of Jack—”

She shifts her weight onto her other foot, and she casts a furtive glance at you as if to question your presence. You’re questioning your existence right about now too. 

“Hm.” He interrupts, tucks a strand of your hair behind your ears. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

Her lips twist as though she’s just bit into a lemon. Then she sends a harrowing look in your direction, and you’re reminded that you’re the reason he won’t give her the time of day. You don’t really give a shit, though. 

“Oh. Alright, then. Have a good rest of your night.” Her tone is tinged with hurt as she turns on the heel of her boots and flocks back to her group of girls, all of whom are busy throwing dirty looks at you. 

Jungkook nods, but he doesn’t pay much mind. His dark eyes are still fixed on your face, thumb still looped through the hole. 

“That wasn’t very nice,” you say into your drink. 

“You want me to be nice to her?” he coyly smiles. 

You think you’d rather lose all your limbs in a fire. 

You shrug in silence. Jungkook tilts your jaw up to meet his eyes. “You were about to say something before.”

“Was I?”

“Before we were interrupted,” he retorts, settling his hand in your jean pocket. 

“Oh.” Finding the words doesn’t come easy, even if you know exactly what you want to say. Instead, you settle on, “Did you drive here?”

“‘Course, sugar.”

“Well… you wanna get out of here?” 

Amusement crosses his face. “Damn right I do.”

He plants a warm hand at the small of your back, guiding you toward the door. You drop your half-drunken margarita on a nearby table. As you let yourself be steered by him, there’s a smug smile glued to your face, especially when you catch the eyes and whispers of girls. There’s something about this city, this man, that makes you confident in yourself. 

Jungkook parked his car in the back of the filled lot. From there, the noise dissipates into nothingness, nothing but the sound of bugs chirping and cars in the distance on I-40. Out here, you can forget about your old life. 

“Earlier, you asked what I wanted.”

“I did, sugar.” He’s loitering with his keys in his pocket, a smirk evident on his lips as he leans against the driver’s door of his pickup truck. 

You gnaw at your lower lip. “I think I want to repay my debts to you.”

“Really?” In the dark of the night, you can hardly make out his obsidian eyes, the shadows on his face settling. “How do ya plan on doing that?”

“Think I owe you that ride still.”

His lips come crashing down onto yours, large hands weaving into your hair, tugging on it. You unabashedly moan into his mouth as he tugs you further into him, like he wants you to live in his skin. Your hand lands on his chest, and you feel the broad muscle under his tank, the rapid flutter of his heart. His tongue licks into your mouth, sloppy and full of desire, and you don’t even care about how your whimpers sound against him. It’s all so sudden your body takes a moment to find its rhythm, but when you do, you realize how soft his lips are, how such a good fucking kisser he is. You probably shouldn’t have expected anything less from the Austin's communal mattress, but that’s neither here nor there. 

The hand once pressed against your back wanders down, down until he’s cupping your ass firmly. He kneads the skin, and he groans into your mouth, lips hot and wet against your own. Austin, Texas is known for its sweltering heat, but with Jungkook’s body against yours, the brisk, night air can’t even cool you down. 

His lips trail off your lips, pressing against your cheek, and you feel the cold metal of his piercing against your burning skin. “You look so pretty in this outfit, sugar.”

Your body combusts under his weight and words. His tongue slides back into your mouth, hand moving from your ass to your neck where he gently clutches around it. “Wore it for you,” you whisper between kisses. 

“Hm.” he pecks your lips once more. “I was hoping so. Must be real lucky to be the first cowboy to have you.”

“And the last,” you say before leaning back in for another messy kiss, drunk off the way he tastes, more than any alcohol could ever give you. 

His hands come down to cradle the back of your thighs, and before you can protest, he’s lifting you, pressing your back against the door of his truck. Gasping, your hands scramble for purchase around his neck, thighs snugly hugging his waist. Jungkook’s lips press against your neck, trailing open-mouthed kisses wherever he can. You want all of him, more of him, by any means you can get it. Your fingers entangle in his dark locks, tugging at the nape. He groans, “F-fuck, we need to get in the car, sugar.”

“Mhm, take me there, then,” Your smile is dopey as he carries you around to the passenger side, opening the door and sitting down so he can plop you directly onto his lap. His thighs are firm muscle beneath you. He slams the door shut, lips finding yours once more. Your knees cage him in, and he digs his fingers into your flesh. You can hardly keep up with the movement of his tongue, can’t really do anything but open your mouth and take whatever he gives you. 

For once, you don’t care about anyone seeing you, or what anyone might think. Luckily, the lot is empty, save for people who are far more worried about entering the bar than leaving, or whatever you’re doing in this vehicle. 

“Lift your hips up for me, doll,” he mutters, lips hardly breaking from yours, fingers deftly unbuttoning your shorts. You do as he says, allowing him access. He slides your shorts down your legs, depositing them on the floor of his truck. Your knees feel like jelly, quivering with anticipation as he tugs your underwear off next. Desperately, you fall back into his lap, clit pressed against his jeans for as much friction as possible. 

Beneath you, you can feel his hard length poking through his jeans, and your cheeks warm up at the thought of him getting hard from just some kissing. You gently test the waters, hips rolling into his crotch. He grunts, hands steadying your movements. “Fuck, sugar, I won’t last long if you plan on doing that.”

“Who says I want you to last long?” you whisper, lips tracing the shell of his ear. And then he’s grabbing you by your jaw and pulling you in, in, in, kissing you like he wants to swallow your essence entirely. He pulls the straps of your top down until your tits pop out. You gasp at the sudden exposure, cold air causing your nipples to perk up. His fingers come to play with the pert bud, and you whimper atop him. 

“Most perfect tits I’ve ever seen, sugar.” He trails open-mouthed kisses down your neck to your collarbone, tongue licking a path down to your breasts. His lips wrap around your perked nipple, and a choked moan escapes you. 

Your fingers intertwine in his hair, tugging, and that elicits a groan from him. His tongue flicks the nipple up, down, and your back arches against the dashboard. You tug at his hair as he messily sucks your tits, leaving bruises you’re sure will last weeks. Jungkook’s hips rut into your sopping entrance hopelessly, and his length pokes into your inner thigh. You’re pretty sure you’re creaming all over his pants, not that he even minds. On every hitch of his hips forward, his teeth grazes your nipple, undoing you. 

Truth be told, you’ve been soaked since the moment you laid eyes on him. Since the moment you saw the hat upon his head, muscles bulging out of everything he owns. You push his jean jacket off his shoulders, seeing the tattoo that extends across his biceps and collarbone, a myriad of color. 

Finally, he peers up at you, swollen lips and blown pupils. You waste no time in pressing your lips to his again. He can probably taste the remaining sugar from your margarita on your tongue, and if anything, the thought seems to excite him, the thought that other parts of you may be sweet as well. Gripping onto his biceps, you can feel the veins that trace up his arms. A whine exits from the back of your throat. “Jungkook, touch me.”

“Hm, where, sugar? Use your words.” He presses a chaste kiss to the edge of your lips. 

Words aren’t something you can muster, so you take his hand and place it against your clit, right where he can feel how fucking soaked you are, dripping onto his jeans. “Shit,” he curses, swallowing thickly. “You’re dripping. You been like this the whole time?”

Eagerly, you nod like a broken bobblehead. 

One finger dips between your folds, gathering your essence before taking it back to his mouth and licking it clean off. “Just as sweet as I imagined.”

There’s no air left in your lungs to form words with, no brainpower beyond the feeling of wanting more, more, more. His finger finds your clit, and you throw your head back, moaning loudly that you’re damn near certain the entirety of Texas heard you. Toothily, Jungkook grins, pointer and middle finger rubbing circles against your clit. His tongue comes to lick a trail up your neck, sucking the sweet spot behind your ear. It’s like he has a map to you, knows exactly where to touch you to have you writhing. 

A finger slides through your wetness before finally pushing into your entrance, down to his knuckle. Your fingernails rake down his biceps, leaving red marks in its place. He fucks the finger steadily in and out, thumbing at your clit simultaneously. “Ngh—fuck, don’t stop,” you moan, grinding into his finger. Just one isn’t enough, you know it won’t be, need to feel him fill you up. 

“P-please,” you beg, although you’re not quite sure what you’re begging for. But he seems to understand, pushing a second finger inside you, curling upwards to your sweet spot. Your body jolts forward, nails now digging crescent moons into his skin. “Oh fuck, feels so good.”

“Can’t wait to be inside you,” he groans. “Your pussy’s so tight and warm. Gonna be a dream to fuck you, sugar.”

“M-me either.” You shiver, and on autopilot, your shaky fingers come to undo his belt buckle, unzipping his jeans. “Please fuck me, Kook. I want it. Want to feel you inside me.”

“Yeah?” He presses open-mouthed kisses against your cheek and nose, “Want me to fuck you the way you deserve?”

A long, languid moan escapes you, anticipation leaping into your throat. “Please. Please l-let me give you that ride.”

“If you insist,” he devilishly smiles, pulling his fingers out of you, licking them clean once more. He pulls down his boxers as much as he can with you on top, gets out his cock, and hisses as he strokes himself a few times. 

Shit. You should’ve known he would be big, but he’s at least twice the size of your ex. Saliva pools in your mouth at how veiny and red his cock is. His hat hangs over his eyes as he looks down at his cock, chest heaving and bottom lip tucked underneath his teeth. 

It’s like a lightbulb flashes over your head, with an idea so sinister you almost can’t believe you came up with it yourself. 

You get your hands on the soft fabric of his hat, nudging it off his head and placing it on yours. It’s a little too big, hangs over your eyes, but Jungkook’s jaw goes slack nonetheless. “You gonna give me that ride while you wear my hat?” His cock twitches in his palm as he lazily strokes it, eyes never leaving yours. 

“Uhu,” you agree, replacing his hand with yours on his cock. He’s girthier than you imagined, can hardly fit the whole of him in your palm. He quickly moves to kiss you again, and you take the opportunity to glide the tip of his cock through your folds, gathering the arousal that’s pooled. You both moan in unison. 

“Fuck, don’t tease me, sugar,” he grunts, eyes glazed over with lust. 

Whimpering, you obey him, and his cock enters you in one go. Your walls stretch to accommodate him, and it’s a slow, torturous slide down, until your folds hit his pelvic bone. He sharply inhales, cursing as his head hits the headrest. Your legs tremble with how full of him you feel, how much of him bulges in your stomach when you look down. “Fuck, Kook. Y’you’re so big.”

Jungkook’s calloused hands run up and down your sides. His face is mostly hidden behind the shadows in his car, but you can make out his rosy lips and cheeks. “I know, baby, but you can take it. Go ‘head and give me that ride you owe me.”

Slowly, you move up and down, only a mere inch at a time. Just enough to see the bulge inside your stomach move a tad. The hat slides further over your eyes as you gently move. He tips it back, cupping your cheek so he can see how fucked out you look already. “C’mon, use me, sugar. Show me how you ride dick.”

You nod in response, your cunt clenching around his length. Arousal drips down his cock onto his abdomen, and your head hits the ceiling as you use all your strength to bounce on his cock. Loud whines and curses fill the space, Jungkook’s mouth buried into your neck, hands coming to spread your ass cheeks so you can take him deeper. “Yeah, that’s it. Ride my fucking cock, sugar.” 

The sounds fog up the window—your pussy squelching with each thrust, the slap of his balls against your ass, his throaty groans. 

“These fucking tits. Wanna see them bounce in my face all the time,” he says, a hand coming up to slap your hardened nipples, and you moan. A trickle of sweat falls down your back, falling into the fabric that has now pooled around your waist. “You doing good, sugar?” His voice is sinful, and your cunt clenches around him again. 

“Mhm. Your cock is so deep inside me.” Bouncing becomes more tiresome, thighs trembling with pent-up desire. Unfortunately, it’s not as easy to ride cock as one had hoped, but you’re determined to get you and him over the edge. 

His hair is ruffled by your fingers as he trails a path of sloppy, wet kisses to the valley of your breasts. “You look so fucking good with my hat on.” Even though the edge is tipping over your eyes again, he fondly peers at you, how utterly blissed out your expression looks, cheeks ruddy. 

Somehow, he must feel the exhaustion creeping upon you, because he plants his boots onto the floor and bucks up into you, causing moans to elicit from you. “Fuck, your pussy’s so tight n’ wet. It’s like a fucking drug, sugar,” he croons into your neck. 

His cock plunges in and out of you with more force. Jungkook wraps an arm around your waist, tugging you tight, tight, tight to his chest, tits bouncing against him. You hold onto the hat, leaning against the dashboard so he can hit your sweet spot, just where you want him. “Oh—fuck, right there, Kook!”

His teeth drag against your skin, hips pistoning in and out. Puffs of breath escape his mouth and hit your skin. “If you were mine, would never let ya go,” he babbles, clearly pussy drunk. “Ain’t never letting you get near another cowboy. You’re all mine now, sugar.” 

Clearly, your body takes a liking to the buckets of filth he’s pouring in your ear, and your walls clench around his length, your imminent orgasm creeping up on you. “Jungkook,” you whimper, and the pit in your stomach grows and grows, the knot almost coming undone as he continues hitting what you think might be your cervix. 

You swear you feel him in your stomach as he says. “You gonna cum? Gonna cum all over my cock? Make a mess of my truck?” 

“Gonna cum, Kook. Please make me cum,” you chant, and then it’s a gush of wetness escaping you, back arching far enough that the hat falls onto the console, thighs trembling and jaw slack. Normally, you’d be embarrassed, but all you can think about is the adrenaline pumping through your veins, walls frantically clamping down on him as you ride out your orgasm. 

“Are you gonna cum inside me?” You’re sure you sound desperate when you ask, but he peers up at you with hooded eyes and responds, “If that’s what you want, sugar.”

It only takes a few more pumps of his hips to send him over the edge as well, hips stuttering, before groaning and emptying himself inside you. Slumping against his chest, his cock twitches, then softens inside you, and all that can be heard in the truck is the sound of you two struggling to catch your breath. 

“Holy shit,” is all you can say. 

His nails gently run down your spine, sending goosebumps blossoming across your skin. “Good ride?” he jokes, pressing kisses down the slope of your shoulder. 

“Totally worth it.”

And you mean it, every ounce of it. Can see the sunshine and rainbows, the things you thought were once hidden behind dark clouds. 

Just like you thought it would, it was good. Probably even better than that, probably impossible to find a word in the English dictionary to describe it. Enough so that maybe, you’ll extend your year-long lease in Texas. Make it two, perhaps. 

“Jungkook?”

“Hm, sugar?”

“Can you take me to the ranch?”

A chuckle reverberates through his chest, and you feel it everywhere his skin touches yours. “Yeah, darlin’. How ‘bout tomorrow?”

he whispered hotly against your ear before placing a soft kiss against it.

“kookie…” you breathed.

you bite your bottom lip hard as his hand found your soaked panties, fingers finding your swollen pussy folds and the amount of arousal you were producing for him.

he groans at the feel of it and how your clit throbs right against his thumb.

“you're so wet already, you like this huh? risking it with him right there.”

you nodded, heart pounding.

the fear of getting caught any moment only seemed to heighten the moment and make you even hornier.

it made you feel naughty and shameless but you ached for him so much.

your lips part wantonly when he pushes your panties aside, his middle finger traced the shape of your slit, swiping against your clit in a way that makes your entire back arch.

you buried your face in the pillow to muffle your moan.

“mmph!”

he has teased you so much in the earlier texts and the masturbation has left you so sensitive.

it felt like you could cum any moment even before he touched you properly.

the pleasure of building quick and sharp

you pulled him close, fisting the back of his hair, his tongue traces the seam of your lip which you parted willingly until both your tongues intertwined in a sloppy hot makeout.

the tip of his finger penetrated you along with the sex motions of his tongue.

he swallowed the cute little noises escaping you while he panted.

he growled when with one slippery impatient rock of your hips, you took his long finger all the way inside.

“yesss.”

you let out a cry louder than you intended, from the relief of having some part of him inside you.

“sweet girl you need to be—”

jungkook's rushed voice got cut off for a second, a sudden creak made you both freeze, wide lustful eyes locked onto each other.

you heard the noise of sheets rustling, followed by a sleepy voice.

“….the hell was that?”

Auntie Lin’s only piece of advice after you announced your acceptance of your first corporate job: Small talk is your best friend. The advice hadn’t registered in your mind until you facilitated a meeting with executive management where the first five minutes of silent judgement nearly made you quit the job until you asked, “Any weekend plans?”

You learned the power of small talk and how obsessed executive leaders were when it came to bragging about their personal lives outside the office. The advice worked so well, management gave you an unprompted promotion two weeks later.

Nothing wrong with being the personality hire if it helps you climb the corporate ladder. 

Okay, well, no, you had history with this company.

Your father’s connection with the talent acquisition management landed you an internship at this very company right out of high school, so you didn’t need to reestablish your rapport after graduating from university.

You’re still a hard worker. Yes … objectively speaking, nepotism played a part in your current successes — you don’t shy away from that fact.

Your charming and curious personality only got you so far, but the magic always stopped with one person.

Jeon Jeongguk.

Hard case to crack and even harder to not stare at when he’s within your vicinity.

He’s polished, well-spoken, and … let’s just say there are things you shouldn’t say or think about in a place of work, let alone towards someone in the senior management team. He hardly smiles and if he does, it’s never towards you.

Right now? You think the least Jeongguk could do is crack a smile at your joke to break the tension in the virtual meeting. No one liked hearing bad news and you became the bearer of bad news as you explained to the client why a deliverable will not be made by the proposed timeline.

Delivering bad news was a manager’s job and unfortunately, your manager entrusted you with this responsibility right before she left for maternity leave, raving about how it’ll build your leadership and communication skills … right, right.

Jeongguk was the other leader overseeing the project. His team met all the deliverables, so there was no real need for his attendance other than pure formalities. 

This was your chance to show him what you were capable of. 

“Mr. Choi, we apologize for not making the deadline. With half the team on leave, the estimated completion date will need to be extended as a result.” You explain.

Jeongguk sits and watches you exchange words with the client. The mic button remained on mute during the many moments you would’ve benefited from his direction or support. You didn’t think you’d have to go through a humiliation ritual the day before your big trip for your best friend’s wedding in Italy. It’s your turn to have your mic button on mute as you let the client chew you out in front of your peers.

“Mr. Choi.” Jeongguk interrupts.

Thank god, finally. 

“The deliverables will be completed by the original proposed due date. I will personally see through that.”

You exhale in relief once the client settles back into their chair, demeanor shifting from their outburst moments ago.

You [3:32 p.m.]: Thank you, Jeongguk.

As expected, he doesn’t reply. 

The meeting wraps up on a positive note thanks to Jeongguk’s interception. Everyone bids each other farewell until you hear a call of your name.

“Stay on the call. Need to discuss a few things with you.”

Confused, you aren’t sure why he doesn’t ask you to walk ten steps to his office to chat privately. You swallow and one by one, all of your colleagues leave the meeting until it’s just you and him. 

He sighs, letting his agitation come out freely now. He loosens his tie and fixes his frames on his nose.

“So …” you begin.

“Do you know what your first mistake was on that call?” He sneers, a complete one-eighty from the well-mannered speaker he was during the meeting.

“I’m–uh, not sure.” You reply honestly.

“‘We apologize,’” he repeats your words, “there is no ‘we’ in this — you were the one that didn’t meet the service level agreement. Learn to take accountability for your own shortcomings.”

Ouch.

He continues, “You also failed to offer any alternatives or incentive for the delay. This is about being reputable — customer experience dictates future collaborations with new clients. If this one goes sour, we lose our clientele.”

Each word morphed into daggers piercing and digging into your self-esteem.

The finishing blow?

“That being said, you will finish what we originally promised the client.”

“But,” your heart drops at the mention of working during your time off, “I’m not going to be in the country.”

“I’m sure there’s internet wherever you’re going.”

⋆｡𖦹 ˚ 𓇼 ˚｡⋆

“And then! He said I’m paid salary, not hourly, so it doesn’t matter how long I need to work — I just need to get it done.” You complain to your colleague, Mina, who happened to work under Jeongguk’s section. 

“Oof, sorry girl.” She pours the coffee into her cup, unsurprised by her boss’ expectations. Setting the pot back onto the warmer, she leans against the counter. It’s just the two of you in the breakroom, free from prying eyes and ears. “So what are you gonna do?”

You groan. As much as you’d like to ramble and moan about how unreasonable Jeongguk’s demands were, you knew he was right about needing to take accountability.

“Well, if I push in some work in the early morning and night the first couple of days in Italy, I should be able to get it done.” You sigh. “Just hate it.”

Mina pats your shoulder and gives you a reassuring smile, which soon changes into a bewildered expression as she digs her fingers into your shoulder.

“Oh, hey bossman, here for a coffee refill?” Mina’s voice strains, projected to the space behind you.

You turn and there stands Jeon Jeongguk in all his glory. While you had the privilege to see him earlier today during the virtual meeting, nothing compared to the real deal. Dressed in an all-black suit, Jeongguk looks ever immaculate. His face is free from his metal-framed glasses, but they leave their small indentations on the sides of his nose. The deadliest combo came in the form of his hair pushed back, exposing his wrinkle-free forehead.

If it weren’t for his wired earphones and outdated iPod you caught him with during his walk, you would’ve never guessed his age. Technically, you still don’t know the exact number but Anna in Human Resources hinted he’s in his mid to late thirties.

Whatever. Age is just a number and hasn’t stopped you from trying to befriend the older man. 

“Yes, my third one today.” He muses.

“Anything the team and I can do to help wrap up things for you before your vacation?” Mina probes.

Wait. You never caught wind of that.

“No,” he shakes his head, “thank you, though.”

Your heart stirs at the low timbre of his chuckle, surprised at his abilities in displaying any other emotions outside his stoic expression. You theorize it comes easier with an established rapport. 

Maybe you’ll try your luck today.

“How long are you going to be out for?” You ask, moving to the side so he has better access to the coffee pot. His scent naturally fills your space — a mixture of fresh laundry and cedarwood. 

“Two weeks.”

“Oh, same here!” You beam. 

“Yes, you’ve mentioned that quite a bit this month.”

You warm in embarrassment; though, the feelings get swept underneath the rug at another fact.

He listened — more importantly, he remembered your many musings. 

“I’m going to Italy.” You remark, hoping he’d give a little more detail on his own vacation if you shared a bit about your upcoming adventures.

Jeongguk freezes momentarily and clears his throat before setting down the nearly empty pot.

“That’s nice.”

Seizing the moment to continue the conversation, you throw out details of your trip, namely for the wedding you’ll attend as maid of honor for your best friend.

“And they’re going to have this lovely venue near the beach. It’s going to be great.” You marvel.

“Ugh, I’m jealous,” Mina pouts. “Are you going to be doing something fun during your time off, Jeongguk?” 

You watch him with expectant eyes.

“Tending some family matters.”

That’s corporate lingo for: it’s personal, so none of your business. Everyone knows to back off on the topic at that point.

Taking a sip of his coffee after mixing a pack of Splenda, he offers a tight-lipped smile, “I have to head back to the desk. Enjoy your break.”

Alone with Mina once again, you look at her with defeated eyes.

“He’s just introverted and private, babe. I wouldn’t sweat it.” She waves.

“I’ve been here for over a year and he’s never like this to management or clients.” You sigh. “Maybe I’m the problem.”

It’s hard to not take things to heart being a natural born people pleaser. You want to be liked and if you’re not, at least know why; except, Jeongguk kept things strictly work related with all the little pocket of interactions you’ve had with him. 

If you were brave enough, you’d ask him about it over coffee or lunch — anywhere that might give you a glimpse of who he is outside of work. 

“Don’t mind him. In about twenty-four hours, you’ll be in Italy! Last time you updated, the best man was a little wishy-washy about the wedding? How’s that going?”

“Jihyo said Seojun got it sorted out, so they’re okay.” All you know from the matter is how much of a struggle it was to get a definite answer from his best man. Prick move and unnecessary stress for the wedding party. Had you been in Seojun’s position, you would’ve cut losses and moved forward without the best man early on.

Planning a wedding was difficult enough, let alone dealing with difficult people in the wedding party. You pray he steps into his role as the best man to lessen the to-be-wedded couple’s worries. 

“Good. Wedding drama’s the worst.” Mina nods. “Still haven’t recovered from finding out my cousin’s husband was fucking his cousin.” 

The gossip session goes for another fifteen minutes until you begrudgingly head back to finish up some last minute tasks. You weren’t going to be that coworker who leaves a bunch of unfinished work for your backup. 

Another thing you didn’t want to be was like your father, but you’re no different by the time you finish your pending tasks at 9:52 p.m. You do a quick once-over your automatic out-of-office notice and send out a list of items for your backup to look after before stuffing all your belongings into your workbag.

Going home was always your favorite time of the day, granting you the chance to walk past Jeongguk’s office. Even from where you’re standing, the lights in his office are the only ones still on out of all the managers on the floor.

His door remains slightly ajar throughout the day aside from the times he’s on a call or speaking to one of his employees. An ‘open door policy,’ Mina explained. Wants the folks on his team comfortable coming to him with their needs or questions.

You didn’t need anything, per se. There were plenty of questions floating in your head, but none that would qualify as work-related or professional. Things like … where are you going for vacation? Would you like to grab dinner together? … Are you seeing anyone? 

Your short almond shaped nails tap on his metal name plaque outside his office.

He looks up from his computer, the monitor’s brightness setting doing little to hide his exhausted stare. One brow raised, he cocks his head to the side.

“Come in.”

You take in your surroundings: a shelf containing all his Employee of the Year awards, empty “In” bin as opposed to a stacked “Out” bin, and half-finished cup of coffee. Above all, no pictures of his family or signs of life outside of work.

A stark contrast in comparison to your cubicle full of small trinkets, pictures of your loved ones, and cards you’ve received from both your coworkers and clients.

“Just wanted to say goodnight and thank you again for joining the meeting.” You say. “I followed up with the client with your recommendations and they’re happy with the timeline.”

He nods. “I’m glad it worked out.”

“Well,” You rock on your heels, not wanting to leave just yet, “I’ll see you in two weeks. Hope you have a nice time off, Jeongguk.”

He leans back into his deskchair, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose as he studies your face. His black dress shirt stretches and expands tightly at a passing thought; at the last second, he makes his resolve in foregoing the notion for simpler words.

“Likewise. Safe travels to Italy.”

⋆｡𖦹 ˚ 𓇼 ˚｡⋆

Despite the two layovers and many near-death turbulences later, you arrive in Venice, Italy in one piece. Your best friend, Jihyo, was the first person you see at the gates, smile lighting up the building when she finally spots you through the crowds. These days, she glows more with her soon-to-be husband, Seojun.

You’ve met him only a handful of times and he’s always been kind. You don’t know him well enough, but as long as your friend was happy, so were you.

Which is why she’s going all out for her wedding — it’s her chance to do what she wants with those who care for her. Jihyo’s parents unfortunately did not extend their support and care. They were so against the idea of her marrying a person of no status, her father threatened to cut off all ties and funds if she were to go through with marrying Seojun. 

“My favorite person is finally here!” She squeezes you in her arms. “How was the flight? Are you hungry? We can go get a quick bite.”

“Jihyo, love, slow down,” Seojun comes from behind and offers you a kind greeting. “You must be exhausted. We can head back to the hotel. Just waiting for my uncle to clear customs.”

“Oh! Do you know when he’ll land?” You ask.

“I think he was on the same flight as you, so he should be out soon.” He pulls out his phone to answer a quick text before scanning the area. 

“Think that’s him.” He squints. “Uncle, over here!” He extends his arm above his head. 

