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Summary: revenge never tasted that good when you decide to get back at the man - who ran you over - with the worst punishment he could ever get, and despite all the grudge, maybe some time after, the grudge will gradually turn into something else..?
Genre: e21, biker jk, series ( slow-burn.), smut, fluff, angst.
Taglist: @binniesbabe @ennvfv @minimoninini
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The soft trill of a phone alarm breaks the silence, distant and muffled beneath blankets. A second later, another goes off, a different chime overlapping with the first.
You groan, shifting under the weight of several heavy blankets. You’re warm. Too warm.
You blink your eyes open, squinting against the gentle gray light filtering through the narrow caravan window. Everything feels tangled, fabric, warmth, air.
And Jungkook.
He’s still beside you, stretched out on his back with one arm above his head and the other loosely across his stomach. His bare chest rises and falls in slow, even breaths, toned and flushed faintly with sleep.
Your eyes widen a little.
When did he take his shirt off?
And then you realize the mountain of blankets pooled around your legs, all of them. Even the one he insisted was for his side. You glance down. He must’ve kicked them off in his sleep, subconsciously burying you in the process.
You rub your eyes, still groggy, trying not to laugh.
Another soft buzz sounds from his phone this time, and he stirs, eyes fluttering open halfway.
“Mmmph…” He makes a low, half-conscious sound, voice still hoarse with sleep. “What time is it?”
You blink over at your screen. “Seven. Just past.”
He groans, dragging a hand over his face. “Already?”
You nod, voice soft. “Alarms went off twice. We need to get up.”
He blinks at you, bleary and dazed, hair sticking up at odd angles. “You’re buried.”
You look down at the pile of blankets. “Thanks to you.”
“Sorry,” he mumbles, and it sounds too amused to be sincere. “Guess I’m a generous sleeper.”
“You mean aggressive.”
He laughs a little under his breath, then yawns deeply, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm. “Did you sleep okay?”
You watch him for a second, the lazy way his lashes brush his cheek, the faint warmth in his cheeks from sleeping so close.
You nod. “Yeah. I did.”
He turns his head slightly, eyes still half-lidded. “Me too.”
A pause.
“Maybe the best in weeks.”
That quiet settles again, but it feels even softer in the daylight, like whatever thread pulled you both close last night is still wrapped around you this morning, loose but unbroken.
You whisper, just to match the stillness, “You’re seriously topless right now?”
He finally opens both eyes and grins, just a little. “You’re welcome.”
The caravan is filled with the faint smell of sleep and cold air, quiet except for the occasional creak of wood and the soft squish of toothbrushes.
Jungkook is pacing back and forth barefoot, brushing his teeth with messy, chaotic energy, like he’s gearing up for a marathon rather than just waking up. He walks from the tiny kitchenette to the cramped corner mirror, inspects his face, makes a weird face at himself, then circles back to the bed again.
“You’re gonna wear a hole in the floor,” you mumble, half-asleep, toothbrush hanging from your mouth.
You’re still curled up on your side, in bed, one arm under the pillow and your eyes barely cracked open. Toothpaste foam threatens to spill from your mouth, but you don’t move, brushing in slow, lazy strokes like you’re on autopilot.
“I need movement,” he says, speaking around his toothbrush. “My blood isn’t circulating.”
“You sound like someone’s dad.”
He stops in the middle of the floor. “Better than looking like Seokjin.”
You snort, then flinch at the accidental toothpaste spray. “You need to shut up before I choke.”
Jungkook grins through his foam, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’re just mad I’m fully functional.”
You open one eye slowly. “You’re topless, pacing like a lunatic, and talking to yourself in the mirror. Functional is a stretch.”
He makes another lap, this time tugging on a hoodie as he walks, somehow managing not to miss a beat in brushing.
You groan and roll onto your back. “Can’t believe I woke up next to this chaos.”
“You’re lucky,” he says smugly.
You turn your head to the side, eyes still half-shut. “I’d rather share a caravan with Yoongi. He probably wakes up silent and still like a normal human being.”
Jungkook scoffs, spitting into the small sink and rinsing his mouth. “He’d suffocate you in your sleep for snoring.”
“I don’t snore.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t okay me.”
Jungkook just grins, biting down on his lower lip to hold back the laugh threatening to escape. That same smile he gets when he knows he’s won, smug, a little warm, but not mean.
He steps closer, still towel-drying his damp mouth with one hand, and stops right at the edge of the bed where you’re sitting up, blanket pooled around your waist.
Then he leans down just a little, voice softer now, brushing the roughness out of his tone.
“Good morning.”
It lands gentle and real, the kind of good morning that carries more weight than the words themselves. The kind that means I see you. I’m glad you’re here.
Your stomach does that quiet, traitorous flip again, but you just nod, chewing the inside of your cheek like it’s no big deal.
He straightens up again, looking around the caravan once before rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll give you a few minutes to get ready.”
You nod, brushing your hair back from your face as you sit upright, legs still tucked under the blanket. The silence between you stretches, not awkward, just soft. Like neither of you is in a rush to move.
Jungkook lingers by the door for a moment longer. One hand on the latch, the other tucked loosely into his hoodie pocket. He looks at you again, and this time it’s without a smirk or a quip, just a small, quiet glance that says I liked waking up next to you without saying it at all.
“I’ll be right outside,” he adds. “No pressure.”
You blink up at him, a little startled by the tenderness in his tone. But you nod again, this time more slowly. “Okay.”
And he gives you the faintest smile, the kind that barely lifts one corner of his mouth, more in his eyes than anything else, before stepping outside and letting the door close softly behind him.
You stand at the tiny caravan sink, rinsing your mouth with cold water, the chill waking you up more than the mint of your toothpaste ever could. You spit, reach for your towel, and stretch just slightly to glance out the small window above the sink.
There he is.
Jungkook.
He’s talking to Namjoon, who’s crouched beside last night’s fire pit, methodically brushing ashes into a metal pan and sorting through what’s salvageable from the skewers and mugs left out.
They’re both quiet, you can tell from the rhythm of their movements, calm and slow. Namjoon speaks and Jungkook nods, gesturing with one hand as he shifts his weight from foot to foot. Whatever they’re saying, it’s light. Easy. The kind of early-morning conversation you only share with someone you’ve come to trust.
You pause for a second, towel still in hand.
There’s something about watching him from this distance that feels strange. Not in a bad way, just… quieting. Like you’re finally seeing him without the tension, without the snark, without the edge he’s worn like armor since the moment you met.
And damn it, he really is good looking. In that effortless, unbothered way. Hoodie sleeves too long, hands half in his pockets, sneakers untied. Something about how the morning sun hits his profile makes him look softer than usual.
You roll your eyes at yourself, just a little.
Stop romanticizing. It’s Jungkook.
The same Jungkook who steals blankets, mimics movie scenes badly, and calls you pathetic at least twice a day.
But also… the Jungkook who checked your leg, made you take your pills, and kissed your cheek last night like it meant something.
You look down at the sink, gripping its edge briefly before pulling in a steady breath.
Don’t be ridiculous, you tell yourself.
Then you glance back out the window one last time before turning away to get dressed.
—
You finally step out into the morning light, wrapped in a fresh hoodie and with your hair up in a ponytail. The campsite is quiet still, dew on the grass, birds somewhere in the trees above. Most of the group is still asleep, but Namjoon and Natty are both already up.
Namjoon’s still busy near the fire pit, sleeves pushed to his elbows, now rinsing out one of the mugs in a plastic bin. Natty’s leaning against the caravan, arms crossed, basking in the quiet like it’s her favorite thing in the world.
She turns when she sees you and flashes a grin that’s too bright, too suspicious.
You narrow your eyes.
“Well?” you murmur, stepping up beside her, nudging her arm. “Did you get lucky or not?”
She doesn’t even hesitate. “Oh, I got lucky.”
You gape. “No.”
She bites back a smug smile, brushing imaginary dust off her hoodie sleeve like it’s nothing.
“Natty,” you whisper, “no way—”
She just shrugs and heads back toward the caravan like she didn’t just drop a bomb in your lap.
Your jaw drops again as she disappears inside, and you’re still frozen there, stunned, and when you hear “What’s up?”
You jump slightly at the voice, flinching as you turn and find Jungkook standing right behind you, one hand in his hoodie pocket, brow raised.
Your hand immediately flies up to cover your mouth before you lean in closer, eyes wide, and mouth the words silently. “Namjoon and Natty slept together.”
His eyebrows shoot up.
“What?” he whispers loudly.
You smack his arm to shut him up, checking to see if Namjoon heard. He’s far enough not to catch a word, still humming softly to himself while washing up.
Jungkook blinks at you, lips twitching like he’s trying very hard not to laugh, or comment, or both.
You shake your head quickly, warning him with your eyes. Don’t say it.
And for once, he listens.
He stands still beside you for a second, staring off toward Namjoon.
“Huh,” he says softly. “Interesting.”
You follow his gaze as he eyes Namjoon, still crouched near the fire, calm and unbothered, completely unaware of the chaos he’s just unleashed. Jungkook tilts his head a little, like he’s studying wildlife in its natural habitat.
Then his eyes flick back to you.
You’re still frozen in place, half shocked, half amused, arms crossed in a futile attempt to contain your reaction.
Jungkook leans in, voice low. “I thought they were just friends?”
“I thought so too.” you whisper.
“She really didn’t look guilty,” you say under your breath.
He grins wider now, nudging your arm lightly with his elbow. “Come on. Let’s go see what we can scavenge for breakfast before the others start waking up and acting dramatic.”
You narrow your eyes at him, then glance him up and down slowly, hoodie halfway zipped, pajama pants wrinkled, hair a mess, eyes still puffy from sleep.
“You need to change,” you tell him plainly. “And pack.”
Jungkook stretches his arms over his head with a groan, like the concept of moving is a personal attack. “Don’t ruin the moment.”
“I’m not ruining anything,” you say. “I’m saving you from panicking later. Our flight’s not for another seven hours, but we still have to clean up, eat, figure out how to fit everything back in your suitcase since you unpacked like you live here.”
He blinks. “We have seven hours?”
You nod. “Which is why I was thinking… we grab breakfast, real coffee, maybe go for one last walk before we leave. You’re gonna miss this place.”
He eyes you for a moment, then exhales softly, expression settling into something quieter. “Yeah. I think I already do.”
You nudge him this time. “Then go get changed. I’ll see what’s still edible.”
He looks at you like he might say something else, like he doesn’t want to leave your side just yet, but then just nods, taking a step backward. “Don’t burn anything without me.”
“No promises.”
He turns and heads toward the caravan, sleepy but smiling, and for a brief second, you just watch him go.
The campsite is quiet. The sun is still low. And you realize seven hours isn’t much, but it’s enough to make one last memory before you get back to reality.
—-
The fire pit is still smoldering, gray smoke drifting lazily toward the pale morning sky as you gather around the uneven picnic table with the others. Breakfast is chaotic, as usual, half-empty mugs, crushed cereal boxes, and stray crumbs scattered across the warped wood. Hoseok’s attempt at frying eggs looks like a science experiment gone wrong, but no one seems to mind.
Your fingers wrap around a mug of weak instant coffee, warmth seeping through the chipped ceramic and grounding you against the cold nip in the air. Across the table, Jungkook’s nursing his own cup, there’s a softness to him now, a quietness that wasn’t there before.
You find your gaze drifting to him more than you intend to, mind replaying last night like a looping song you can’t stop humming. Sleeping next to him hadn’t been the disaster you’d expected. Actually, it had been… warm. Comforting, even. A quiet sanctuary from the freezing cold and all the noise around you. But now, with daylight stripping away the intimacy, the thought sneaks in, how will things be when you’re back home? When Jungkook no longer stays over? When the accidental warmth of last night becomes just a memory?
You swallow the knot tightening in your chest and force your eyes away, focusing instead on the mess of breakfast and the scattered voices of your friends. Hoseok complains about the burnt eggs, Yoongi grumbles about coffee that tastes like mud, and Seokjin tries to mediate with a forced smile.
Jungkook catches your glance and offers a brief, tired smile, one that feels heavier than usual, weighted with the same unspoken questions you’re too afraid to voice.
There’s no denying it, things between you and Jungkook have shifted. Faster than you expected, faster than you planned. Last night was a quiet turning point, a small moment of warmth that slipped past the walls you both built so carefully. It feels like progress, but progress that came too suddenly, too easily.
And that scares you.
Because you know better than to jump headfirst into something you don’t fully understand. You have to be cautious, not just for yourself, but for him. He deserves honesty. Fairness. A heart that’s sure, not a heart that’s still trying to figure out what it even feels.
You don’t hate him. Not anymore. Not really. In fact, you find yourself wanting to be near him, to see the softer side beneath the sarcastic exterior. But love? That word feels too heavy to use yet. You think maybe this is just a crush, like any other you’ve had before. A spark that could fizzle out with time or distance.
But then there’s that flutter in your stomach every time you catch his eye or hear his voice close in the quiet moments. That nervous, twisting feeling that maybe, just maybe, he’s more than a crush.
And that thought makes your chest tighten in a way you didn’t expect.
Because what if it’s true? What if this isn’t something you can walk away from? What if the lines between friendship, annoyance, and something deeper start to blur?
You sip your coffee, tasting the bitter warmth, and resolve settles around the edges of your worry. You’ll take it slow. Find out what your heart really wants before letting it run away with you. It’s the only way to be fair, to him, and to yourself.
For now, you’ll call it a crush.
The quiet whirl of your thoughts breaks when Seokjin clears his throat, voice calm but cheerful.
“There’s a bakery not far from the campsite,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck with a shy smile. “We could grab brunch there before heading to the waterfall nearby. It’s supposed to be beautiful this time of year.”
You blink, momentarily pulled from the spiral inside your head.
“A waterfall?” you ask, curiosity flickering. “That sounds nice.”
Namjoon nods in agreement. “A good way to stretch before the flight.”
Jungkook shrugs, seemingly indifferent but you catch the slight softening around his eyes.
As the plan settles in, your mind shifts, and suddenly you remember Seokjin..
He deserves closure. Clarity. Something that would let him move on without confusion or false hope.
You feel a gentle tug of guilt. You never meant to give him hope, but he deserved better from you. From yourself, too.
Maybe today was the day you’d finally tell him, not with cold distance, but with kindness.
The thought settles beside your worry about Jungkook, reminding you that feelings aren’t just about you and him. There are others, too, caught in the spaces you haven’t yet filled or cleared.
You glance at Jungkook, still wrapped in his hoodie, and then at Seokjin laughing quietly with Yoongi. Your heart feels heavier with the weight of what needs to be said.
Seven hours. Not much time. But maybe enough for the right words.
—
The trail is soft underfoot, scattered with dried pine needles and fading wildflowers. The bakery isn’t far, a fifteen-minute walk, if that, but the morning still clings to everything in a cool hush, like it’s trying to stretch time just a little longer.
You walk beside Natty, your arms brushing occasionally as the group spreads out along the dirt path. Just ahead, Jungkook’s voice rises, familiar and low, layered between Hoseok’s laughter and Yoongi’s sarcastic mutters.
“Swear to God,” Hoseok is saying, “it’s just an old beer factory. People are acting like it’s the Wonka factory for grown men.”
“It’s the exclusivity,” Jungkook adds. “There’s a waitlist. You literally have to enter a lottery just to get tickets.”
Yoongi snorts. “Idiots. You could just buy a beer and sit on your balcony like a normal person.”
Their banter carries easily through the cool air, the kind of conversation that makes it feel like nothing is changing, like the trip isn’t ending in just a few hours.