You expected a fifty year old balding man, not senior manager, Jeon Jeongguk. 

Fuck.

⋆｡𖦹 ˚ 𓇼 ˚｡⋆

You didn’t think you’d ever ride in the same car as one of your managers, especially one you had a dire crush on. You definitely didn’t think you’d be seated in the back of a rental car with him in Italy for your best friend’s wedding.

This whole scenario has to be straight out a romcom … or, in your case, a horror film.

You open up the notes app in your phone and type out a quick message: Do we tell them we know each other? 

What you really wanted to ask was: Why the hell didn’t you say anything about this being the “family matter” you had to take care of?

He takes your phone from your hand and begins typing something before handing it back to you. Nothing from your original note was edited, but a second later a notification comes through.

Jeongguk [4:56 p.m.]: No. Too complicated. You [4:56 p.m.]: Okay..

“Uncle.” Seojun looks at the rear mirror. “How’s work been?”

“Busy,” he sighs. “But it’s been getting better.”

“I’m glad. Hope these two weeks will give you the break you need. You didn’t bring your work laptop, right?” He presses.

Kind of cute seeing the younger male lecture his uncle — cuter seeing Jeongguk grumble at his nephew’s nagging.

“No promises.”

“Speaking of work,” Jihyo chimes in, “How you coping with work?” She turns her entire body from the passenger seat to look at you.

The passengers in the car go silent for your reply, feeling Jeongguk’s shift from the work status inquiry.

“Fine.” You answer quickly.

“Really? That one manager didn’t give you more shit right–”

“Jihyo!” You interrupt, quickly covering up with an awkward laugh and stiff smile, “ Ha-ha … no, it’s been great!”

“Wha–? But you were venting about having to work during the trip … Honestly, that manager’s lucky he’s hot.”

“Ji–”

“Hot?” Jeongguk asks with a raised brow. There’s a lift in his voice, forcing you to bury and shrink deeper into your seat.

“Allegedly.” Jihyo replies mindlessly. Oblivious to your discomfort of the topic, Jihyo continues, “You still gotta sneak a picture of him when you can, babe. I need to see if his pretty privileges warrant this sort of power trip.” 

You’ve heard summers in Italy were magical. You wish for some of that magic to touch you right now — the kind good enough to make you disappear all together from this awkward conversation.

“Huh.” Jeongguk props his elbow by the car’s window ledge, palm covering his mouth. “I’m curious too.” 

Jihyo changes the topic to the itinerary she made for the wedding party; however, you couldn’t be bothered to tune into the details. Knowing Jihyo, she’ll eventually send the party a spreadsheet of the schedule.

You [5:02 p.m.]: Please ignore Jihyo 🥹

Your heart accelerates at the appearance of the infamous dots signaling Jeongguk’s reply in the making.

Jeongguk [5:03 p.m.]: I’ll try. Power trips make it insanely hard to.

You chew on your bottom lip out of habit, feeling the sweat gather behind your neck. Hand fanning your face, you glance over and notice a slight shake in Jeongguk’s stature. He’s still facing away from you and towards the window, but from the reflection, you can see the corners of his mouth lift.

Endorphins rush through your bloodstream at the thought of making him happy.

While chasing your happiness has always been your life motto, you wouldn’t mind chasing for Jeongguk’s happiness too.

⋆｡𖦹 ˚ 𓇼 ˚｡⋆

On Jihyo’s itinerary, she deliberately left Venice off from the rest of the wedding party arriving later at the actual wedding site. The next two days were solely meant to spend more time with the maid of honor and best man.

The first day in Venice naturally got cut short with your arrival time; so, the only thing Jihyo planned was a nice dinner after you and Jeongguk settled into your respective rooms. Dinner rolls by with just you, Jihyo, and Seojun perusing the menu for the umpteenth time. The seat, meant for Jeongguk, remains cold and empty. After about thirty minutes and a couple text messages, Seojun confirms with the waiter to remove the utensils and plate — something about his uncle not feeling well.

“Okay, but he’ll be at dinner tomorrow, right?” Jihyo frowns, eyes full of worry.

“Yes, love.” He smiles. “Just old man tendencies and jetlag got the best of him. He’ll be there tomorrow.”

Back at the hotel, you had half a mind to check in on him and just as you built up the courage to knock, the door swings open to reveal a Jeongguk you’ve yet to ever witness: dark grey compression shirt with five-inch inseam shorts. He has his wired earphones in and looks well rested, contrary to what Seojun mentioned at dinner about two hours ago.

“Oh, are you feeling better?” You ask, hand retracted and tucked behind your back.

His brows twitch, fingers removing one of the buds out his ear. “Sorry?”

“Seojun mentioned you weren’t feeling well. Are you better now?”

“Yep.” He answers.

Awkward. 

“Where you headed to? It’s late.” You rock on your heels, afraid you might’ve overstepped with your light interrogation.

“Saw a small running trail nearby, just wanna get some movement in.”

“Would you like—”

“Well, goodnight.” He places the earpiece back in and walks off, the scent of his fresh linen deodorant trails along with him.

“—company?” The end of your sentence comes out in a tiny whisper, the question dying on the tip of your tongue as his figure disappears in the distance.

It was going to be a long two weeks, but you’re optimistic for a chance to change the tides with Jeongguk. Maybe even get to know him a little better or collect more versions of who he may be outside of work before this trip ends.

Arms linked with Jihyo, you walk down the small alleyways of Venice the next day, marveling at the tiny trinkets on display. Seojun and Jeongguk were always a couple steps behind, mainly taking note of the repeating gelato flavors at each stand. Your ears perk when Jeongguk chuckles at Seojun’s excitement of finally finding a stall with a new flavor. His laugh rings deep and rich, something you’re rarely afforded at the workplace.

You hold up two carnival masks to your face. “Which one suits me better?” You preferred the pink one in your left hand, but the green in your right hand spoke to you as well.

“Mm, you know I’ll always favor pink, but is there room in your suitcase?” Jihyo inquires.

Well, no, but you could always buy another suitcase. 

“All going to end up as clutter once you’re home.” Jeongguk mutters to himself, eyeing the other trinkets on the shelf.

Whether or not it was directed at you, you put the mask back with the rest. The shop owner smiles, a little dejected at the missed sale, but with the numerous tourists filtering through the alley, he’s bound to make his daily quota by closing time.

The rest of the day is spent on trying new food — your favorite being the bruschetta flight near the waters. Again, Jeongguk and Seojun were always a couple steps behind, chatting about god knows what while you and Jihyo swap gelatos between every two or so licks. Venice was packed — mainly with tourists, but in a specific alleyway you all decided to turn into held a different kind of danger.

Pigeons. Lots of them. 

One could argue Venice might be the motherland to birds; you’re not in any position to disagree as you cower between the birds staring down at your group from the railings. They swarm around your feet, begging for whatever you’d offer or accidentally drop.

Lucky for you, a shop owner comes and throws out bits of their baguettes. All the pigeons flock over in pursuit of their (probable) tenth snack for the day. You breathe a sigh of relief for the small deterrence, walking quicker to escape from the flock.

“Phew, thought we were goners back there.” Jihyo jokes, looking back at the boys.

At the last second, a seagull swoops in and takes the unfinished gelato right from your hand. You let out a blood curdling scream, hand immediately letting go of the cone. You grab Jihyo by the shoulder and chant for the birds to take her as an offering instead.

Everyone within the vicinity laughed, some tourists offered a sympathetic smile and asked if you were okay. Among the laughter, Jeongguk’s chuckle echoes loudest in your head. It had never been your goal to become the group’s court jester, but you wouldn’t mind making it your life’s sole purpose for this version of him.

Seojun checks his watch. “Jihyo, baby, we still have five more hours to kill before our flight over to Sicily. Should we head back to the hotel? Uncle said he’s tired—”

Smile wiped off his handsome face, Jeongguk nudges the young man in the arm. “Don’t use me as a scapegoat.”

You never realized how much the two men resembled each other, catching you off guard when Jeongguk hooks his arm around Seojun’s neck, and rubs his knuckles over his nephew’s head. Their laughter comes out the same, pairing well with their toothy grins.

“We only have one last item on the itinerary.” Jihyo says, a fond smile at the sight of her happy fiance. “I wanted to do a little gondola ride.”

Most tourists seized the golden hour for their boat ride too, which sent you and your group on a hunt for an unoccupied gondola, eventually finding two docked boats on the opposite entrance of Venice.

“I’ll pass.” Jeongguk says with a hand up.

Jihyo pouts, pointing in your direction. “But she’d be all alone.”

“Oh, um, I don’t mind staying behind.” You smile, doing your best to not sound disappointed at the lost experience. “Can always ride a boat at home.”

“But Miss, when will you ride a gondola in Venice while the sun is setting?” One of the gondoliers pitches.

“He’s right.” Jihyo nods. “Please, Jeongguk?”

He’d rather not waste money on a tourist trap … one look at Jihyo’s pleading eyes in combination with his nephew’s displeased stare has him folding on the spot.

Defeated, he sighs, “Fine.”

Jihyo cheers, skipping over to the first boat lined up where Seojun waits patiently with a hand out for her.

Their boat rows off first and five minutes later, it was yours and Jeongguk’s turn to step into the gondola. He holds out his hand to steady your step, boat wobbling as you plant your first foot down. His hold lingers a little longer even when you’ve successfully made it into the boat. Eyes peering up at Jeongguk’s tall stature, your body heats up under his watchful gaze.

“Steady now?”

“Yes.” You chirp.

“Good.” He lowers you both carefully onto the small seats. Once secured, the gondolier begins his descent through the canals.

Naturally, you strike up a conversation with the gondolier, asking how many rides he averages a day to which he politely answers, ‘too many to count.’ The conversation goes on for another five minutes until Jeongguk sighs, a subtle signal for you to stop and take in your surroundings instead.

Despite the on and off whiffs of the decade old sewage lines rooted in the city, the ride descends to the narrower alleyways one would miss on foot. Water levels rising, the gondolier signals you both to duck at an approaching bridge. You hadn’t realized you didn’t duck low enough until you feel Jeongguk’s warm palm at the base of your head, urging you lower.

His hand rests there until it’s time for you both to lift your heads up again. So warm and thoughtful, unlike how he’s been treating you at work.

You might explode at the silence, finding the need to address the elephant in the room. What were the odds you’d be alone with Jeongguk again? What are the odds you’d be riding on a gondola in Venice, Italy with Jeongguk?

“Do you hate me?” You blurt out, immediately embarrassed at your sudden forwardness. The gondolier peers from the side and looks forward again, slowing his rowing motion with his oar. 

Jeongguk’s brows furrow, lips pressed into a thin line. “I don’t hate you.”

“It seems like you do. You always are just so …”

“So …?” He trails along.

“Mean.” You frown. Feeling more foolish for your lack of proper vocabulary words for such a serious confrontation, you do your best to explain. “You seem to get along with everyone else at work and even here. You’re nice to everyone but me.” 

He stares straight ahead, tongue probing against his cheek. He doesn’t respond right away and you deflate at your wasted effort in an attempt to understand Jeongguk beyond the cubicle. You only hear the waters splashing against the gondola as the oar steers you both to another quieter route. 

If Jeongguk didn’t hate you before, he probably does right now. So evident in his silence and unwillingness to discuss this topic, you wonder to yourself … were older generations this bad with expressing their emotions and thoughts? Your father was a great example, and while you don’t want to generalize an entire generation, Jeongguk drives a hard bargain.

“How’d you get into Cientra Corporations?” The question rolls out of Jeongguk with no hint of curiosity.

What did your place of work have anything to do with his alleged animosity? 

“I applied for an opening.” You answer.

His chuckles, full of mock and taunt. “When?”

You frown, a little taken aback by the conversation now turned into an interrogation.

“I think a month before my graduation?” Your stomach churns from the unpredictability of his next words.

“Right, of course.” Jeongguk looks to the side, eyes tracing the water stains on the old brick buildings.

“I’ve had plenty of internships during undergrad and I graduated early with honors.” His demeanor only makes you overexplain your qualifications. “My recruitment was done through a fair hiring process.”

“The position was not in the budget.” He rolls his eyes, his crossed arms accentuates his muscular build. If you were more shameless, you’d let your eyes linger at his chest for a little longer despite how his next words batters your pride. “Freshly graduated with little to no experience landing a mid-entry position?”

You’re not ashamed to admit you had a foot in thanks to your connections. Of course, you were unaware a position had been created just for you, but to insinuate you didn’t deserve your place … now, that was not something you’d take lightly.

“I’ve worked hard with all the opportunities—”

“As one should.” He interrupts. “But all your ‘opportunities’ only became yours because they were taken away from someone else. There were at least ten other highly qualified applicants in the candidate pool.” 

You open your mouth, but Jeongguk beats you to it, “One summer internship at Cientra wouldn’t have gotten anyone else into the company.”

Now that shatters you. You had really thought you stood out in the pool considering you had previously applied and interned for the same company. Now you’re rethinking whether you’ve also gotten the job purely from connections.

Fighting through your imposter syndrome, you stand your ground. “At the end of the day, I was chosen and I take my job seriously. I can’t change what’s already set in stone.”

“That’s your privilege speaking.” He leans against the backrest. “I’ll only repeat this once: I don’t hate you.” Extremely hard to believe after your self esteem’s been kicked to the curb. 

And despite the sour mood, you still try to salvage what you can. “Okay,” You breathe, “Regardless of how you feel about me, can we get along for the sake of the wedding?”

“Of course.” He rolls his shoulders, discomfort clear from the small chair setup. “Trying to make this wedding as seamless and pain-free as possible.”

You piece his aversion to the wedding now. The last minute confirmation of his attendance and lack of enthusiasm for the trip’s activities … it all checks. The gondolier rounds to the ride’s starting point and docks the boat where you and Jeongguk need to quickly alter your attitude in front of the unsuspecting couple.

Jeongguk stays behind to tip the gondolier, murmuring his apologies for the tense ride. From a distance, you overhear the gondolier snort, saying something on the lines of how he should be tipping Jeongguk for the soap opera level conversation.

Your act works — neither Jihyo nor Seojun suspected any shift in moods because Jihyo was too busy begging for another cannoli and, of course, Seojun being the exceptional fiance he is, advised you guys to return to the hotel first to prepare for the flight while he ran to the specific stall Jihyo requested for.

“Uncle, you go on ahead with the girls.”

Jeongguk shakes his head. “I’ll come with you.”

On the train ride back to the hotel, Jihyo lays her head on your shoulder. “I think Uncle Jeongguk hates me.”

That makes the two of you.

She continues, “I know this wedding was rushed, but I thought he’d warm up to the idea of us by now.”

Very out of character for Jihyo to sulk over the minute things in life. You’re not one to talk, knowing firsthand what it’s like to wish for someone’s approval.

“Hey … it’s been less than two days. And who cares what he thinks? You and Seojun are in this for life.”

“I know, I know. Seojun just adores his uncle, you know? That’s his only family.” Jihyo frowns. Unlike him, she’s grown up in a big and affluent family her entire life — well, now cut in half since her choice to marry Seojun, a man of no title or status. She can bear the disdain from her own family, but she doesn’t want Seojun to lose his one and only family member over their choices.

“I was thinking,” Jihyo begins, suddenly sitting upright with determined eyes. “You know, you’re always so fun and great with people … could you maybe get to know Uncle Jeongguk and put in a good word for me? Just until the time of the wedding at least.”

You’ve never seen her this desperate. You ponder back to the conversation on the gondola and if there were little to no chance of making things right with Jeongguk yourself, how were you going to do it for Jihyo?

You’re no better than Seojun and eventually give into her plea. 

“Okay.” You smile, arms embracing her.

All checked out of the Venice hotel, your party makes it through the airport’s security checkpoint just in time for the flight to the actual wedding destination: Sicily.

Italy is magical and Sicily proved every part of that belief even in the cab ride over to the rental property. Windows down, you let the warm breeze run through your locks, uncaring if the sea salted air clung onto your hair and skin. The tips of your hair unknowingly float over and graze Jeongguk’s arms, marking and reminding him of your presence whether or not he welcomed it. 

Jihyo really went all out and booked the dreamiest villa. The villa had everything: a fifteen minute walk to the wedding venue, close to local shops and restaurants, and here’s your favorite: the beach. It’s perfect … almost as perfect as the living situation Jihyo had planned out. No brainer, she and Seojun would get the main house while you and Jeongguk would occupy the cottage a couple steps away.

“Dinner in fifteen minutes? I have a reservation with the restaurant down the street.” Jihyo shrugs her duffle bag higher on her shoulders to which Seojun immediately takes after he unloaded all the other suitcases from the trunk.

“Isn’t it a little late for dinner?” Jeongguk reads his watch.

“Customary to eat later in Italy.” Jihyo smiles.

Jeongguk checked off all the body cues to decline. His resolve crumbles yet again from another one of Seojun’s stares, ultimately agreeing to dinner after settling in.

The first thing you and Jeongguk noticed upon entering the cottage was the stuffy and warm air from the windows being closed for too long. No matter how hard you push and yank the panes, the windows just wouldn’t budge. With a sigh, a strong source of heat presses against your backside.

The scent of fresh linen only welcomes you after laundry day and whenever you’ve switched out your bedsheets. Your mind wanders around scenarios of being welcomed by this exact scent and warmth in bed, sheets needing to be constantly changed afterwards.

Fuck.

Jeongguk’s fingers pull at the knobs above the window sill. Using way less force and energy, the window cracks open with ease and the crisp crash of waves in the distance meets your ears. Nothing was louder than the beating in your chest — must’ve been your imagination when you thought Jeongguk stayed a beat longer behind, breath sucked in from the proximity.

You replay the scenario in your head even at the dinner table. 

The times you’ve looked up from your plate, you’ve unconsciously caught Jeongguk staring in your direction too. He looks away, suddenly mesmerized by the shoreline. His attention pulls at some clapping in the background, waiters and waitresses nearing your section of the restaurant. Your smile widens as they circle your table, confused but pleased by the grand gesture.

Setting a small cake down on the table and resuming their singing, you peer over at the frosted words: Happy 37th Birthday, Jeongguk!

Jeongguk keeps his smile at a sensible level, not wanting to show too much excitement. 

After the employees leave, Seojun beams, “Jihyo arranged this. Nice, huh?” He has his arm around her shoulder.

“Yes, very. Thank you, Jihyo.” Jeongguk smiles, warm and sincere. 

Bellies full, you all walk back to the property. Everything seems to fall into its natural place. Jeongguk lets you shower first and because you’re self conscious of taking too much time, you cut your usual routine by half. You’re seated at the same window sill again, watching the shoreline. 

The lights in the room turn on and you startle. Looking back, you catch a half naked Jeongguk drying his wet hair with a small towel. Bare torso on full display, you gulp at the sight while unknowingly clenching your thighs together. 

Thirty-seven looked good on Jeongguk.

You hope you looked this good at that age, but you have a long way to go. At twenty-two, you know your two little tattoos, one on your lower back and the other on your forearm, will look completely different in fifteen years. They’re nothing like Jeongguk’s, especially with all the intricate tattoos going up his arm, stopping at his chest — both old and new ones. In the office, you’ve only seen a snippet of his tattoos on his forearm, now you’ve been granted full access. Which you’re reminded that everything that happens in Italy will have to stay here. Water break chatter with Mina will exclude these details, saving these memories just for yourself on lonelier nights.

Jeongguk sucks in a breath, surprised at the sight of you. Should be in bed and knocked out from today’s festivities, but you’re there in your silk pajamas, shorts riding dangerously high in your seated position with your knees hiked up to your chest. His jaw clenches, fixing himself a glass of water at the kitchen sink. Hips pressed against the sink counter, he drinks the water, letting a couple droplets dribble past his chin and sharp jawline.

Summers in Italy were magical, but were they usually this hot?

You edge closer to the window sill, praying for the night breeze to snap you out of whatever spell you caught at this hour.

“Jetlagged?” He asks, rinsing the cup. You blink at his question, a little confused at his initiation. It warms you, but you know better than to latch onto this small exchange. 

“A little.” You let out a disgruntled sound as you get up. You think you must’ve hallucinated Jeongguk’s frustrated exhale at your change of position. “You?”

“Mhm. Not as bad as the first night. The run helped.” He replies.

You have all the reason not to get along with him, let alone strike a normal conversation; though, you bare your warmest and genuine smile, “That’s nice. I’m glad.”

“Yes. Well. Goodnight.” He clears his throat.

The lock on your door clicks first, back pushed against the door for some grounding and support. Your bones click against the hard surface, ears cluing in for any sounds from your temporary roommate on the other threshold. His door shuts too, followed by a deep sigh.

There’s some shuffling followed by a drop of what you assumed were clothing. Hot and consumed by your thoughts, your mind spirals at the image of him in nothing but his briefs.

God, this was going to be a long trip.

⋆｡𖦹 ˚ 𓇼 ˚｡⋆

The internet connection in this villa was probably the worst thing Jeongguk has ever encountered in his life — even worse than the time he went abroad for school during his prime. It was another neighboring country, but still … how hard was it to get an adequate signal? 

He’s tried everything. Sitting in odd places, being closer to the router — nothing’s worked. 

He looks out the same window you were seated at last night, hoping to find an answer before he hurls his laptop out. 

Until he sees you.

You’re seated outside near a lemon tree between the two accommodations, laptop perched on the patio table while you tug at one of the nearby branches for a quick sniff at the fruit. Your eyes shut in bliss, lemon distracting you with its fresh scent.

You’ve done well to distract Jeongguk from his work too. As much as he’d like to hold onto this vendetta, he knows the grudge was misdirected and undeserving. He also knows a part of his hesitancy with you is who you are. Knows the reasons why you were hired aside from the connections you had. And although you had a good personality, he can’t call you a personality hire if you knew how to do your job.

He won’t deny your accomplishments in school, allowing you to graduate with high honors by the time you were twenty. You were an adequate worker, but again, only because you were given unfair advantages — tools and resources that were taken away from someone else more deserving and eligible. 

His grudge stretched beyond that, having been on the other receiving end of losing opportunities because of his upbringings. So yeah … maybe he’s biased.

You, on the other hand, want to hurl your laptop for other reasons. The laptop sits on top of the patio table, waiting for you to begin your long half day of work.

The metal legs of the empty chair across from you scrape against the concrete floor.

“Mind if I join you?”

You straighten from your slouched posture, surprised eyes meeting his neutral expression. Vacations were meant for fun, not the work you were trying to escape from. With Jeongguk here, you really can’t slack off. You quickly clear your items from the small table and gesture for him to sit.

“Terrible connection in the cottage.” You remark. “Gave me problems all morning.”

He hums, typing away on the laptop to make up for the lost time. You fall back into your work too seeing that there was a good motivator.

On your left side, there’s a small bowl of olives paired with the wine Jihyo delivered to your shared cottage. Jeongguk stares at the bowl, following one of the olives held by your fingers and popped in between your plump lips.

A small puff of air escapes through his nose at your winced expression from the initial burst of flavors, washing it down with a swig of wine.

“Would you like to try?” You push the bowl towards him.

“Didn’t look all that good.” He stares up, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. Though small, you detect a teasing tone in his comment.

“It was … different. But!” You perk, “When will we be in Italy again, in a beautiful villa eating olives while working?”

Answer? Never.

Such a ridiculous thought that he reaches into the small ceramic bowl to plop an olive into his mouth. The bitter tang of the small fruit amplifies on his tongue from your expectant stare.

Not unpleasant, but there were plenty of other cuisine choices in Italy worth trying. 

Though, when will Jeon Jeongguk be in Italy again, in a beautiful villa eating olives while working with your melodic laughter resonating in his ears as you scoot your wine glass over to him?

Tongue no longer graced with the olive’s bitterness, a new type of bitterness spreads as Seojun and Jihyo announce they’re headed to the beach.

“How much longer do you need to work?” Jihyo pouts, hands on her hips as she peers down at your laptop. She’s not reading anything you have opened, deeming them unimportant especially when you should be spending time with her.

You offer a sheepish smile, afraid to voice your true thoughts in front of management. Jeongguk keeps his face trained to his screen, brows twitching in an attempt to hide his bemusement.

Had it been anyone else in front of you, you’d throw your hands in the air and say ‘Fuck it.’ But it was Jeongguk … one of the higher-ups you’d always admired — whose opinion you immensely cared for. 

“Uncle …” Seojun frowns. “You promised you weren’t going to work.”

“Code red. Need to take care of this.” Jeongguk explains.

Seojun sighs, the expression resounds his frustration to his uncle’s work habits.

In the short span of time working at the company, you’ve never seen Jeongguk falter; yet, the man seated across from you wavers at his nephew’s disappointment.

“It’ll be quick.” He remedies.

You also know Jeongguk took his time. He’s meticulous and wants everything right the first time around. It appears Seojun knows this too, not taking his promises too seriously, and grunting a small ‘okay’ before he takes Jihyo’s hand to lead them both to the beach.

Jeongguk purses his lips, a vexed expression he doesn’t let linger for long. You shouldn’t meddle with family affairs, but you couldn’t help thinking back to the missed dinners, absent parent recitals, and text messages telling you to not wait up late from your father. 

“Work’s never that important.” The words slip past your mouth before realizing it.

Jeongguk isn’t afraid to voice his response too, seemingly prepared for your judgment. 

“Easy for you to say.” His eyes narrow. “Some people aren’t afforded breaks.”

You take another bite of the olives, hoping the flavor would conceal the shame. The invisible wall between you and Jeongguk grows higher and thicker, making it impossible to penetrate. You refocus on the task at hand. 

Three hours pass with the sound of birds and ocean in the background — the sounds would have been enough for anyone to relax into their work, but all it does is make you yearn for fun. Makes you think anything might be better than being with the man seated across from you. Which is so unlike you when just a week ago, you’d do just about anything to be closer to him in the office. 

Every five minutes, you have to look at the shoreline and the people enjoying the summer rays. It was a good distraction until the envy sets in.

Another deep sigh.

“Go.”

“Huh?” You look up from your laptop. 

“I have access to your document in the shared drive. You won’t be leaving any time soon at the rate you’re moving.” He takes off his glasses, index and thumb pinching and rubbing to relieve himself of any tension. “Go spend some time with Jihyo.”

You almost think it’s a test until he looks at you questioningly for not having moved. You scramble to close out everything after a quick thank you before going back into the cottage to change. You shouldn’t feel guilty as you slip into your swimsuit and cover-up … shouldn’t feel guilty exiting the property, sneaking one final look back at the patio.

You shouldn’t ache the way you do for Jeongguk’s content smile when he nears the lemon tree.

Even Jeon Jeongguk needs breaks too.

You blame the aches from having laid down in the sand for an hour and not at the image of him back at the villa taking on your unfinished work. He made his decision, so why are you still feeling this way? 

“Uncle!” Seojun beams. “You made it.”

At the acknowledgment, you lift your head up and it’s none other than the man who’s plagued your mind since you’ve left the villa. He’s changed into lighter clothing, a short-sleeve button up over his white tank top with some beach shorts. The tight tank top hugs around his figure, ab ridges outlined from his small chuckle. The contraction intensifies when he looks down at you and over your stringy two-piece bikini.

He clears his throat. “Was able to wrap up what I needed to get done for the day.”

“Good.” Seojun replies. “Should enjoy our time while we can.”

Jeongguk’s face falls; immediately, the moment’s swept away when Jihyo calls for Seojun to help her take pictures. 

The older male settles next to you, mindful to not kick up any sand in the process. The couple eventually go to get some refreshments, leaving both you and Jeongguk under the rays of the sun.

He doesn’t say much … actually, he doesn’t say anything as he stares out to the bluest waters. 

“Thank you, Jeongguk.” You say. “You didn’t have to.”

You wonder if your father had acted the same at work, taking on additional workload he didn’t necessarily have to at the expense of missing out on moments in your life.

Jeongguk isn’t your father. He didn’t have obligations to you. Didn’t need to sacrifice his own time for your sake.

The center of a candy was usually the sweetest — perhaps if you keep at it, you’ll discover more of Jeongguk’s sweetness too. 

⋆｡𖦹 ˚ 𓇼 ˚｡⋆

Being around Jeongguk has been a tad more tangible now that you’ve spent a few hours together the next couple of days working in the morning, ending the nights over dinner with the couple. 

The next evening, Jihyo has you all crammed in a kitchen for a cooking lesson with a private chef. You’re on garlic peeling duties with Jeongguk, fingers sticky from the essence of the individual cloves, so sure this scent was going to linger on your skin.

Jeongguk remains unaffected, diligently peeling away. At the sight of you rubbing your sticky fingers together, he chuckles.

“Just wash your hands in between.”

The advice works. While you’ve barely peeled half a clove, Jeongguk was already on his second. 

“Did you have ‘pro-garlic peeler’ on your resume?” You try teasing.

He pauses, a small smile on his lips as he continues peeling the cloves.

“My sister had me on garlic peeling duties whenever we cooked.”

As far as you’re aware from Jihyo, the topic of Seojun’s mother was unspoken … only knowing she passed when he was very young. 

You work a little harder peeling the leftover cloves, running your hands under the faucet to rid yourself of the stickiness. The stickiness retained in your chest whenever Jeongguk peers over at your pile of perfectly peeled garlic. It’s retained throughout dinner and the glasses of wine served during and after a meal, following you as the group takes a walk on the beach the night before the rest of the wedding party was scheduled to meet for the rehearsal dinner tomorrow.

Jihyo yawns and announces she’ll head back to the villa to rest. Naturally, Seojun follows along. You expect Jeongguk to do the same, but he sits on the brick wall staring out at the beach.

You tuck your hair behind your ear and a strong, pungent scent greets you. Hand discreetly at the front of your face, you sniff.

“The smell doesn’t leave for a bit.” Jeongguk says. “My sister always recommended lemon juice and a little bit of soap.” 

“Have you tried it?” You ask, tucking your hands underneath you to hide the excitement of Jeongguk initiating a conversation with you. 

He shakes his head, “I like the smell of garlic.”

Be it from the glasses of wine served over dinner, you’re bolder as you ask about his sister. And he’s just as loose-lipped as he recalls memories of her. You learned she was four years older than Jeongguk, her first job was at their aunt and uncle’s convenience store, and they were ultimately left to fend for themselves the moment she had Seojun at eighteen.

Every story, small chuckle, and silence of the memory of his sister only softens the hard, jagged edges around Jeongguk.

“She sounds lovely.”

“She was,” he concedes, “Would’ve loved Italy too.” He speaks into the sea-salted air. He leans back, hands anchoring himself up as he looks up at the clear night sky. “Maybe give her son an earful about marrying too early.” She’d know firsthand how she lost out on her own developmental years as a result of having Seojun early with a man that wanted no part in fatherhood. Though, a small part of Jeongguk knows his sister would’ve adored Jihyo.

Back at the villa’s garden, you make a quick detour to the lemon tree, picking one from the bottom branches.

The lemon doesn’t get used quite yet when you both enter into the stuffy cottage. You and Jeongguk reopen all the windows to let some fresh air in.

You eye the unopened wine bottle — the night’s gone too well to end like this. Lemon placed on the counter, it’s spared and unscathed for the time being as you pop off the cork. 

Wordlessly, you pour and slide the glass over to a receptive Jeongguk.

One glass turns to three over the course of the night. The alcohol loosens the year’s worth of work tension, eyes blinking slowly as he swirls the glass around.

“Do you plan to stay with the company until retirement?” You ask.

“Depends.”

“On?”

“If I have to keep overseeing project leads who can’t make their deadlines.”

Had you both been less drunk and not seated on the high stools of this lovely cottage in Sicily, you’d be more offended. Eyes bemused and lips curved at your exaggerated gasp, Jeongguk brings the glass of wine to his mouth, red staining and deepening the natural shade of pink on his lips.

You’ll take this. It’s a development in comparison to what you’ve experienced in working with the company … not to mention the ride on the gondola. You like this Jeongguk. Where he isn’t going on a tangent about deliverables and Key Performance Indicators.

“What about you?” He asks.

You swallow the last of the wine in your glass. “I’m not sure.”

Honestly, you thought you’d be at another place of employment after your one year anniversary at the company. Yet, you’re still here.

“Huh.”

“What?”

“Answered like a person with one foot out the door.” He shrugs.

“I don’t mind the company.” You pout.

He rolls his eyes. “You’re young. There’s more out there.”

“You’re staying.”

“Never said I was.”

Wait … you hadn’t accounted for the fact of Jeongguk leaving one day. He has so much more years of experience than you, so having a promotion elsewhere would be a cake walk. One of your incentives to stay might disappear one day without warning and it frightens you. 

“The benefits are nice.” You reason. “It’s worth staying for.”

“The benefits are standard. Hm.” He purses his lips. Then, an expression you’ve never once witnessed stretches across his face. “That hot manager Jihyo mentioned can’t be enough incentive to stay.”

“She’s lucky she’s my best friend.” You groan. 

He laughs through his nose, “You’ll know if a company is worth staying for. Don’t be afraid to venture out.”

Friends and family have often told you to look for a higher paying job after every promotion — never concerned whether you’re content with where you’re at.

You find it hard to believe just a couple days ago, Jeongguk was grilling you for being a nepo-baby, and now he’s mentoring you over wine. You take in his words, letting them swirl in your mind before shaking away thoughts of the future. 

“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”

He nods, taking another small sip, “If only Seojun listened more like that. That brat.” He lowers his head with a fond smile, orbs glimmering like the wine glass caught in the light.

You should hold off from asking any overbearing questions and end tonight on a high note, but that just wasn’t your style.

“Do you not support their marriage?”

“It’s unfavorable.” He sighs. “I’m sure Jihyo’s nice—”

“She is.” You interrupt.

“But she’s reckless and so is my nephew. They didn’t think this through.” A pause. “Doing things out of love only gets you so far.”

If life wasn’t about love, then what could it possibly be about?

He chuckles and mumbles to himself, “She’s too much like her.”

“Huh? Who?” Your brows scrunch from the cryptic words, trying to decipher who he was referring to. Foolish of you to think he’d answer as he gets up and empties his glass of wine into the sink, eyes locked on the counter where the lemon resides.

You were going to ask if he’d like to use the lemon too; though, he beats you to your question when he tucks in the stool.

“Get some rest, we have a long day tomorrow.”

You exert all your energy into the lemon, squeezing and wringing out the halved fruit to distract you of the confusion. Have you pushed for too much? Were you out of line wanting to know more about Jeongguk? You hope the lingering thoughts of your cottage mate disappears with the garlic stench after a thorough soak. 

After your shower, you take one last peek at his door and the light emitting from the small slit persists even through the late hours. Was he still working or also plagued with the thoughts of tonight’s conversation?

It’s a little past midnight when you emerge into the kitchen again to get a glass of water only to notice a slightly ajar front door.

101 Dumb Ways to Die would commend you and your efforts to close the door. Your fingers touch the doorknob, ready to twist and secure the locks. 

You die a little inside when you spot a figure outside near the lemon tree.

Jeongguk. 

He sits there, staring at his hands before he lifts one of them up to his face. A small sniff, then his hand falls onto his lap again.

You lean against a nearby wall, hand clutching the glass of water close to your chest.

He bends down from his seated position and grabs a fallen lemon, uncaring if it came from the top or the bottom branch. Suddenly, he stands up and makes his way back to the cottage again.

“Fuck!” You whisper yell, scrambling to go back to your room but your foot catches onto your other ankle and you’re sent flying to the floor with the glass of water held close to your chest to brace the fall and potential damage.

Aside from a wet shirt and the bruise forming on your knee, the glass was still intact. What wasn’t intact was your pride as Jeongguk opens the door to find you laying on your side.

His eyes widen, immediately crouching down to check your conditions. “Are you okay?” 

You could fake an episode of sleepwalking and walk back to your room, wet shirt and all, but then you’ll be labeled as the colleague who sleepwalks.

“Oof,” You grab his extended hand, the one without the lemon, and pull yourself up to a sitting position. “Y-yeah, um, just wanted some water.” You peer down at the pool of water around you and flush harder.

He grabs a nearby cloth to clean up the mess and when he’s done, he holds his hand out again, “Can you stand?”

You nod, hand engulfed in his warmth as he tugs you up along with him. You walk stiffly next to him and thank him after he hands you a spare towel in the kitchen. 

You should return to your room to nurse your broken pride; yet, your feet stay planted as Jeongguk gets out the cutting board.

“Oh, there’s still half a lemon in the fridge.” 

Nodding, he retrieves the lemon and he squeezes the sliced half with ease. He dips his fingers in first, spreading the juice all over his hands and in between the crevices just as you did. You watch his fingers spread the juices all over the top of his veiny hands, light from the kitchen emulating the glisten on his skin.

A tingly sensation starts at your fingertips and you clench your fists tightly before it travels up your arms, unsure why your body is reacting at the simple act.

God, did you hit your head on something during the fall? 

“You sure you’re okay?” He asks, breaking you out of your daze.

You blink, body automatically moving around to check for any soreness. High knees in place and a twist to your side, you confirm your health condition. You do one last stretch, intertwining your fingers and reaching up to the ceiling.

All’s well, so it seems.

Actually, no.

The action lifts your camisole, exposing the lower half of your stomach. Jeongguk’s gaze dips to your full hips and areas where the sun can’t fully reach. 

“Yeah, all good.” You swallow, arms coming down and holding your hands behind your back.

Lights shut off, you and Jeongguk make your way back to your bedrooms, steps heavier as you near your door. 

Suddenly, your hand reaches out, weak fingers wrapped around his wrist. He looks down at you with a raised brow, unmoving, so you tighten your grip around him. 

“I saw you outside.” You confess, voice small and hesitant. “Are you okay?”

Jeongguk didn’t owe you an answer. But after all the time spent leading up to this moment, you think something should’ve changed by now. 

His jaw clenches, eyes swirling with a mixture of uncertainty and discomfort as he considers the option of being honest.

He purses his lips and shakes his head no. 

Be it your underdeveloped prefrontal lobe or your innate desire to fix a troubled man, your fingers tighten around his wrist.

“Is there something I can do–” The latter part of your question gets cut short at another shake of his head. 

Your default solution is to deflect and lessen the embarrassment with cynicalism and a humorless laugh. “I know you hate me and all–”

He laughs, too — the dullness masking the irritability behind your unfinished statement.

“I don’t hate you.” He pauses and ponders his next words. “Whatever I’m going through right now has nothing to do with how I feel about you.”

Maybe … if you do make it about you, Jeongguk might forget about his bigger worries. The day has gone so well and all your effort’s about to be undone with what you do next. You step closer, gleaning at his reaction and any indication of his repulsion from your proximity.

“If we didn’t work at the same company, how would you feel about me then?” You ask.

His stare darkens. Pattern recognition from all the other fleeting moments in Italy only pushes you to do something you’d never have the courage to in a professional environment where you’d both break all code of conduct. 

What happens in Italy, stays in Italy … right?

“We’d get along.” You answer for him.

“We’d be strangers.” He corrects. “I don’t need twenty year old friends listening to my problems.”

Good thing you’re not twenty and good thing you don’t want to be friends with Jeongguk. In the span of this conversation, you and Jeongguk now share the same air and warmth as you press your front to his hard chest. He doesn’t pull away from your softness whether it be through the silky camisole, your nature, or exposed skin … he lets himself soak in what you offer him.

And when you tip-toe closer to his face, he doesn’t move, allowing you to do as you like despite all signs in his head telling him to turn you away.

“We’d get along.” You repeat, eyes bold and hopeful as you stare into his hooded ones. “You’d let me help you forget about your problems.”

Cause you’d create new ones for Jeon Jeongguk as you press your lips to his. 

The original hold you had on his wrist ceases as your nimble fingers find refuge on the ends of his cotton shirt. Your thighs tense from the vibrations of his small groan, the pleasure pangs intensifying when his hands cup your jaw. Lips soft and so rightfully slotted on yours, your eyes flutter shut and embrace the abundant hues of yellow and green similar to the villa’s lemon tree. 

The crisp citrus scent from his fingers warms and melts you further into his lips. He parts his mouth slightly, and for a moment, just a moment … you hope he’d run his tongue on yours.

Your hope gets wringed out like the used lemons residing in the wastebin the exact moment he says your name and pulls away, chest moving in tandem with his strained breaths. 

“This isn’t right.” He breathes, swallowing as he steps back to create some space between your bodies.

“I–”

“Goodnight.”

His door shuts, no different than how he shuts you out of the life you hoped to get a better glimpse of. Your fingers trace your lips, remembering how he felt against you before he took everything including your pride with him. You also shut your door, only bringing humiliation and rejection back in with you.

⋆｡𖦹 ˚ 𓇼 ˚｡⋆

You barely slept. 

Instead, you chose to put in the extra work you needed to meet your deliverables for your client. You locked yourself in the bedroom — rather brave through the shitty internet connection until it was time to meet up with the rest of the bridal party who arrived last night.  

“So,” Yebin starts, “I hear the best man is a hottie and you’re staying in the same cottage as him?”

You splutter into your drink, quickly grabbing the napkin on your lap to dab away the cascading liquid on your chin.

“Uh, wha–”

“Jihyo mentioned it in the group chat. What? Been too busy with him to catch up in the thread?” She wiggles her brows with a playful grin.

You push your body forward to give Jihyo a tiny glare. She sits prettily at the top of the table, the only person wearing white while the rest of you were in different variations of yellow to match the wedding theme.

“What?” She says with a mouthful. “He is objectively handsome. Not a surprise, I mean, look at my Seojun.”

“Isn’t he in his forties?” Another one of the girls asks.

“Thirty-seven.” Jihyo corrects. “We celebrated his birthday recently.”

“Basically forty.” Yebin retorts and turns back to you. “So what’s he like?”

You’re thankful for the soft breeze in the midst of Italy’s humid summer — helps you cool the sweat sitting uncomfortably on your skin, both from the rising afternoon temperatures and last night’s memories. 

“He’s … fine.” You pause and try to come up with other adjectives to better describe him, ultimately coming short and resorting to a foolproof excuse. “We haven’t really spoken.”

“Oh, please. Aside from his nephew, Jeongguk’s more friendly with you than he has been to me.”

Yeah, ‘cause you also work in the same building as him forty hours a week for the past year, but no one here needs to know that. The conversation eventually shifts over to Jihyo’s wedding itinerary, makeup and hair plans, and what the other girls plan to do after the wedding dinner rehearsal. You enjoyed your time in the smaller group, but you also valued the community the other girls brought in this part of the trip. You visit the nearby boutiques, splurge on things you could most definitely find back at home, because … when were you going to be in Italy with your girls again?

“Remember, be there at 8 p.m. The venue’s gates close five minutes after.” Jihyo reminds.

“Yes, ma’am. Got it marked down in our calendars.” Yebin yawns, still slightly jetlagged and ready for a much needed nap after the day’s festivities. You and Jihyo drop off the girls at the front of their hotel and begin the walk back to the villa. Would’ve been quicker to take a cab, but Jihyo wanted to walk off her second gelato and you didn’t mind not being in the same vicinity as your cottage mate all that soon.

“You nervous for tomorrow?” You ask, steps slowing as you both near the villa.

“No,” she smiles fondly at a passing thought. “But I am anxious for the future. Don’t know how long it’ll be till my parents want to talk to me.”

You’ve thought about the times you’ve fought with your parents — nothing as big as marrying someone they didn’t approve of. Hopefully Jihyo’s parents will come around. Love, from a parent at least, should be unconditional. 

She reads your thoughts with a chuckle and nudge to your shoulder. “Hey, I’m okay. It’s me and Seojun against the world.”

“They’ll come around.” You reassure. “You also have your friends too, so you’re never alone.”

⋆｡𖦹 ˚ 𓇼 ˚｡⋆

“And then, the maid of honor and best man will walk here.” Violetta, the wedding planner, points down the long stretch to the altar. 

She looks over to the group, trying to single out the girl with that title since Jeongguk was the only male aside from the groom. You step out, having avoided Jeongguk all day with the wedding party, there are just some things you can’t avoid.

You avoid looking at the older man, keeping your stares locked on the wedding planner and aisle markings.

“Oh, to be maid of honor.” Yebin mumbles jokingly and the group of girls erupt into a small fit of giggles.

Jeongguk pays no mind and extends his arm for you to hold. Practice. Yes, this was still a rehearsal. You might’ve imagined his tense inhale as you press your body closer, breast pushing against his arm to see if the action could produce a similar sound or reaction.

Nothing.

After the rehearsal, you and Jeongguk still avoid each other like the plague, unwilling to address the elephant in the room. You try to sleep, tossing and turning all night until you made the executive decision for some much needed fresh air.

Part of you worries Jeongguk might also be outside, claiming the lemon tree as his area of respite. Can’t be his if you claimed it first. Unfortunately, the spot was occupied … not by him at least.

Pulling the metal chair, Seojun looks up, startled, but relaxes at the sight of a familiar face.

“Can’t sleep?” He asks.

“Yeah. Too stuffy in the cottage.” You lie, unwilling to admit the actual source of your unrest. “You?”

“Yeah.” He looks into the distance, worries swirling in his orbs. “I think my uncle’s right.”

Your brows pull together, head tilting in confusion.

“We’re too rash. Jihyo’s parents might never speak to her again and it’s all my fault. And I,” Seojun begins to crumble at the weight of his realization. “I don’t know if I’m enough for her to lose everything.”

You know more than anyone that there are some things money and power can’t buy. Jihyo wasn’t risking anything because Seojun was everything. Because if life wasn’t about love, then what was it about?

“You’re enough for Jihyo.”

“Uncle said–”

“Screw what Jeongguk thinks.” You interrupt, gasping at your sudden abrasiveness. “Wait, I don’t mean any offense to your uncle …”

His laugh could’ve woken up the entire villa, but you’re thankful to see this side of him in comparison to how he was a moment ago. 

“No, no,” he chuckles, “I know he’s not the most likeable person.”

“He’s not … awful.”

Seojun nods, tilting his head down to conceal a tender smile you’ve witnessed whenever he was around Jihyo — now you understand those were reserved for his loved ones. “He used to be different … lighter, does that even make sense?”

You agree, waiting for Seojun’s next words.

“Uncle was fun.” You learn how Jeongguk would take little Seojun to the zoo every year because his mother would be too busy with work, along with the late night video game sessions he would partake in despite his busy university schedule.

“He was in his second year of university preparing to study abroad … I don’t know much, but something didn’t work out and another student was chosen instead of him. Mom worked hard so that she could support uncle and his dreams.”

“Worked too hard — damn workaholics.” His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I know he means well not wanting me to rush into things without a proper safety net.”

You think back to a younger Jeongguk navigating life alone with a young child … he couldn’t have been any older than you — a baby raising another baby with no one to turn to.

“Ah, I’m sorry,” Seojun shakes away some thoughts, “I didn’t mean to dump all of this on you. I’m sure you’re tired–”

“No, no,” You wave your hands. “I don’t mind. You’re marrying my best friend and whether her family or Jeongguk approves, it doesn’t matter. I’ve seen how happy you make her — how relaxed she is around you.” You offer a warm and comforting smile to which Seojun returns at the mention of your friend. “We’re both in this for Jihyo’s happiness. You deserve to be happy too.” 

“Yeah, we do.” He replies, shoulders sagging in relief.

You linger outside a little longer after Seojun’s departure, begrudgingly going back into the cottage. Before entering your room, you take one look at Jeongguk’s room, noting the small sliver of light from underneath his door.

You remember all the late nights waiting for your father’s lights to turn off … wondering when you’d be enough for his attention. And as you shut your door to your room, you hope that was enough to garner Jeongguk’s attention too. 

⋆｡𖦹 ˚ 𓇼 ˚｡⋆

Jihyo loved everything about yellow. Loved the song by Coldplay and loved her flowers yellow — thinks she saw yellow when she met Seojun. Her bridesmaid dresses had to be yellow, as with everything in the wedding.

You see yellow everywhere too: the sand in the distance, wedding favors in the form of bagged perle di sole candies, and the boutonniere pinned on the left side of Jeongguk’s vest.

Yellow blurs around you during the ceremony, tearful gazes exchanged with the other bridesmaids. 

Jihyo had always centered her world around her friendships — no man has ever been enough to pull her away from that value. Though, as she stands across from Seojun, her hands in his, it seemed as though nothing could’ve pried them apart from each other’s gravitational pulls. Your eyes peer over the wedding attendees, taking in their expectant stares and proud smiles — even Jeongguk seemed to have softened at the sight. 

When it was time for the vows, you hand them over to Jihyo from behind, who took them without turning around, eyes still locked onto her soon-to-be husband.

She takes a steadying breath before speaking: “Seojun. These past years with you have been the happiest of my life. I could’ve never imagined meeting anyone like you. Now, I won’t call you my best friend, because that spot is taken and I think my lovely maid of honor might have some things to say about that–” The wedding party sounded a collective chuckle. You smile to yourself, eyes instinctively finding Jeongguk’s, who had already been looking your way in confirmation of your title.

“But I’m so happy to have found you, that I’m able to call you my friend, lover, and now, husband. I know a lot of people thought we were rushing into this, and they might be right. It is early, but I’ve never been as certain about anything as I am about wanting to spend the rest of my life with you. Seojun, you are the most wonderful and kindest person — better than I can ever hope to deserve, I love you.” Her voice had become increasingly more unstable as she went and she quickly wiped her eyes, not wanting to ruin her bridal make-up. Seojun wasn’t fairing any better, softly cupping her cheek and kissing her lips, whispering a small gratitude to her.

“Excuse me?” The officiant interrupts. “We’re not quite there yet.” 

Laughing, the pair separates and refocuses their attention back to the ceremony. You turn to your fellow bridesmaids after hearing a quiet sniffle from Yebin. You carefully lean back into her, nudging her shoulder in comfort. 

“Jihyo, you son of a bitch.” The girl mutters, dotting the corner of her eye with a tissue. 

You chuckle, moving back into your position after assessing everyone’s conditions.

When you find the confidence to check on Jeongguk, he’s just as affected and politely turns away from the couple to hide his emotions.

At the wedding reception, you watch Jihyo and her husband dance to every song on their playlist, joined by their guests, eventually being the last ones standing as the night progresses. The ache on the soles of your feet grow by the hour, and you find yourself sitting alone, nursing your drink and watching your best friend soak in happiness.

Yellow persists in the form of strung lights on the small dance floor. Though, a new opponent, green, enters when you catch some wedding guests approaching an unsuspecting Jeongguk.

As the maid of honor, you should stay for the night even if it’s nearing 2 a.m. Selfishly, you can’t bring yourself to. You tell Jihyo you’re not feeling well and that you’re going to walk back to the cottage to rest. She looks at you with concern, but she nods and asks you to text her once you’ve made it back.

Ten steps out the venue, you hear some whistles and chuckles. Shit. You walk quicker and a slimy hand wraps around your wrist.

The men smile at you, saying something you can’t really decipher. If all fails after your persistent ignorance to the Italian language, your heels make an excellent weapon of defense.

“C'è un problema?” A familiar voice says in the distance.

Immediately, the man releases your wrist and holds his hands up. The group of men shuffles away, mumbling to themselves as they look back at your savior.

“You okay?” Jeongguk asks.

“Yep.” You answer quickly, steps resuming in the direction of the villa.

Jeongguk follows closely behind you, silent as he has been all night.

“Aren’t you supposed to stay with the bride? Maid of honor duties.”

“Aren’t you supposed to stay with the groom? Best man duties.” You retort with no malice.

“Touché.” He contemplates his next words. “I’ve got an early flight tomorrow.”

Your brows furrow, and an immature part of you assumes you’re the reason for his early departure. He quickly follows up with, “There’s a fire I have to put out at work.”

The bitter memories of your father leaving for work resurfaces again. Would it be so awful to not think about work and be with his loved ones?

You wave off those feelings and express your gratitude instead. “Thanks for helping me back there. You never mentioned knowing Italian.”

Would’ve come in handy during the ample times you all had to order food, but this was not the right moment to joke. 

“Studied some basic phrases before going abroad. Didn’t end up in Italy though.”

You freeze a little, remembering the small detail Seojun mentioned the night before about Jeongguk’s missed opportunity. 

Silence takes over and continues even as you both face your bedroom doors.

“Jeongguk.” You say, before he enters his room. “I hope what happened between us doesn’t impact our work. Please forget it happened — I’m truly ashamed and sorry.”

He nods, jaw clenched and tense. 

“Have a safe flight home. See you in the office.” No other words are needed in your retreat back into your room.

The knot at the back of your neck strains and you can’t wait to finally shed your makeup, tight bun, and dress.

You [2:18 a.m.]: Made it to the cottage 💛 Bestie Ji [2:19 a.m.]: GOOD Bestie Ji [2:19 a.m.]: JEONGGU SAI HES HEDIN TO COTT TO Bestie Ji [2:19 a.m.]: ILY Bestie Ji [2:19 a.m.]: im drun

You smile at your phone, typing a quick reply and before you hit enter, you hear a knock on your door.

Door swung open, your eyes widen at the sight of Jeongguk, tie loose around his neck and hair tussled as if he ruminated for an eternity before knocking your door.

“It’s been nice with you in Italy.” His arm from behind comes to the front with a small object. You remember it from your last day in Venice: the green masquerade mask. “Safe travels home.”

You take the little green mask in your hands, frown deepening at the sentiment.

“Why would you get this for me?” You ask.

His tongue probes against his cheek, eyes coming down to look at your figure in your yellow halter dress. The same fleeting stares you’ve grown accustomed to in the time spent in Italy, unaware these glances have always existed without your knowledge back at home. He laughs through his nose and shakes his head.

He brings his eyes back to your face. “You’re a smart girl, graduated with honors and all … so think a little harder for me.”

You shake your head, afraid of the aftermath of another wrong move that could jeopardize your heart.

“I don’t know if I can …”

Leaders take initiative — you’re nowhere near that point in your career and life. Jeongguk recognizes this too, which is why he walks you backwards into the room. His fingers trace the intricate beadings on the mask still in your hands.

“Here, we’re just two people who met through the people we love. No roles or responsibilities. I only know you as Jihyo’s friend. You’re just … you, and I’m just Jeongguk.”

“And who are you, Jeongguk?” You place the mask onto a nearby dresser, eyes never leaving the man in front of you.

He looks down at you again, a type of stare only capable of burning and tainting every inch of your being. He’s afraid to admit who he really is — what he actually wants, knowing he can’t fully have even if it was ready for him to take. Though, with only a couple hours to spare in Italy, he wants to use what little time he has on an experience he would never let himself indulge in back at home.

It’s what vacations are meant for, right?

“Someone that wants your help. Someone that wants to finish what you started two nights ago.” He answers.

It doesn’t make sense with you — he doesn’t make sense with you just like when he leans down to press his lips on yours. The kiss is punishing, no colors of yellow like the kiss from two nights ago. Yellow is only meant for lovers and Jeongguk is no lover. Would be the only logical reason you’d now see black and blue  — colors of old bruises and wounds left unattended for too long, and Jeongguk has far too many to count. 