You glance ahead at Jungkook’s back, the hood of his black sweatshirt bobbing slightly as he walks, hands tucked into his pockets again. His presence behind you earlier made you feel… something. Something unsteady. But warm, too.
But it’s not Jungkook you’re nervous about today.
It’s who’s walking behind.
You glance over your shoulder, and there they are: Seokjin and Namjoon, deep in conversation, footsteps easy and in sync. Seokjin’s smile is casual, hands gesturing lightly as he talks, and for a second you feel your stomach knot.
You swallow. “I have to talk to him.”
Natty glances at you. “Seokjin?”
You nod once, slow and quiet. “I feel awful. He’s been flirty since New Year’s, but… I just don’t feel it. Not around him.”
Natty arches a brow, curious but not nosy. “Did anything actually happen?”
You hesitate. “Just a kiss. At the party. But I told him I wasn’t seeing anyone. I didn’t mean to lead him on, I swear. I just… I never gave him hope, but I didn’t really give him closure either.”
Natty makes a small sound of understanding. “And now?”
“Now I need to end something that never even started.” You kick a pebble off the path, watching it disappear into the grass. “He deserves to hear it from me. Kindly. Not weeks later when I’ve already made up my mind.”
Natty gives your arm a squeeze. “Good. That’s the right thing. Want me to get Namjoon out of the way?”
You glance up at her. “Would you?”
She smirks. “Say less.”
And with that, she speeds up, light on her feet, and catches up to the pair ahead. You watch her slip her hand into Namjoon’s like it’s nothing, like it’s natural, and he turns his head, surprised but pleased, falling into step with her immediately.
Seokjin is left a half-step behind, glancing between them with an amused smile before settling back into his own pace, now closer to you.
But it isn’t just Seokjin who notices.
Jungkook, just a few feet ahead of you, slows briefly. You can’t tell if it’s to listen, or just instinct, but his head tilts slightly when he catches Natty and Namjoon’s hands. Then he glances behind him, not at Seokjin, but at you.
You meet his eyes for a second, and there’s something there. A flicker of curiosity? Caution? Something unreadable. You offer a small, quiet smile. One meant to reassure.
This isn’t what you think. I just need to handle it.
Jungkook gives the faintest nod, or maybe he just blinks, and turns forward again, letting the others distract him with talk of the beer factory tour and how Hoseok would probably get banned for trying to sneak home a keg.
Your heart picks up as you step off the path slightly, just enough to let Seokjin catch up and fall in beside you. The moment is here, whether you’re ready or not.
You match his pace, quiet for a beat.
Then, softly, “Hey.”
He turns to look at you, warm and open as always. “Hey.”
You slow just a little more until it feels like the rest of the group is ahead enough to give you room, space to breathe, to speak honestly. Seokjin seems to pick up on it too, going quiet beside you, his eyes glancing once to your face.
Your fingers brush over your sleeve, suddenly unsure of how to start.
But then you do.
You clear your throat gently. “Seokjin, can I.. can we talk for a second?”
His eyes flick toward you, just briefly, but there’s no tension in them. “Sure,” he says lightly, and slows his steps to match your pace.
The others carry on ahead, Natty still laughing at something Namjoon said, Hoseok and Yoongi trailing behind Jungkook, who hasn’t looked back again.
It’s just you and Seokjin now, with the soft rhythm of your boots crunching into the snowy trail, the trees swaying faintly in the morning wind.
You take a breath. “I’ve been meaning to say this for a while. I just… didn’t know how.”
He glances at you again, this time longer, but he says nothing. Just waits.
You keep your gaze ahead. “I know we kissed on New Year’s Eve. And maybe that made it seem like something more. But I wasn’t seeing anyone then, and I meant what I said, that I wasn’t ready. I thought maybe it was just… a moment.”
A pause. The air feels still.
“But you’ve been… really sweet. Since. And flirty,” you add with a nervous smile. “Which I’m not mad about, but I think maybe I gave off mixed signals. And that’s on me.”
Seokjin hums softly. “Not really. You’ve been kind. You’ve never promised anything.”
You glance at him, surprised by how easy his voice is. “Still. You deserve honesty. And clarity. And I haven’t been very good at either.”
He smiles now, warm and kind, and just a little sad. “I think you’re better at it than you think.”
Your breath puffs in front of you like fog. “I just want you to know I think you’re amazing, Seokjin. And funny. And… actually weirdly reliable. You didn’t do anything wrong. I just, I don’t feel that pull. Not the kind you deserve.”
He’s quiet for a few steps. The only sound between you is the soft crunch of snow.
And then he says, “So what you’re saying is… I’m getting friend-zoned in the middle of a mountain trail, without even coffee to soften the blow.”
You look at him, wide-eyed, until he breaks into a grin, and you both laugh, the tension dissolving like frost under sunlight.
“But seriously,” he continues, “thank you for saying it. You didn’t owe me anything, but I’m glad you didn’t just leave it unsaid.”
You nod, relieved. “I hate leaving things open. I just couldn’t find the right moment.”
“Well,” he says with a soft shrug, “this works.”
You walk in silence for a few steps more. Not awkward. Just… peaceful.
And then he glances at you sideways, voice gentler this time.
“Does it have to do with Jungkook?”
You nearly trip over a root.
Your chest tightens. “What?”
Seokjin huffs a laugh. “Come on. I’m not stupid. Or blind.”
You say nothing. You can’t.
“I’ve seen it,” he says. “The way he looks at you. And lately… the way you look at him. It’s not clear, but it’s something.”
You breathe out slowly, watching the frost bloom in the air. “That’s because it isn’t clear.”
Seokjin nods, accepting that. “Then don’t rush to name it. But just… be honest with yourself. And with him.”
You bite the inside of your cheek. “I’m trying. It’s just..” You pause. “It’s complicated.”
He hums again. “It always is.”
You both walk a bit more, snow crunching under your boots, the smell of fresh bread already faint in the wind ahead.
Then he says, “One thing though. Promise me you’ll keep doing your sessions with me when we get back.”
You blink at him. “Wait… is this a friend asking, or my therapist?”
He grins. “Both.”
You laugh softly. “Okay. I promise.”
By the time you reach the bakery, you feel lighter somehow. Still unsure. Still tangled up in too many feelings to name. But lighter.
Because at least one door has finally been closed gently, and not slammed shut.
—-
The café is small, sunlit, and smells like brown sugar and brewed comfort.
Outside, the snow still clings to the trees, but in here everything is soft chairs, fogged windows, and the occasional hiss of milk frothing. You spot Natty and Jungkook standing at the counter, waiting for your orders to be called out, their jackets shrugged off and hair tousled from the walk.
You step in behind them, brushing the cold off your sleeves. Natty glances back, gives you a tiny nod, subtle, like a check-in, before walking off to grab cutlery.
That leaves Jungkook.
He leans against the counter lazily, arms crossed, hoodie bunching at his sleeves. “So,” he says, not quite looking at you. “That was a long talk.”
You glance up. “Hm?”
“With Seokjin.” He turns to you now, eyes sharp but not hard. “Everything okay?”
You hesitate, not because you’re hiding anything, but because you’re still figuring out how to say things aloud without unraveling yourself.
You shrug a little, keeping your tone light. “Yeah.” You pick up your order when your name was called and head back towards the table where your friends were seated.
You set your coffee down on the table before sliding into the seat beside Natty. Jungkook follows close behind, tray in hand, and takes the empty seat across from you. The others are already mid-conversation, laughing about something Hoseok said, but the space between you and Jungkook hums with a different kind of focus.
He leans in a little, not enough to draw attention, but just enough that his voice won’t carry.
“If it’s okay to ask…” he murmurs, his eyes flicking to yours beneath his lashes. “What happened? With Seokjin, I mean.”
You pause, hand halfway to your pastry, your appetite suddenly dimmed by the question you knew would come eventually.
Your gaze shifts to the cup in front of you. “It wasn’t anything dramatic,” you say softly, fingers circling the lid absently. “Just… something that needed to be said.”
Jungkook doesn’t push. He just nods, waiting, giving you the space to either drop it or keep going.
You exhale slowly, then lift your eyes to meet his. “I owed him some honesty. About the New Year’s kiss. About not feeling the same way.”
Jungkook’s brows lift just slightly, and then smooth. “He took it okay?”
“Better than I thought.” You tilt your head, thinking back to Seokjin’s gentle smile, the way his words didn’t sting. “He said we’d make excellent friends. That I’m fun to be around.”
Jungkook’s lips twitch at that. “He’s not wrong.”
Your cheeks warm, but you look away before he can see too much. “He also asked if it had anything to do with you.”
That makes him go still. His gaze sharpens again, though this time there’s no teasing behind it, only a quiet, contained breath.
“And?” he asks, voice lower now.
You chew your lip, heart thudding a little louder than you’d like. “I told him it’s not clear yet.”
Jungkook studies you for a second too long, like he’s weighing something unspoken, balancing on the edge of asking more but deciding against it.
Then he just nods. “Okay.”
You’re not sure what you expected, maybe a joke to break the tension, maybe more questions, but the simplicity of his answer leaves you oddly grounded. He doesn’t try to define it. He doesn’t rush you. He just lets it sit there.
And for once, that feels like enough.
Across the table, Natty pretends not to notice the quiet exchange between you two, but you catch the small smile playing at her lips before she steals a sip of her drink.
—
The airport was buzzing with the kind of noise that always came with departures, rolling suitcases, intercom announcements, the occasional call of a child trying not to be left behind.
You sat a little away from the cluster of your friends, your bag balanced against your leg as you watched them from a quiet corner. Jungkook was in the middle of it all, surprisingly. He was helping Namjoon repack his overstuffed carry-on, laughing when Hoseok teased him about being bossy, listening patiently to Yoongi’s dry commentary about airport food. Natty looped an arm around his shoulder at one point, stealing one of the snacks he bought, and he just rolled his eyes in that soft way you never thought you’d see from him.
For a moment, you let yourself just… look.
He didn’t fit the picture you had of him from the beginning, the boy who had been so sharp-tongued and impossible, the one who made you grit your teeth just to be in the same room. That version of him felt distant now, almost like a character you’d misjudged in the first chapter of a story.
What you saw here, now, was someone gentler. Someone patient. Someone who noticed when you limped too much, when you needed to sit down, when the group’s pace wasn’t matching yours. Someone who never asked for credit, who never made it obvious, he just… did it. Quietly. Kindly.
Your heart tugged, heavier than it should’ve been.
You bit the inside of your cheek, trying not to smile too much at the way his head tipped back in laughter, his eyes crinkling in that way that always felt a little too dangerous to look at for long. He wasn’t yours, not in any way that mattered, and yet your chest ached with the simple, helpless fact of liking him.
It wasn’t love, not yet. But it was enough to leave you restless.
And in that quiet moment, watching him like he was the only calm in the rush of the airport, you admitted something to yourself:
You admired him. For changing. For softening. For letting you see the kind of person he really was when the walls came down.
You had just tucked a strand of hair behind your ear when Seokjin wandered over, hands in his pockets, a gentle smile easing across his face.
“Hey,” he said, voice softer than the noise around you. “Mind if I sit?”
You shook your head, letting him drop into the seat beside you. For a moment, neither of you spoke, just watching the bustle of travelers hurrying by.
“I meant what I said,” Seokjin murmured at last, his shoulder brushing yours lightly. “About us being friends. You’re… good company. Even when you’re busy overthinking.”
That drew a small laugh out of you, your chest loosening in a way you didn’t expect. “I’ll try to take that as a compliment.”
“It is.” He leaned back, tilting his head with that same disarming calm. “You don’t have to look so guilty, you know. Honesty is better than holding back.”
Before you could answer, movement caught your eye, Jungkook crossing the space between your group and the vending machines. Normally, that sight would have stiffened the air, pulled a shadow across Seokjin’s easy smile. But this time, Jungkook only glanced at you two, expression unreadable for a beat… before he dipped his head slightly in acknowledgement and kept walking.
Your heart skipped.
Seokjin noticed, of course. He gave a small smirk, not cruel but knowing. “Looks like he’s loosening up.”
“He’s… different lately,” you admitted, eyes following Jungkook’s retreating back.
“Different, huh?” Seokjin’s tone was curious, not bitter. “Maybe that’s not a bad thing.”
You hummed, not trusting yourself to say more.
And when Jungkook returned a few minutes later, setting a bottled drink in front of you without comment, his gaze flicking between you and Seokjin without the faintest sign of jealousy, you realized just how true that was.
For the first time, Jungkook wasn’t shadowed by defensiveness or rivalry. He was just there. Present. Quiet. Steady.
And somehow, that made your chest feel even warmer than before.
You excused yourself gently from Seokjin, mumbling something about stretching your legs. Your gaze drifted back to the group, where Jungkook was half-listening to Hoseok and Namjoon debate snack choices, his laugh mingling with theirs. He looked… at ease, maybe too much so, and for a second you wondered if you’d even get his attention.
So you cleared your throat, catching his eyes across the space. Then you gave him that look, the one he seemed to understand now, the one that meant you.
He blinked once, twice, then got to his feet almost immediately, brushing past Hoseok’s half-finished story without a word. You tried not to smile as he fell into step beside you.
The two of you drifted away from the gates, weaving past travelers until you reached the quieter corridor by the elevators. The world muted there, no friends, no chatter, just the soft hum of air conditioning and the distant ding of luggage carts.
You turned to him, nerves bubbling up as you shifted your weight. “I just wanted to… thank you. Again. For everything in Kyoto. For being so patient with me when I’ve been…” You exhaled. “Honestly, kind of a lot.”
He tilted his head, eyes searching yours. Then, to your surprise, a low laugh escaped him, not mocking, just warm. “You have been a lot,” he admitted, grinning as your mouth fell open. “But… I don’t mind. Not as much as I thought I would.”
Before you could swat at him, his hand reached up, casually tugging at something on your sleeve. You glanced down just as he plucked a loose thread free from your jacket, flicking it away with ease. Such a small gesture, so thoughtless, but it sent a strange current through you, a spark that lit up your chest in ways you weren’t prepared for.
Silence settled between you then. The kind that wasn’t heavy, but sharp with something unspoken. You could hear your own pulse in your ears, feel the weight of his closeness as he shoved his hands into his pockets like he didn’t know what else to do with them.
the air charged with something you couldn’t quite name. His hands stayed buried in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched, like he was holding himself back from something. You swallowed, the quiet almost too loud.
“Can I… ask you something?” you murmured at last, your voice barely carrying above the hum of the corridor.
His head turned, eyes steady on yours. “Of course.”
You drew in a breath, words careful. “Are you going to stay home with me tonight? Or… not?”
The question hung there, suspended. For the first time since you’d pulled him away, Jungkook didn’t answer right away. His gaze flickered, away, back to you, then down at the floor like the tiles might give him a script.
Truth was, part of him wanted to. Part of him wanted nothing more than to walk back into your penthouse, sink into the softness of your world, and pretend it was his place too. But another part reminded him, you weren’t in your cast anymore. You could walk. You could do everything on your own again. He wasn’t needed.
That thought tightened something in his chest.
When the pause dragged, you let out a small hum and masked it with a careful smile, even as a flicker of disappointment rippled beneath. “Never mind. It’s fine.”
His head shot up at that, lips parting as if he’d spoken too slow. “No—” He caught himself, jaw working. Then, softer: “I’ll come by. Spend the day. But… I’ll leave later at night. Is that okay?”
You searched his face, reading the edges of conflict there, the way he was trying to balance wanting and reason. And though something inside you dipped, you nodded with a lightness that didn’t betray it. “Yeah. That’s okay.”
He exhaled, relief ghosting over his features, before glancing away again. But the silence that followed wasn’t empty this time. It was layered, with the words you didn’t say, with the things he didn’t allow himself to.