“Fuck,” He says in between kisses, shrugging off his vest, “Tell me to stop.”

You whimper, shaking your head and looping your arms over his neck to bring him closer. He pushes his tongue past your lips, savoring the way you moan around and suck on his wet muscle. 

The only thing that makes sense is how your dress, the only yellow left, needs to come off. Your hands move behind your neck to undo the tight knot, letting the top fall down your front. Taking Jeongguk’s large hands, you take note of their softness, like sand — so malleable and so much harder to hold. You place them on your breasts instead. 

He groans, the sound so painful and full of want to give into his desires.

“This can’t mean anything.” He says through a harsh breath. “You know that, right?”

“It’s okay.” You reply, moaning again as the pressure from his hands increases. “I’m … I’m okay with that.”

You’re not and Jeongguk knows this too. He’s aware of the subtle glances in the time he’s worked with you, your shift in demeanor when he enters a room, and how your eyes search for his approval when none was ever needed. He knows you won’t be okay with this just being a one night stand or quick fuck, but it has to be because you and Jeongguk don’t make sense.

Not under the dull fluorescent lights of the company building, not in Italy.

His teeth grazes your skin, leaving a trail of pain and pleasure behind its wake. You quiver and his body presses harder against yours in panic that if he leaves any space in between, the distance would only grow should he second-guess. 

Dress bunched up at your midsection, he turns you away, eyes immediately landing where your mistake from your teenage years resided right above your pert ass. 

Was this going to be another mistake too?

Your hands brace yourself on the dresser, arching from his hand tracing down your back and down your ass. He pauses and waits for your nod to proceed. Palm up, he runs his hand over the pathetic cloth you’d call your underwear now completely soaked through and scrunched to the side of your pussy.

He sucks in a breath, “Kissing gets you like this, hm?”

You shudder, praying he eventually moves. His middle finger probes gently at your sodden folds, gathering your arousal. He stays doing this for a couple minutes, listening to your soft sighs, wondering when you’d begin to beg for him to continue.

And when you don’t ask for more, it aggravates him realizing he’s the one who needs more out of something that’s supposed to be meaningless. As the older adult, he should be the gentleman with better restraint, but he’s here in your room seeking something he can’t find anywhere else:

A distraction from all the buried guilt and pain — for once, he wants to win.

He somehow gets you perched on the dresser, head between your thighs as he eats you out both as a punishment and reward. The bottom half of your dress hangs over the side of your hips, thighs spread wide open as Jeongguk thrusts his tongue into your cunt.

He knows this is just sex … worse that you’re a younger colleague whom he has vehemently denied his attractions for. But he’s here in Italy where he’s tasted olives, rinsed his memories of past loved ones with citrus … he should enjoy this trip — enjoy you. Because when was Jeongguk going to be in Italy again fucking you in a shared cottage?

“Jeong–fuck, m-yeah, right there.” You cheer, fingers carding through his hair.

Your encouragement only spurs him on to work harder, lapping over your swollen clit until you tense and cease all noise in concentration for the impending orgasm. It’s all over when you fight his hold and win the battle with your legs clamped tightly around his head. You cum with a small sob, thighs shaking around him as he continues to eat you out.

He replaces his tongue with two fingers, lazily pumping his digits in you while he kisses your lips with the taste of you still on his tongue. Meanwhile, you fumble clumsily with his buttons and zipper, jaded by how much you want him.

He’s just as eager, moaning and grinding his cock into your hand when you’ve finally freed him of his confinements. 

Hoisting you in his arms, he brings you to the edge of your bed, groaning at how you automatically spread wider on the softer surface. So ready for him to do more with you until he realizes:

“Shit, I don’t have a condom.”

You hold yourself up with your forearms, legs still spread wide open for him despite his hesitance to move forward. His teeth sink onto his bottom lip, troubled dimples appearing as he stares at your glistening pussy clenching around nothing. 

“I’m on birth control.” You assure and add, “You can pull out if you want.”

What’s another bad idea added into the pile?

He strokes over his length, squeezing harder at the tip and lines himself up. You whine and circle your hips from the hard poke at your entrance, arousal coating his bare cock. He doesn’t push himself in just yet, watching as a bead of precum smears at your opening … a silent territorial marking. 

You’re his for tonight.

His thumb lands on your clit, rubbing it up and down. You keen, eyes shutting to concentrate on the added stimulation around the bundle of nerves.

“You’ve always been too rash on your decisions.” He pushes the tip of his cock into you, teeth biting the inside of his cheek. “Gotta work on that.” As if he’s not about to make an irrevocable mistake himself.

“High risk, high rewards … r-right?” You stammer through a shaky breath as he pushes more of him into you, uncaring that there’d been little to no prep. But that doesn’t matter, all your fantasies were coming true at this very moment and you’ll take whatever he gives you.

He gives you two more orgasms. One with your ankles by his ears. The other one where you lay on your side, memorizing the way his fingers dig into your skin as he pumps his thick shaft into you. You hike your knee closer to your chest to allow him to sink even deeper into you, hitting a specific spot repeatedly to burn figments of stars behind your lids.

The room’s hot and musty — didn’t help that neither of you remembered to air out the cottage upon arrival, but no one cared about that at the moment. Your sweat gathers behind your knees and drips down the slope of your thighs as Jeongguk continues fucking you into the mattress with an intense need.

“Gonna cum.” He announces, jaw going slack as his balls grow heavy with the need to release. “Fuck, I’m gonna cum.”

“Want you to cum for me.” You nod, and the slapping of his skin on yours grows as he moves quicker and harder. 

You moan, brows scrunched in anticipation for Jeongguk to pull out and the feeling of being stuffed full by him will cease all together. And through your past experiences with other men, sex typically ends once they cum, so you ready yourself for the mirage to end — ready yourself to face reality again. Your lower half relaxes, waiting for him to turn your body so that he could unload everything on your stomach.

Two things happen.

He pushes deep inside you, stilling as he fills you with his arousal.

Hands soft as sand, cradle your jaw for a searing kiss to conceal words he shouldn’t utter to a colleague, let alone a direct report.

Minutes pass like this and you come to find out: sex doesn’t stop when Jeongguk finishes inside you.

He lays down next to you and hoists your body on top of his, movements swift in slipping his sensitive cock back into your cum-filled hole. He hisses, fighting through the overstimulation in acceptance of the punishment for all the terrible acts he’s committed with you. Again, both a punishment and a reward as he lets you ride him, watching the way your hips roll smoothly over his. Your mixed juices trail down his length and over his balls the more you move and bounce.

He doesn’t tell you to give him another orgasm, knowing you’re working hard to get there again. 

“Don’t wanna stop. Wanna do this with you all night long.” Your breath hitches as the pleasure shifts into a type of pain no one can see. And no matter how you try to fight the physical effects of the hardest orgasm of your life, your body gives into the exhaustion and slumps over Jeongguk’s sweaty body.

In your slumber, you feel the sand, the breeze, and the absence of another human body. The next morning only proves your reality when you wake up clothed and sore from last night’s affair … with Jeongguk nowhere in sight.

You frown, tucking the sheets closer to your chin and watching the tree branches scrape against your opened window. The air in the room was no longer stuffy, ridding any evidence of what you and Jeongguk did.

Summers in Italy were magical. 

Though, the fact stands: magic was nothing but illusions, deluding you from the truth. And you feigned indifference when Jihyo tells you Jeongguk had gone home for an important project — you ignored the hurt and betrayal. You had never been enough for your father to come home, so it was easy to turn a blind eye at the heaviness in your stomach from the thoughts of hoping you’d be enough to make Jeongguk stay.

Another couple of days in Italy go by with those illusions till the truth sets in the day you return to work.

A couple coworkers stop you on the way to your cubicle, asking you for a trip recap. Your debrief takes longer as intended — half due to wanting to avoid work and the other half as a result of your efforts to leave out key details of a certain someone. 

You could’ve taken another path to your desk — one that kept you from the usual ajar door. Perhaps the magic followed you back home and you’ve alluded to think Jeongguk’s stares trail after your figure when you walked past his office.

The magical illusions continue as you settle into your cube, a bright yellow sticky note on your keyboard with a familiar handwriting reads: Lunch at Romano’s. - J

Even if the center of the candy happened to be sour, you have to see through it — you want to see through it.

fin.

a/n: missed me? cuz i’ve been missenU. ahh, ahh?? 🥹 i’ll see yall in about 1-2 months with something new! in the meantime, go send your well wishes to the bday girlie!! toodles ♡

also s/o to my bestie @takeitawaykenny for beta’ing!! love ya pookie

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

the keycard clicked. the lock light flickered green.

you pushed the hotel room door open with your hip, one hand still tangled in jeongguk’s hair. his mouth was on your neck before the door even swung shut behind them. his breath was hot, unsteady, not the calculated rhythm of an agent undercover, but something rawer.

“camera,” you breathed.

he pulled back just enough for his eyes to meet yours. dark. focused. a single bead of sweat traced a path from his temple to his jaw. “sweep’s done. we’re clean.”

your fingers tightened in his hair. “check again.”

a beat of silence. his hands dropped from your waist. the loss of contact was a physical thing, your skin prickled where his palms had been, the silk of your dress suddenly too thin, too warm.

“paranoid,” he muttered, but he was already pulling out his phone, thumb swiping across the screen in quick, practiced motions.

you walked to the window. twenty-three floors below, the city sprawled in grids of amber and white light. somewhere in that neon maze, kang dae-jung was counting his money and sharpening his knives. three months of undercover work. three months of playing the devoted girlfriend to jeongguk’s ambitious security consultant. the persona had a name—yuna, a former flight attendant with expensive taste and a habit of laughing too loud at rich men’s jokes.

you hated yuna.

behind you, jeongguk’s voice was low. “room’s clean. no rf interference. no heat signatures through the walls.” a pause. “aera.”

he said your real name. you turned. he was standing by the bed now, phone discarded on the nightstand. the streetlight through the window caught the sharp angles of his face, the jawline that had gotten them into half the private parties in this city, the mouth that had convinced kang’s lieutenant they were just another couple drowning in luxury.

“we have four hours before the extraction team moves into position,” she said. “we should go over the floor plans again.”

“we’ve gone over them twelve times.”

“then thirteen.”

his jaw tightened. “you’ve been avoiding looking at me directly for the past six hours. what happened at the gala?”

a muscle in your thigh twitched. you locked your knees. “nothing happened.”

“when kang put his hand on your back—"

“i handled it.”

“—you flinched.” jeongguk took a step toward her. “yuna doesn’t flinch. yuna leans into that kind of attention. you almost blew three months of work because you couldn’t—”

“i flinched because you were staring.” the words left your mouth before you could stop them. sharp. accusing. “you were staring at kang’s hand on me like you wanted to break every bone in his fingers. not like a partner watching my back. like something else.”

the room held its breath. jeongguk’s expression flickered, a crack in the careful mask he’d worn since the day they’d been assigned together. “you’re imagining things.”

“i’m a trained observer.” you crossed her arms. “and you’ve been compromised.”

he laughed. a single, humorless sound. “compromised.”

“you’re too close to this. to me.”

“we’re pretending to be a couple. we’re supposed to be close.”

“there’s supposed and there’s whatever this is.”

he moved then, not fast, but deliberate. two steps closed the distance between them. the warmth of his body reached yours before his hands did. you tilted your chin up to hold his gaze.

“you want to know what this is?” his voice had dropped, roughened at the edges. “three months of sharing a bed and pretending to sleep. three months of your perfume on my shirt and your laugh in my ear while i smile at men who deserve a bullet. three months of watching you become someone else every morning and watching her fall away every night the second the door closes.”

her pulse was hammering at the base of her throat.

“we made a deal,” you managed. “keep it professional.”

“you brought up the flinch.”

“because it’s a liability.”

“is that what you think i am?”

his hand lifted. hesitated. then his knuckles grazed your cheekbone, just a whisper of contact, and your breath caught. you could feel the calluses on his fingers from range practice, the slight tremor that had nothing to do with fear.

“you’re the best agent i’ve ever worked with,” he said quietly. “and the worst thing that’s happened to my focus in years. both things are true. both things are going to get us killed if we don’t—”

you kissed him.

the decision bypassed her brain entirely. one moment you was standing there with your arms crossed and your arguments lined up like bullets in a magazine. the next, your mouth was on his and your fingers were gripping the front of his shirt and you were pulling him towards you with a desperation that felt like falling.

he made a sound against your lips—hunger—and then his hands were in your hair and his body was pressing you backward until your shoulders hit the window.

the glass was cold through the thin silk. he was not. “aera.” your name came out ragged, half-buried in the curve of your neck. “tell me to stop.”

you didn’t.

your fingers found the buttons of his shirt. fumbled. the third one down popped loose and your palm slid against the bare skin of his chest. heat. muscle. the frantic rhythm of his heart under your hand.

his mouth traveled down your throat, teeth grazing the sensitive skin above your collarbone. a sound escaped you—small, involuntary, nothing like yuna’s practiced giggles.

“is this still a liability?” he murmured against your skin.

“shut up.”

“yes ma’am.”

his hands found the zipper at the back of your dress. pulled. the silk loosened, slid, and then the dress was pooling at your feet and you were standing in nothing but black lace and the glow of the city skyline.

he stepped back. just an inch. just enough to look at you.

“jesus,” he breathed.

the way he said it—reverent, wrecked—sent heat cascading down your spine. you reached for him, but he caught your wrists.

“wait.” your body protested. every nerve ending was screaming for contact. but you waited.

“we’re doing this,” he said, and it wasn’t a question. “but i need you to know— right now, this room, this isn’t the assignment. this isn’t kang or the mission or any of it. this is you and me. just us. if you can’t give me that, tell me now.”

his grip on your wrists was gentle but unyielding. his eyes were the color of strong coffee, and just as bracing.

you twisted her hands free, not breaking his hold, but reversing it. now you were the one gripping his wrists. now you were the one pulling him closer.

“you’ve had me compromised since week two,” you said. “when you memorised how i take my coffee and started leaving a cup on my nightstand every morning before i woke up.”

something shifted in his expression. softened.

then he was kissing you again, and there was no hesitation this time. his hands mapped the curve of your waist, the flare of your hips, the dip of your lower back. you pulled his shirt off his shoulders, let it fall, traced the lines of ink that curved over his ribs—a design you've seen a hundred times in surveillance stills and never once touched.

touching it now felt like breaking a rule.

she wanted to break more.

he walked you backward. the edge of the bed hit the back of your knees. you sat, pulled him down with you. the weight of him pressing you into the mattress, and you wrapped your legs around his waist like you'd been doing it for years instead of hours of choreographed public displays.

his mouth found the hollow behind your ear. “you make this sound,” he said, voice barely audible, “when something actually feels good. not the yuna sound. the real one. i’ve been trying to hear it for weeks.”

“creep.”

“observant.”

you laughed—a genuine, surprised laugh—and he swallowed it with a kiss.

your hands moved to his belt. the leather was stiff, the buckle complicated. you fumbled. he paused. looked down at you. “you do this a lot undercover?”

“shut up.”

“because your technique—”

you got the buckle open. his smirk vanished. you tugged the belt free, popped the button of his trousers, and slid your hand inside. he inhaled sharply, his hips jerking forward into your touch. the fabric of his boxer briefs was damp.

you looked up at him through her lashes. “you were saying?”

in answer, he reached behind your and unclasped your bra. one hand slid the strap down your shoulder. then the other. then he was lowering his head and his mouth was on your breast and your back arched off the mattress.

there. that sound he’d mentioned. the real one. it escaped her throat before she could stop it. he made a noise of approval against your skin and did it again.

your fingers dug into his shoulders. the world narrowed to the wet heat of his mouth, the scrape of his teeth, the way his hips ground against yours in a rhythm that was far from practiced. there was no choreography here. no marks to hit, no cameras to play to.

just his body and yours and four hours of borrowed time.

he pulled back just long enough to shove his trousers and briefs down, kick them off. you almost let out a gasp, "jesus… you're big."

"you think?" he murmured, voice rough with nerves and pride, half-smiling against her lips before kissing her again. it wasn't like he’d ever measured himself or compared… but hearing it from you? made his chest swell.

your hand hovered for a second, like you wanted to touch but weren't sure if you should yet. jeongukk caught it gently, pressing your palm flat against his stomach instead of where you both really wanted it… giving them you to adjust.

still holding your hand, he guided it lower—slowly… giving you time to pull away if you wanted. you didn’t. instead, your fingers finally curled around him. jeongguk sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth at the contact.

you started with slow strokes, curious more than confident, and each glide sent sparks through his nerves his breathing turned uneven, lips parting as quiet sounds escaped him without meaning to. a small whimper here… a shaky exhale there. it was overwhelming in the best way possible—the intimacy of it all hitting harder than anything physical could have.

jeongguk's hips twitched involuntarily when your thumb brushed over the wetness at his tip—a quiet, precum-coated evidence of how ready he was for you.

he hadn’t even realised it had happened… too focused on your touch. but now that you noticed? his embarrassment flared—face heating up instantly.

you didn’t tease him though. instead, your thumb swiped gently through the moisture, spreading it slightly before continuing to stroke with more deliberate pressure this time.

jeongguk bit his lip—hard—to keep from making another embarrassing noise… but failed miserably when your squeezed just right.

the sound that slipped out of jungkook was embarrassingly high—almost a whine—as your grip tightened just right. his hips jerked forward slightly, chasing your hand without thinking.

he was so sensitive… every stroke, every brush of skin made him twitch and tremble like it was too much—but also not enough.

you noticed, your eyes flickering up to watch his reactions—the way his jaw clenched, how he bit his lip to stay quiet.

you slowed down… teasing now. torturing him with feather-light strokes that drove him crazy but didn’t give relief.

you pull your hand away and hook your thumb on your panties, slowly sliding them down. jeongukk couldn't keep his eyes off of you. he slowly got onto his knees, making eye contact through his lashes, asking you for permission to let him taste you.

once you gave him the look, he kissed your inner thigh first. soft, teasing, then moved inward, his tongue parting you with one slow, deliberate stroke. you cried out, your hips bucking against his face. jeongguk groaned against you, the vibration sending sparks through your clit. he licked again, slower this time, savoring the taste of you. his tongue circled your entrance, dipping inside just enough to make you whimper, then sliding up to focus on the sensitive bundle of nerves at the top.

"fuckk jeongguk—" you moaned, hands gripping his hair. he didn't answer with words. he answered with action, wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking gently while his finger pressed inside you. one finger, then two, curling to find that spot that made your vision blur. his tongue kept working, relentless, alternating between broad flat strokes and quick flicks that had you gripping his hair, pulling him closer.

"don't stop," you cried out. he didn't. he kept his pace slow, torturous, drawing out every moan, every gasp. his tongue circled your clit in lazy loops while his fingers pumped in and out, building you up without letting you fall. he wanted you to remember this. wanted you to feel every second.

he breathing grew ragged, your hips grinding against his face. "i'm close," you gasped. "i'm so close." it was almost embarrassing how fast he made you cum. 

he pulled his mouth away, and you whimpered at the loss. but his fingers kept moving, curling harder, faster.

"not yet," he said, voice hoarse. he kissed his way back up your body, leaving a trail of wet heat across your stomach, your breasts, your throat. "i want to feel you cum around me."

he gave his cock a few strokes, coating it with his precum. the first press of him against your entrance made them you freeze.

condom. you should say something about a condom. the thought floated through your mind, distant and irrelevant. they’d both been tested. they’d both been—

“i’m clean,” he said, reading your mind. “and i’m not going to—”

“i know.” your voice was steadier than you felt. “i trust you.”

the words landed heavier than you'd intended. trust, in their line of work, was a currency more valuable than information. more dangerous than any weapon.

he held your gaze. asked one more time with his eyes: "you sure?" you didn’t answer with words—you just kissed him harder, your legs wrapping around his waist and pulling him down. that was all the confirmation jeongguk needed.

with a slow, careful push, he slid into you—eyes fluttering shut at the overwhelming sensation. warm… tight… perfect. better than anything he’d imagined.

you gasped against his lips—but not from pain. more like surprise at how full you felt… then quiet pleasure as they adjusted together.

"oh fuck," you let out the whiniest moan he'd ever hear. jeongguk echoed you exactly—"oh fuck"—under his breath the second he was fully sheathed inside you. it felt too good… overwhelming in a way that made his vision blur for a second.

he stayed still, forehead pressed to yours as they both breathed through the intensity of it. your fingers dug into his back slightly, your body slowly relaxing around him, getting used to the stretch.

"fuck— you're so big, gguk," you moan. jeongguk's heart squeezed at the nickname—"gguk." it made him melt, and also swell with pride (in more ways than one). "you like that?" he whispered hoarsely, his voice thick as he rocked into you again—deeper this time, still slow but building.

you nodded, your lips parting around a breathy moan. you weren't lying either; his size definitely filled you completely… stretching just right without hurting.

jungkook kissed down your jaw, cheeks flushed from pleasure and affection for you.

he leaned down, his lips brushing your ears as he spoke, "you feel so damn good around me," he growled, "so tight… like you were made for this."

then he nipped her earlobe before adding, "wanna make you scream my name… wanna fucking ruin you." you gasped at his filthy words. "oh shit!"

and then? jeongguk picked up the pace—harder thrusts, chasing that promise in his words. he grinned at your "oh shit." he loved that reaction. loved knowing he was wrecking you with every deep thrust. "that’s it," he murmured against your neck, "let me hear you…"

then his hand slid between you, finding where you were connected and pressing a thumb right over your sensitive clit—rubbing in slow circles while still pounding into you.

you cried out this time—a louder sound than before—as pleasure spiked through every nerve. jungkook watched with hooded eyes… addicted to how you looked like this because of him.

his mouth crashed onto yours again—messy, biting kisses as he pounded into you with zero restraint now. his voice dropped to a filthy whisper right against your ear: "gonna make you cum so hard… wanna feel you squeeze me while i fuck you."

then his free hand gripped your thigh, hiking it higher around his waist to change the angle—going even deeper. you let out a pornographic moan, your nails scraping down jungkook’s back as pleasure spiked through every nerve. you was close… so damn close… and he wasn't stopping until you shattered.

“look at me,” he said. you did. his eyes were wild, pupils blown wide, but focused entirely on your face. watching. cataloging every flicker of pleasure, every gasp, every clench of your jaw.

he wanted to see your fall apart. the realisation sent a shock of heat straight through your core. “jeongguk.” his name cracked on your tongue.

“i know.” his hand slid between your bodies, found the slick heat of your clit, rubbing circles. “i’ve got you. let go.”

you shattered. your back bowed. your thighs clamped around his hips. a cry tore out of you—loud, unguarded, nothing like the controlled sounds you'd trained herself to make.

"uh—shit— i'm gonna.. where do you want it?" he pants. "inside. i'm on birth control." you quickly reply. as soon as you finish your sentence, he cums inside you. his groan muffled against your shoulder as he pulsed inside you. eventually, he slowly pulls out, watching your releases leak from your pussy. "fuck.." he pants heavily.

you lay there, tangled and shaking, as the city hummed twenty-three floors below. his breath was hot on your neck. your fingers traced lazy patterns on his shoulder blade.

“we should—” you started.

“don’t,” he said. “don’t make this into strategy. not yet.”

you closed her mouth. three minutes. then five. then his phone buzzed on the nightstand. instinct snapped you them both upright. he grabbed it, scanned the screen. his expression shifted.

“what?” you were already reaching for your clothes.

“extraction’s been moved up.” he looked at you, and the agent was back in his eyes. but underneath it, something else flickered. “kang’s men just pulled up outside the hotel.”

⚬──────────✧──────────⚬

The streetlights hummed their steady orange glow over the quiet neighborhood, casting long, ordinary shadows that did nothing to soften the knot twisting tighter in your chest with every step. Your sneakers hit the pavement in sharp beats — thud, thud, thud — matching the rhythm of thoughts you couldn’t shut off.

Months.

You’d been letting him have you — fuck you — for months, skin on skin, his mouth hot against your throat. You let his hands map every inch of your skin like he owned it. And still he’d pull back afterward, breath ragged, murmuring the same tired line: ‘I’m not ready for a relationship. Let’s keep things casual.’

Casual.

As if swallowing your feelings every time was simple. As if the way he’d text you at 2 a.m. just to come over meant nothing.

Hypocritical motherfucker.

You gripped the spare key he’d given you weeks ago — just in case, he’d said, like that small gesture balanced out the rest.

Jacob’s face flashed in your mind, the way he’d lit up talking about Lily last month, shy and hopeful. And now? Jungkook was dating her. Like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Why her? Why now? The questions burned, low and vicious. Why could he commit to someone else when he’d been buried inside you, whispering your name like a secret he couldn’t quite let go of? Why Lily, of all people — your mutual friend, the one who knew pieces of your tangled history without knowing the full truth?

You were tired. Bone-deep tired of being the convenient shadow in his life. The one he reached for when it suited him, then pushed away with pretty excuses.

Tonight, that ended.

Cuz you're going to fuck him up.

The apartment building came into view, its familiar glass doors reflecting your flushed face back at you. Then with no hesitation , you let yourself in with the key, the lock turning with a soft click that felt louder than it should. The hallway air was cool and still, carrying the faint scent of his laundry detergent from the neighboring units. Your pulse hammered against your ribs as you climbed the stairs, thoughts sharpening into blades.

Why her and not me? After everything — after the nights you stayed over, the mornings you made coffee in his kitchen like it was yours — why could he give that to someone else? Was he playing you? Is he fucking with you?

The door swung open under your hand. Darkness greeted you first, broken only by the faint blue glow of the city filtering through half-drawn blinds. You didn’t even bother with lights.

“Jungkook?” Your voice cut through the quiet, edged and raw. “Where are you?”

Silence answered. No footsteps. No low hum of his voice calling back.

The living room was empty, takeout containers still on the coffee table from some earlier meal. Your anger flared hotter— he hadn’t even texted you today. Not even once. While he was out solidifying whatever this was with Lily, you’d been left wondering, scrolling through those texts with Jacob until the words blurred.

You moved deeper inside, shoes silent on the hardwood. “Jungkook, I know you’re here. We need to talk. Now!”

Still nothing. The bedroom door was ajar at the end of the short hall. You pushed it open without knocking, the wood whispering against the frame.

There he was.

Jungkook laid sprawled across the bed in the dim light, one arm flung over his head, the other resting on his stomach. His chest rose and fell in the slow, peaceful rhythm of deep sleep, his lips slightly parted. The sheets were tangled around his waist, hoodie discarded on the chair nearby. He looked... untouched by any of it. Serene. Like the world outside his eyelids didn't matter.

Your breath caught, fury and something sharper — hurt, maybe betrayal — coiling so tight it hurt to inhale. It's late night, and he was sleeping like a man with nothing on his conscience.

No texts, or explanations. He was just sleeping like the piece of shit he is.

You stayed there in the doorway, fists clenched at your sides, the key still warm in your palm from the walk over.

You stood there another moment longer, the sight of him so peacefully unaware fueling the fire until it roared. “Wake up,” you snapped, voice cracking through the stillness like a whip. “Jungkook, motherfucker, wake the fuck up right now!”

He stirred faintly, a low, sleepy groan escaping him, but his eyes stayed closed, lashes fluttering without focus. Deep in sleep, lost in whatever dream didn’t include the mess he’d made.

“Wake up, you hypocritical piece of shit!” The words burst out louder, and raw with everything you’d bottled until now. You crossed the room in two strides and yanked the blanket off him with a vicious tug, the fabric ripping away to expose the rumpled t-shirt and shorts underneath.