And when you finally turned back toward the gates, walking side by side, you carried that silence with you like a secret only the two of you understood.
-
Boarding was a blur of lines and boarding passes, the shuffle of feet, the weight of carry-ons lifted into overhead bins. By the time you found your row, your chest still carried the echo of that quiet conversation by the elevators.
You slid into your seat first, tucking your bag beneath the chair in front of you. Jungkook followed, dropping down beside you, his hoodie hood tugged halfway up as though it might shield him from the exhaustion painted across his face.
The plane hummed to life, attendants moving briskly, the chatter of passengers settling into something steadier. You glanced sideways and noticed his head tipping forward, then back, then forward again, like he was losing a fight with sleep.
Your lips twitched faintly, and before you could stop yourself, you leaned in. “You can lean on me, you know,” you whispered, low enough that only he could hear.
He blinked blearily at you, almost too tired to process, and you sighed, lifting your palm gently to his head. With careful pressure, you guided him until his temple rested against your shoulder. His hair brushed your jaw, warm and soft, and within seconds, his breathing evened out into sleep.
You stared ahead, heart thundering, your body suddenly so aware of its every inch, the weight of him against you, the trust in the way he’d surrendered to sleep without hesitation.
And then your thoughts began to race.
It would be so easy to read into this, to let yourself slide into the comfort of having him close, to pretend that this was something solid and certain. But you couldn’t. You knew better.
You told yourself you needed to slow down. To hold your ground. To not get carried away by soft moments on airplanes or the way he made you feel like gravity tilted a little differently when he was near.
Boundaries, you reminded yourself firmly, even as your fingers itched to brush against his hair again.
So you sat still, the whole flight long, watching the clouds shift outside the window while he slept soundly on your shoulder. And inside, you carried a storm, wanting, reining yourself in, reminding yourself over and over that you couldn’t afford to grow attached to something so uncertain.
Not yet.
—
The penthouse was quiet when you arrived, the kind of stillness that made the city beyond the glass walls feel a little too far away. Jungkook carried your suitcase inside without asking, setting it neatly by the wall before disappearing back out to retrieve Coco.
You heard the familiar jingling of her collar before you saw her, Coco bolting into the apartment and weaving between Jungkook’s legs. He crouched down easily, scooping her up with a grin you couldn’t help but notice.
“Hey, princess,” he cooed, carrying her toward the kitchen. “You survived without us, huh?”
You leaned against the doorway, watching him grab her bowl, filling it with kibble like he’d done it a hundred times before. Coco purred and nudged his hand, earning herself a treat he fished out of the drawer.
“She’s spoiled,” you teased softly, though the sight warmed something in your chest.
He smirked without looking up, letting Coco bat playfully at his fingers. “You’re the one who taught her that.”
The easy banter filled the air, but soon he stood, brushing his palms against his jeans. “You need anything before I head out?” he asked, eyes flicking toward you. “I’ll be here in the morning.”
You tilted your head. “Going home tonight?”
He nodded. “Yeah. Haven’t been back in days. Gotta rest, do some laundry.” Then his brows lifted just slightly. “What about you? Got anything planned?”
The question lingered heavier than it should have. You hesitated, then admitted quietly, “I miss work.”
Something flickered in him immediately, a sharp, controlled shift, like a wire being pulled tight. He forced his voice casual. “Yeah? Must feel strange being away from it this long.”
You tilted your head, watching him carefully, letting your gaze linger just long enough to make him squirm under the weight of your eyes. You didn’t need to say a word, he knew you knew, and the silent acknowledgment was enough.
He cleared his throat, trying to mask the flicker of heat in his chest, but the way you said it, the casual confidence, the hint of amusement in your expression, teased him in a way that made it impossible to ignore.
He shifted, a hand brushing against his jeans, a subtle exhale escaping him. You smiled faintly, leaning against the counter, watching him try and fail to appear completely composed.
“I guess… I’ll see how it feels to get back into it tonight,” you said softly, deliberately letting the double meaning linger.
His eyes flicked to yours, darkening just enough to betray the effect your words had on him. He cleared his throat again, sharper this time, masking a chuckle that threatened to break through.
He shifted his weight, eyes narrowing just slightly, trying to keep his expression neutral. “So… do you have anything planned for tonight?”
You hesitated, letting the pause stretch long enough to make him squirm ever so slightly. “I might… film something tonight,” you said casually, shrugging as if it were no big deal.
The faintest hitch in his breath betrayed him. He cleared his throat, a little too forcefully, trying to regain composure, but his gaze lingered on you longer than necessary.
“I see,” he said, low, smooth, but there was a flicker in his eyes, dark, restrained, and not subtle, that made your pulse quicken.
You tilted your head, smiling just enough to let him know you saw it, letting the teasing linger in the air like a current. “Don’t tell me you’re worried,” you murmured, voice light, almost playful.
He shifted again, jaw working as he masked the effect you had on him. “Worried isn’t the word,” he admitted carefully, voice clipped, trying to sound casual. “Let’s just say… I’ll be around in the morning.”
The corners of your lips tugged up. That was all you needed to hear, the unspoken tension, the quiet restraint, and the way he was trying so hard not to let himself get pulled in.
He straightened, shifting his weight, giving a small, almost imperceptible nod. “Alright,” he said finally, voice even but carrying a subtle weight that made your chest tighten. “I should head out for tonight.”
You nodded, trying to keep your expression casual, though your heart stuttered in response. “Okay. Don’t stay up too late,” you murmured.
“I won’t,” he replied, though there was a flicker in his eyes that told you he might be imagining other things instead. He lingered for a moment longer, his presence filling the room in a way that made the quiet feel heavier. Then, almost reluctantly, he turned toward the door.
At the threshold, he glanced back once, eyes meeting yours, and you caught the faintest shadow of a smile tugging at his lips, a silent acknowledgment of everything left unsaid.
And just like that, he was gone, leaving you alone with the stillness of the penthouse, the echo of his presence, and the quiet pull of desire and restraint that neither of you were ready to confront.
—
The apartment is swallowed by darkness, quiet except for the faint hum of the city beyond the windows. Every other room lies empty and still, as if the entire world has paused, leaving only you and the flicker of candlelight.
You step into your bedroom, the soft rustle of fabric against your skin the only sound you make. Carefully, you slide out of your day clothes, letting them fall in a neat pile on the chair beside the bed. Your fingers linger on the delicate straps of the lingerie you’ve chosen for tonight, tight, minimal, a piece that hugs your curves like a second skin.
The spaghetti straps cling to your shoulders, the neckline daring enough to reveal just a little more than you would normally show. You adjust it, mindful of the fit, before sliding the matching thong into place. The fabric is soft but revealing, emphasizing your shape in the dim light, teasing the edge of what you’re about to share.
A face mask, black, sleek, unyielding, covers your features, concealing your identity for anyone who might see the footage. You tug it over your ears, taking a deep breath as your eyes catch your reflection in the mirror.
The room next door is already lit, a warm glow spilling from candles scattered among the props you set out earlier: velvet drapes, silk scarves, delicate chains, and glass trinkets catching the flickering flames. Every item seems poised, waiting to become part of the story you’re about to tell.
You glance at the reflection once more, smoothing the lingerie against your skin, and allow yourself a quiet shiver of anticipation. Alone, unseen, the world condenses to this room, the candlelight, and the feeling of being both hidden and exposed at once.
You push open the door to the candlelit room, the soft scent of wax and warm fabric wrapping around you. It feels strange, familiar, and exhilarating all at once, stepping back into a space you’ve been away from for what seems like ages.
Carefully, you set up the cameras, adjusting angles and checking the lighting until the flicker of candlelight falls just right across the props and the silk sheets. Each movement is deliberate, precise, almost ritualistic, reminding you why this space always feels like a world apart.
Once everything is ready, you take a deep breath and press the record button. The little red light glows steadily, confirming that the moment has begun.
You move toward the bed, your fingers grazing the smooth silk sheets before you settle back, letting your body sink into their warmth. The fabric shifts beneath you, cool and soft against your skin, and you close your eyes for just a second, savoring the sensation.
You sink into the silk sheets, the warmth pressing against your skin, coaxing a shiver that has nothing to do with the fabric. Your mind drifts instantly to Jungkook, to the way he’s patient and teasing, and a small, wicked smile tugs at your lips.
You begin, soft and coaxing, letting the role play take over your voice:
“Hey… I know you’re up… can I please share your bed? I had a terrible nightmare,” you whisper, your words trembling just slightly, letting the imagined vulnerability carry through.
“I know you’re tired from being out all day… but I’m too scared to go to bed alone,” you continue, curling into yourself, silk slipping against your skin as the fantasy paints him there beside you. Your fingers run down your thigh as your legs spread.
It’s his face that fills your mind first, a shiver running through you at the thought of him. Your hand drifts closer to yourself, movements slow and teasing, almost against your will. Your eyes flutter shut, a guilty thrill sparking inside you, the tension between longing and restraint setting your body alight. No matter how hard you try to push it away, it only burns stronger, a fire you can’t, and don’t want to ignore.
“Please… let me closer,” you whisper, voice low and trembling. You shift slightly, letting the thong slip down to hang by your ankle, your body betraying how long you’ve held back. “I haven’t stopped thinking about you all day…”
A soft hum escapes your lips as your hand drifts over yourself again, slow, deliberate, teasing every nerve. Your other hand slides a strap down your shoulder, leaving your skin exposed, shivering under your own touch. “I’m yours… if you’ll just take me,” you whisper to the empty room, imagining him close enough to hear it.
Your fingers wrap around the small pink device, the gentle buzz sending shivers through you. You press it against the place that aches with longing, each pulse making your breath hitch, the fantasy of him there, just out of reach, driving you higher into your own heated daydream.
A shiver runs through you as you tilt your head back, a soft gasp escaping your lips. The delicate fabric slips lower, revealing your breast, and a delicious warmth spreads through you, each pulse making your ears tingle and your heart race.
Heat floods through you, curling tight in your stomach and spreading in waves that make your knees weak. Every imagined brush of his hands, every ghost of a kiss on your skin, makes your body ache with need you can’t name. You can feel him everywhere, close enough to make your heart hammer, far enough that it twists deliciously with want.
Your fingers move faster in your own private rhythm, and your breath comes in ragged gasps, each thought of him a spark setting fire to your pulse. The buzzing hum of the small toy against your skin only sharpens the ache, a sweet torment that makes it impossible to think clearly.
You murmur his name softly, lips barely moving, imagining the way he would lean in, the way his presence alone would make you tremble. Every thought of him sets your mind and body alight, and even though he isn’t there, it feels as if he might be, if only in this private, burning fantasy
You’re completely lost in him, your mind a storm of heat and longing. Every imagined brush of his hands, every thought of him whispering your name, sends shivers racing through your body. Your skin feels like it’s alive, every nerve ending screaming for more, your own touch barely keeping pace with the fire building inside you.
You shift onto your knees, your face completely pressed against the sheets and your ass facing the cameras, allowing full access to the pool dripping down your thigh. “You’re doing so good baby don’t stop.”
A low, trembling hum vibrates through your chest, punctuated by whispered sighs that echo your longing, each one hotter, more urgent than the last, leaving you trembling and completely consumed by your own imagination.
A shiver runs through you as the tension finally breaks, your body trembling under the wave of release. You collapse onto your back, chest rising and falling rapidly, hair tousled against the silk, every nerve still buzzing. Soft, ragged breaths escape your lips, a low, shaky hum lingering in the quiet room. Your mind is a haze of heat and longing, pulse pounding, completely spent yet still aching with the memory of the fantasy you just let yourself fully indulge in.
You lie back against the silk, still flushed and trembling from the fantasy. With a soft, breathy smile, you whisper into the camera, “Thank you… for helping me tonight. You were so good to me.”
Your fingers drift lightly over the sheets as you let the words hang, letting the warmth of the moment linger. A quiet sigh escapes your lips, part relief, part satisfaction, and you slowly reach over to turn off the recording, the room falling silent except for the rapid thrum of your heartbeat.
—
Jungkook’s phone buzzes late at night, pulling him from the quiet of his room. He frowns at the notification, a new upload on your content page. Curiosity claws at him, but there’s a hesitation too, a mix of anticipation and something he can’t quite name.
His thumb hovers over the screen, heart thudding faster than it should. He knows what this could mean, knows exactly the kind of content you post, and yet a flicker of something warmer, desire, worry, something in between, makes him tap the notification.
As the page loads, his breath catches. He hadn’t expected… that. His eyes widen slightly, pulse jumping, mind spinning with a mix of shock and fascination. The quiet of the night feels suddenly too small, too intimate, as if he’s intruding on something intensely private, and he can’t look away.
As he watches , his eyes linger, analyzing every detail of your body, the way you move, the subtle curves, the heat radiating from the screen. He can’t look away, there’s something magnetic about the way you carry yourself, so raw, so intimate.
Then his gaze catches something familiar, a faint bruise just under your knee. His stomach twists. He knows exactly where that came from… Kyoto. That confirms it: this wasn’t an old clip. This was actually filmed tonight.
The realization hits him like a spark, and heat pools low in his chest. The quiet of his room feels electric, every nerve alive as he imagines you just like this, fresh, vulnerable, and intoxicatingly close on the screen.
His pulse jumps, and a low, breathless sound escapes him before he even realizes it. The way you move, the subtle arch of your body, the teasing of the silk… it’s all too much. He can’t tear his eyes away, the mixture of shock and fascination giving way to something more primal, more immediate.
Every second he spends watching, imagining, analyzing, fans the fire hotter. It’s intoxicating, and maddening. You’re there, untouchable, yet every curve, every subtle gesture sets him on edge, leaving him desperate for more.
His eyes catch a moment that freezes him, your fingers moving faster, chest rising and falling. The buzzing hum of the device fills the space on the screen, but beneath it, there’s something else. A faint, muffled sound, almost imperceptible, buried under the hum… could it be a moan? Or a soft hum?
He leans closer, squinting at your face which is useless considering it was hidden by a mask, trying desperately to read your lips. And then it hits him, he could swear he heard it. His name.
The thought twists something tight and electric inside him. He rewinds the clip, watching that brief, heated moment again. And again. Each replay drives him further into the pull of it, the sound, the way you moved, the fire in your eyes even in a tiny frame. He can’t stop. His pulse hammers, heat pooling low, a mix of disbelief and desire consuming him.
Every replay makes him hungrier, caught between fascination and something more primal. He wants to hear it again, wants to be sure, but even the doubt only fans the fire higher.
A dark pool of liquid suddenly soils his sweatpants as he cums uncontrollably to the sound of you, leaving his body trembling and chest heaving. He can’t look away, can’t stop the rush of tension that has taken over completely. His voice escapes in ragged whispers, calling your name again and again, echoing around the apartment. Every nerve is alight, every thought consumed by you, and for a long moment he’s utterly lost in the pull of the image on the screen.
His eyes fix on the moment you lie back against the silk, flushed and trembling, the soft, breathy laugh as you whisper into the camera: “Thank you… for helping me tonight. You were so good to me.”
A slow, tight ache coils in his chest. He knows exactly what that whisper refers to, the way your body moved, the way your expressions burned, he can almost feel the memory of that night in Kyoto, the night he refused to stay in bed with you. Every subtle curve of your body on the screen, every sigh and shiver, is a reminder of the distance he put between you that night, and luckily this problem was solved shortly after.
Summary: revenge never tasted that good when you decide to get back at the man - who ran you over - with the worst punishment he could ever get, and despite all the grudge, maybe some time after, the grudge will gradually turn into something else..?
Genre: e21, biker jk, series ( slow-burn.), smut, fluff, angst.
Taglist: @binniesbabe @ennvfv @minimoninini
Previous | Next
The hotel buffet is already buzzing when you all go down, not because it’s crowded, but because your group brings enough chaos to fill the whole space on your own.
Plates clatter. Chopsticks dig. Voices overlap.
It starts with Yoongi dumping three pieces of tamagoyaki onto Namjoon’s plate without asking.
“You’re low on protein,” he mutters, still half-asleep.
“I didn’t ask for—”
“Exactly,” Yoongi says, already reaching for miso soup.
Hoseok is balancing a tray of mini pancakes, fruit, and three different juices, claiming he’s “taste testing.”
Natty’s dragging Seokjin by the wrist, arguing about whether natto is edible or a crime.
You sit down next to Jungkook, who already has a bowl of rice, grilled fish, and something steaming in a tiny clay pot in front of him. He’s mid-bite, cheeks full, when he glances at you.
You raise an eyebrow.
He swallows and immediately reaches for the pitcher to pour your tea. Wordless. Familiar.
“Thanks,” you say, settling in.
Across the table, Seokjin leans back dramatically. “Should we all just admit we’re feral animals? No one here is behaving with dignity.”
“We walked eleven kilometers yesterday, that’s around 16 thousand steps,” Namjoon says, gesturing with his chopsticks. “I deserve to eat like I fought in a war.”
“I did fight,” Natty says. “Against the late night snacks trying to poison me.”
You laugh, leaning forward to steal a piece of Jungkook’s fish with your chopsticks. He doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t even flinch.
“You don’t like fish,” he says quietly.
“I’m evolving,” you whisper back.
His lips twitch ( just barely. ) into a smile.
Seokjin watches the exchange, then turns to Natty. “Can you pass the soy sauce before I commit a crime?”
The energy rolls and rolls, building higher. Hoseok drops a grape tomato on the floor and everyone gasps like someone’s been shot. Someone knocks over a cup. Someone else starts arguing over whether you should go to the museum or the lake first.
“I need the museum before anything else,” Namjoon insists. “If I go to the lake first, I’ll get sleepy and ruin the rest of the day.”
“We’re already sleep-deprived,” Yoongi mutters. “We should do the lake now and nap there.”
“There’s no napping at the lake,” Hoseok says. “We’re renting boats.”
“I’m not rowing,” you announce.
“You’re not walking either,” Jungkook says next to you, quiet and pointed.
You shoot him a mock glare.
Natty claps her hands once, loud. “Okay, Listen- The plan is this: historical museum in the morning, lake around midday, then, camping!”
That gets an immediate reaction.
Jungkook groans. Yoongi chokes on rice. Namjoon drops his spoon.
“Yes,” she grins. “In tents or caravans. Under stars. With fire. And probably mosquitos. Very aesthetic.”
“You said this was a restful trip,” Yoongi hisses.
Natty only smiles wider. “Silly, there’s no mosquitoes when it’s cold.”
“Wait,” you say, eyes narrowing. “You’re serious? Camping? Like… outside?”
“Yup.”
“Outside?”
“Where else?”
Jungkook leans toward you slightly. “I can carry your stuff,” he says under his breath. “But I’m not building any tents. That’s where I draw the line.”
“Fair,” you whisper back. “I’ll seduce someone else to do it.”
He stiffens. Just for a second.
You grin into your teacup, pretending you didn’t notice.
The chaos swirls again, laughter, protests, debates over who’s sharing tents with whom. Namjoon is already googling lake temperatures. Hoseok’s drawing a diagram in ketchup on his plate. Seokjin is offering to take charge of the firewood “because clearly no one else is qualified.”
You sit back for a moment, chopsticks resting against your lip, just watching all of them.
The table is a mess of shared bowls, stolen bites, and overlapping lives. It smells like roasted seaweed and cinnamon bread. Everyone’s loud and hungry and already fighting about the playlist for the car ride.
And next to you, quiet, steady, unreadable, is Jungkook.
You glance at him.
He’s chewing slowly. Not laughing as much. Not looking at you either.
And for the first time this morning, you feel it again.
The echo of last night.
The space between your beds.
You’re still staring at your tea when it happens, your voice, soft and uninvited, threading itself into the noise like it doesn’t belong there.
“It actually wasn’t okay,” you say.
Jungkook pauses mid-chew. Slowly turns his head to look at you.
You don’t meet his eyes. You push a bit of rice around your plate instead.
“I know I said it was fine,” you continue, quieter this time, just for him. “But it wasn’t.”
He swallows hard. His shoulders tense.
You look up at him, finally. And the words come out before you can soften them.
“I wanted you to stay.”
The table around you blurs. Someone drops a fork. Natty says something about bug spray. But it all fades under the weight of what you just said.
Jungkook’s mouth opens slightly, but nothing comes out. He just stares.
“I’ve been…” You draw in a breath. “Fighting every cell in my body that wants to give you a chance. Every single one.”
He blinks.
“And when I finally—” You pause. “Last night, I finally wanted to. I asked you to stay.”
Your voice trembles just a little, but you don’t stop.
“And you said no.”
It’s not angry. Not bitter. Just honest. Honest in the kind of way that stings more than yelling ever could.
Jungkook’s brows draw together. His voice drops, nearly inaudible beneath the hum of the table.
“I didn’t say no because I didn’t want to.”
“Then why?”
“Because it felt…” He hesitates. “Too much. Too dangerous. Too close to something that wasn’t just—”
He cuts himself off.
You stare at him, the hurt sharper now. “So you’d rather pull away and pretend it’s nothing.”
He doesn’t deny it.
Instead, he says, “You said friend. You kissed my cheek like it meant nothing. You looked at me like I was everything, and then you called me a friend.”
“I didn’t know what else to do,” you admit, your voice cracking slightly. “I was scared. Of this. Of you. Of myself.”
His jaw clenches. His hands curl under the table.
You press your lips together, swallow back the knot in your throat, and finish, “But I asked you to stay. And you didn’t.”
Silence.
All around you, the group is still chattering. Still making plans and arguing over bento flavors and sunscreen.
But between you and Jungkook, it’s dead quiet.
He looks at you for a long moment, really looks at you, and for the first time since you sat down, he doesn’t smile. Doesn’t hide. Just breathes, heavy and slow.
“I thought staying would make it worse,” he says at last.
You nod once. “Yeah. Well. It didn’t exactly make it better.”
He looks like he wants to say more, needs to, but Natty suddenly calls your name from across the table, laughing about tent assignments, and the moment cracks in half.
You glance toward the group. When you look back, Jungkook’s already turned his head, reaching for his tea, mask back on.
But your words still hang in the space between you.
The echo of last night.
And the quiet ache of everything you almost said too late.
You step out of the hotel between Jungkook and Seokjin, one on each side.
And despite the snowflakes melting softly into your hair and the cool air brushing your cheeks, you feel suffocated. Like you’re walking with too much heat in your chest and not enough air in your lungs. Like the two of them are pressing in too close, too quiet, too polite, but their silence speaks volumes.
Jungkook doesn’t say a word.
Seokjin keeps trying.
You don’t breathe properly until your boots crunch forward on packed snow and you slip between Yoongi and Hoseok, just a few steps ahead.
Yoongi glances at you, one brow raised under his beanie. “She escapes.”
“She always escapes,” Hoseok grins, grabbing your gloved hand and swinging it once dramatically. “Especially when things get awkward.”
You laugh, but there’s a flicker in your chest. Something tight. Something wary.
You glance between them, chewing your lip. “You guys know, don’t you?”
Yoongi gives you a look. Flat. Deadpan. “Obviously.”
Hoseok gasps, dramatically offended. “Do you honestly think we came all the way to Japan and didn’t clock the slow-burn triangle of doom you’re dragging around?”
You bury your face in your scarf, groaning. “Is it that obvious?”
Yoongi shrugs, kicking at the snow. “It’s not like you’re shouting about it. But it’s in the way you walk. Where you look. Who you stand next to when you think no one’s watching.”
“Especially yesterday,” Hoseok adds gently, tone softer now. “We all noticed how Jungkook rushed to you the second you looked like you were hurting. Like his body moved before his brain did. We weren’t sleeping.”
You go quiet.
Yoongi nudges your shoulder. “You okay?”
“I don’t know.” You pause, dragging in a breath of icy air that doesn’t make anything feel clearer. “I think I’m just… tired of fighting myself. I told him we’re just friends, and then I wanted him to stay. And when he didn’t, I got upset. That’s not fair to him.”
Hoseok hums. “He would’ve stayed if you asked twice.”
“But I did ask.”
Yoongi looks at you then, really looks. “You didn’t ask. You invited. Softly. Carefully. Like someone who’s still afraid to open a door all the way.”
“And when he didn’t step through, you closed it again,” Hoseok says, squeezing your hand.
You blink, surprised at how well they’ve read you. But maybe you shouldn’t be. They’ve known you for years. They’ve held your hair back during breakdowns and carried your drunk, heartbroken self out of bars and into quiet hotel rooms.
You swallow. “It’s just scary, you know? Letting go of the friend part. Especially when it’s the only thing keeping everything from falling apart. Plus I’ve known him longer than I’ve known Seokjin, it feels easier to start with a stranger.”
“Then don’t let go of it, the friend part?” Yoongi says simply. “Keep it. Just… build on it.”
“You think it’s real?”
Yoongi glances back toward the boys trailing behind. Jungkook walking in silence. Seokjin talking too much. Their bodies like two magnets at odds with each other.
“I think there’s only one of them you look at like that.”
You look away instinctively, like you’ve been caught.
Hoseok bumps your side. “And whichever one it is… just be honest. With him. With yourself.”
“That’s the part I’m still working on.”
“Then work on it,” Hoseok says with a grin. “In the meantime, we’ll be your emotional support distractions. You can sit between us at lunch and pretend you’re a girlboss with zero feelings and multiple love interests.”
You snort. “Sounds healthy.”
Hoseok narrows his eyes at you playfully. “Now seriously. How do you really feel about Jungkook?”
You slow your steps.
The street around you is quiet for a moment, snow crunching beneath your boots, your gloved fingers curled tightly at your sides. You glance toward the others ahead, still unaware of this quiet, separate world you’ve carved behind them.
You sigh. “He loves me.”
Yoongi doesn’t react. Not surprised.
Hoseok just blinks slowly. “Yeah. We know.”
You shake your head. “No, I mean- he really loves me. I can feel it. In everything he does. He’s… so patient. Even when I make things confusing. Even when I act like a coward.”
There’s a beat of silence between the three of you.
Yoongi lifts an eyebrow. “And you?”
You hesitate.
“I don’t know,” you say. And it’s not a lie, it’s just not the full truth either. “A part of me wants to want him. To stop resisting and just, feel everything. Let it happen.”
“But?” Hoseok asks gently.
“But a part of me still sees him as my temporary caretaker. The guy who cleaned up after my mess when I couldn’t stand on my own legs.” You glance at them both, ashamed. “And that’s not fair to him. Not anymore.”
Yoongi nods, slow. “No. It’s not.”
“I think I made it worse,” you say softly. “I keep acting like I want him close, but then calling it friendship. And he pretends it’s okay. But he’s hurting. I can see it every time I use the word friend and look him in the eyes.”
Hoseok frowns, voice softening. “Do you really not want him?”
Your answer comes in a shrug, but your silence says more.
“I’m scared,” you finally admit.
Yoongi sighs. “Of what?”
“That if I let myself want him and it goes wrong, I won’t just lose him. I’ll lose the only person who made me feel safe when I couldn’t walk.”
Hoseok squeezes your shoulder. “You know he mostly didn’t stay with you just because he had to, right?”
“I know. That’s what makes it worse. I’ve been treating him like he’s replaceable. Like his feelings don’t matter as long as he’s still there.”
Yoongi’s voice cuts through. “He’s not going to stay if he keeps getting cut like this.”
Your heart clenches.
Hoseok nods. “He’ll still care about you, but… there’s a limit. Even for someone as soft as him.”
You breathe out slowly, watching the fog of it curl into the air. You don’t say anything for a while.
“I don’t want to lose him.”
Yoongi’s voice is quiet. “Then stop waiting for that to happen.”
Hoseok leans into you again, warm and steady. “We’ll be here, whatever you choose. Just don’t lie to yourself about what you feel. You owe him more than that.”
You nod. Quietly. Slowly. And something inside you shifts, not fully, not finally, but a little closer to clarity.
Ahead, the group calls your names, gesturing toward the museum.
Yoongi tugs on your sleeve. “Come on. Time to look at dead history while your love life dies in real time.”
You shove him, laughing a little, even as your chest still aches.
But this time, it aches with truth.
—-
The museum smells like old wood and varnished frames, the kind of preserved quiet that makes every footstep echo like a thunderclap. Tall ceilings, golden light filtering through frosted windows, and the faint sound of an audio guide playing from someone’s earbuds in the corner.
You’re standing in front of a glass display, lacquered combs from the Edo period, delicate and bone-thin, still stained with the colors of time.
And Seokjin is too close.
His breath ghosts over your shoulder, his hand brushing yours once, then again, and it’s not subtle. He leans in to say something about the carving technique, but you barely register it, your spine already stiffening, your skin prickling.
It’s not that it’s bad. Not really. It’s just… not what you want.
And apparently, you’re not the only one who notices.
From the corner of your eye, you see Hoseok’s head tilt.
He shares a glance with Yoongi.
A second later, warm hands land on your shoulders.
“Hey, captain crutch,” Hoseok calls you, loud enough to interrupt whatever Seokjin was saying. “Come look at this scroll, there’s a dragon that looks like Namjoon when he’s hangry.”
You blink, startled, but Hoseok’s already pulling you gently but firmly away. His hands are light but his intention is solid, and you follow him without resistance, grateful without needing to say it.
Behind him, Yoongi doesn’t say a word. But he lingers by the display, watching Seokjin, eyes narrowed just slightly.
And behind him, Jungkook stands with his arms crossed, jaw set tight, his black coat zipped halfway, collar brushing his chin. He hasn’t moved since Seokjin got close. He hasn’t blinked, either.
Yoongi’s eyes meet his briefly.
Something passes between them.
A promise.
Yoongi leans a little toward Jungkook, voice low. “I’ve got her. He’s not getting near her again.”
Jungkook swallows hard. Doesn’t speak. But the breath he exhales says everything.
He shifts his weight, posture loosening slightly, and Yoongi knows, knows without needing an answer, that Jungkook’s thankful. Grateful in the quietest way.
Because what’s happening here isn’t a game anymore. And Jungkook, despite trying his best to hold back, is breaking piece by piece every time someone else gets the space he’s been desperate to fill.
You notice it when you glance over your shoulder.
Jungkook and Yoongi, standing near the wide staircase that leads to the upper galleries. They’re talking, quietly, seriously, the kind of conversation where no one’s smiling. Jungkook’s hands are deep in his coat pockets, Yoongi’s arms folded, his head slightly lowered in that way he gets when he’s trying not to make something worse.
Your eyes narrow. A flicker of something unsettled crawling into your chest.
“Is everything okay?” you murmur, turning slightly toward Hoseok. He’s half a step behind you, admiring a sword behind glass but clearly listening to everything.
He doesn’t even look up when he answers, “Yep.”
You wait.
He finally turns to meet your eyes. “Don’t worry. They’re just talking.”
“That’s what people say when something is wrong.”
“Okay, then: they’re just talking… because everything’s a little wrong.” He shrugs. “But that’s life. You’ll fix it.”
You exhale through your nose, the chill of the museum still clinging to your gloves as you tug them off one finger at a time. You’re walking now, slowly, toward the museum’s small café tucked in the back courtyard. Hoseok follows.