Jungkook jolted upright, eyes flying open, disoriented and wide. “Nooo— what?” His voice was thick with sleep, hand rubbing at his face. “What the fuck? What are you doing here? When did you come here? How— What happened?”

The confusion on his face only made it worse. You laughed, bitter and sharp, the sound foreign even to your own ears. “What happened? Are you fucking serious right now?” Your chest heaved as the dam broke, words tumbling out in a torrent. “You’ve been fucking me for months, Jungkook. Months. Sneaking me in here, pulling me close like I was yours, telling me over and over you’re ‘not ready’ for anything real. And now? Now you’re dating Lily? Lily? The same girl my best friend’s been crushing on for weeks? How could you do this to me? Do I mean nothing to you? Am I just some convenient warm body you hit up when you’re bored or horny or whatever the fuck runs through that selfish head of yours?”

You paced the small space between the bed and the dresser, hands gesturing wildly, the key still clutched in one fist like a talisman of betrayal. “I let you in. I gave you every part of me without asking for labels because you made it sound so fucking reasonable. ‘Keep it casual,’ you said. Casual! While I sat there swallowing my feelings every single time you pulled away. And meanwhile, you’re out there committing to her? Just like that? Like it’s nothing? Like I haven’t been the one dealing with your moods, your late nights, your stupid excuses? You’re such a goddamn hypocrite. A lying, two-faced asshole who couldn’t even text me today while you were probably out solidifying whatever bullshit this is with her.”

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Now, as the members begin their solo careers and prepare for military enlistment, the stakes have never been higher. Y/n is tasked with her most ambitious project yet: Creating the choreography and performance identity for Jungkook’s global solo debut. What begins as late nights perfecting choreography and playful banter turns into quiet moments that blur the line between professionalism and something much more personal.

Their journey unfolds alongside Jungkook and Jimin’s newest travel show, Are You Sure?!, where Y/n travels with the Busan Brothers through the heat of a New York summer, the coastal winds of Jeju, and the deep snows of Sapporo.

Between the raw, unfiltered footage of life on the road and the quiet vulnerability that lingers after the cameras finally stop rolling, the show becomes the backdrop for Y/n and Jungkook’s evolving story.

As the seasons shift, they are pulled closer through creative passion, industry jealousy, and the looming shadow of distance. Amidst the chaos of global stardom and the quiet fear of a long goodbye, they are forced to make a choice only they can answer: Are they truly sure about each other, no matter what the world might say?

Word count: 21.3k

Warnings/spoilers: not proofread, swearing, pining, slow burn, so much tension, so much yearning, emotional vulnerability, work stress, snippets of flashbacks, self-doubt, jk and oc are all over the place with their feelings (will they, wont they, blah blah blah), emotional manipulation, lowercase intended, that’s about it (lmk if I missed anything!)

DISCLAIMER: This series is a work of fiction intended for entertainment purposes ONLY. All events, dynamics, and dialogue are entirely fictional and products of the author's imagination. It is not true to life, nor does it reflect the actual personal life of any real individual, and should not be taken as fact.

Playlist: here

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Bold = talking in english

Author’s note: heyyyy…long time no see…happy Sunday my stars!🌟 I didn’t realize it’s been a month since I last updated🫣yall have been so patient with me and I hope this chapter makes up for the long wait🫶(even if it may or may not make you sad/mad[?] near the end…) it definitely is a lonnnng chapter and there is a lot of themes going on, so get comfy/ready for this roller coaster of emotions you’re about to feel. also I don't know if you've taken notice with my blog and from the last chapter but I am extremely into astronomy. You might notice some references/metaphors in chapter titles, scenes and overall themes in this series so I hope you enjoy tehehe.

Also there’s a new character this chapter! I have a couple characters that I’m planning on introducing in the next few chapters as there are A LOT. it feels weird to like introduce them so fast but I hope you enjoy their presence when I write them in. This one probably won’t be in as often but she is (kind of) important to the storyline in the future.

I’m trying to get back to posting more often but work/life has been CRAZY! Trying to find time to write, work full-time, work towards my certification, AND taking care of myself has been hard these days😅I also have an interview this Monday, so wish me luck🤞🤞(I need to get out of fcking sales; it’s so bad).

But ANWAYS…Please as always leave your comments and thoughts on this chapter!

Likes & reblogs are greatly appreciated🫶

—

the next day

“that’s a pretty necklace.”

you look up from your phone, your thumb hovering over the ‘heart’ button of halsey’s latest post; a carousel of her and ender hugging you from yesterday’s surprise, you holding baby ender two years ago, and the last one of just you and her when you got your matching tattoos.

‘happiest of birthdays to my favorite bug 🐞the sun shines brighter when you’re around☀️🌙💫,’ the caption read.

your chest tightens with a mix of warmth and that familiar ache of realization as your free hand instinctively drifts up to touch the pendant. you lock your screen, drop the phone into your lap, and catch your reflection in the mirror. 

alyssa, your stylist for today, is gently dusting powder over your cheekbones. her eyes linger on the daisy resting against your collarbone. she gives you a small, knowing smile in the reflection.

“a gift from a special someone?” she asks, tone light but curious.

you feel heat prickle at your neck. you run your thumb over the cool gold. 

“thank you. my…” you pause, your heart stuttering as you weigh the word. you can hear the low hum of the production team and the distant, rhythmic rattle of the set being prepped. you go back to fiddling with the metal.

the one jungkook gifted you. correction: the boys gifted you.

“…my friends gifted it to me,” you finished.

alyssa hums, a low, melodic sound as moves her brush to your jawline, her touch light. “well, your friends have good taste; it’s very pretty on you!”

you give a small, tight-lipped smile, cheeks flushing slightly.

today’s day two of filming the music video, and alyssa is a godsend.

after the frantic, claustrophobic energy of the makeup team yesterday, her bright, effortless cheer is a steady presence that makes the air in the room feel lighter. 

you remain quiet, your focus toggling between your phone and the scene notes you finalized last night with pablo and bradley.

but now, with your phone set aside, your gaze drifts to her hands. her nails are long, intricately detailed with tiny, artistic designs.

“your nails are really pretty,” you compliment as she begins to style your hair into loose curls. “the detail is incredible.”

her face lights up, a grin spreading across her features. she pauses, holding her hand out so you can get a better look.

“oh my god, thank you! i’m always changing them up almost every week. it's like therapy for me.”

“wait, you did this yourself?” you ask, leaning closer to inspect them.

she nods, eyes shining with pride. “yep! self-taught! i started during my first year at college as a hobby to destress. i even take some clients on the side.”

you note that she looks young, around your age or maybe a little younger. 

”that’s amazing,” you say, letting your professional wall crumble for a moment as you actually get to know her. “are you still in school?”

”yeah, just finishing up this fall.” 

“oh that’s exciting! what are you studying?” 

“dance,” she said, voice still bright and energized. “my goal is to be a choreographer. i just do this and nails because it keeps me in the industry and pays the bills until i land a real gig.”

you smile, remembering when you first started out wondering if you’d ever land your first gig. 

look at me now.

“it's a tough path, but it's so worth it. i’ve been right where you are,” you tell her softly. “it all pays off in the end.”

alyssa’s eyes widen. she stops the curling iron, staring at you through the mirror with her jaw slack. 

“wait, you’re y/n? like the lead choreographer of bts, y/n?” 

“could you remove the hot curling iron from my hair before i answer that?” you ask, slightly panicked as you see a faint wisp of heat radiating from your scalp.

she gasped, pulling the tool away. “oh my god! yes, i'm so sorry!” 

she clicks it off, setting it aside, her hands hovering before she lets out a nervous laugh. “i don’t want to be the type of person who fan-girls, but i can’t believe i didn’t realize it was you. wait, you’re an actress too?”

“eh… it's a long story.” you wave it off, trying to sidestep the topic with the same practiced ease you’ve been using to avoid a certain someone on set.

“i really should have recognized you,” she says, breathless. “my professors have us analyzing your performances all the time.”

“oh, really?” you pause, “which ones have you studied?”

you started to wonder; was it with the boys? or halsey? maybe lisa?

alyssa’s next words shock you.

“oh, yours!”

you stare at her, your fingers drifting back to the pendant at your throat. 

“my…mine?”

“yes!” alyssa ignores your shock, practically bouncing in her spot. “one of my professors had an entire segment called ‘the tidal pull’ and used you as the main subject.”

“what's ‘the tidal pull’?” 

she starts using her hands, gesturing as if drawing shapes in the air.

“it’s this theory about how certain dancers exert an almost gravitational force on an audience. my professor says you don’t just move through space; you pull the entire room’s atmosphere along with your momentum. like an ocean responding to the moon.”

alyssa’s words processed in your brain, the vanity lights suddenly feeling a little too bright.  

the idea that someone, a professor at a university, used you as one of their subjects felt surreal; practically impossible. 

the idea that a university professor is using you as a subject is surreal; practically impossible. 

while you’ve always tried to remain humble, you can’t help but pat yourself on the back for the years of sacrifice, the missed holidays, the exhaustion, and the quiet, lonely hours in empty studios chasing a feeling you weren’t sure anyone else would ever understand.

“well,” you start, your voice wavering just enough to betray the pride blooming in your chest. “your professor is very generous.”

before either of you can say anything more, your name is called.

“y/n! you’re up! we’re ready for you in the restaurant set in five!”

the stage manager’s voice boomed across the studio, cutting through the emotional atmosphere. you blinked, pulling yourself back to reality.

you have a job to do. it still felt surreal to wrap your head around the fact that subbing in for your sick lead actress; to play a love interest for your colleague, aka your friend's solo debut song– was considered "work."

alyssa quickly finishes up, unclipping your cape to reveal your outfit. 

you have to admit, the stylists picked a very flattering piece for this scene: a floor-length black silk gown that clings to your frame. it is daringly backless, the silk plunging low to frame your shoulder blades, while a slit runs up the length of your leg, exposing your skin with every step you take in your nude heels. 

you shoot her a small smile and turn toward the set. 

even on day two, the exhaustion is setting in. last night you stayed late, trading ideas with pablo and bradley. shadowing them as they dissected every frame; analyzing camera angles, lighting, and the emotional stakes, was both exhilarating and deeply humbling. 

you felt like a student all over again. watching them communicate with the cameraman, seeing how they made every movement look authentic, made you itch with a new kind of ambition.

there’s a thrill in realizing that you’re building something, frame by frame, just like you would with dance. it’s an amazing feeling.

but it isn’t the only thing you feel.

you still can’t get the sensation of his palm on your waist from yesterday off your skin. even now, you feel the press of his fingers on your hips, the way his gaze held yours, leaving you completely unmoored.

you don’t know how you managed to hold it together after that. i guess that just means you’re a good actress, right?

right.

avoiding him is the only solution, but that’s nearly impossible when you’re forced to work together and you’re planning a trip in a matter of weeks.

fuck, the trips. 

you sigh as you near the set, your pulse beginning a slow, rhythmic thud against your ribs.

another problem for a different day. 

the set is a hive of controlled chaos, but your eyes immediately lock onto the main attraction. 

jungkook is already in his designated seat at the table, his head tilted back as he looks up at the chandelier prop hanging above him. 

he’s surrounded by multiple cameras and crew members.

“for this scene, we’re at a restaurant, and i’m just saying whatever i want to say with no regard for what my girlfriend has to say,” he states to the camera beside him.

he looked settled. almost too calm. he reaches up, his thumb and forefinger catching the small silver hoop of his lip ring, tugging at it as he stares into the lens. 

the movement is restless, a subtle, nervous tick that contrasts with the practiced charm in his voice.

“i feel bad for y/n,” he adds with a practiced smile. “because i’m being super annoying, i feel like i might be stressing her out more than usual.”

you watch from the edge of the set, trying to gauge if the slight twitch in his jaw is part of the performance or something else entirely. 

it’s just pretend, you remind yourself, clutching your clipboard until your knuckles turn white. 

that’s all this is.

“y/n!” pablo’s voice booms. 

jungkook is still facing the camera, but he must hear the rhythmic, sharp click of your heels against the floorboards. you brace yourself as he turns, expecting a nod, a joke, or maybe a casual “hey, gg.”

but as his eyes land on you, his expression falters.

as you make your way toward him, his mouth parts, and his posture goes completely slack. for a terrifying moment, the studio, the cameras, and the noise seem to vanish, replaced by an intensity that feels dangerous. 

you step beside your chair, eyes meeting him across the table, and you watch him struggle to pull himself back to earth. his gaze darts down to the hem of your dress, then to your neckline, before he finally forces his eyes back up to yours.

he looks shaken up. 

he’s a really good actor, you reason, refusing to let your mind wander. 

“sorry i’m late,” you apologized, offering a light smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. you decide to focus intently on the table setting while your hand stays anchored to your clipboard. 

you can feel his gaze on you; a tangible, heavy weight. 

bradley waved his hand, entirely focused on the monitor in front of him. “don’t be, you’re just in time!” 

jungkook doesn’t respond. he stands up abruptly, the screech of his chair against the floorboards loud in the sudden quiet of the set.

"jk? you with us?" bradley’s voice cuts through the air. 

jungkook blinks, the return to reality seeming to jolt his entire posture. his expression is a jarring mix of professionalism and something raw. 

"yeah," he finally croaks, his voice lower than he intended. "i'm with you."

though he isn’t looking at bradley when he says it.

he then moved closer to you, pulling out your chair. 

“oh, thank you,” you say.

as you slide into the seat, the silk of your dress catches against the edge of the wood. 

you reach down to adjust it, but he’s faster. his hand darts out to smooth the fabric, his fingers accidentally grazing the bare skin of your thigh where the gown’s slit ends.

the contact is electric. you feel the heat of his skin seeping through your own, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. he pulls his hand back instantly, as if the touch burned him. 

he hovers there a second too long, his shadow shielding you from any prying eyes.

“you look beautiful.” 

the compliment hangs in the air between you. your pulse spikes, a frantic thud against your ribs. you looked up, searching his eyes; his pupils are blown, his gaze fixated on yours with an intensity that defies the 'pretend' narrative.

is that the ‘pretend’ jungkook or the real one? you wonder, your throat suddenly dry. 

you forced yourself to blink, snapping the image of his searching expression into a box deep in your mind. 

you couldn't afford to go there. not here. not in front of the cameras.

"thank you," you say, your voice low and perfectly composed, offering him a polite, small smile. "you look the part, too."

you saw his jaw tighten, teetering on the edge of something far more honest than you were prepared to handle, but you turned your focus firmly back to your clipboard.

you could still feel him standing there, the heat of his proximity felt like an anchor, yet anything but at the same time. 

“okay, everyone!” pablo’s voice rang out, effectively shattering the bubble.

jungkook flinches. he takes a jagged breath before stepping back, finally putting the necessary distance between you. 

he doesn’t look back as he walks to his side of the table, but the way he grips the back of his chair tells you he’s just as off-balance as you are.

it's just pretend. 

bradley claps his hands, the sound sharp and jarring. “alright, let’s keep it natural. we’re going to do some shots of the scene around you first, so just feel free to relax and have a normal conversation, okay? rolling in five…!”

the cameras hum to life. jungkook settles into his chair, posture rigid, his gaze tracking your every move as you adjust your silverware now that your clipboard is out of sight. 

normal conversation, you thought. we can do that.

“god, my shoulders are killing me,” he starts, rolling his neck dramatically. “all that time hanging yesterday for that first scene... feels like my arms might fall off.”

you remain quiet, your gaze fixed on the table, your fingers tracing the lace pattern on the tablecloth. you feel his eyes on you, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of meeting them. 

you felt too vulnerable, too…exposed. 

his compliment still rings in your ears, a dangerous truth threatening to push through the wall you’ve been holding up since yesterday.

if you look at him now, with that look in his eyes, you know you’ll cave. 

you might say something you can’t take back, or worse, lean into the space he’s creating instead of the one you’re trying to force between you.

“oh, i’m sorry to hear that,” you murmur, your voice guarded, and far too polite.

you finally lift your head but keep your gaze on his hands resting on the table, his knuckles are slightly flushed. “you should have said something if you were in pain. there’s always someone on set to help with recovery.”

you take a slow, deliberate sip of the wine in your glass, the cool liquid offering a momentary distraction. you watch the way the studio lights catch the rim of the glass before setting it back down with a sharp clink.

jungkook’s brow furrows, his eyes searching yours for the usual spark of wit or the familiar, easy banter, but it’s nowhere to be found.

“i didn't want to make a scene,” he says, tone softening from the usual energetic edge he carries. he hesitates, his fingers twitching, inches from yours on the tablecloth. “besides, i think my hands took the brunt of it. they’re still a bit... stiff.”

your body straightens at his words. 

the memory of his hand– that tight, possessive hold he had on your waist in the pool, flashes in your mind. you forced yourself to breathe, keeping your expression blank, though your heart hammered against your ribs.

“your hands?” you repeat, taking a quick, shaky breath to keep your tone neutral. “you were holding on quite tight yesterday. i’m sure that didn’t help with the tension.”

it’s the most honest thing you’ve said to him in twenty-four hours. you could’ve been talking about the train scene, but you know that isn’t what you mean.

and you think part of him knows, too.

“yeah,” he whispers, his voice dropping low enough to make your skin prickle. “i guess i just... i didn't want to let go.”

he holds your gaze, his jaw tight, clearly waiting for you to deflect. you grip the edge of the table, your knuckles white, fighting the urge to lean into the vulnerability he’s showing.

"that's a lot of commitment for a scene," you say softly, your voice barely a breath.

“whatever it takes,” he murmurs. he doesn’t lean back this time. instead, he stays right there, invading your space, his eyes searching yours with an aching shift in tone.

“the guys and i really missed you last night. we ended up at that place you like; the one with the good burgers.”

right. last night. 

you recall seeing his text messages while you were working with bradley and pablo.

koo🍪 (8:22 pm): hey! brian is taking me and the guys for dinner tonight, come join

koo🍪 (8:22 pm): my treat

you wanted to go, but there was too much work to be done. and after what happened just hours before, you didn’t want to risk being in the same booth as him while your defenses were already fraying at the edges.

“oh,” you say, your voice softening despite yourself. “that sounds nice. i hope you guys had a good time.”

“it was… fun,” he admits, a small smile playing on his lips. “would have been more fun if you were there. it… it wasn't the same.”

the way he says it should feel reassuring, but it only makes your skin prickle with a renewed sense of unease.

“well…” you pause, trying to find the right words. “at least there will be plenty of other dinner outings where i can tag along.”

he looks at you for a long moment, his gaze searching your face with a quiet curiosity. 

“yeah,” he finally murmurs, though his smile doesn't quite reach his eyes this time. “i'm holding you to that.”

before you can respond, bradley’s voice cuts through the air like a blade.

“alright, cut! you both were perfect; now let’s dial in,” he says, turning toward you. “just like we talked about yesterday, y/n, be argumentative. really let that irritation and hurt bleed into the next take.”

you took a sharp, steadying breath, the direction acting as a lifeline. 

irritation and hurt. you could do that. 

"and jungkook?" bradley continues, gesturing emphatically. “you’re playing it cool, but you’re desperate to keep her. use your charm. try to pull her back while she's trying to push away. okay?”

you both nod, and the cameras whir back to life, the red light blinking as it closes in on the space; just you two. and it feels suffocating.

“rolling!” pablo shouts. “and… action!”

the music swells, the bass thrumming through the floorboards and vibrating up through your heels. jungkook doesn’t waste a second. 

as the camera focuses on him, he pulls at his lip ring with his teeth, the metal glinting sharply as he bites down; a habit of his that draws your eyes to his mouth. 

he leans his head back, adopting that calculated, effortless confidence. 

he begins to mouth the lyrics, his eyes on yours, his gaze heavy with an intensity that makes the fake walls feel like they’re closing in.

“weight of the world on your shoulders, i kiss your waist and ease your mind,”

meanwhile, you keep your jaw set, a sharp, jagged line of frustration cutting across your features as you cross your arms. 

play pretend.

"i can’t believe you right now," you say, your voice low, cutting through the lyrics he was projecting at you. “all this back and forth? for what?” 

you uncross your arms, raising your hands as you leaned forward. 

“i must be favored to know ya, i take my hands and trace your lines,”

his expression is a mix of arrogance and longing. he reaches out, placing his hands on the table, fingers tracing the cloth just like you had earlier.

"you really enjoy this, don't you?" you murmured, your tone deceptively light; the kind of murmur a girlfriend might use to tease a lover, though your eyes remained cold. "the way you look at me like you’re waiting for me to break. you want me to cause a scene, huh?"

“cut! that was great!” 

bradley’s voice boomed through the studio, immediately followed by the music dying down. the silence that follows is deafening, heavy with the lingering tension. but it seems to only affect the two of you. 

you let out a jagged breath, your posture collapsing as the adrenaline drains out of your limbs. you don’t look at jungkook. instead, you busy yourself with your silverware, your fingers trembling slightly as you rearrange the fork and knife; a desperate, pathetic attempt to regain some form of control.

jungkook notices the tremor in your fingers. he hesitates, his voice low. “y/n, you okay?”

the casual concern in his voice is like a needle to your nerves.

"i'm fine," you said, your voice airy and dismissive, intentionally stripping away any of the heat that had just burned between you. “just tired.”

jungkook lets out a soft, hollow half-laugh. he shifts in his seat, playing with the fabric of his blazer. 

"you know," he says, his tone shifting, shedding the performative edge for something more conversational. "i was talking to jimin earlier. he's been non-stop texting me all morning, trying to figure out the logistics for that trip we're supposed to take."

your heart skips a beat. the vacation; a sharp, stinging reminder of the contract binding you to him. at least jimin will be there.

"oh? and?" you ask, your voice tight, forcing yourself to maintain that cool, professional mask.

"and," jungkook continues, his gaze tracking your fidgeting hands, "he's driving me absolutely insane. he's got a whole itinerary mapped out but won’t tell me where we’re going.” 

he pauses, his dark eyes searching your face for any sign of a smile. “has he been annoying you with this as much as he’s been with me?”

you keep your expression neutral, focusing intently on the way your fork reflects the harsh overhead lights, but the mention of jimin is a relief, even if you’d never admit it out loud. 

“jimin is… jimin,” you say, finally allowing a small huff of laughter to escape. “he’s been sending me voice notes at three in the morning asking about my preferences. when i begged him to just send me the flight details so i could stop stressing about packing, he just replied with a selfie of him wearing sunglasses and a beach hat.”

jungkook lets out a chuckle, the tension in his shoulders finally dropping. “yah, this guy, i swear. it probably means we’re either going to end up in a five-star luxury suite or stuck sleeping in a tent somewhere with no cell service."

you feel your own defensive wall waver. 

you feel your own defensive wall waver. there’s something grounding about the way he talks about jimin; it’s normal, it’s real, and it’s a million miles away from the 'pretend girlfriend' role you’ve been forced to inhabit. it reminds you that underneath the contracts and the public scrutiny, there’s still the same dynamic you’ve always shared with the boys. with him.

"well," you start, a hint of your usual playfulness creeping back into your tone, "if he drags us to a tent in the middle of nowhere, at least i know how to start a fire.”

"do you actually?" jungkook leans closer, his chin resting in his hand, his eyes scanning your face with genuine curiosity. "your dad teach you?"

the question hung in the air, simple and unexpected. the mention of your father and the reminder that he actually listens to the stories you’d told him, back in the studio, back in the observatory, when the world was smaller, knocks the wind out of you.

“i remember everything you say, y/n."

you look up, meeting his eyes. he’s looking at you with a soft, focused gaze that feels like he’s trying to map out every secret you’ve ever told him. it’s a terrifying, beautiful feeling; to be fully known in the middle of all this make-believe.

“yeah, he did,” you whisper. 

“you’ll have to teach me then,” he says. it wasn't a request for a survival lesson; it felt like a silent pact; an invitation to be something other than 'y/n, lead choreographer' and 'jungkook, global popstar.' 

it was an invitation to just be yourselves.

you feel a sudden, sharp pang of longing; for the simplicity of those memories, for the version of yourself that didn’t feel like she was constantly performing, even when she was just standing in a room with him. 

you try to pull back, hardening your jaw against the aching need to lean into him. 

"you're a fast learner, jungkook," you manage, forcing a wry smile. "i'm not sure you're ready for the reality of 'camping' with me. i can get very strict and competitive.”

jungkook’s lips quirk upward, that signature crooked grin returning, but it’s stripped of the polished charm he usually displays. it’s softer, more private. 

“strict, huh? you act like i can’t handle you.”

“oh, you have no idea, jk.” you aren’t sure where this surge of confidence came from; maybe the wine, or maybe just a side of you that is tired of playing the part. 

“i think you might be surprised by how much i enjoy a little healthy competition.” he murmurs, his voice deepening like honey. he doesn't look away, his eyes dipping to your lips before locking back onto yours. 

oh, you know how competitive he is. you’ve seen it with your own eyes.

you remember once when you walked by them filming an episode for run bts!. apparently, they were on a scavenger hunt involving taking specific photos. jungkook had been wearing a bright pink shirt with his face on it, looking absolutely ridiculous, yet he was charging through the set with the intensity of an olympic athlete. 

however, at the end of the hunt, they found out jin was a spy, and if they had any photos with him in them, you lost points. 

jungkook had a lot of photos of jin. 

he lost a lot of points. 

seeing him so frustrated he nearly broke a board had been… comical. and, if you were being honest with yourself, seeing him that worked up was kind of hot.

you couldn’t help but let a small laugh escape your lips. 

jungkook blinks, caught off guard. he tilts his head. "what? what's so funny?"

you take a slow, deliberate sip of your wine, watching the way the lights catch the rim of the glass before meeting his eyes again.

"i was just thinking about that one day," you admit, your shoulders relaxing. “when you were filming that scavenger hunt with the boys and you wore that bright pink shirt with your face on it, running around the halls like a madman.”

jungkook groans, covering his eyes with one hand. "oh, don't remind me. i still have nightmares about that. i can’t believe jin was the spy."

“you were so pissed,” you continued, unable to stop the grin that was spreading across your face. “i remember walking past and thinking, he’s actually going to break that board.”

he laughs; a rich sound that echoes warmly. he drops his hand, his eyes crinkling. "i really wanted to win, okay? i have a reputation to uphold."

“i can’t wait to see your reaction when you lose to me,” you state. 

"you talk like you've already won," he murmurs, his expression shifting from amusement to something far more dangerous. you swear you see his eyes trail down again before he catches himself.

“maybe i have,” you challenge, a spark of something daring igniting in your chest.

jungkook’s smirk deepens, shifting from playful to something that makes your stomach flip. he mirrors your posture, his elbows hitting the table with a soft thud, his dark eyes locking onto yours with a steady, unyielding focus.

“i could say the same thing.”

the air is thick with the scent of his cologne and the persistent hum of the ac, but all you can feel is the radiant heat emanating from his skin. the small lamp between you casts long, flickering shadows, highlighting the intensity in his eyes.

you don’t realize how close you’ve gotten until you’re practically on the edge of your chair.

he doesn't pull back. instead, his fingers twitch against the tablecloth, still hovering an inch away from your wrist. the silence is no longer empty; it’s a physical weight, vibrating with everything you both haven't said since yesterday.

before you could respond, a shadow fell over the table. 

"right! everyone, eyes on me!"

the boisterous voice sends a jolt of alarm through your system. you pull back as if struck, your chair screeching harshly against the floor.

pablo steps into the frame, clipboard held high, entirely oblivious to the tension he just decimated. he stops at the edge of the table, peering down at the two of you with a wide grin. 