You wait until you’re just inside, the clatter of cups and muffled jazz music filling the space, before you speak again.
“Just… don’t tell Natty, okay?”
He raises a brow, already reaching for a menu. “About what? Jungkook?”
“About… all of it.”
He smirks, but keeps his voice warm. “She’s your best friend.”
“She is. And she’s the worst at keeping secrets. She gets weird and transparent and I can tell she’s hiding something. She’d be like, ‘So, hypothetically, if someone was in love with their caretaker…’ and I’d have to drown her in the lake.”
Hoseok barks a laugh. “So dramatic.”
You grin despite yourself, taking the seat across from him. “I’m serious. I just… I need space to figure it out. Quietly.”
His smile fades into something softer. “You’re allowed to take your time.”
You nod slowly, but your eyes flick once more toward the window, where Jungkook and Yoongi still stand in the courtyard just outside, their breath fogging in the cold air between them.
You have a feeling that he’s running out of time.
And you’re running out of excuses.
The courtyard is nearly empty, just a few benches dusted with snow and a fountain frozen mid-splash. Jungkook stands with his shoulders drawn tight, the collar of his coat pulled up, dark hair tousled from the wind. He’s not shivering, but there’s something restless in the way his foot keeps tapping the ground.
Yoongi leans against the stone wall beside him, arms folded, eyes on the gray sky.
They’ve been standing in silence for a minute.
Jungkook speaks first.
“She invited me to stay.”
Yoongi doesn’t react. Not right away.
“She said it wasn’t weird. Told me to sit next to her on the bed. And I said no.”
Yoongi’s voice is calm, neutral. “Why?”
“Because it was weird,” Jungkook mutters. “Because I knew if I did, I wouldn’t be able to sleep. I’d lie there the whole night thinking about her. Every breath, every move, every centimeter between us.”
He exhales hard, white fog spiraling in the cold.
“And then I left. I left like an idiot. And this morning, she looked at me like nothing happened. Said it was fine.”
Yoongi watches him, unmoving.
“It’s not fine, and she said that too,” Jungkook says, his voice sharper now. “It’s never been fine. I’ve been breaking my back trying to be there for her. Holding back. Staying in my place. Letting her call me friend over and over again while she keeps looking at me like I’m more.”
Yoongi nods once, slow and careful.
“She didn’t say anything to you… did she?”
Yoongi’s brow furrows slightly, but his voice stays even. “About what?”
“You know what.”
Yoongi exhales, glancing away toward the tall glass windows where their friends are laughing over pastries and overpriced drinks.
“No.”
Jungkook waits. But Yoongi doesn’t elaborate.
“No?” he presses, voice lower now. “Not even a hint?”
Yoongi turns to face him fully, the tension between them thickening just a little.
“She talks to me. But I’m not her translator. Or her diary.”
Jungkook’s shoulders stiffen, a quiet frustration rippling through him. “I’m not asking you to betray her.”
“No,” Yoongi cuts in gently. “You’re asking me to confirm that the way you’re feeling isn’t one-sided. You’re asking me if you’re not crazy for hoping.”
Jungkook looks at him, jaw tight. “Yeah.”
Yoongi softens.
“Then I’ll say this.”
He pauses, eyes thoughtful. Measured.
“She’s confused. And tired. And terrified of giving the wrong piece of herself to someone.”
Jungkook’s expression falters.
“But that doesn’t mean what you feel isn’t real. Or that it isn’t seen.”
Silence. Just the sound of footsteps behind the glass and a distant train whistle.
Yoongi’s voice is lower now, almost reluctant. “She’s not talking. But she’s thinking. I see it.”
Jungkook’s chest tightens.
“She’s figuring it out,” Yoongi adds. “But I won’t promise she’ll land where you want her to.”
That part slices deeper than expected.
Still, Jungkook nods, barely. “Okay.”
Yoongi’s gaze lingers for a second, then he starts walking again. “Now let’s go in before Natty accuses me of kidnapping you.”
Jungkook follows, heavier than before. But a little less alone.
Because even if Yoongi didn’t give him the answer he wanted—
He gave him the truth.
The warm hum of chatter wraps around the table like a blanket, but there’s a subtle shift the moment Jungkook and Yoongi step into the café.
“Where’s Natty?” Yoongi asks, pulling off his gloves and nodding toward the empty seats. “And Joon? Seokjin?”
“Still looking for the gift shop,” Hoseok answers, mouth half-full of croissant. “Seokjin’s probably flirting with a brochure stand.”
Jungkook lets out a quiet chuckle, playing along. But his eyes find you almost instantly.
And yours, without hesitation, find his.
You don’t smile right away. Just tilt your head slightly, the smallest twitch at the corner of your mouth. Barely noticeable. But he catches it.
Yoongi sits next to Hoseok. Jungkook takes the spot directly across from you.
And under the table, your foot nudges his gently.
He startles almost imperceptibly. But then your ankle lingers next to his. Not playful. Not suggestive. Just… there. Present. Real.
Jungkook keeps his eyes on the sugar packet he’s fidgeting with, but a faint pink colors the tips of his ears.
Your knees brush once.
Then again.
He doesn’t move away.
Conversation rises and falls around the table, plans for the afternoon, Hoseok describing a haunted temple he wants to visit at night, Yoongi pretending not to believe in ghosts, but for Jungkook, it all sounds distant. Like static underwater.
Because you’re sitting right there.
Smiling softly at something Hoseok says, sipping your coffee, and letting your ankle stay pressed against his like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
When you lean slightly to reach for the sugar jar, your knee bumps his again. Harder this time.
“Sorry,” you whisper, voice barely audible over the clink of mugs.
He shakes his head. “It’s okay.”
His fingers twitch at his side like they want to do something. Say something.
He shifts slightly in his seat, and this time, it’s his knee that brushes yours under the table.
You glance at him, eyes flicking down for a fraction of a second, and then return to your drink like nothing happened. Like you didn’t just send Jungkook into quiet chaos.
He’s sure Yoongi and Hoseok notice something. Maybe not what. But something.
Still, no one says a word.
And Jungkook sits there in the warmth of the café, ankles tangled with yours under a table full of noise and laughter and coffee steam, and feels the tiniest, quietest bit of hope.
Like maybe last night wasn’t the end of everything.
Maybe it was the start of something else.
—
The bus doors creaked open with a wheeze and a blast of freezing wind. One by one, everyone spilled out, bracing against the cold and rubbing their gloved hands together.
“Okay, no one said we were visiting Antarctica,” Yoongi muttered, shoulders hunched.
“It’s Kyoto in winter. What did you expect?” Namjoon said, already snapping a few photos of the snowy scenery.
But the lake, what was supposed to be a lake, stole everyone’s attention immediately.
“Oh,” Natty breathed. “It’s frozen.”
They all stared for a moment. The water had vanished beneath a flawless sheet of ice, now transformed into a full-on skating rink. There were already a few people wobbling their way across it, bundled up in scarves and laughter.
“We were gonna row boats here?” Hoseok blinked.
“Apparently,” Yoongi deadpanned.
“Well, now we can fall on our asses together instead,” Namjoon said with a grin.
Natty tilted her head thoughtfully, then glanced toward you.
“Wait,” she said. “Should she be skating though?” She turned toward Seokjin. “Is that allowed? You’re her therapist.”
That earned a few looks, not from you, but from the boys. Jungkook rolled his eyes instantly, letting out a sharp breath through his nose and looking away.
Seokjin, startled by the question, adjusted his scarf. “It’s… not ideal,” he said carefully. “But if she insists on it, she needs to be assisted at all times. No sudden moves. No falling.”
“Right,” Yoongi muttered. “Because that’s super easy to control on a frozen lake.”
“I’m just saying,” Seokjin shrugged, “I don’t recommend it.”
“Of course,” Hoseok said, nudging you playfully. “But she’ll do it anyway.”
“Great,” Jungkook said under his breath. “Let’s all vote on her health now.”
You caught that. Everyone did. But no one said anything.
Yoongi looked between you and cleared his throat. “Alright. We skating or not?”
Natty, eager to distract, clapped her hands once. “Let’s go rent skates before the booth runs out of decent sizes. I call dibs on the mint green ones.”
The group started moving again, breaking into smaller pairs as they walked toward the wooden rental shack. You kept walking too, snow crunching beneath your boots, heart thudding in your ears, not from the cold, but from the tension you could feel trailing behind you like a shadow.
Jungkook didn’t walk beside you this time.
He stayed a few steps behind, shoulders tense, jaw sharp. You didn’t have to look to know that.
The wind cut between you, a biting kind of silence. Then, from behind you, his voice, low and steady.
“You sure you wanna do this?”
You paused at the edge of the path, boots pressed into snow. Turned slightly, not all the way.
“Yeah,” you said quietly. “I’ll be careful.”
There was a beat before he replied.
“You say that every time.”
You glanced back then. He hadn’t moved, just stood there, his black beanie tugged low over his hair, scarf loose around his neck. His eyes weren’t teasing like they usually were, no smug grin, no mischief. Just… worry.
It sat there plain on his face, softening the sharp lines of it.
You exhaled through your nose, looking down at the ice rink ahead. “It’s just skating.”
“It’s your leg.”
His words weren’t harsh, just factual. Like he wasn’t trying to stop you, just remind you.
You turned to face him completely this time. “You were there when I broke it, remember?”
A flicker of something passed through his eyes. He nodded slowly. “Yeah. I remember everything.”
That made you quiet for a moment.
Then you shrugged, like it didn’t weigh so heavily on you. “I’ll be okay.”
He walked closer now, boots crunching in snow, until he stood beside you again. Not touching. Just there.
“You don’t have to prove anything,” he murmured, voice almost lost to the wind. “Not to Seokjin. Not to anyone.”
Your chest pulled tight at that. You looked at him, really looked, but he was already glancing away, toward the rest of the group crowding the skate rental.
“I’m not,” you said softly.
But he didn’t answer that.
You both stood in silence for a few seconds longer, the chill biting at your cheeks. Then you turned and headed toward the rental booth, Jungkook falling into step beside you this time, still silent, still tense, but close enough that your arms brushed.
He didn’t argue again.
But he didn’t like it either.
The cold bit at your cheeks as you laced up your skates, the worn leather stiff beneath your fingers. You were halfway through tying the second one when Seokjin crouched down in front of you, already gloved up and ready.
“Let me help you,” he offered gently, reaching for your laces.
You hesitated, your eyes flickering to Jungkook just a few feet away. He was kneeling by his own skates, but his hands stilled the moment Seokjin touched yours.
You didn’t say anything. You just sat there, watching Seokjin fumble slightly, he wasn’t exactly graceful, and smiled politely, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes.
And then, before you could process it, Jungkook stood up and moved closer. “Hey,” he said, voice casual, but there was an edge to it. “I got it.”
Seokjin blinked up at him, then back at you. “I mean, it’s fine..”
“I said I got it,” Jungkook repeated, kneeling down right in front of you, his voice still even, still calm. But his hands were already reaching.
Seokjin hesitated, then gave a small chuckle and backed off, dusting off his gloves as he stood. “Sure. Be my guest.”
You watched Jungkook’s fingers, sure and practiced, as he tugged your laces tighter, tying a perfect knot before double-looping it. He didn’t look up once. Just focused. Quiet. The air between you sharp with unsaid things.
When he finally finished, he stood and offered his hand without a word.
You looked at it for a second too long before taking it.
The rink was mostly empty, just a few couples and some of your friends gliding along the ice with varying degrees of success. Natty shrieked from across the rink as Hoseok spun her in a clumsy circle, laughter bouncing through the cold.
Jungkook stepped out first, guiding you carefully. His hand was still in yours.
It was cold. Beautiful. Silent.
You weren’t sure who held on tighter.
“You got it,” he murmured, his voice close beside you, warm in contrast to the sharp air brushing your face. “There you go… slowly.”
His hand shifted just slightly in yours, adjusting the grip. “You’re doing well.”
You looked down at your feet, watching them glide shakily across the ice. The sound of your blades scraping softly, the occasional slip, the laughter echoing across the rink from the others, it all melted into the background next to the solid presence of his body beside you.
“I’m gonna fall,” you muttered, half-laughing.
“You’re not,” he said, quick and certain. “You’re with me.”
And somehow, that made you straighten up a little. Trust your balance. Trust him.
“Look at you,” he teased, nudging your elbow gently. “A whole week ago you couldn’t even get out of bed without help. Now you’re skating.”
“Barely.”
“But still. Proud of you.” His tone softened, a low smile playing on his lips. “Don’t tell me you’re only doing it because Seokjin said you shouldn’t.”
You snorted. “I do what I want.”
“Right,” he said, smirking. “Totally not a rebellion.”
You gave him a look, and he grinned wider, pleased with himself. The teasing helped. Loosened the knot in your chest that had been there since the night before.
“I mean,” he continued as you took another cautious step forward, “you’re not very good..”
You elbowed him.
He laughed out loud, the sound of it echoing across the ice.
“I’m kidding!” he said. “You’re doing great. You haven’t fallen once.”
“Yet.”
“I’ll catch you if you do,” he said, so casually it made your stomach turn.
You glanced at him.
He wasn’t looking at you, just focused on your movements. On keeping you steady.
But it was there, again. That unbearable softness he saved only for you. It made the cold air feel warmer. Made your hand grip his tighter.
“Jungkook,” you said quietly.
He glanced sideways.
You wanted to say something more. Something important. But the words dissolved on your tongue, and you just held his gaze.
And maybe that was enough.
You both kept moving, slow, careful circles on the ice. His body close, breath visible in the cold. Neither of you saying anything now. The tension had thinned into something quieter. Something that crackled with meaning.
And then, your ankle betrayed you.
It wasn’t a hard slip. Just the slightest catch of your blade on uneven ice. But it was enough to make your balance lurch.
Jungkook reacted instantly.
His hands were at your waist in a second, gripping firmly, pulling you toward him just as your body tilted. You landed against his chest with a startled breath, your palms catching the solid muscle of him as your skates slid to a stop.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered, breathless.
You could feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath your hands, the heat of him radiating despite the winter air. His face was close, too close. His nose brushed yours slightly, and your breath mingled in a small cloud between you.
You caught a clearer scent of him now, his cologne, warm and woodsy and something so deeply him it made your stomach turn. There was also something else. Something quieter. The way his lips parted as he exhaled. The way his eyes flicked down, just once, to your mouth.
Your fingers curled slightly against his chest, and without realizing it, they roamed up to his shoulders, his arms, looking for stability. But there was more to it than that, something instinctive, subconscious. Something tender.
His hands hadn’t left your waist.
He swallowed hard, the sound of it loud in the hush between you. “That’s… probably enough skating,” he said, voice low and strained.
You didn’t answer right away. Couldn’t. You were still close. Still holding on. Still caught in that charged space where every second felt like it was teetering on the edge of something too big to name.
He blinked, as if waking himself up, and gently adjusted his hold, steadying you but taking a small step back. His hands slid away slowly. Your palms dropped to your sides.
“Are you okay?” he asked, his tone soft again, careful.
You nodded. “Yeah. I just—”
“Don’t push it,” he said. “You’ve done more than enough.”
You stared at him for a beat longer.
The quiet wasn’t awkward this time.
It was full. Heavy. Unspoken things suspended between you like mist.
And then, without another word, he offered you his hand again.
This time, you took it slower. Not because you had to.
But because neither of you were quite ready to let go.
When you finally stepped off the rink, cheeks flushed and legs trembling a little from effort and adrenaline, Jungkook stayed by your side, his hand never straying too far from your arm, just in case. You sat on a nearby bench where a soft dusting of snow clung to the edges, and he crouched in front of you with a little grunt.