“this is where the chaos starts, okay? everything will start moving and then once the chandelier falls, y/n, i want you to get up as if you’re about to leave.” he turned toward jungkook. “and jungkook, you’re begging her to stay, then bam! there’s going to be an explosion.”

you take a deep, steadying breath and smooth the silk of your dress, trying to ignore the lingering sensation of his heat on your skin. you are a choreographer, a professional, and now an actress.

you can do this. you told yourself. it’s just pretend.

the crew swarms the set. lights are adjusted; the rigging is checked.

 “alright, places, everyone!” pablo’s voice echoes, the spell broken entirely. “let’s keep that intensity!”

the music starts back up. this time, the lights flicker; everything around you begins to move: glassware, tables, lamps, the ceiling, the walls.

“its the way that we could ride, it’s the way that we could ride”

the lyrics fall from his lips, almost as a plea. the studio is dissolving into a cacophony of planned tremors and simulated panic, but jungkook is steady; an anchor amidst the artificial storm around you. 

“think i met you in another life, so break me off another time”

the chandelier prop at the table beside you drops, hitting dead center. that’s your cue. 

“okay y/n, stand!”

you slam your hands down on the table, the chinaware clinking in sync. the sound muffled by the chaos around you. 

“you wrap around me, and you give me life”

you surge to your feet, the silk of your dress following you as you pivot away, just as the script demands. you are supposed to be icy; a woman finally untethering herself from his pull.

"don’t go," jungkook rasped, his voice muffled by the music, but you heard it. he reaches out, fingers curling around your wrist with a sudden, searing pressure that stops you dead in your tracks.

the movement is far too aggressive, far too real. it isn't what you envisioned last night. 

it’s visceral, possessive, and entirely unscripted.

you jerk back, your breath hitching as your eyes snap to him in shock. you open your mouth to say something, but the words die on your tongue the moment you see his face. the studio is a hurricane of falling debris and disorienting strobes, but he is completely still, staring up at you with an expression of such hollowed-out devotion that it makes your stomach drop.

the same expression he wore yesterday, right before he pulled you in. 

"jungkook," you breathe, his name barely audible over the mechanical shrieking of the set rigs.

he doesn't release you. if anything, his grip tightens, his thumb pressing into the pulse point of your wrist as if he’s trying to measure the frantic speed of your heartbeat. 

his eyes are wide, luminous in the strobe lights, searching your face for an answer to a question he’s never dared to ask out loud.

“and that's why night after night i'll be lovin' you right”

"cue explosion!"

the wall behind you erupts with a boom. the shockwave ripples through the floorboards, sending a violent tremor up your legs. you are so entrapped by his gaze that your center of gravity is just… gone.

you stumble, arms flailing, but you don’t hit the floor.

instead, you are yanked forward by the iron grip he still holds on your wrist.

the momentum throws you off-balance, and you collide hard against his chest. his broad frame acts like a wall, absorbing the impact as he catches you as you tumble into his lap.

jungkook’s arms are around you instantly, pulling you flush against him to shield you from the debris.

you are breathless, your chest heaving against his.

he holds you, fingers splayed against your back, his touch grounding and warm. his breathing is ragged, a sharp, uneven sound vibrating through your chest.

you tilt your head back, hair falling away from your face, and look at him.

he looks wrecked; eyes dark, lips slightly parted, jaw locked in that same agonizing expression of devotion he’d shown you in the pool.

"jungkook," you whisper again, his name a plea this time.

his eyes flicker down to your lips, then back to your eyes, grip tightening slightly. he looks like he’s fighting a war inside himself, his knuckles white against the dark fabric of your dress. 

he leans in slightly before asking, “you okay?”

your hand is still pressed flat against his chest, right over the center of his shirt, and you can feel the frantic thud-thud of his heart.

“i’m okay,” you manage to get out, suddenly realizing your surroundings. “i should get up.”

but he doesn’t let you move. if anything, his hand at the small of your back presses harder, anchoring you.

"wait," he murmurs, his voice raw, stripped of the practiced, effortless persona he’s worn like armor all day. he shifts his grip, his thumb trailing down your arm from your wrist, his touch electric against your skin. "just... wait a second."

“everyone’s looking.”

they aren’t; they’re focused on the props, but he doesn't care. he lets out a shaky breath, and for a fleeting second, his forehead drops to rest against yours, creating a bubble in the center of the chaos.

"let them," he whispers, so quietly that you almost don't hear him over the dying hiss of the pyrotechnics.

for a moment, you almost believe him. you almost let yourself sink into the weight of his arms; arms that have held you through four years of celebrations, stress, and quiet, late-night comforts. the 'pretend' feels like it’s melting away into something you know you can’t have.

“cut! that was perfect!”

bradley’s shout echoes. the spell; already strained, snaps.

you scramble off his lap, hurried and uncoordinated as your silk dress snags on the remnants of the table. you don’t dare meet his eyes. 

you stand up, legs feeling like jelly, and immediately busy yourself with the clasp of your necklace; anything to keep your hands occupied, anything to stop them from shaking.

jungkook remains on his chair for a moment longer, hands still hovering in the space where you’d just been. then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he stands up.

"you're okay, right?" he asks, his voice still raw but soft as he checks on you. 

you don’t look at him, can't look at him, but you can feel the weight of his gaze. you brush a stray curl from your face, hands still betraying you with a persistent tremor.

"i'm fine," you say, your voice guarded. you turn to look toward bradley. "ready for the next scene?"

you don’t wait for an answer, already walking toward the monitors. 

on the screen, you see it: the two of you, locked in a moment so intimate it makes your skin crawl. you see your wide eyes, the way you clutched his blazer, the way he held you as if you were the only thing keeping him from drifting away.

it was perfect. and it was the most agonizing thing you’d ever seen.

jungkook pivots, his feet instinctively turning in your direction as if drawn by a gravitational pull he can’t control. he takes two steps, eyes locked on the back of your head, clearly intent on crossing that line.

but before he can reach you, his stylist and a team of makeup artists stopped him. they begin dabbing at his collar, adjusting his blazer, and aggressively blotting the fake ash from his cheeks. 

simultaneously, the camera crew swarms in, maneuvering to get a close-up of jungkook, who is now trapped in their bubble. 

you watch from the edge of the monitors, as he looks toward the camera. he knows you’re standing just a few feet away, listening. 

he gave the camera a tired, crooked smile, the kind that looked casual to any fan, but to you, it felt like a direct hit. 

“is my acting good?” he asks, his voice projecting just enough for you to catch the gravelly edge of it. he leans slightly toward the lens, expression turning mock-serious, though his eyes keep flickering toward your silhouette. “thank you, but... i can’t say any lines. the moment i do, it gets ruined. i have huge respect for actors, i really do. i could never do it.”

he pauses, a dark, heavy silence hanging on the end of the sentence before he whispers it; a final, biting remark aimed straight at your spine:

“play pretend.” 

you stand frozen, fingers still white-knuckled around your clipboard. his stylist tugs at his sleeve, physically pulling him away, but his gaze remains pinned to you for a second longer than necessary; a silent, intense challenge that dares you to look away.

“y/n?”

the sound of your name snaps you back to the present. you jolt, turning toward alyssa, who is standing a few feet away with a sympathetic, slightly confused expression.

“sorry,” you breathe, voice catching. you force your hands to loosen their grip on the clipboard, though your palms are still burning. “yes?”

“you okay?” she asks, eyes scanning your face with gentle concern. “you look like you’ve seen a ghost. come on, we need to get you ready for the next scene.”

“yeah,” you say, the word feeling heavy on your tongue. “just the dust getting to me.”

you take one last glance toward the center of the set, where jungkook's silhouette used to stand.

“okay. let's go.”

this should be a lot easier. 

—

the atmosphere on the platform feels different; sharper, charged with the weight of the silence between you and jungkook. 

you stand on the wooden stage surrounded by a wall of blue screen tarps that stretch to the ceiling. you’ve switched out of your dress and heels for something more grounded: charcoal-grey cargo pants with silver chains hanging from the loops and a cropped black tank. you’ve traded your pumps for those heavy platform boots from yesterday.

alyssa moves around you, her touch light as she does a final check on your hair, now pulled back into a high, slick ponytail. she’s quiet, though her eyes dart back and forth between you and the man standing ten feet away.

jungkook is getting his own final touches, now sporting a jean jacket over a white tank top, leather pants, and chunky combat boots.

you aren’t looking at him, but you feel the weight of his focus; a tether pulling tight between your chests. every time the stylists adjust his sleeves or dab at his forehead, his eyes snap to your silhouette.

“nervous?” alyssa asks in a hushed tone, her fingers lingering near your shoulder as she finishes dabbing your skin with a sponge.

you let out a breath you feel you’ve been holding since you walked into the studio. “is it that obvious?”

“just a little,” she teases, though her eyes soften with genuine empathy. “i mean, he is pretty cute.”

“oh my god,” you laugh, the sound slightly brittle as it echoes against the high ceilings. “that’s besides the point.”

alyssa laughs with you before dropping the sponge into her kit. 

“girl, listen to me. i know we’ve only known each other for five minutes, so don’t take this the wrong way but…” she pauses, leaning closer, dropping her voice into a whisper. “where’s the badass choreographer who can command a stage of more than twenty dancers and idols?”

you take a side glance at him. he’s in deep conversation with one of the directors, going over what you suspect are the final framing notes. he’s nodding; focused, jaw tight, movements clipped and efficient. 

professional. doing his job. which is exactly what you should be focusing on.

“probably wishing she was anywhere but here,” you mutter, fingers unconsciously fidgeting with your necklace.

“well, drag her out,” alyssa says, her voice low but steady. she gives your shoulder a firm, grounding squeeze. “besides, aren’t you guys like friends or something?”

“something like that…” you echo, though the term feels inadequate.

alyssa catches your eye, her expression shifting from playful to something more observant.

"well, whatever that 'something' is, don’t let it get in the way of your potential.”

she leans in closer, eyes glinting with a mix of mischief and firm encouragement. 

“take charge, y/n.”

her words hit you with a sudden clarity. the knot of anxiety in your chest starts to loosen, replaced by a cold, precise spark of ambition.

“you know,” you start, a small smile tugging at your lips, “you’re going to be a brilliant choreographer one day, alyssa.”

alyssa blushes, fixing a strand of hair that’s loose from your ponytail, though her gaze remains steady and warm. 

“well,” she says softly, “i have pretty good inspiration to learn from.”

you think back to your younger self: the girl who would spend hours at the local dance studio in your hometown. back then, you didn’t care about the music industry, global debuts, or the agonizing tension that seemed to crackle whenever jungkook stood within five feet of you. 

you danced because it made you feel alive. it was the only way to silence the chaotic noise in your head.

translating the things your lips couldn't bear to say into a language of motion that could reach across a room and touch someone else’s soul. 

that was the core of it; the raw, unvarnished passion for the craft. 

and jungkook had always seen that in you.

you look at him again as he stands there, so effortlessly centered in the chaos of the set. and for the first time since the filming started, the frantic pulse in your throat begins to steady.

he’s my friend, the thought anchoring you. he’s my best friend. that’s more important than anything else.

you take a long, slow breath, letting the resolve wash over you. you’re going to be the bigger person. you’re going to be a professional. and most importantly, you’re going to protect the bond you’ve spent four years building.

“well, before i forget…” you pause, grabbing your clipboard, “we should stay in contact.”

alyssa beams, her expression turning genuine and soft. “are you serious?”

“sincerely,” you say, writing your number on a note before ripping it off and handing it to her. “you have passion and kindness; rare in this industry. we could definitely use more of it. plus, you seem like a cool person to hang out with.”

“thank you so much!” she tucks the paper into her pocket with a grin. "you won't regret it. i'll make sure you don't."

you give her a soft, genuine smile, feeling the last of your internal franticness dissipate. it feels good to have made that choice. alyssa gives you the all-clear, and you straighten yourself out before making your way over to jungkook.

he’s already in position, his eyes tracking your movement across the studio floor before you even step onto the platform. he looks like he’s bracing for the same jagged friction that has defined every interaction since you arrived, his jaw set in that practiced line.

you don’t meet that version of him. instead, you keep your gaze neutral, walking toward him with the quiet confidence of someone who has just reaffirmed their own center.

"hey," you say, your voice cutting through the ambient noise of the set. it isn't the guarded tone from earlier. it’s lighter, sweeter; like you.

jungkook blinks, the rigidness in his shoulders faltering just a fraction at your tone.

"hey," he replies, his voice a low, gravelly hum that still manages to send a tremor down your spine. he starts to turn his head away, falling back into that familiar distance, but you reach out, poking him right in the ribs; a spot you know makes him jump.

he lets out a startled sound, his hands flying up as he glares at you, though the look is entirely lacking in heat. "yah! what was that for?"

you grin, an easy smile that finally reaches your eyes. "i don't know, you looked way too serious. i thought you might have forgotten how to laugh for a bit."

"i haven't forgotten how to laugh," he mutters, though his own lips are twitching, fighting to hold back a smile. "i've just been busy trying to be a 'cool actor' for the cameras."

"well, you're failing," you tease, stepping closer until you’re well within his personal space; not to challenge him, but to bridge the gap. "you look more like a grumpy puppy."

jungkook lets out a genuine, booming laugh; the kind that echoes warmly through the studio, stripping away the last of the tension. 

he leans in, his dimple appearing, his eyes crinkling in that way that always makes your heart do a ridiculous somersault. "grumpy puppy? is that what i am to you?"

"pretty much," you say, shrugging with a smirk. "the hair, the pout; it's all there."

he laughs again, shaking his head. the professional armor he’d been wearing is finally, completely shattered, replaced by the easy, banter-filled rhythm you’ve shared for years. it feels like the air has cleared, the static that had been choking you all day finally dissipating.

“also, when we wrap today, do you want to grab something to eat?” you ask, fidgeting with your fingers before drawing them up to play with your necklace.

jungkook’s expression softens instantly. he seems to study your face, as if checking to see if the invitation is truly genuine or just another layer of your professional act. the silence stretches between you, but it isn't the suffocating, jagged tension of before.

“you're asking me?” he asks.

“yeah,” you say, shrugging slightly. “i don’t know about you, but i’m craving a good burger.”

a slow, relieved smile spread across his face, and he let out a short, airy chuckle. the way his shoulders dropped, the way his jaw finally unhitched, told you everything.

“i do love a good burger,” he says, his voice dropping, carrying a note of quiet anticipation. “but don’t you have some scenes to work out with the directors?”

“i already worked those out with them,” you explain, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, the gesture feeling more relaxed than it has all day. “unless maybe you had some other plans?”

you brace for the rejection, for him to retreat back, but he doesn't. 

instead, he steps closer, his look one of genuine relief.

"no," he says softly. "i don’t have anything else planned. just a burger. and... talking to you."

the air between you feels heavy again, but it’s a different kind of weight now. it’s soft, humming with a promise that feels far more real than anything you’d been performing for the cameras. 

you are both in the middle of a high-pressure set, surrounded by cameras and crew, but in this bubble, it feels as though the entire world has faded away until it is just the two of you.

“okay then,” you say, your voice steadying, surprised by your own boldness. “it’s a da— dinner. it’s dinner.”

he chuckles, the sound low and rich, and the corner of his mouth quirks into that lopsided, endearing smirk you’ve known for four years. “dinner. right.”

the air hums with a quiet electricity, a stark contrast to the chaotic, artificial storm that raged on set moments ago.

then, a sharp voice cut through the stillness.

“alright, jk? y/n? how are we feeling?”

you straighten, your fingers slipping away from your necklace to rest against your clipboard. you feel jungkook shift beside you, his own posture realigning from the soft, relaxed stance he’d taken with you back to that alert readiness.

“good!” you beamed, setting your clipboard off to the side. “ready when you are!”

bradley steps into the space between you, eyes glued to his clipboard, completely oblivious to the intimate, charged atmosphere he’s shattering.

“alright, let’s keep the momentum going! y/n, we’ll have you stand here,” he points to one of the ends of the platform, “and jk, we’ll have you here,” he points to the opposite side.

his instructions cut through the air like a blade, snapping the tension between you and jungkook completely. you both turn, your bodies instinctively moving to the positions he indicates. 

you feel the distance grow between you, the warm bubble of your conversation replaced by the cold, clinical reality of lighting cues and camera angles.

jungkook moves to his mark, but just as bradley turns back to his monitor to double-check the camera settings, jungkook pauses.

he bites his lip; a gesture you know means he’s thinking an idea over in his mind.

"wait," jungkook says, his voice quiet but commanding enough to stop the crew from turning the cameras on.

bradley pauses, looking back over his shoulder with a raised brow. "yeah, jk? what’s up?”

jungkook doesn't answer him directly. instead, he steps out of his mark and walks toward you, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that makes your breath hitch.

"it doesn't feel right," he murmurs, his gaze flicking to your lips and then back up to your eyes. "standing here, acting out a fight... it feels disjointed. it's too theatrical."

you frown, your pulse quickening. "what are you suggesting?"

"why don't we do the choreography?" he asks, his eyes searching yours for understanding. "the bridge. the one we did at your apartment? it’s supposed to be about the tension, right? i think that would really tie it together."

he waits, brow furrowed in a way that makes your heart ache. he needs you to explain it; to be the one to bridge the gap between his artistic vision and the director’s. you look at him, realizing he isn't just talking about the scene; he’s talking about the only way he knows how to communicate with you without the masks.

taking a steadying breath, you turned toward bradley. "bradley, wait."

“everything okay guys?” he asks, looking between you and jungkook.

“everything’s fine! jungkook had an idea that…” you pause. “what if he and i did the choreography for this scene together?”

bradley exchanges a skeptical look with pablo, his head tilting as he weighs the request. the studio suddenly feels very quiet, the only sound being the distant hum of the ventilation system. pablo scratches his chin, his eyes darting between your determined expression and the way jungkook is standing; radiating a focused, quiet intensity that you rarely see him display on set.

“the choreography?” bradley repeated, his voice thoughtful. “you want to scrap the scripted blocking for a full routine?

“i think this plan will be better,” you say, stepping forward with confidence. “just like what we did for the scene yesterday. i think it’ll show that restless devotion… from both sides.”

bradley taps his chin with his pen, his gaze shifting to the platform’s edge, but the look of shared determination between you and jungkook seems to sway him. 

he looks at pablo, who gives a nearly imperceptible nod.

“alright, what you say goes…” bradley pauses before saying, “director y/n…”

the sudden use of that title sends a chill down your spine. you feel the shift—the hierarchy of the room reorienting itself around your expertise rather than your role as a choreographer or impromptu actor.

jungkook looks at you, a slow, proud smirk spreading across his lips, his eyes gleaming. 

you look at the platform, then back at your crew. 

the anxiety that had been clawing at your throat all day evaporates, replaced by a cold, precise clarity. you are the choreographer. you know the story. and for the first time, you aren't fighting the scene; you’re directing it.

"alright," you say, your voice ringing out with a newfound authority that makes the camera crew turn toward you expectantly. “for the choreography, we need to stabilize the platform more. once that’s set, we’ll run the bridge transition from the top.”

bradley steps back, crossing his arms and watching you with a satisfied nod. "you heard her, everyone! let's get to work."

it takes approximately fifteen minutes to secure the platform, and only five for you and jungkook to map out the transitions. 

you stand to the side, eyes scanning the structural changes, already visualizing how the choreography will translate to the now-solid platform. 

you feel jungkook move into your peripheral vision, his presence heavy and warm. he doesn’t say a word, just stands close enough that the brush of his sleeve against your arm sends a familiar shiver down your spine.

“ready?” you ask, glancing over your shoulder at him.

instead of answering, he holds out his tatted hand for you. you slowly reach out, lacing your fingers through his; his skin against yours providing an anchor in the middle of the buzzing studio. 

it’s a simple gesture, yet it carries the weight of everything you haven’t been able to say for the last twenty-four hours: the unspoken apologies, the frustrations, and the overwhelming desire to just be in sync again.

he squeezes your hand once, firm and grounding, before pulling you toward the center of the platform. the crew is already resetting the lights, casting long, dramatic shadows that dance around the two of you.

“y/n, you let us know when you’re ready!” pablo calls from his spot behind the monitor.

"from the top!" you command, your voice steady, ringing with an authority that leaves no room for doubt.

the heavy, driving bassline tore through the silence of the studio, immediately setting the tempo for the routine. as the track swelled into that familiar, kinetic bridge you’d perfected in the privacy of your living room, you didn't hold back.

“monday, tuesday, wednesday, thursday, friday, saturday, sunday, seven days a week”

you initiated the movement; a sharp, angular lunge that cut across his space. jungkook didn't hesitate; he mirrored your intensity instantly, his body a fluid, lethal extension of your own. 

you move with a sharp grace, your bodies weaving around each other in a series of precise isolations. there is a raw, kinetic energy in every step, a language of frustration and longing that only the two of you fully understand.

you push off the platform’s edge, using the momentum to pivot sharply back into his space. jungkook catches you, his hands locking onto your waist with a firm, possessive strength that anchors you. he pulls you into a tight hold, your back nearly flush against his chest. 

“every hour, every minute, every second,”

the studio lights seem to dim, leaving only the two of you in a private, suffocating bubble of heat and rhythm. as you move together, you reach up, your fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw before sliding down to his collar.

your movements were slow, deliberate, but entirely yours. 

he didn't break the connection, his gaze locked onto yours with that same terrifying, hollowed-out devotion. his hands were firm on your waist, the intricate details of his finger tattoos pressing into your skin, a reminder of the person currently holding you.

“you know night after night, i’ll be lovin’ you right,”

as the music comes to a low thrum, you are completely in his space, your foreheads almost touching, chests heaving in unison. the world outside the blue screens ceases to exist. there is only the sound of your shared breathing.

“cut!”

you pull away instinctively, heart hammering against your ribs, though the physical heat of him; his hands, the press of his chest, lingers on your skin like a brand.

jungkook takes a half-step back, his expression shifting back into the practiced focus of an artist. but his eyes, dark and still blown wide, betray him. he keeps his gaze locked on yours, the silence between you thick with the memory of the routine you’ve just finished.

"that was great guys!" bradley exclaims from behind the monitors, sounding more like a fan than a director. he leans back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face. "pablo, did you get that?"

"every frame," pablo replies, his own voice hushed. he gestures toward the screen where the playback is running.

you turn toward the monitors, chest still heaving, trying to find your footing in the sudden shift from the private bubble you’d shared with jungkook to the glaring reality of the set. you see yourself on screen, see the way your hand rested on his jaw, the way his thumb pressed into your side as if he were trying to measure your heartbeat. seeing it from the outside makes it feel even more dangerous than it did from the inside.

jungkook steps up beside you to look at the monitor, his shoulder brushing yours. the casual contact feels like a live wire.

"the chemistry," bradley says, pointing to the screen, "it’s exactly what the bridge needed. it’s perfect. we don't need another take."

your heart drops. the thought of that bubble popping; of having to go back to being just a choreographer and an idol, of walking off this platform and losing this electric tether, feels unbearable. you look at the monitor again, squinting at the playback, desperately hunting for a flaw.

"wait," you say, your voice sharper than you intended.

pablo, bradley, and jungkook turn to look at you.

"the lighting on the third turn," you continue, your mind racing to construct a plausible technical failure. "it messes with the transition. if we want it to look perfect, the movement has to be sharper at the pivot point."

jungkook tilts his head, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. he looks from the screen to your face, his gaze lingering on your slightly parted lips before drifting back to your eyes. he sees the flush on your skin, the way your hands are still trembling, and the thinness of your excuse.

he knows you’re just as terrified of ending this as he is.

“i noticed that too,”jungkook says, his voice low and steady, backing you up without a moment of hesitation. “i was a bit off-balance on the pivot. i think we can make it tighter.”

bradley sighs, looking between the two of you. he doesn't seem fully convinced, but he also doesn't argue.

"alright," bradley relents, waving a hand. "one more take. make it count."

as the crew scurries to reset the lights, jungkook doesn't move away. he stays close, his presence a heavy, comforting weight in your personal space. he leans in until his lips are inches from your ear, his breath warm against your skin.

"good work, director," he says, his voice a low, gravelly hum that sends a tremor straight to your core. he doesn't move away. he just stands there, the weight of his attention pulling at you, reminding you of the dinner you’d promised, and the reality that you are both far too good at making the fake feel like the only truth you have left.

—

“okay but be honest with me…” you pause, voice muffled by the food in your mouth. “was the hug too much?”

you and jungkook are currently huddled on the trailer’s cramped floor, the scent of cooling takeout burgers and fries hanging heavy in the air; a mundane, welcome change from the exhausting vastness of the studio.

jungkook, who had been focused on picking at his fries, looks up, a faint, amused quirk to his lips. "with latto?"

you nod, a sheepish flush creeping up your neck.

he lets out a low, amused huff, shaking his head. he watches you for a moment, his eyes softening in the dim light. 

“gg, you were fine. it was just a hug. honestly? i think she looked more surprised than bothered.”

“you’re just saying that to make me feel better,” you mutter, shoving a fry into your mouth.

“i’m saying it because it’s true,” he replies, his gaze unwavering. he reaches over, brazenly stealing a fry from your tray with a smirk.

“director y/n.” 

you rolled your eyes, a laugh escaping you. “don’t even start with that!”

“hey, i’m serious!” he said, “i swear after bradley said that your face was so red-“

you cut him off by throwing a pillow at him, which he caught. 

“oh, cut it out,” you laugh, though your smile remains soft. “for the record, i was only supposed to be shadowing them so i say that is progress.”  

jungkook pauses, the laughter between you dying down, his expression shifting into something more somber.

“you’re shadowing them?” he asks, his voice suddenly quiet.

fuck. you weren’t supposed to say that. 

“um, yeah,” you clear your throat, picking at a loose thread on your jeans. “son wanted me to, while he was gone. since he couldn’t be there, it just… made more sense that way.”

jungkook’s face drops. the spark from moments ago is replaced by a look of sudden, painful realization.

“fuck. did i mess up by asking you to sub in for the lead?” he asks.

“wait, what?” you blink, the laughter completely vanishing as the weight of his guilt sinks in. “koo, no. where is this coming from?”

he grips the pillow tight, his gaze fixed anywhere but on you. “i just… i knew son was having you take charge, but i didn’t realize it would be something like that.” he pauses, his shoulders slumping. “it’s a great opportunity for you, and i blew it.”

the air in the trailer feels razor-thin. you soften, reaching out to cover his hand with yours, forcing him to meet your eyes. “koo, stop. seriously. you didn’t ‘blow’ anything.”

when he finally looks up, his gaze is searching yours, heavy with unnecessary guilt. you offer him a small, watery smile, your thumb stroking the back of his hand to ground him.

”you didn’t ruin anything,” you say firmly. you try to lighten the mood with a sharp, familiar jab. “besides, i think the only thing you blew were the shots where you looked like a lost, grumpy puppy.”

jungkook’s brow furrows, a flicker of his usual playfulness trying to fight through the guilt. "you’re still on that, aren’t you?"

“i mean, the hair, the pout, the brooding stare?” you smirk, leaning in, your voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. “you’re just as bad as bam, if not worse.”

jungkook lets out a short, shocked laugh, and before you can blink, he swings the pillow he’s holding, lightly thwacking your shoulder. "yah! you’re unbelievable. i was playing the part!"

"you were being a drama queen," you counter, grabbing a cushion from behind you. “probably where bam gets it from.”