“Let me,” he said simply, already tugging at the laces of your skates with careful fingers.
You watched him, breath curling out into the cold air. His brows furrowed in focus, cheeks pink from the wind, lips slightly parted as he exhaled through them. You thought of how steady he’d held you. How tightly. How gently.
One skate, then the other.
“There,” he muttered, glancing up, meeting your eyes as he slid your boots back on and tightened them for you. “Better?”
You nodded, heart squeezing with something you didn’t have the words for. “Better.”
The others were still skating, laughing, shouting across the ice. You could hear Hoseok’s dramatic complaints and Natty’s teasing voice. But it all felt a little too loud, a little too far.
“I need to walk,” you said suddenly. “Just for a bit. Clear my head.”
Jungkook stood upright, brushing his hands on his thighs. “Come on,” he said. “There’s a café near the trail. I saw it earlier.”
You didn’t answer. Just started walking, and he fell into step beside you. Like always.
The small café on the edge of the trees had foggy windows and a chalkboard menu written in quick, messy english. The bell above the door chimed when you entered, and warmth hit your face immediately.
You didn’t want anything heavy. Just something to warm your fingers. Something simple.
“Two warm milks,” Jungkook told the woman behind the counter with a polite bow, pulling out his wallet. “She skated.”
The woman smiled like she understood everything in that sentence.
Moments later, you stepped back outside, each holding a to-go cup. The trail curved gently through the snow-dusted woods, and you walked in silence for a while. Just the sound of boots crunching frost, and the occasional sip from your drink.
It felt like a different world out here, quiet and white and still.
“It’s nice,” you murmured eventually. “I forgot how much I missed this kind of quiet.”
Jungkook hummed beside you, fingers wrapped around the warm cup. “Me too.”
He didn’t press you to talk. Didn’t fill the silence with questions or chatter. He just walked beside you, every now and then glancing over as if to make sure you were still okay. Still there.
The woods felt endless. Peaceful. A small break from everything, your friends, the awkwardness, the tangled feelings you hadn’t dared name.
But even in the stillness, you could feel him.
The weight of his presence. The quiet way he watched you. The fact that he hadn’t hesitated to help you earlier, not once.
You stopped walking.
He paused a step ahead, turning toward you.
You looked at him then. Really looked at him. And for the first time since arriving in Kyoto, the noise in your head quieted.
“…Thank you,” you said softly. “For earlier.”
Jungkook gave you a small nod, then looked down at his cup. “Anytime.”
“I wasn’t really like this before,” you said, voice quiet, watching how the snow clung to the low branches around you. “I mean… before you.”
He tilted his head, a small furrow between his brows. “Like what?”
You gave a small laugh, almost embarrassed. “Soft. Hesitant. Nervous about saying the wrong thing. I used to be more… in control. I had rules for myself. Boundaries.” You looked at him, letting the words hang. “And then you happened.”
He didn’t say anything right away, just turned his face toward the trees and exhaled slowly. His breath fogged the air between you.
“You’re not the only one,” he murmured eventually. “I didn’t used to care this much. About anyone. Not really. I was… a lot more guarded. Detached. And then you showed up with your broken leg and your bad attitude and your ridiculous socks.”
You scoffed, elbowing him gently. “You liked the socks.”
He smirked, nudging you back. “I did.”
A beat.
Another.
You looked at him, and he looked at you, and there was something almost shy in the way his eyes dropped to your lips before darting away.
You took a sip of your milk just to ground yourself again. “We should bring Taehyung and Jimin next time.”
Jungkook blinked. “What?”
You smiled. “On the next trip. I think they’d like it here. Especially Jimin, he’d spend hours on the lake taking pictures.”
A soft laugh escaped him. “And Taehyung would disappear into the woods trying to find some cursed shrine.”
“Exactly.” You grinned now, heart a little lighter. “It’d be chaos.”
He watched you for a moment, something fond settling into his features. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Let’s do that.”
You kept walking slowly, the woods stretching out endlessly in front of you, peaceful and white.
The snow crunched beneath your boots as you walked side by side, the cups between your hands still warm enough to bite back the cold. Neither of you had said anything for a while. Not since the mention of Taehyung and Jimin. Not since things felt… real.
Jungkook cleared his throat softly. “Hey.”
You turned your head, lips parted slightly in question.
“I just… I wanted to say I’m sorry,” he said, gaze fixed ahead. “If I’ve been pressuring you. Into anything. I know I feel a lot, and maybe I’ve been letting it spill out more than I should. It’s not your responsibility to catch all of it.”
That made you stop in your tracks.
He took one more step, realized you weren’t beside him anymore, and turned. His eyes were honest, bare and kind and so painfully open.
You stared at him for a moment, taking in the flush on his cheeks from the cold and his dark lashes clinging together with moisture from the air.
“You’re not pressuring me,” you said, voice steady. “Not even a little.”
He blinked. “Really?”
You took a few steps forward until you were close enough for your fingers to brush. “If anything… I think I’ve been the one dragging things out. Making it confusing. You’ve been patient. Too patient. And I didn’t know how to deal with that.”
Jungkook shook his head gently, almost like he was about to argue, but you didn’t let him.
“You’ve never made me feel like I had to rush. Never pushed me where I wasn’t ready to go,” you continued, softer now. “Whatever comes… whenever it does… I’ll welcome it. Because it doesn’t feel far anymore.”
He stared at you like you’d just said the one thing he didn’t even realize he needed to hear. Something warm flickered behind his eyes. That quiet, desperate hope he’d been clinging to for weeks, months, even.
You saw it.
And you let him see that you meant it.
A small smile tugged at his mouth. “That sounds like progress.”
You smiled back. “It feels like it.”
The distance between you was nothing now. Just breath and frost in the air.
He didn’t move any closer, didn’t reach for your hand. But he didn’t need to.
Because for the first time, it didn’t feel like a maybe.
It felt like the start of a yes.
—-
The bonfire crackled at the center of your circle, throwing soft golden light against everyone’s faces. Snow dusted the treetops around the clearing, the air sharp with winter, but your bodies were wrapped in layers and your cheeks flushed with warmth, from the fire, the drinks, the laughter.
Two caravans were parked just outside the small woodland slope where you’d made camp, strings of warm fairy lights hanging between them. Someone had brought a portable speaker, low music humming in the background as you all took turns flipping skewers and tossing marshmallows into each other’s mugs.
For the first time in months, things felt still.
Not the kind of stillness that comes from silence, but from peace. No underlying tension, no waiting for something to crack open and spill out. Even Jungkook, who’d spent most of this trip caught in tides of emotional restraint, was smiling easily, stretching out in his oversized jacket with his cup balanced on one knee.
He laughed at one of Hoseok’s wild stories, head tilted back, eyes crinkled. You hadn’t seen him laugh like that in a long time.
Yoongi had handed him a grilled sweet potato earlier and said nothing, but the way they exchanged glances meant everything. Namjoon was helping Natty stack firewood on the side. Even Seokjin, quieter now, sat cross-legged near the edge of the circle, eyes reflecting the flame as he quietly observed.
You were nestled between Jungkook and Hoseok, a blanket thrown over your shoulders, your gloved fingers wrapped around a tin cup of hot cocoa someone had spiked. Jungkook hadn’t moved away when you sat beside him. In fact, he’d shifted just enough to share his warmth, your knees touching beneath the heavy fabric of your coats.
No one talked about the lake.
No one brought up the museum or what Yoongi and Jungkook might’ve said to each other.
The past few days, all their tangled emotions and unspoken things, settled into the background like melted snow.
This moment wasn’t about who felt what. It was just about being.
And Jungkook, for once, let himself be part of it fully.
No sulking. No retreating into silence. No holding his breath waiting for signs from you.
He just looked into the fire, his hands loosely folded in his lap, smiling like he finally believed he belonged here. With all of you. With you.
“Is it weird,” he murmured after a long stretch of quiet, his voice low enough for only you to hear, “that I kind of never want to go back?”
You turned slightly to look at him. His gaze stayed on the fire.
“No,” you said, equally soft. “I get it.”
And when he glanced your way, eyes shining a little from the reflection of flames, he gave you the smallest smile.
Like he knew you meant more than just the campfire and the caravans.
—-
Hoseok leaps up from the circle and yanks Jungkook by the arm.
“Next round!” he announces with a wicked grin. “You and me. Let’s give them something hard to guess.”
Jungkook groans but doesn’t resist. He stumbles up, nearly knocking over a half-empty thermos, cheeks flushed from heat and laughter.
“What are we even doing this time?” he asks, scratching the back of his neck as Hoseok leans in and whispers the title.
You watch Jungkook’s face twist with disbelief. “Seriously? That’s the movie? they’ll figure it out in no time.”
Hoseok just beams and nods. “Do it justice.”
And they do.
Hoseok spreads his arms dramatically while Jungkook gets behind him, hands outstretched, mimicking wind in his hair.
“Draw me like one of your…” Hoseok declares.
Yoongi nearly spits out his drink, Natty doubles over laughing, and Seokjin claps like a seal. You’re already covering your face with both hands, groaning through your smile.
“French girls! Titanic!” Namjoon shouts, and everyone erupts in cheers.
Jungkook spins back toward the fire, grinning like a little kid. “That was your fault,” he says to Hoseok, flopping down in the empty space beside you. He doesn’t even look, just drops down, letting his weight tilt slightly into your side for balance.
You don’t say anything at first. The laughter lingers in your chest, but you feel the heat of him next to you, his shoulder brushing your back every time he shifts or leans forward to say something. With each round of the game, with each shout and snort and wild guess from the others, he stays just a little closer.
You barely notice it happening, the way your shoulders eventually align. His thigh angles just behind yours now, and when he laughs, you feel the rumble of it right there, warm and soft, so close it sends little sparks up your spine.
And he doesn’t move away.
Seokjin jumps to his feet next, dramatically brushing ash off his pants like he’s preparing for a stage debut.
“Prepare to be amazed,” he declares, flipping his hair back with theatrical flair. “This will be my Oscar moment.”
Yoongi mutters something about giving him a Grammy instead, and Seokjin throws him a wounded look before striding to the center.
But Jungkook doesn’t move. Doesn’t even glance at him.
His gaze shifts sideways instead, to you.
“You good?” he asks, quieter than before, leaning in a little. “Are you cold?”
You blink at him, surprised by the sudden softness in his tone. “I’m fine.”
He watches you for a second longer, then lifts the corner of the blanket draped over his knees in silent offering.
You grin. “God, you’re so transparent.”
He blinks. “What?”
“You’re not even pretending to care about Seokjin’s turn. That’s pathetic.”
“I’m just making sure you’re not freezing to death,” he mumbles, but there’s no bite to it. His eyes roll, but he’s smiling, faint, crooked. A little too proud of being called out.
You tug the blanket off his legs anyway and drape it half over yourself, nudging his knee with yours. “There. Now we’re both warm. Happy?”
He pretends to consider it. “Hmm. Warmer, maybe.”
Meanwhile, Seokjin is fully committed to miming a scene that involves exaggerated slow-motion running and chest-clutching despair.
“Is it a drama?” Natty guesses.
“No!” Seokjin gasps. “It’s cinema! Real cinema!”
Jungkook leans closer and stage-whispers, “If he fake-cries one more time, I’m throwing my beer at him.”
“I dare you.”
You’re both stifling laughter now, pressed just a little too close under the same shared blanket.
Natty snaps her fingers. “Is it Train to Busan?”
Seokjin gasps in betrayal. “Do I look like a zombie to you?!”
“Yes,” Yoongi says without hesitation.
The circle bursts into laughter again, and Seokjin slumps back into his seat, wounded but theatrical as always.
Your name’s called next, and you groan through a laugh, already shaking your head. “I don’t even watch movies like that,” you protest, standing anyway.
“No excuses,” Hoseok says, pointing at you dramatically. “Up. Entertain us.”
You huff and get to your feet, brushing off the blanket. “Okay, okay. But I swear if no one guesses this…”
Jungkook leans back as you walk to the center of the circle, his arms folding across his chest. He doesn’t even pretend to guess early like the others, he just watches. Quietly. Closely.
You step into character instantly, hips swaying, chin lifted in mock arrogance.
“I’m sorry that people are so jealous of me,” you pout, voice a little too high-pitched. “But I can’t help it that I’m popular.”
Groans and confused laughter ripple through the circle.
You point at Natty. “You can’t sit with us!”
Natty gasps. “That’s Mean Girls! Right?!”
“Thank you!” you shout, arms thrown up in triumph.
Jungkook still hasn’t said a word. Not one guess. Just sits there, same position, his head tilted slightly like he’s watching something far more interesting than a game.
He’s smiling now, barely, that quiet kind of grin he does when something is too good to interrupt. His eyes flicker over you, from your dramatic gestures to the messy strands of hair falling over your face, to the stubborn determination written all over it.
How can someone look like that?
Beautiful and ridiculous.
Sweet and dangerous.
Cute and kind of terrifying.
You trip a little in your excitement, and he nearly reaches for you on instinct before you catch yourself and keep going. He shakes his head slightly, biting back a chuckle.
Evil, he thinks again.
So evil. And you have no idea.
You finally flop back down with a huff, cheeks warm, out of breath from all the quoting and flailing.
“Justice for Mean Girls,” you mutter, tugging the shared blanket back up over your legs. “I carried that scene.”
“No one guessed it,” Jungkook says, not even looking at you.
You nudge his thigh with yours. “Natty did.”
“She was being generous.”
You turn to glare at him, but the smirk tugging at his lips is too obvious to ignore.
His arms are still crossed, but his body’s angled toward you now. Not subtle. His knee brushes yours again when he shifts, and he doesn’t pull back, if anything, he leans in a little more, just enough to make the edge of his jacket touch yours. That closeness again, quiet and persistent.
“You didn’t even try to guess,” you accuse.
“I was… watching.”
Your heart skips.
You tilt your head. “Watching what?”
He shrugs, eyes still trained on the fire. “Just… you.”
It’s said so casually that it’s easy to miss the weight of it. But you don’t. Not when his voice dips that low. Not when you can see the little crease between his brows, the faint tug at his bottom lip like he’s still chewing on whatever he didn’t say out loud.
You want to say something snarky, something to break it, the tension, the heat, the way he’s suddenly looking at you like you’re something he’s been trying not to want.
But it sticks in your throat.
“You were kind of terrifying out there,” he adds, almost like a joke, almost like he regrets letting the moment go that quiet. “In a… pink-plastic-burn-book way.”
You snort. “You mean hot.”
He smirks again. “I mean evil.”
“But cute?”
He meets your gaze finally, eyes darker than they were a second ago, voice lower when he says, “Something like that.”
And even though the fire’s still crackling, and someone’s up for the next round of the game, and there’s laughter and shouting around you, it all fades into a blur. Because he’s still looking at you like that. And he hasn’t moved away.
—
The game slowly fizzles out as the night grows colder, the fire now mostly glowing embers and quiet laughter. One by one, the others start peeling off to their respective caravans, rubbing their arms, yawning, calling goodnight through chattering teeth.
Natty suddenly elbows your side. “I need to shower before I pass out.”
You nod, standing up with a stretch. “Me too. I feel like I smell like campfire and meat skewers.”
She grabs her toiletry bag, and you collect your things too, both of you bundled up in sweatshirts as you trek toward the bathroom cabins across the gravel path. The night air is brisk, damp with mountain dew, the kind that settles into your bones if you stand still too long.
The cabin lights hum low and warm when you step inside. You start pulling out your face wash and a clean towel when you catch it, the shift in her energy. Natty’s too quiet, fiddling with her toothbrush like it owes her money.