"oh, it's on," he breathes, his eyes glinting with a dangerous, competitive light.

he lunges for the pillow in your hands, and for a frantic moment, it’s a blur of flying fabric and muffled laughter. 

he’s faster, inevitably catching the pillow with one hand and pulling you off-balance with the other. you tumble forward, hands landing on the floorboards with a soft thump, your body coming to rest half-sprawled over his.

the momentum of your collision leaves you both breathless, chests heaving in rhythm. suddenly, you are keenly aware of exactly where you are: pressed flush against him, his hands anchored firmly at your waist to steady you. the small space of the trailer feels suddenly, suffocatingly intimate.

jungkook goes completely still. his eyes, usually so sharp and teasing, darken, scanning your face with a focus that makes your skin prickle. he doesn't pull away. he doesn't even move, his fingers splayed against your back, pinning you there in the most gentle, unintentional way imaginable.

as your fingers ghost over his jawline, his skin feels scorching under your touch. suddenly, the trailer’s dim lighting warps, the space around you dissolving into a hazy, amber-lit memory.

you were sitting in a chair, your bones feeling like liquid, your eyes squeezed shut against the exhaustion. you felt the cool, grounding pressure of a cotton pad against your eyelid, moving in slow, rhythmic circles. you heard his voice, a quieter, more vulnerable version, hovering inches from your face.

“can i?” he’d whispered.

“mhm,” you’d hummed, small and trusting, leaning your weight into his space as he wiped away the silver glitter. you remembered the way his gaze felt, anchored entirely on you, as if the world outside; the clubs, the cameras, the expectations, had simply ceased to exist. you remembered the way his ink caught the dim light; the intricate, dark patterns of his sleeve climbing up his arm, wrapping around the solid line of his shoulder and disappearing beneath his shirt. they felt like a map, each line and shadow a piece of the history he had built for himself, inked directly into his skin.you remembered the heavy, sweet silence that had followed when he set the cotton pad down, his thumb lingering against your cheekbone to catch a stray speck, searching your eyes with a terrifying intensity.

“there,” he’d breathed, that pensive smile tugging at his lips. “now, look at me.”

and you had. you had looked at him, your vision slightly blurred by the cleansing oil, and the air between you had thickened, turning heavy and sweet.

“you okay?” 

the memory snapped shut, leaving you breathless in the present. 

the memory snaps shut, leaving you breathless in the present. you blink, the trailer rushing back into focus. the smell of cold fries lingers, and jungkook is still right there beneath you, his gaze locked onto yours with that same terrifying intensity.

the words feel trapped in your throat, held hostage by the overwhelming vividness of the gaze locked onto yours. it’s the same intensity; the same quiet, terrifying focus, that had been in the memory, pulling you deeper into the present than you’ve ever been before.

your hand, still pressed against his jaw, feels unsteady. slowly, subconsciously, your thumb begins to trace a path across his skin, your eyes wandering as you truly see him for the first time. 

you’ve always known he was beautiful, but you’ve never really looked at the constellations that define him. you traced the tiny, dark speck nestled just beneath his lower lip, then let your gaze drift upward to the faint, elegant cluster near the arch of his brow. there were more, hidden in the hollows of his cheeks, near the scar on his left, and tucked near the shell of his ear, each one a small, yet unique mark.

"you have a lot of moles," you whisper, the words slipping out as a desperate, clumsy attempt to anchor yourself in the now. your fingers, still resting on his jaw, tremble just enough for him to notice.

jungkook doesn't blink. he seems to hold his breath, his eyes darting to your lips and then back up, searching for a trace of the strange daze that’s just swept over you.

"is that... a bad thing?" he asks, his voice rougher, barely a breath in the sudden quiet.

he shifts, his hand moving from your back to gently cup your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin with a deliberate, slow pressure that mirrors the phantom sensation of your memory. the air between you turns thick, heavy with the weight of things unsaid.

"no," you breathed, the confession heavy on your tongue. "not bad at all."

he leans in, his lips parted, the gravity between you pulling tight. just as his hand moves to the back of your neck…

brrrrrrr.

your phone vibrates violently on the rug between you.

you both jolt, scrambling apart as if the sound had been a physical blow. you grab for the screen, heart hammering, feeling completely dazed by how close you’d just come to losing your footing again.

the caller id flashed: chim🐥

“it’s jimin,” you breathe, your own voice sounding thin and shaky.

"you should probably get that," he says, his voice clipped and overly casual. he doesn't look at you, instead focusing intently on crumpling a piece of paper into a ball. "it’s probably about the trip. he’s been blowing up my phone about flights for the last hour."

he stands up abruptly and retreats toward the tiny kitchenette, giving you the privacy he clearly doesn't want to grant but feels obligated to provide. he keeps his back to you, posture rigid, shoulders tight enough to snap. even from across the room, you can feel the way he is straining to listen, as if trying to memorize every word you’re about to say.

you stare at his back for a heartbeat, pulse still racing, before you finally swipe to answer.

"hey, jiminie," you say, voice steadier than you feel.

"y/n-ah! finally," jimin’s voice rings out, bright and oblivious. "i was just checking in; did you guys wrap for the day? or are you still busy?"

you glance over at jungkook. he doesn't turn around, but his hand tightens on the counter, knuckles white. the air in the trailer seems to drop ten degrees, the silence from his end of the room suddenly louder than the music on the phone.

"we just finished up," you reply, voice louder than necessary, an involuntary attempt to soothe the bristling energy coming from the kitchen. "we’re just going over some last-minute things."

"perfect timing," jimin chirps. "i've got some great news. is jungkook there?”

you hesitate, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks again. "uh, yeah, jungkook’s here."

"great! put me on speaker," jimin commands, his voice filled with that signature, infectious energy that usually makes you smile; though right now, it only makes your stomach twist with nerves.

you set the phone down on the small coffee table, the surface vibrating. jungkook immediately turns, his expression carefully schooled into a mask of indifference, though you can see the tension coiled in his neck as he walks over to loom behind you. he doesn't sit; he just leans against the back of the sofa, arms tightly crossed over his chest.

“jiminnnnn,” jungkook drawls. 

“jungkookieeee,” jimin mimics, voice soaring with a playful lilt clearly intended to needle him. “you little punk, why have you been dodging my texts!”

jungkook lets out a light chuckle, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. 

"i’m not dodging you, jimin. i’m working. we just finished, literally seconds ago. what is so urgent that you’re harassing us both?"

"harassing? i’m your friend!" jimin laughs, the sound warm and annoyingly perceptive. “who is the one who wanted to do these trips with each other, by the way!”

“oh my god, jimin— just tell us where we're going?” you beg.

“yah, what is up with you two? so rude to your elders,” jimin states, voice dripping with mock-offense. 

“fine, fine. i’ll cut the mystery…” he pauses before saying, “i don’t know where to go!”

you can practically hear him pacing on the other end, the frantic sound of his footsteps echoing. your own anxiety, which had been centered entirely on jungkook’s proximity, shifts toward your friend.

“you guys are going to be in new york, but then in a few days you’ll have to travel back because jungkook is performing at home…” jimin rambles on, not taking a breath.

“jimin, breathe,” you say, voice softening into that calm, grounding tone you usually reserve for the studio. “it’s just a trip. we don’t need a five-star resort. we just need to be together. we can find something simple.”

“simple? i’m the one who promised everyone an ‘unforgettable experience’!” he stresses, voice cracking. “if i don’t pick a location by tomorrow, management is just going to book us in some boring hotel and i’ll never hear the end of it. i’m a failure, y/n-ah. i’m a vacation-planning failure.”

“you’re not a failure,” you soothe, wanting to reach out through the screen. “just stop looking at the high-end stuff. where can we go that’s private, quiet, and doesn't require six-month reservations?”

“what about camping?” jungkook’s voice is low and gravelly, cutting through the static of jimin’s panic like a razor.

your heart performs a precarious somersault. 

the mention of it brings back that hazy, half-forgotten memory of your own childhood; the smell of damp pine needles, the way your father would struggle with the tent poles, and the absolute, beautiful wonder of a night sky unpolluted by city lights. 

but it also reminds you of that night in the observatory, where you shared those exact memories with the person currently across from you.

he doesn't have to say it, but you know his intentions behind it.

“camping?” jimin’s voice breaks the silence and the eye contact between you and jungkook.

“yeah,” jungkook clears his throat, “i was actually looking at some places, and there’s cute tiny cabins a few hours from new york we could stay at.”

“tiny cabins?” jimin repeats, voice shifting from frantic to cautious. “like… the ones with actual beds and a kitchen? or are we talking ‘cooking dinner on a stick’?”

“they’re nice, jimin,” jungkook says, gaze fixed on you, watching your reaction with a level of intensity that makes your breath hitch. “they have a/c, a small kitchen, and a fire pit. it’s exactly the kind of reset we need. we can drive there right after the gma performance.”

you are quiet for a moment, letting the image take root: the crackle of a fire, the smell of damp earth, and miles of space between you and the expectations of the world. it feels like a tether to a version of yourself you’d almost forgotten.

sure, there will be the filming aspect, you thought, but the best moments are always the ones that go uncaptured.

“y/n? what do you think?” jimin’s voice echoes through the phone, breaking your thoughts.

"i think..." you start, voice slightly breathless as you meet jungkook’s gaze. still looking at you, eyes dark and hungry for your answer. "i think that sounds like exactly what we need, jimin."

“oh, thank god!" jimin lets out a loud, exaggerated exhale. “oh! we could go hiking, maybe do some boating– oh, there’s not a place near the cabins. that’s okay, we can rent a different place for that…”

jimin’s voice becomes a distant, melodic hum; a manic stream of consciousness about hiking trails and boat rentals that seems to exist in a different reality entirely. you don't hear most of it. your attention is tethered to the space between you and jungkook, which feels charged with a sudden, suffocating intensity that jimin’s presence on speakerphone only serves to highlight.

you are no longer just y/n, lead choreographer and jungkook of bts; you are two people sharing something that is slowly becoming impossibly dangerous to ignore.

—

the next day

the sun is relentless, beating down on the exterior set, but the atmosphere feels brittle, as if the air itself was holding its breath. 

the final day of shooting is a strange, breathless affair; a fragile mixture of exhaustion, relief, and the mounting dread that this, whatever this is, is finally coming to an end.

pablo and bradley had you running through complex chase sequences all afternoon. you spend hours sprinting until your lungs burn, with jungkook hot on your heels. 

it starts as a joke; you leading him on a wild goose chase, but as the hours drag on, the physical toll becomes grueling.

at one point, he’s meant to hand you a bouquet in the middle of a sprint, a gesture meant to symbolize his character’s relentless obsession. when you look down, you see they’re sunflowers and daisies; the exact same species he’d bought you for coachella. the exact same bouquet you saw in your hazy, half-remembered memory in the trailer, right before you’d snapped back to reality with your body sprawled over his.

it took a dozen takes to get it right.

whether it’s you tripping over your own feet, the cameras losing focus, or jungkook’s hand brushing your wrist for a second too long, the scene feels cursed. 

every time the bouquet hits the pavement, he is there to pick it up, his gaze dark and heavy, handing it back with a crooked, tired smile that never reaches his eyes. by the twelfth take, the flowers are bruised, and so are your defenses.

between shots, there’s no room for the conversation you left hanging in the trailer. jimin kept you both on the call until the early hours of the morning, debating travel logistics and permits; a convenient, necessary shield that kept you from addressing the gravity of what had almost happened on your trailer floor. 

but on set, the silence between takes is louder than any of jimin’s rambling.

the tension is thick, palpable enough to choke on. you both retreat into your corners between takes, but it is unavoidable. 

it lives in the way his hand lingers on your elbow when he helps you regain your balance after a rough turn, or the way you catch him watching you from the periphery, his eyes tracing the line of your collarbone before he snaps away to mutter something to a crew member.

you tell yourself the intensity is purely for the cameras; you are just "channeling the character." 

but as the sun dips below the horizon, painting the sky in bruised purples and oranges, you knew the line between performance and truth had vanished.

evening settles, and the crew begins rigging the rain machines for the final scene. you stand under the production tent, your charcoal tank top clinging to your skin as the first sprays of mist hit your face. 

across the way, the crew secures jungkook into his harness. stripped down to a white tank top and dark trousers, his skin glistens under the studio lights.

as he moves to adjust his gear, the fabric of his tank top pulls taut across his back and shoulders, barely containing the sheer, coiled mass of his muscles. you feel a jolt in your stomach; a sharp, unbidden memory of last night flooding your senses.

you remember exactly how his chest felt against your palms; solid, unyielding, a wall of heat as you scrambled over him. you remember the way his broad frame felt like the only anchor in a world that had suddenly spun out of control. 

seeing him now, fully exposed to the elements, makes your pulse spike in a way that has nothing to do with the script.

he catches you watching, and for a second, neither of you looks away. the distance feels electric.

“you good, y/n?” bradley’s voice breaks the trance. 

“yes, i’m fine.” you reply, your voice steadier than you actually feel. you tear your gaze away, focusing on your clipboard. 

bradley stands beside you, watching the crew prep the rigs. he follows your line of sight to jungkook, then back to you, a thoughtful expression settling over his face. he’s been quiet most of the day, but you notice the way he’s been watching you with a newfound level of scrutiny.

“you know,” he starts, his voice low. “i’ve worked with a lot of people in this industry. most of the time, when we bring in someone from the dance side, they’re just... there. but you? you’re a different breed. i don’t know how you’re balancing the choreography and managing this performance without losing your mind. and those ideas you pitched? you have a gift, my friend.”

you feel a flush creep up your neck. "i just want the project to be as strong as possible. it’s what i’d want if i were the one calling the shots."

"well, you’re calling plenty of them," he chuckles, pulling a sleek, matte-black card from his blazer pocket. he slides it into your hand. "pablo and i were talking with director son. we’ve got projects coming up next summer, and we’re going to need someone with your vision. not just as a choreographer, but in the director’s chair."

you look down at the card; bradley & pablo productions. 

the weight of it feels like a turning point.

"you've got the eye for this, y/n.” bradley says, his tone turning earnest. “if you’re ever interested in more shadowing, or if you want to take a lead on one of our upcoming projects, call us."

"bradley, i..." you’re at a loss of words, the validation hitting you harder than the nerves.

"think about it," he winks, stepping away as the stage manager yells for places. "but keep that drive. it’s rare to find someone who actually cares about the why behind the movement."

jungkook steps in as bradley retreats, his presence an immediate shift in the air. he is already harnessed, the harness straps pulling taut against his chest, covered by his jacket now. he ignores the stylists rushing to dab his skin, his dark eyes locking onto yours with a focus that makes your breath hitch.

"you look like you’ve been doing some serious networking," he says, his voice low. he glances at the card in your hand. "bradley doesn't hand those out to just anyone."

"i guess i’m good at my job," you say, tucking the card away.

“i’d say so,” he murmurs, his gaze trailing over you, taking in the way the rain has already dampened your tank top. "you look ready."

“i could say the same to you,” you smirk, leaning in. "are you ready to fly like a fairy?"

jungkook lets out a low chuckle. he tilts his head. "are you ready to finally give me a chance?"

the question hangs in the damp air. your heart stutters. "um..."

he seems to catch himself, his signature lopsided grin returning, though it doesn't quite reach the intense, searching quality in his eyes. 

"our characters," he corrects. "i… i meant our characters.”

you look at him, and the levity feels fragile. you step closer, your voice dropping, stripped of the bravado. "jungkook… i wanted to say i’m sorry. for how i’ve been acting. being so closed off. i know i’ve been off lately, and i shouldn’t let that get in the way of work…”

you hesitate before saying your next choice of words.

“...and our friendship.”

he goes perfectly still. 

"gg…" he trails off, the nickname hanging in the air with a weight that makes your skin prickle. "you don't have to apologize. i know this is a lot. the filming, the pressure... the promotion."

"it’s not just that," you admit, fingers ghosting over your necklace. "it’s... it’s been fun, honestly. being able to just play around, to be someone else for a change."

jungkook nods slowly. "yeah. it has. i just… i wish we could do that more often."

you tilt your head. "do what? act?"

"just pretend," he murmurs, his voice layered with a want that makes your stomach flip. "to be whoever we want to be. to just… exist outside of who the world wants us to be."

the tension is a physical weight, humming with a promise that feels far more real than any script. you look up at him, gaze steady.

"well," you start, a slow, challenging smile touching your lips. "at least we have the camping trip."

jungkook’s breath hitches. his eyes darken, hungry and focused. "we do," he whispers, the gravity between you pulling tight enough that you feel like you might snap.

"we do."

“alright everyone, places!” pablo’s voice slices through the air.

you both jolt. the crew swarms the set, adjusting the rigs that hum with a menacing, metallic vibration.

you jolt, your heavy platform boots skidding across the gravel. you crouch behind the washer prop, the metal cold and biting. jungkook grabs onto the street pole, his knuckles white as he anchors himself.

“cue rain sequence and… action!”

the music cuts through the roar of the rain with a driving beat. jungkook grips the pole, his body angled against the wind.

“okay, jk let go!" pablo bellows.

as his hand leaves the pole, the jerk of the harness sends him soaring back; but instead of a cinematic flight, he lets out a high-pitched, unscripted yelp of shock.

"i'm a fairy!" he screams, his voice cracking mid-air as he flails his limbs, his cool-guy composure replaced by sheer adrenaline.

you’re crouched behind the washer, meant to be the icy girlfriend. but the sight of jungkook flailing through the air and declaring his new identity as a fairy completely breaks you. you bury your face in your arms to stifle the sound, but it’s no use; a sharp, uncontrollable snort escapes you.

you bury your face in your arms to stifle the sound, but it’s no use. a sharp laugh escapes you, followed by a full-blown, uncontrollable snort.

"cut! cut, cut, cut!" bradley bellows, though even he sounds like he’s fighting back a laugh.

jungkook is lowered to the ground, harness clanking. he stands there, drenched, hair plastered to his forehead. water beads on his broad shoulders and drips from his chin, catching the light on the silver hoop in his lip and the subtle piercings lining his ears. he looks absolutely ridiculous, yet even in this state, the coiled, muscular frame of his body is impossible to ignore. 

he pushes the wet strands out of his eyes, squinting at your shaking frame.

"it wasn't that funny," he tries to defend, though his own lips are twitching.

you push yourself up, wiping tears of genuine mirth from your eyes. you walk over to him, your laughter trailing off into soft, breathless chuckles. 

“i cannot wait to tell the boys about that.”

he glares at you, nose scrunched but the look is soft, almost doting. 

“they'll never let me live it down, will they?” he grumbles, though he steps closer, effectively invading your personal space.

“oh, absolutely not,” you confirm, shaking your head and sending water droplets flying. “i’m already planning to make it the group chat’s new profile picture.”

”yah! you’re making me the new profile meme?” he asks, clutching his chest.

“oh yeah,” you giggle. “you’re definitely replacing joonie’s.”

you and the boy’s group chat constantly changed the group photo with one of the boy’s newest memes that surfaced on the internet. it had become an unspoken rule: whoever was caught in the most ridiculous candid, or who possessed the most unfortunate facial expression during a live stream or an interview, became the face of the group for the next week or even, month. 

you’d seen it all. there was the one where hoseok and yoongi were on the viking ride wearing matching yellow shiba inu helmets that was there for a solid three weeks, or the time where jin ate a lemon flavored cake and spit it out that lasted over two months. 

“you can’t be serious,” jungkook huffs jokingly, shaking his head in disbelief. 

“it’s time for a renovation, koo,” you tease. “the people are demanding change.”

“you mean you and jimin?”

“precisely”

you felt a little smug about it, honestly. you were usually the most cautious of the group, a stealthy ninja when it came to avoiding the camera’s lens during bad moments. there had been maybe two or three times over the last few years where you’d ended up as the group profile picture; once when you’d accidentally fallen asleep mid practice sitting against the mirror, and another time when tae had captured you mid-sneeze after a glitter cannon went off in your face.

the wind kicks up, sending a spray of mist across your faces. 

you start to reach up to push your hair back, but jungkook’s hand beats yours. 

he tucks the damp strand behind your ear, his palm staying pressed against the side of your face, his skin warm despite the cold rain.

the playfulness in his gaze shifted, darkening into something far more intense, something that made your heart stutter in your chest.

the playfulness in his gaze shifts, darkening. the sound of the rain machines dips into a distant, muffled hum as the studio around you begins to bleed into a memory; the vanity chair, the scent of his cologne, the feeling of his chest touching your knees. 

“because they’re like little stars. a whole constellation just for me.”

the present rushes back, violent and cold. the rain is still plastering your hair to your cheeks, but the heat from his palm makes the skin of your face feel like it’s burning.

the playful banter about memes and group chats feels like a lifetime ago. the silence between you now is heavy, humming with the weight of that night in your suite, the reality of what happened last night; and what was left unsaid, crashing into the here and now.

the present rushes back. “gg,” he murmurs, his voice losing every trace of the teasing quality. “you okay? you’re doing it again.”

“doing what?” you whisper.

“spacing out,” he says, moving his hand away.

"i... i was just remembering," you admit, the words feeling heavy. the transition from the hazy, amber-lit warmth of that memory to the harsh, rain-slicked reality of the set is jarring, leaving you feeling exposed.

jungkook’s eyes search your face, trying to figure out if you are grounded in the present.

"remembering what?" he asks.

you bite your lip, feeling the erratic thrum of your pulse. you want to be reckless, but you can't.

"um…," you pause, looking away. “just what pablo’s notes on the final scene were.”

the tension in jungkook’s shoulders seemed to loosen but not from relief, almost…disappointment? 

"right," he says. "the notes. of course."

“jk! y/n! let’s get to your marks for the final scene.” pablo’s voice echoes.

you stand on the damp street set, the rain sticking to the gravel and cooling your skin. jungkook is already in position behind you, his posture coiled and watchful. he’s not looking at the crew, and he’s not looking at the camera. he’s looking at you.

"focus, y/n," you whisper to yourself.

"alright, rolling!" pablo shouts, his voice echoing through the studio. "and... action!"

the music kicks in– a pulsing, driving bassline that seems to match the rhythm of your own heart.

”monday, tuesday, wednesday, thursday, friday, saturday, sunday, a week”

the lyrics kept repeating, on and on. you knew the song was coming to an end soon. which means whatever you two have going on is ending with it.

“cut!” bradley’s voice cut through the music, eyes trailed on you. “y/n, remember you have to walk toward the camera.”

“oh, right,” you clear your throat. you wipe a stray droplet of rain from your cheek and take a breath. "sorry, i lost the beat."

"it's alright," bradley calls out. "let's reset. same thing; rain, walk, focus on the lens. y/n, keep that 'done with him' energy, but when you look back, give us that lingering doubt. jungkook, keep being persistent."

”that shouldn’t be too hard,” you hear jungkook murmur behind you.

you turn to give him a look. “yah, what’s that supposed to mean?”

he doesn't give you a straight answer, just that signature, crooked grin. he steps toward you, unbothered by the rain. 

“oh, nothing,” he whispers.

“you’re so annoying,” you groan.

“you say that like it’s a bad thing,” he counters, grin widening. “it’s technically my job to annoy you.”

“you’re starting to be worse than jimin and taehyung,” you retort. 

he didn’t back away, even as the rain continued to pelt the set around you, turning the floor into a mirror of neon reflections. instead, he tilted his head, his dark, wet hair clinging to his forehead, and looked at you with an expression that was suddenly, entirely devoid of the ‘cool-guy’ act. the playfulness was still there, but beneath it, there was a raw, tethered hunger that made the air between you feel impossible to breathe.

“maybe,” he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly hum. “but you haven’t complained about it much. in fact… i think you’re starting to like it.”

you open your mouth to deny it, but the words die in your throat. he is so close that you can see the drops of rain tracing paths down his jawline. 

he goes quiet, his hand drifting up to toy with his lip ring, rolling the hoop between his fingers and worrying at the silver with his teeth.

for a moment, you aren't the lead choreographer, and he isn't the biggest pop star in the world. you are just two people, soaked to the bone, trying to find a way to keep pretending.

“you’re delusional,” you whisper, though your hand, which had been clutching your clipboard, hangs limp at your side.

“rolling!” pablo’s voice shatters the silence. “action!”

the music kicked in again.

you spin on your heel, your boots squeaking as you launch into the sequence, the movement instinctive, sharp, fueled by adrenaline. 

all you are doing is walking with your arms crossed, but it feels like a statement. like you are telling yourself to walk away; not because you want to, but because you have to.

and he is right there, mirroring your energy, his body a lethal, fluid extension of your own. the rain is relentless, turning the floor into a mirror of neon reflections.

the rain was coming down even harder and the wind was relentless. you could barely see as you kept you head down, your hair whipping in front of your face. 

“you know night after night, i’ll be lovin’ you right seven days a week.”

“cut! end rain sequence!” 

thank god

both you and jungkook stay put as stylists come over to fix your hair and outfits. you hardly notice the camera crew hovering nearby, pointed at jungkook.

”jungkook, any thoughts as we wrap up soon?” the cameraman asks.

jungkook ponders for a moment as a stylist gives him a towel. 

“i’m excited. i think it’ll look fun. i want to see the first draft of the mv already,” he turns to you, “don’t you?”

you look at him, water dripping from the tips of your hair, and for a fleeting second, the cameras and the exhaustion fall away. the question feels like an invitation.

“yeah,” you say, your voice steady. “i’m excited to see it, too.”

jungkook holds your gaze, searching for that ‘pretend’ wall you’ve been fighting to keep up. he tilts his head slightly, and you catch the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

“what was your favorite part of filming?” jungkook prompts as the cameraman backs up to catch both of you in the frame.

your mind flashes through the last few days; the claustrophobic intensity of the laundromat scene, the heavy, charged air of the dinner set, the platform where you two had finally moved in sync. you weigh them, your heart fluttering as you consider the memories you’ve built in the gaps between the scenes. 

“that’s a tough one,” you say, letting out a soft, breathy laugh. “they were all fun, but… i think the subway scene, where pablo and bradley just let me freestyle? that was nice.”

jungkook grins, a genuine, warm expression. “you were incredible in that take. i remember watching from the side, and i forgot we were filming.”

you laugh, the sound bright and authentic. “and i guess i have to mention watching you fly away in the rain just now. that was… truly a cinematic masterpiece.”

he groans, full of laughter. “hey, don’t start with that! i already know i’m going to be the face of the group chat for the next month.”

“oh, you absolutely are,” you confirm.

the cameraman lingers, hoping to catch more, but bradley finally intervenes. 

“okay everyone, back to your places!”

the air in the studio shifted instantly. the casual banter dissolved, replaced by a sudden focus as bradley and pablo made their way over to the two of you.

”alright, were in the final stretch!” he announces, “how are we feeling?”

”good, good” you both reply.  

”amazing, amazing. pablo and i actually wanted to run something by the two of you.” 

bradley exchanges a look with pablo. “we’ve been looking at the playback of that bridge sequence. and honestly? it’s the strongest work in the entire video. the chemistry, the way you two moved… it amazes me how well you played out these characters.”

you felt your throat tighten. 

“so,” pablo chimed in, stepping closer. “we’re thinking of scrapping the final ‘walk away’ sequence we had planned for the end.”

your heart hammered against your ribs. “wait, you want to cut the ending?”

“well, we want to tweak it,” bradley agreed, nodding. 

jungkook shifts, his gaze flickering to you. “what are you proposing instead?”

“actually,” pablo leans toward you, “we wanted to leave it up to you.”

me? us?

“what exactly did you have in mind?” you ask, your voice sounding steadier than the chaotic fluttering in your chest.

“whatever your heart desires,” bradley confirms, his tone light, yet there’s a professional weight behind it that makes the air in the studio feel thick.

you blink, the words echoing in the sudden quiet of the set. the cameras are still, the rain machines are silent, and the ‘pretend’ world you’ve been living in for three days feels like it’s teetering on the edge of an unscripted reality.

jungkook is perfectly still beside you. you can feel the heat radiating from his arm, a steady, grounding warmth.

“you want us to improvise?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper.

“we want you to finish the scene,” pablo corrects, his expression soft. “the script gives us a narrative, but you two give the story. and frankly, the ending we made just doesn’t work anymore. it feels…wrong.”

the atmosphere in the studio hangs in a fragile, suspended silence as bradley and pablo’s request settles over you. 

you look down at the floor. the remnants of the ‘storm’ are still there; the scattered props, the slick, reflective street, the hum of the cooling rigging. it all feels like a stage for something far more significant than a music video.

you felt the card in your pocket; the one representing your future, your own path, your own ‘artistic autonomy’. then you look at jungkook, whose hand is inches from yours, his fingers twitching with the urge to bridge the gap.

the wall you’ve been meticulously maintaining feels perilously thin.

“i think…” you start, your voice gaining a sudden, piercing clarity. “i think their story is about finally realizing you were never meant to be anywhere else; with anyone else.”

bradley lets out a slow breath, a smirk playing on his lips. “well, then. that sounds like a hell of an ending. whenever you two are ready.”

both directors walk away as jungkook takes a step toward you. 

in the dim light, his eyes are searching yours for that same reckless honesty. he reaches out, his hand hovering over your arm, his thumb tracing the damp line of your skin.

"y/n!"

the sharp, abrasive bark of a voice shatters the moment.

you both jump. you turn to see david storming toward the two of you. his face is flushed, his suit jacket rumpled, and his eyes are frantic; a stark contrast to the connection you had just established.

"david?" you ask, your voice tight. “everything okay?"

"y/n, i need to talk to you. now," he says, ignoring the crew around him. he reaches as if to grab your arm. "it’s important– i tried calling your phone, but you weren’t answering, i–"

"david, we're in the middle of a shoot," you try to reason. "we're about to film the final scene. can it wait until after?"

"you don't understand, this can't wait!" david’s voice rises, bordering on desperate, but his eyes are fixed on the way jungkook is standing; close enough to you that he’s practically an extension of your own shadow. "it's really important, y/n! please!"

you look at him, and for a second, you see the cracks in his composed exterior. you see the panic. but then you hear bradley’s voice over the loudspeaker.

"alright! places! let’s wrap this up!"

"i'll talk to you after, david!" you call out, not breaking your stride as you walk back to your mark. “i promise!”

behind you, david is still beside himself, but the sound of the rain machines roaring back to life swallows his voice. you don't hear him begging. you don't see him gesture to the crew. you are already in the headspace of the character.

jungkook is already at his mark. as you fall into position, he places a hand on your shoulder.

"ready?" he whispers, his voice low enough to be heard only by you over the rising bassline.

you nod. "ready."

"alright," pablo’s voice crackles. "rolling! and... action!"

the outro of the music starts, the heavy beat vibrating through the soles of your feet. 

this time, there’s no direction to hide behind; no specific steps to execute. 

you simply exist in this space with him.

even if its the last time you might be able to. 

the rain falls in sheets, artificial and biting, but it serves its purpose; it washes away the remnants of the script, leaving only the raw, jagged edges of the story you are now writing together. 

jungkook walks up to stand right next to you, his shoulder brushing yours. he is looking at the way the studio lights are reflected in the shimmering puddles. 

you turn your head slowly, watching a droplet of water track its way down his jawline. 

he turns to you, his dark eyes searching your face with a raw honesty that makes the artificial rain feel like a tropical downpour.

“what’s the next move, director?” 

the cameras were rolling, capturing every flicker of vulnerability, but you didn't care. you didn't feel the need to mask the way your pulse spiked or the way your gaze softened, locking onto his with an intensity that left no room for interpretation. 

you realize you are no longer the one directing the movement. the resistance in your heart;that frantic, desperate need to stay anchored to your professional life– snaps. the tide has finally taken you. you aren't just moving through space anymore; you are letting yourself be pulled, completely and irrevocably, into his gravity.

instead of answering verbally, you hold out your hand.

jungkook looks at your hand, then back at your face. without a word, he closes the space between you, his fingers interlacing with yours. 

his grip is firm, a silent anchor. he leaves the next move up to you.

you look up at him, your gaze unwavering despite the rain. the neon lights reflect in his dark, wet eyes, turning the surrounding chaos into a blur of neon streaks. you don't let go of his hand. 

instead, you tighten your grip, anchoring yourself to him as you begin to lead, pulling him slowly toward the other end of the street.

“where are you taking me?” he asks with a small smile tugging at his lips. 

“where's the fun in telling?” you tease. “do you think they can hear us?”

“doubtful,” he states, eyes not leaving your frame as you both walk, your backs turned to the cameras.

the roar of the fans dies down to a low hum, leaving the space feeling strangely isolated. you pause, the bravado you’d cultivated shifting into something sharper.

a daring spark ignites in your chest. you can feel the heat radiating from him, a stark contrast to the cold water still clinging to your skin.

“i wish that too,” you whisper, voice dropping into the same gravelly, challenging tone he’d used earlier. you hold his gaze with a fierce intensity. “to be whoever we want to be. to just… exist outside of who the world wants us to be."

he goes perfectly still, his eyes widening just a fraction as he realizes the shift in your demeanor. the rain is still drumming against the set, but in this bubble, the sound is muted, rhythmic, almost like a heartbeat.

without another word, you start to run with his hand in yours. 

jungkook’s grip on your hand shifts, his thumb tracing a slow, rhythmic circle over your knuckles; a gesture so intimate it feels like a secret language. he leans into the pull, his stride matching yours with a seamless, intuitive grace. 

the cameras are still tracking you, the lights still painting your silhouettes in stark, high-contrast frames, but it feels like the lens is merely a spectator to something far more fundamental.

the music already ended as you two reached the end of the street. you both skid to a halt, panting, hair plastered to your foreheads, faces lit with pure, unadulterated adrenaline.

you throw your head back, a bright, melodic peal of laughter erupting from your throat as you realize you are both soaked and lost in your own little world. jungkook matches your energy, his laugh deep and joyous. 

before you can catch your breath, he shifts. in one fluid motion, he sweeps his arms under your knees and across your back, lifting you off the gravel. 

you let out a startled yelp, your hands flying up to grip his shoulders. as he begins to spin, you are lifted into the air, the world blurring into a kaleidoscope of neon lights and rain. the joy is absolute. you can hear the muffled cheers of the crew, but they sound miles away.

as he twirls you, the rush of the movement brings a sudden, sharp flash of déjà vu; the chaotic neon light of the coachella club, his hand on your waist, him twirling you upon request; the feeling of being known. you had so much fun that night and you knew he did too. 

but then, the memory shifts. 

the same amber-lit vision slams into your mind: the scent of expensive cologne, the feeling of a cotton pad on your skin, his chest touching your knees. 

"because they’re like little stars. a whole constellation just for me."

you felt him freeze, his forehead pressing more firmly against yours, his hands moving to cup the back of your neck. his skin was scorching, and his touch was an anchor.

"a whole constellation, huh?" he whispered. the vibration of his voice hummed against your lips, a low, intimate frequency that made your stomach flip.

you searched his eyes, feeling small and suddenly uncertain in your vulnerability. the exhaustion was stripping away your professional defenses, leaving you feeling dangerously bare. "koo?" you whispered. "did i... did i look pretty? up there?"

you expected him to laugh, or to offer a polite, dismissive comfort. instead, you felt him lean in until his lips brushed against your forehead, a soft, lingering pressure that sent a shiver down your spine.

"pretty?" he repeated, his voice low and ragged. "y/n, you always look pretty."

his hand shifted, sliding from your cheek to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling into your damp, messy waves of hair. the scent of him—clean, familiar, and intoxicating—filled your senses, making your head swim in the best possible way. you tilted your head closer to his, fueled by a drowsy, unfiltered honesty you couldn't control.

"i like your hair long," you murmured, your fingers ghosting over the locks brushing his collar, feeling the texture beneath your touch. you were quiet for a moment, the world narrowing down to just the two of you in the soft, amber glow of the room. you watched him through sleep-heavy, fluttering lashes. "but i also like it short... like... in-between."

"in-between?" he asked, his voice barely a breath.

"mmhmm," you hummed, a small, sleepy smile tugging at your lips. "like last year."

"the mullet?" he whispered, and you could feel the lopsided grin forming against your own skin.

"yeah," you admitted, your fingers gently smoothing a stray lock behind his ear, lingering on the shell of it. "i mean... i like every style on you. you're handsome regardless. but i really loved that one. it was... special."

you felt him go completely still. it was a rare, beautiful moment of stillness between you, a bubble where the titles didn't exist. there was no performance to perfect, no formation to critique, and no audience to impress. it was just you and him, stripped down to the marrow.

"i feel dizzy," you whispered, the words small and breathless, tumbling out as you felt your consciousness finally starting to fray at the edges.

the spell broke. you felt him move instantly, his hands tightening on your shoulders as you swayed, the room tilting dangerously.

"whoa, hey," he murmured, his voice shifting back into that steady, protective cadence that always made you feel safe. "i've got you. too much adrenaline for one night, gg."

he didn't give you a chance to argue, sweeping you into his arms with an effortless strength. he carried you a short distance to the bed, the mattress sinking as he settled you against the soft silk sheets.

"sleep," he commanded softly, the word wrapped in a tenderness that was almost impossible to bear. he tucked the duvet around your shoulders, his hand lingering one last time to brush a damp lock of hair from your forehead. you were already sinking into the dark, rhythmic pull of sleep, the last thing you heard before you drifted away being a soft, whispered, "goodnight, my golden girl."

the spinning slowed, the frantic blur of neon and rain settling into a single, sharp focus: jungkook’s face, hovering inches from your own. 

the laughter died, replaced by the heavy, rhythmic thud of your heart. he held you with an ease that felt like a permanent extension of himself, his arms wrapped securely around you, shielding you from the cold.

“cut! that's a wrap!”

the shout echoes, signaling the end of an exhausting, emotionally charged three days. the rain machines began to die down, transitioning from a roar to a gentle, steady drip.

jungkook sets you down slowly, his hands lingering on your arms a second too long as he checks your balance. you take a shaky step back, your heart hammering; partly from the spin, partly from the sheer weight of the memory you don’t remember having.

he frowns, his brow creasing as he studies your pale face. "you okay? you look like you’ve seen a ghost."

you blink, trying to force the image of silk sheets and quiet whispers out of your mind. you look at him, desperate to know if he remembers the same thing; if that moment was real or just a glitch in your own exhausted brain.

"yeah," you manage, your voice thin. "just… dizzy."

you hold his gaze, searching. 

"probably just too much adrenaline from the shoot," you add quickly, trying to fill the silence he leaves open.

he watches you, expression unreadable. you don't miss the way his jaw tightens or the slight hesitation in his posture. he knows. or maybe he doesn’t. you don’t say another word, but the silence between you feels like a promise; one you’ll have to untangle, sooner or later.

“or maybe," he starts, a playful glint returning to his eyes, "you just need something other than coffee in your system."

you let out an indignant scoff, the tension in your chest snapping just enough to let you breathe. you reach over and give his shoulder a light, playful shove. "there is nothing wrong with my caffeine intake, thank you very much."

“tell that to your jitters,” he teases, side-stepping your shove and falling into stride beside you as you walk toward the front of the set. "next time, i'm bringing you a decaf."

"you wouldn't dare," you counter, falling into the familiar, easy rhythm of your banter. 

he grins, that signature bunny expression that always makes your heart do a ridiculous somersault. "maybe i would. it’s entertaining, honestly."

you open your mouth to fire back a retort, a laugh already bubbling in your throat, but the sound dies the moment a sharp, icy voice cuts through the ambient noise of the studio.

"y/n!"

you freeze, hand still mid-air. you turn, and your stomach drops. 

nicole stands by the lighting rigs, arms crossed tightly over her chest. her expression is pinched, her brow furrowed in a way that suggests she’s been waiting; and growing increasingly frustrated. she looks absolutely pissed. 

david stands right behind her, offering you a look of pure sorrow.

this is what he meant by ‘its important’, you thought, finally connecting the dots.

the warm air between you and jungkook evaporates instantly, replaced by a cold, sharp reality. 

you look at jungkook, whose smile has completely vanished, his jaw tightening into a familiar line of defense.

shit.

—

“what were you thinking, y/n?”

nicole’s voice echoes in the small conference room, the sharp acoustics turning her tone heavy and imposing. she paces the length of the table, her tailored blazer cutting a sharp silhouette against the harsh lights.

david leans against the closed door, arms crossed. he looks exhausted, his tie loose and his eyes darting between you and nicole frantically.

you stand by the table, having changed into dry clothes, your wet hair pulled back into a messy ponytail. you reach for your necklace, but your hand stops halfway; the gold pendant, and the man who gifted it to you, feels like a beacon of the very thing you’re being accused of.

“it wasn’t my first option, but i had no choice, nicole," you say, voice steady despite your hammering heart. “it was either that, or we push back production for another week. his single debuts in two weeks. it would've been too costly.”

nicole stops pacing and turns to face you. “and what were your other options?”

you swallow hard. you have to articulate why stepping into the lead role felt like the only viable path to save the schedule, even if the idea hadn’t originated with you.

“i– i just told you—”

"no," she cuts you off, her voice slicing through the sterile air. "i don't need a lecture on production management. i need to know why you thought it was a brilliant idea to jeopardize your job for a scene that is going to stir up a hell of a lot more than just  a 'professional discourse'."

you flinch. david shifts by the door, expression sympathetic but helpless. "nicole, we did try reaching out to other candidates but everyone was unavailable,” he tries. “this was the only way. jungkook—”

“even tried finding someone through his connections,” you cut david off, “but they also weren’t available.”

you give david a pleading look, hoping he understands the subtext. it was jungkook’s idea, but you were the one who agreed to it. this was on you, not him. 

“you were not given authority to pull something like that y/n.” nicole says. 

“i know that,” you reply, your voice holding a steely edge of defiance. you feel the weight of the last three days; the exhaustion, the emotional whiplash, and now this. “but i did it because the production needed a lead, and i was the only one who could give them what they were looking for.”

“other directors would have had a backup plan”

the words sting. “this was my backup plan.”

nicole groans, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“what is the big deal of me having to sub in, huh?” you press.

“because y/n, it’s you.”

the fluorescent lights buzz with an intensity that makes your pulse throb. you know what she means. it wasn't just that you had stepped in; it was that you had stepped in as the romantic interest for the world’s biggest rising global pop star. 

the optics were a nightmare.

“you’ve been the lead choreographer for these boys for four years,” she says, stepping closer. “you are the invisible force. you step into the frame, and suddenly, you’re not directing the narrative anymore; you’re in it. you know what kind of speculation that sparks. you know what the fandom and the press are going to do with that.”

a hollow ache settles in your chest. was she right? had you been so caught up in the thrill of creating something real that you’d blinded yourself to the public eye?

“i did what i had to do to finish the project,” you reply, though your conviction slips.

nicole sighs, walking to the window to look out at the dark studio lot. “we have an image to protect, y/n. both yours and his. if this creates the backlash i’m anticipating, it’s not just a ‘problem for another day.’ it’s a crisis.”

you felt a familiar, cold knot form in your stomach. it was the same anxiety that had been plaguing you since the pool scene; the fear that by crossing the line between colleague and friend, you’d irrevocably altered the dynamic that kept you safe.

she turns back, her expression softening into weary concern. “y/n, i say this because i want the absolute best for you. you’re a bright, talented woman with a career trajectory most would wait decades for.”

you play with the card bradley gave you in your pocket. you have a gift. we’re going to need your vision. director’s chair. call us.

“i thought i was doing the right thing,” you whisper. you feel small, the weight of the decision crushing the last of your adrenaline.

nicole walked over and placed a hand on your shoulder. it wasn't the sharp, corrective gesture you expected; it was steady, grounding. 

“i know you did. you always do, y/n. that’s why you’re here.”

she sighed. 

nicole walks over and places a hand on your shoulder. it’s steady and grounding. “i know you did. you always do, y/n. that’s why you’re here.” she sighs. “but you’re in line for that promotion you’ve been working for these past six months. do you have any idea how fast the executives can pull that rug out from under you? they see a liability.”

nicole had been your anchor long before you became lead choreographer. when you first arrived at hybe; young, foreign, and navigating a male-dominated industry, she was your bridge. she was your translator and taught you how to survive the egos and the razor-thin margins for error. 

over the years, as she climbed to an executive role, your dynamic evolved. she has seen every breakthrough and breakdown you’ve had. she knew exactly which buttons to press to bring you back down to earth. that history, that shared path, made her disappointment feel far more piercing than any professional reprimand.

“you need to be smart,” she continues. “this stunt wasn't smart. you’ve blurred the lines, and the industry doesn't care about your ‘artistic vision.’ they care about the scandal. they care about how your associations impact the bottom line.”

“i wasn’t thinking about the promotion,” you whisper, the truth cutting through the air. “i was thinking about the project, the deadline. i was thinking about how to… finish it.”

nicole’s grip on your shoulder tightens just a hair. she takes a step back, eyes uncharacteristically pensive. “david, please give us a moment.”

david nods and slips out, the click of the lock sounding definitive.

“that, y/n, is your greatest strength and your greatest liability,” she says. “you give everything to the work because of your passion, but you forget that work is also a business.”

she crosses her arms. “you have a bright future, but you're at a crossroads. if you continue to let your personal connection to them dictate your professional decisions, you’re going to lose that trajectory real quick.”

“i know,” you said, voice steadying. “i’m trying. i really do want this.”

“i know you do,” nicole says, voice softening. “but the stakes are only going to go up from here.”

she picks up the tablet on the table and turns it toward you. it’s a digital mock-up of a draft article: speculating on the chemistry between bts’s jeon jungkook and their lead choreographer.

“this is what we’re speculating will take place once the music video hits.” she said flatly. “we have to prepare for the worst.” 

we. meaning everyone at hybe knows about your mistake on your first solo project director son trusted you with. 

fuck. 

“wh- what do i have to do to prepare?” you ask, your heart sinking. 

“first, we will have a meeting with pd regarding the situation,” nicole said, “we need to get ahead of the narrative before the teaser even drops. you’re going to be expected to be strictly professional in all public-facing environments. no more… ‘friendly’ banter on set or in studio. you need to distance yourself, y/n. if the public thinks there’s a gap, they’ll fill it with their own assumptions. we need to leave them absolutely nothing to work with.”

you felt a sudden, sharp urge to tell nicole about the 'tidal pull' theory; to tell her that a university professor was using your own work as a primary subject of study. you wanted to see the pride in her eyes, to prove that your work was finally being recognized in the halls of academia, that you weren't just a cog in the industry but a true artist whose energy was being mapped like a constellation.

it would be the perfect shield, wouldn't it? proof of your professional validity.

but then you looked at her face, etched with the calculating lines of how to manage this crisis, and the words died in your throat. 

this wasn't the time to talk about art but focus on damage control.  

if you brought up the theory now, it would just sound like ego, while she was trying to keep your reputation clean.

you swallowed the pride that had been blooming in your chest, letting it settle into a heavy, suffocating knot.

“and jungkook?” you managed to ask, your voice sounding small even to your own ears. “what is he being told?”

nicole’s expression softens a fraction. “i know he’s part of this project but don't worry about him right now. i will take care of it. you need to focus on yourself. i need you to draft your statement for pd; and one for the public, just in case.”

you nod. you’ve done this before with jimin; it shouldn't be this hard. but why does it hurt more than it should?

she taps the tablet to dim it. “i know this isn't what you wanted to hear. you’ve put a lot of heart into this, and i know what those boys mean to you. but if you want that promotion– if you want to be the one directing these projects, you have to start acting like it.” 

you looked at her, searching for some sign of flexibility, but her posture remained rigid, her expression etched with the weary finality of someone who had navigated this exact crisis a dozen times before. 

"i understand," you say, quiet but firm. "i'll do what needs to be done."

nicole’s shoulders drop as she steps closer. she places her hand back on your shoulder, a gesture that feels strangely maternal. 

“get some rest. you have a long travel day tomorrow. i’ll be with you to help finalize your statements.”

“okay. thank you.” you offer a small smile that doesn’t reach your eyes.

nicole lets go of your shoulder yet she still watches you with her sharp eyes dissecting your every word. she seemed satisfied that you understood the necessity of her demands, even if the price of that compliance felt like it was unraveling everything you valued.

she moves toward the door, hand on the handle, when you realize something. 

“wait!” you call out. “what about the travel series?”

nicole paused, her hand hovering over the cold metal handle. she turned back, her expression shifting into a mask of calculated neutrality; the look of a woman who had already anticipated the question and mapped out the answer.

"your involvement in the travel series," nicole said, her voice dropping, " is currently a topic of debate at the executive level. whether or not you are permitted to go will be decided by pd once the fallout of this music video is assessed. your behavior between now and then will be the deciding factor. if you prove to be a liability, you stay in seoul. if you prove you can be a professional, you join them. i suggest you spend your travel day figuring out which version of yourself you want to be."

you feel a hollow ache. the whole point of the series was for jimin to be able to spend time with jungkook and you. there's a fine line with friendships between idols and employees; you have already crossed that bridge a long time ago. 

it was inevitable but now it's up to you to decide if this promotion is worth losing your friendships that you shouldn’t have in the first place. and all because you made a stupid decision that you should have checked first with the board. 

"i see," you say, forcing your tone to remain neutral. "will do."

she turns the handle, the click echoing. "i’ll see you at the airport tomorrow, y/n. do not give me a reason to regret trusting you with this."

she exited the room, leaving you standing in the silence that followed. you pack your bag, movements heavy and robotic. 

your phone vibrated on the table; a notification from jungkook. probably wondering if you were okay after you left with nicole, or perhaps checking in to see if you wanted to get takeout again. you stared at the screen, the black mirror of it reflecting your own exhausted face.

distance yourself.

you couldn’t take the risk reading whatever he sent. 

you stand up, legs shaky, and walk out. 

the studio hallway is dim. you pass the dark, skeletal sets and can almost feel the weight of his hand on your waist. you shake your head, forcing yourself to keep walking. 

you have a statement to write, a flight to catch, and a future to protect; even if it means sacrificing the friendships that made it all feel worth it.

stepping into the cool night air, you realize the hardest part won't be writing the statements. it will be pretending you don't feel anything while doing it.

---

The streetlights hummed their steady orange glow over the quiet neighborhood, casting long, ordinary shadows that did nothing to soften the knot twisting tighter in your chest with every step. Your sneakers hit the pavement in sharp beats — thud, thud, thud — matching the rhythm of thoughts you couldn’t shut off.

Months.

You’d been letting him have you — fuck you — for months, skin on skin, his mouth hot against your throat. You let his hands map every inch of your skin like he owned it. And still he’d pull back afterward, breath ragged, murmuring the same tired line: ‘I’m not ready for a relationship. Let’s keep things casual.’

Casual.

As if swallowing your feelings every time was simple. As if the way he’d text you at 2 a.m. just to come over meant nothing.

Hypocritical motherfucker.

You gripped the spare key he’d given you weeks ago — just in case, he’d said, like that small gesture balanced out the rest.

Jacob’s face flashed in your mind, the way he’d lit up talking about Lily last month, shy and hopeful. And now? Jungkook was dating her. Like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Why her? Why now? The questions burned, low and vicious. Why could he commit to someone else when he’d been buried inside you, whispering your name like a secret he couldn’t quite let go of? Why Lily, of all people — your mutual friend, the one who knew pieces of your tangled history without knowing the full truth?

You were tired. Bone-deep tired of being the convenient shadow in his life. The one he reached for when it suited him, then pushed away with pretty excuses.

Tonight, that ended.

Cuz you're going to fuck him up.

The apartment building came into view, its familiar glass doors reflecting your flushed face back at you. Then with no hesitation , you let yourself in with the key, the lock turning with a soft click that felt louder than it should. The hallway air was cool and still, carrying the faint scent of his laundry detergent from the neighboring units. Your pulse hammered against your ribs as you climbed the stairs, thoughts sharpening into blades.

Why her and not me? After everything — after the nights you stayed over, the mornings you made coffee in his kitchen like it was yours — why could he give that to someone else? Was he playing you? Is he fucking with you?

The door swung open under your hand. Darkness greeted you first, broken only by the faint blue glow of the city filtering through half-drawn blinds. You didn’t even bother with lights.

“Jungkook?” Your voice cut through the quiet, edged and raw. “Where are you?”

Silence answered. No footsteps. No low hum of his voice calling back.

The living room was empty, takeout containers still on the coffee table from some earlier meal. Your anger flared hotter— he hadn’t even texted you today. Not even once. While he was out solidifying whatever this was with Lily, you’d been left wondering, scrolling through those texts with Jacob until the words blurred.

You moved deeper inside, shoes silent on the hardwood. “Jungkook, I know you’re here. We need to talk. Now!”

Still nothing. The bedroom door was ajar at the end of the short hall. You pushed it open without knocking, the wood whispering against the frame.

There he was.

Jungkook laid sprawled across the bed in the dim light, one arm flung over his head, the other resting on his stomach. His chest rose and fell in the slow, peaceful rhythm of deep sleep, his lips slightly parted. The sheets were tangled around his waist, hoodie discarded on the chair nearby. He looked... untouched by any of it. Serene. Like the world outside his eyelids didn't matter.

Your breath caught, fury and something sharper — hurt, maybe betrayal — coiling so tight it hurt to inhale. It's late night, and he was sleeping like a man with nothing on his conscience.

No texts, or explanations. He was just sleeping like the piece of shit he is.

You stayed there in the doorway, fists clenched at your sides, the key still warm in your palm from the walk over.

You stood there another moment longer, the sight of him so peacefully unaware fueling the fire until it roared. “Wake up,” you snapped, voice cracking through the stillness like a whip. “Jungkook, motherfucker, wake the fuck up right now!”

He stirred faintly, a low, sleepy groan escaping him, but his eyes stayed closed, lashes fluttering without focus. Deep in sleep, lost in whatever dream didn’t include the mess he’d made.

“Wake up, you hypocritical piece of shit!” The words burst out louder, and raw with everything you’d bottled until now. You crossed the room in two strides and yanked the blanket off him with a vicious tug, the fabric ripping away to expose the rumpled t-shirt and shorts underneath.

Jungkook jolted upright, eyes flying open, disoriented and wide. “Nooo— what?” His voice was thick with sleep, hand rubbing at his face. “What the fuck? What are you doing here? When did you come here? How— What happened?”

The confusion on his face only made it worse. You laughed, bitter and sharp, the sound foreign even to your own ears. “What happened? Are you fucking serious right now?” Your chest heaved as the dam broke, words tumbling out in a torrent. “You’ve been fucking me for months, Jungkook. Months. Sneaking me in here, pulling me close like I was yours, telling me over and over you’re ‘not ready’ for anything real. And now? Now you’re dating Lily? Lily? The same girl my best friend’s been crushing on for weeks? How could you do this to me? Do I mean nothing to you? Am I just some convenient warm body you hit up when you’re bored or horny or whatever the fuck runs through that selfish head of yours?”

You paced the small space between the bed and the dresser, hands gesturing wildly, the key still clutched in one fist like a talisman of betrayal. “I let you in. I gave you every part of me without asking for labels because you made it sound so fucking reasonable. ‘Keep it casual,’ you said. Casual! While I sat there swallowing my feelings every single time you pulled away. And meanwhile, you’re out there committing to her? Just like that? Like it’s nothing? Like I haven’t been the one dealing with your moods, your late nights, your stupid excuses? You’re such a goddamn hypocrite. A lying, two-faced asshole who couldn’t even text me today while you were probably out solidifying whatever bullshit this is with her.”

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