You squint at her through the mirror. “Okay. Spill it.”
She blinks. “What?”
“You’re being weird.”
“I’m always weird.”
You turn toward her, arms crossed. “You’re hiding something. And I swear if you don’t tell me, I’m going to assume it’s something insane, like you joined a forest cult or found someone’s severed toe.”
She makes a face. “Ew. No.”
You wait. One beat. Two.
Finally, with a deep sigh and a muttered curse, she admits, “Namjoon kissed me last night.”
Your mouth falls open.
“What?!”
“Shhh!” she shoves your shoulder, glancing toward the stalls like someone might hear.
You clutch your shampoo bottle to your chest. “Wait- kissed you kissed you?”
Natty’s already nodding, face pink. “Yeah. We were drunk, I think? It just… happened.”
You gape. “That’s weird.”
“I know! I mean, he’s Namjoon. He’s like… book club and class president and forest-hiking Namjoon.”
You snort.
“And it was good. Like… really good. It almost turned into something more, actually.”
Your eyes widen. “No.”
“I stopped it,” she says quickly. “I wasn’t that drunk. And like, we were sharing a blanket, and then there was this look, and then… it just happened.”
You stare at her for a second longer, then grin slowly. “I mean… he is hot.”
“Objectively, yes,” she mutters, burying her face in her towel. “But it’s still weird.”
“And yet,” you say, watching her reflection in the mirror, “the more time passes, the less weird it gets.”
Natty bites back a smile. “Right? Like my brain is catching up to what my hormones already knew.”
You raise a brow. “So what now?”
She chews on her bottom lip. “I’m sharing the same caravan with him tonight.”
“Oh?”
“Mmhmm.”
You toss your toothbrush into your bag with a smirk. “Well then. I hope you get lucky and get laid.”
Natty laughs out loud, swatting at you with her towel. “You’re the worst.”
“And you’re the one making out with our friend.”
She points a finger at you, still laughing. “If I do get laid, you’re getting all the details tomorrow.”
You raise your hands in surrender. “I wouldn’t accept anything less.”
The shower water runs hot, steam curling up the cabin walls as you rinse off the smoke and ash clinging to your skin. It feels good to be clean again, almost like shedding the entire day off your shoulders.
But the second your head hits the cool air again, the quiet thoughts creep in.
Will you and Jungkook be sharing a caravan tonight?
You towel off slowly, eyes unfocused as you tug on your clean clothes, soft sweatpants, an oversized hoodie, socks thick enough to keep the gravel from biting. The thought repeats, quieter but persistent.
Is he expecting to sleep beside you?
You dry your hair with the towel until it’s just damp, combing your fingers through it before slipping on a puffer jacket. Natty’s still humming to herself, cheeks slightly flushed, probably still thinking about Namjoon. You don’t bring it up again, you’re too distracted now anyway.
The night has fully settled when you step outside. The campground is quiet, dipped in navy and silver under the moon. In the distance, you can still see the dim outline of the caravans, small glowing rectangles waiting at the edge of the trees, nestled in soft silence.
You walk side by side with Natty, both of you crunching over the gravel in tired, slow steps.
Your heart gives a single, quiet thud as you spot Jungkook.
He’s standing just outside your shared caravan, one hand tucked into his hoodie pocket, the other wrapped around a warm mug of something. He looks up as soon as he hears your steps, eyes finding yours first, always yours first, before shifting briefly to Natty.
Then he nods, casual and soft. “Hey.”
Your hands are still cold. Your hair’s still a little wet.
And just like that, the world shrinks again, back to you and him and whatever this quiet thing is that’s been building between your laughs and silences all day.
As you approach, Jungkook steps forward without a word and gently takes the towel and toiletry bag from your arms. His fingers brush yours, warm despite the chill in the air, and he gives you a quick glance, like he’s checking for something beyond what you’ll say out loud.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
You nod, tugging your jacket sleeves over your hands. “Yeah. Just cold.”
He shifts his grip on your things. “Want help getting up?”
You blink at him. “Huh?”
He jerks his chin toward the caravan door. “The steps. They’re kind of high, and you’re…” He hesitates, then smirks slightly. “Short. And sort of broken.”
You huff a laugh through your nose. “Thanks for the reminder.”
“I mean, you’re doing better. But I know it still hurts.”
You glance at the narrow, slightly wobbly metal steps leading to the caravan door. It’s true, they’re a little awkward to climb, especially with your leg still sore and stiff.
Before you can answer, he moves in closer.
“Here,” he says softly. “Just.. hold onto me.”
You hesitate, then reach out without thinking, your hand settling just above his elbow as he angles his body so you can lean into him. The motion is gentle, practiced, like he’s done this a hundred times, like taking care of you comes easier than it should.
With his help, you step up slowly, carefully, feeling the quiet strength in his arm as you move.
At the top, you glance back at him. He’s already close again, stepping in after you with your towel and bag still in hand.
“Thanks,” you murmur.
He nods and closes the door behind him.
Inside, the caravan is dim and quiet, warm from the heater, filled with the faint scent of cedar and fabric softener. The little space feels suddenly too small, too still, and you’re very aware of how alone you are with him again.
Jungkook moves easily around the small space, already folding back the corner of the bed, shaking out a few extra blankets. He doesn’t ask if you’re cold, just assumes. You notice he leaves the heavier one for your side.
You lower yourself onto the edge of the mattress, shifting gingerly to stretch your leg out, and it doesn’t take long before you wince, fingers digging into the cushion beneath you.
He hears it.
“You okay?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder.
“Just sore,” you admit. “Too much walking.”
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just disappears into the tiny kitchenette for a moment. You hear the freezer compartment crack open, the sound of something being shuffled around. When he returns, he’s holding a cold pack wrapped neatly in a dish towel.
“Here,” he says, kneeling beside the bed.
You blink down at him. “What’s that?”
He raises a brow. “What do you think it is? It’s not soup.”
You grin despite yourself, easing back slightly as he gently lifts your leg. He lays the pack against the aching spot, adjusting the towel to make sure it’s not too cold on your skin.
“Thank you,” you murmur.
He shrugs again, still kneeling there like he doesn’t even notice how close you are. “You need to rest it more.”
“I’m trying.”
He finally looks up at you, holding your gaze for just a second longer than necessary. “And your meds?”
You blink. “Huh?”
“You took them, right?”
You hesitate, cheeks warming. “I… was going to.”
His eyes narrow, and he stands with a little huff, walking back to your bag and rummaging through it like he’s done this a dozen times.
Because he has.
He finds the small bottle, then grabs a clean cup and fills it from the sink. Without a word, he brings them both to you, holding out the water like it’s non-negotiable.
You take the pills and drink quietly, trying not to look too smug. Or too touched.
“Anything else?” you ask once you’ve swallowed them. “Want to tuck me in too?”
He raises a brow. “Want me to?”
Your stomach flips.
He doesn’t wait for an answer, just starts unfolding the rest of the blankets, smoothing them out neatly. The bed’s narrow, but there’s enough space for two if you lie close. And you both know that’s exactly what’s going to happen.
Jungkook pulls off his hoodie, leaving him in a loose t-shirt, then sets it aside and sits at the edge of the bed. For a second, he just rubs the back of his neck, like he’s debating something.
Then he looks at you. Quiet. Gentle.
“You okay?” he asks again, softer this time.
And you are.
You slip under the blankets carefully, shifting to make space as Jungkook slides in beside you. The bed dips slightly with his weight, and even though you’re not touching, his presence is right there, warm, steady, unmistakable.
The light above you is dimmed to a soft amber glow, the kind that makes everything feel like it belongs in a dream.
You both lie there for a few moments, silent, the kind of silence that doesn’t need to be filled.
Then, of course, he ruins it.
“You know,” he says, his voice low and teasing, “you were really dramatic with that Mean Girls reenactment.”
You turn your head on the pillow, eyes narrowing. “Excuse me?”
“I thought you were about to pull out a wig and start slapping people.”
You scoff. “You’re just bitter no one clapped for your Titanic performance.”
“I carried that performance,” he says, mock-offended. “Hoseok was barely holding his arms right. I had to steady him and act.”
You laugh, a real, full laugh that you try to muffle with your blanket. “You’re delusional.”
“I’m committed to art,” he counters, eyes playful. “Unlike Seokjin.”
You snort. “Don’t start—”
“No, really,” he says, flipping onto his side so he’s facing you now. “Did you see his slow-motion run? I thought he was having a medical emergency.”
You burst into laughter again. “It was so bad.”
“I had secondhand embarrassment,” he adds. “I had to look away.”
You gasp through your giggles. “You’re going to hell.”
“Worth it.”
He grins like he’s proud of himself, and you roll onto your side to face him too, both of you sharing the pillow now, the distance between your faces shrinking with every breath.
You sigh, still smiling. “Shut up.”
“I’m just saying, he looked like a drowning possum.”
“Shut up.”
He snickers quietly, and for a moment, you both just lie there, the laughter softening into something warmer. Something quieter.
His voice dips, almost a whisper now. “You have a nice laugh, you know.”
You blink.
Then look away, flustered. “Now you sound like a bad actor.”
He just smiles at you. Doesn’t argue. Doesn’t take it back.
You bury your face halfway into the pillow, trying to smother the warmth still clinging to your cheeks from laughing so hard.
But then his voice drops again, softer than before, and this time, there’s no teasing in it.
“I’m serious,” he says.
You glance at him.
“I really needed this trip,” he continues, eyes searching yours. “So… thanks. For inviting me.”
You swallow, a little caught off guard by the shift in tone.
Before you can answer, he adds, “I had the time of my life.”
You smile, heart tucking into itself. “Really?”
He nods, a small breath of laughter escaping. “You guys are… fun. Chaotic, but good.” A pause. “Except Seokjin.”
You both crack up again, muffled giggles under shared blankets, the kind of laughter that leaves your faces turned toward each other, noses almost brushing in the low glow of the caravan light.
Then silence.
Not awkward. Just full.
He looks at you, and you feel it. The shift. The way his gaze lingers a second too long, not just fond, but something deeper. He traces your features with his eyes like he’s memorizing them. Like he knows this might be a turning point and doesn’t want to miss it.
Then his gaze drops, just barely, to your lips.
A beat passes. Then another.
You don’t move. Neither does he.
But then, slowly, he leans in, not rushing, not hesitant either. His hand brushes the blanket where it rests between you, anchoring himself gently.
And instead of your lips, he presses a soft, warm kiss to your cheek.
Just there.
Just long enough to make your skin tingle.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
It leaves your heart skipping, your breath catching just slightly in your throat.
When he pulls back, he doesn’t look away, he stays close, his forehead nearly grazing yours now.
Hi authors!! Hope you’re doing well. Finally got time to catch up on AY. What can we expect on the next chapter of AY? Any spoilers or hint? What are you writing process? Who will the biggest character change?
Hellooo i’m doing very well 🫶🏻
Part 12 is out you can go check it out, they are finally making progress ( slow but at least it’s happening ).
Part 13 is going to include some sort of closure regarding the love triangle and they’ll finally head back to seoul where some spicy things could happen 👀
Summary: revenge never tasted that good when you decide to get back at the man - who ran you over - with the worst punishment he could ever get, and despite all the grudge, maybe some time after, the grudge will gradually turn into something else..?
Genre: e21, biker jk, series ( slow-burn.), smut, fluff, angst.
Taglist: @binniesbabe @ennvfv @minimoninini
Previous | Next
The hotel buffet is already buzzing when you all go down, not because it’s crowded, but because your group brings enough chaos to fill the whole space on your own.
Plates clatter. Chopsticks dig. Voices overlap.
It starts with Yoongi dumping three pieces of tamagoyaki onto Namjoon’s plate without asking.
“You’re low on protein,” he mutters, still half-asleep.
“I didn’t ask for—”
“Exactly,” Yoongi says, already reaching for miso soup.
Hoseok is balancing a tray of mini pancakes, fruit, and three different juices, claiming he’s “taste testing.”
Natty’s dragging Seokjin by the wrist, arguing about whether natto is edible or a crime.
You sit down next to Jungkook, who already has a bowl of rice, grilled fish, and something steaming in a tiny clay pot in front of him. He’s mid-bite, cheeks full, when he glances at you.
You raise an eyebrow.
He swallows and immediately reaches for the pitcher to pour your tea. Wordless. Familiar.
“Thanks,” you say, settling in.
Across the table, Seokjin leans back dramatically. “Should we all just admit we’re feral animals? No one here is behaving with dignity.”
“We walked eleven kilometers yesterday, that’s around 16 thousand steps,” Namjoon says, gesturing with his chopsticks. “I deserve to eat like I fought in a war.”
“I did fight,” Natty says. “Against the late night snacks trying to poison me.”
You laugh, leaning forward to steal a piece of Jungkook’s fish with your chopsticks. He doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t even flinch.
“You don’t like fish,” he says quietly.
“I’m evolving,” you whisper back.
His lips twitch ( just barely. ) into a smile.
Seokjin watches the exchange, then turns to Natty. “Can you pass the soy sauce before I commit a crime?”
The energy rolls and rolls, building higher. Hoseok drops a grape tomato on the floor and everyone gasps like someone’s been shot. Someone knocks over a cup. Someone else starts arguing over whether you should go to the museum or the lake first.
“I need the museum before anything else,” Namjoon insists. “If I go to the lake first, I’ll get sleepy and ruin the rest of the day.”
“We’re already sleep-deprived,” Yoongi mutters. “We should do the lake now and nap there.”
“There’s no napping at the lake,” Hoseok says. “We’re renting boats.”
“I’m not rowing,” you announce.
“You’re not walking either,” Jungkook says next to you, quiet and pointed.
You shoot him a mock glare.
Natty claps her hands once, loud. “Okay, Listen- The plan is this: historical museum in the morning, lake around midday, then, camping!”
That gets an immediate reaction.
Jungkook groans. Yoongi chokes on rice. Namjoon drops his spoon.
“Yes,” she grins. “In tents or caravans. Under stars. With fire. And probably mosquitos. Very aesthetic.”
“You said this was a restful trip,” Yoongi hisses.
Natty only smiles wider. “Silly, there’s no mosquitoes when it’s cold.”
“Wait,” you say, eyes narrowing. “You’re serious? Camping? Like… outside?”
“Yup.”
“Outside?”
“Where else?”
Jungkook leans toward you slightly. “I can carry your stuff,” he says under his breath. “But I’m not building any tents. That’s where I draw the line.”
“Fair,” you whisper back. “I’ll seduce someone else to do it.”
He stiffens. Just for a second.
You grin into your teacup, pretending you didn’t notice.
The chaos swirls again, laughter, protests, debates over who’s sharing tents with whom. Namjoon is already googling lake temperatures. Hoseok’s drawing a diagram in ketchup on his plate. Seokjin is offering to take charge of the firewood “because clearly no one else is qualified.”
You sit back for a moment, chopsticks resting against your lip, just watching all of them.
The table is a mess of shared bowls, stolen bites, and overlapping lives. It smells like roasted seaweed and cinnamon bread. Everyone’s loud and hungry and already fighting about the playlist for the car ride.
And next to you, quiet, steady, unreadable, is Jungkook.
You glance at him.
He’s chewing slowly. Not laughing as much. Not looking at you either.
And for the first time this morning, you feel it again.
The echo of last night.
The space between your beds.
You’re still staring at your tea when it happens, your voice, soft and uninvited, threading itself into the noise like it doesn’t belong there.
“It actually wasn’t okay,” you say.
Jungkook pauses mid-chew. Slowly turns his head to look at you.
You don’t meet his eyes. You push a bit of rice around your plate instead.
“I know I said it was fine,” you continue, quieter this time, just for him. “But it wasn’t.”
He swallows hard. His shoulders tense.
You look up at him, finally. And the words come out before you can soften them.
“I wanted you to stay.”
The table around you blurs. Someone drops a fork. Natty says something about bug spray. But it all fades under the weight of what you just said.
Jungkook’s mouth opens slightly, but nothing comes out. He just stares.
“I’ve been…” You draw in a breath. “Fighting every cell in my body that wants to give you a chance. Every single one.”
He blinks.
“And when I finally—” You pause. “Last night, I finally wanted to. I asked you to stay.”
Your voice trembles just a little, but you don’t stop.
“And you said no.”
It’s not angry. Not bitter. Just honest. Honest in the kind of way that stings more than yelling ever could.
Jungkook’s brows draw together. His voice drops, nearly inaudible beneath the hum of the table.
“I didn’t say no because I didn’t want to.”
“Then why?”
“Because it felt…” He hesitates. “Too much. Too dangerous. Too close to something that wasn’t just—”
He cuts himself off.
You stare at him, the hurt sharper now. “So you’d rather pull away and pretend it’s nothing.”
He doesn’t deny it.
Instead, he says, “You said friend. You kissed my cheek like it meant nothing. You looked at me like I was everything, and then you called me a friend.”
“I didn’t know what else to do,” you admit, your voice cracking slightly. “I was scared. Of this. Of you. Of myself.”
His jaw clenches. His hands curl under the table.
You press your lips together, swallow back the knot in your throat, and finish, “But I asked you to stay. And you didn’t.”
Silence.
All around you, the group is still chattering. Still making plans and arguing over bento flavors and sunscreen.
But between you and Jungkook, it’s dead quiet.
He looks at you for a long moment, really looks at you, and for the first time since you sat down, he doesn’t smile. Doesn’t hide. Just breathes, heavy and slow.
“I thought staying would make it worse,” he says at last.
You nod once. “Yeah. Well. It didn’t exactly make it better.”
He looks like he wants to say more, needs to, but Natty suddenly calls your name from across the table, laughing about tent assignments, and the moment cracks in half.
You glance toward the group. When you look back, Jungkook’s already turned his head, reaching for his tea, mask back on.
But your words still hang in the space between you.
The echo of last night.
And the quiet ache of everything you almost said too late.
You step out of the hotel between Jungkook and Seokjin, one on each side.
And despite the snowflakes melting softly into your hair and the cool air brushing your cheeks, you feel suffocated. Like you’re walking with too much heat in your chest and not enough air in your lungs. Like the two of them are pressing in too close, too quiet, too polite, but their silence speaks volumes.
Jungkook doesn’t say a word.
Seokjin keeps trying.
You don’t breathe properly until your boots crunch forward on packed snow and you slip between Yoongi and Hoseok, just a few steps ahead.
Yoongi glances at you, one brow raised under his beanie. “She escapes.”
“She always escapes,” Hoseok grins, grabbing your gloved hand and swinging it once dramatically. “Especially when things get awkward.”
You laugh, but there’s a flicker in your chest. Something tight. Something wary.
You glance between them, chewing your lip. “You guys know, don’t you?”
Yoongi gives you a look. Flat. Deadpan. “Obviously.”
Hoseok gasps, dramatically offended. “Do you honestly think we came all the way to Japan and didn’t clock the slow-burn triangle of doom you’re dragging around?”
You bury your face in your scarf, groaning. “Is it that obvious?”
Yoongi shrugs, kicking at the snow. “It’s not like you’re shouting about it. But it’s in the way you walk. Where you look. Who you stand next to when you think no one’s watching.”
“Especially yesterday,” Hoseok adds gently, tone softer now. “We all noticed how Jungkook rushed to you the second you looked like you were hurting. Like his body moved before his brain did. We weren’t sleeping.”
You go quiet.
Yoongi nudges your shoulder. “You okay?”
“I don’t know.” You pause, dragging in a breath of icy air that doesn’t make anything feel clearer. “I think I’m just… tired of fighting myself. I told him we’re just friends, and then I wanted him to stay. And when he didn’t, I got upset. That’s not fair to him.”
Hoseok hums. “He would’ve stayed if you asked twice.”
“But I did ask.”
Yoongi looks at you then, really looks. “You didn’t ask. You invited. Softly. Carefully. Like someone who’s still afraid to open a door all the way.”
“And when he didn’t step through, you closed it again,” Hoseok says, squeezing your hand.
You blink, surprised at how well they’ve read you. But maybe you shouldn’t be. They’ve known you for years. They’ve held your hair back during breakdowns and carried your drunk, heartbroken self out of bars and into quiet hotel rooms.
You swallow. “It’s just scary, you know? Letting go of the friend part. Especially when it’s the only thing keeping everything from falling apart. Plus I’ve known him longer than I’ve known Seokjin, it feels easier to start with a stranger.”
“Then don’t let go of it, the friend part?” Yoongi says simply. “Keep it. Just… build on it.”
“You think it’s real?”
Yoongi glances back toward the boys trailing behind. Jungkook walking in silence. Seokjin talking too much. Their bodies like two magnets at odds with each other.
“I think there’s only one of them you look at like that.”
You look away instinctively, like you’ve been caught.
Hoseok bumps your side. “And whichever one it is… just be honest. With him. With yourself.”
“That’s the part I’m still working on.”
“Then work on it,” Hoseok says with a grin. “In the meantime, we’ll be your emotional support distractions. You can sit between us at lunch and pretend you’re a girlboss with zero feelings and multiple love interests.”
You snort. “Sounds healthy.”
Hoseok narrows his eyes at you playfully. “Now seriously. How do you really feel about Jungkook?”
You slow your steps.
The street around you is quiet for a moment, snow crunching beneath your boots, your gloved fingers curled tightly at your sides. You glance toward the others ahead, still unaware of this quiet, separate world you’ve carved behind them.
You sigh. “He loves me.”
Yoongi doesn’t react. Not surprised.
Hoseok just blinks slowly. “Yeah. We know.”
You shake your head. “No, I mean- he really loves me. I can feel it. In everything he does. He’s… so patient. Even when I make things confusing. Even when I act like a coward.”
There’s a beat of silence between the three of you.
Yoongi lifts an eyebrow. “And you?”
You hesitate.
“I don’t know,” you say. And it’s not a lie, it’s just not the full truth either. “A part of me wants to want him. To stop resisting and just, feel everything. Let it happen.”
“But?” Hoseok asks gently.
“But a part of me still sees him as my temporary caretaker. The guy who cleaned up after my mess when I couldn’t stand on my own legs.” You glance at them both, ashamed. “And that’s not fair to him. Not anymore.”
Yoongi nods, slow. “No. It’s not.”
“I think I made it worse,” you say softly. “I keep acting like I want him close, but then calling it friendship. And he pretends it’s okay. But he’s hurting. I can see it every time I use the word friend and look him in the eyes.”
Hoseok frowns, voice softening. “Do you really not want him?”
Your answer comes in a shrug, but your silence says more.
“I’m scared,” you finally admit.
Yoongi sighs. “Of what?”
“That if I let myself want him and it goes wrong, I won’t just lose him. I’ll lose the only person who made me feel safe when I couldn’t walk.”
Hoseok squeezes your shoulder. “You know he mostly didn’t stay with you just because he had to, right?”
“I know. That’s what makes it worse. I’ve been treating him like he’s replaceable. Like his feelings don’t matter as long as he’s still there.”
Yoongi’s voice cuts through. “He’s not going to stay if he keeps getting cut like this.”
Your heart clenches.
Hoseok nods. “He’ll still care about you, but… there’s a limit. Even for someone as soft as him.”
You breathe out slowly, watching the fog of it curl into the air. You don’t say anything for a while.
“I don’t want to lose him.”
Yoongi’s voice is quiet. “Then stop waiting for that to happen.”
Hoseok leans into you again, warm and steady. “We’ll be here, whatever you choose. Just don’t lie to yourself about what you feel. You owe him more than that.”
You nod. Quietly. Slowly. And something inside you shifts, not fully, not finally, but a little closer to clarity.
Ahead, the group calls your names, gesturing toward the museum.
Yoongi tugs on your sleeve. “Come on. Time to look at dead history while your love life dies in real time.”
You shove him, laughing a little, even as your chest still aches.
But this time, it aches with truth.
—-
The museum smells like old wood and varnished frames, the kind of preserved quiet that makes every footstep echo like a thunderclap. Tall ceilings, golden light filtering through frosted windows, and the faint sound of an audio guide playing from someone’s earbuds in the corner.
You’re standing in front of a glass display, lacquered combs from the Edo period, delicate and bone-thin, still stained with the colors of time.
And Seokjin is too close.
His breath ghosts over your shoulder, his hand brushing yours once, then again, and it’s not subtle. He leans in to say something about the carving technique, but you barely register it, your spine already stiffening, your skin prickling.
It’s not that it’s bad. Not really. It’s just… not what you want.
And apparently, you’re not the only one who notices.
From the corner of your eye, you see Hoseok’s head tilt.
He shares a glance with Yoongi.
A second later, warm hands land on your shoulders.
“Hey, captain crutch,” Hoseok calls you, loud enough to interrupt whatever Seokjin was saying. “Come look at this scroll, there’s a dragon that looks like Namjoon when he’s hangry.”
You blink, startled, but Hoseok’s already pulling you gently but firmly away. His hands are light but his intention is solid, and you follow him without resistance, grateful without needing to say it.
Behind him, Yoongi doesn’t say a word. But he lingers by the display, watching Seokjin, eyes narrowed just slightly.
And behind him, Jungkook stands with his arms crossed, jaw set tight, his black coat zipped halfway, collar brushing his chin. He hasn’t moved since Seokjin got close. He hasn’t blinked, either.
Yoongi’s eyes meet his briefly.
Something passes between them.
A promise.
Yoongi leans a little toward Jungkook, voice low. “I’ve got her. He’s not getting near her again.”
Jungkook swallows hard. Doesn’t speak. But the breath he exhales says everything.
He shifts his weight, posture loosening slightly, and Yoongi knows, knows without needing an answer, that Jungkook’s thankful. Grateful in the quietest way.
Because what’s happening here isn’t a game anymore. And Jungkook, despite trying his best to hold back, is breaking piece by piece every time someone else gets the space he’s been desperate to fill.
You notice it when you glance over your shoulder.
Jungkook and Yoongi, standing near the wide staircase that leads to the upper galleries. They’re talking, quietly, seriously, the kind of conversation where no one’s smiling. Jungkook’s hands are deep in his coat pockets, Yoongi’s arms folded, his head slightly lowered in that way he gets when he’s trying not to make something worse.
Your eyes narrow. A flicker of something unsettled crawling into your chest.
“Is everything okay?” you murmur, turning slightly toward Hoseok. He’s half a step behind you, admiring a sword behind glass but clearly listening to everything.
He doesn’t even look up when he answers, “Yep.”
You wait.
He finally turns to meet your eyes. “Don’t worry. They’re just talking.”
“That’s what people say when something is wrong.”
“Okay, then: they’re just talking… because everything’s a little wrong.” He shrugs. “But that’s life. You’ll fix it.”
You exhale through your nose, the chill of the museum still clinging to your gloves as you tug them off one finger at a time. You’re walking now, slowly, toward the museum’s small café tucked in the back courtyard. Hoseok follows.
You wait until you’re just inside, the clatter of cups and muffled jazz music filling the space, before you speak again.
“Just… don’t tell Natty, okay?”
He raises a brow, already reaching for a menu. “About what? Jungkook?”
“About… all of it.”
He smirks, but keeps his voice warm. “She’s your best friend.”
“She is. And she’s the worst at keeping secrets. She gets weird and transparent and I can tell she’s hiding something. She’d be like, ‘So, hypothetically, if someone was in love with their caretaker…’ and I’d have to drown her in the lake.”
Hoseok barks a laugh. “So dramatic.”
You grin despite yourself, taking the seat across from him. “I’m serious. I just… I need space to figure it out. Quietly.”
His smile fades into something softer. “You’re allowed to take your time.”
You nod slowly, but your eyes flick once more toward the window, where Jungkook and Yoongi still stand in the courtyard just outside, their breath fogging in the cold air between them.
You have a feeling that he’s running out of time.
And you’re running out of excuses.
The courtyard is nearly empty, just a few benches dusted with snow and a fountain frozen mid-splash. Jungkook stands with his shoulders drawn tight, the collar of his coat pulled up, dark hair tousled from the wind. He’s not shivering, but there’s something restless in the way his foot keeps tapping the ground.
Yoongi leans against the stone wall beside him, arms folded, eyes on the gray sky.
They’ve been standing in silence for a minute.
Jungkook speaks first.
“She invited me to stay.”
Yoongi doesn’t react. Not right away.
“She said it wasn’t weird. Told me to sit next to her on the bed. And I said no.”
Yoongi’s voice is calm, neutral. “Why?”
“Because it was weird,” Jungkook mutters. “Because I knew if I did, I wouldn’t be able to sleep. I’d lie there the whole night thinking about her. Every breath, every move, every centimeter between us.”
He exhales hard, white fog spiraling in the cold.
“And then I left. I left like an idiot. And this morning, she looked at me like nothing happened. Said it was fine.”
Yoongi watches him, unmoving.
“It’s not fine, and she said that too,” Jungkook says, his voice sharper now. “It’s never been fine. I’ve been breaking my back trying to be there for her. Holding back. Staying in my place. Letting her call me friend over and over again while she keeps looking at me like I’m more.”
Yoongi nods once, slow and careful.
“She didn’t say anything to you… did she?”
Yoongi’s brow furrows slightly, but his voice stays even. “About what?”
“You know what.”
Yoongi exhales, glancing away toward the tall glass windows where their friends are laughing over pastries and overpriced drinks.
“No.”
Jungkook waits. But Yoongi doesn’t elaborate.
“No?” he presses, voice lower now. “Not even a hint?”
Yoongi turns to face him fully, the tension between them thickening just a little.
“She talks to me. But I’m not her translator. Or her diary.”
Jungkook’s shoulders stiffen, a quiet frustration rippling through him. “I’m not asking you to betray her.”
“No,” Yoongi cuts in gently. “You’re asking me to confirm that the way you’re feeling isn’t one-sided. You’re asking me if you’re not crazy for hoping.”
Jungkook looks at him, jaw tight. “Yeah.”
Yoongi softens.
“Then I’ll say this.”
He pauses, eyes thoughtful. Measured.
“She’s confused. And tired. And terrified of giving the wrong piece of herself to someone.”
Jungkook’s expression falters.
“But that doesn’t mean what you feel isn’t real. Or that it isn’t seen.”
Silence. Just the sound of footsteps behind the glass and a distant train whistle.
Yoongi’s voice is lower now, almost reluctant. “She’s not talking. But she’s thinking. I see it.”
Jungkook’s chest tightens.
“She’s figuring it out,” Yoongi adds. “But I won’t promise she’ll land where you want her to.”
That part slices deeper than expected.
Still, Jungkook nods, barely. “Okay.”
Yoongi’s gaze lingers for a second, then he starts walking again. “Now let’s go in before Natty accuses me of kidnapping you.”
Jungkook follows, heavier than before. But a little less alone.
Because even if Yoongi didn’t give him the answer he wanted—
He gave him the truth.
The warm hum of chatter wraps around the table like a blanket, but there’s a subtle shift the moment Jungkook and Yoongi step into the café.
“Where’s Natty?” Yoongi asks, pulling off his gloves and nodding toward the empty seats. “And Joon? Seokjin?”
“Still looking for the gift shop,” Hoseok answers, mouth half-full of croissant. “Seokjin’s probably flirting with a brochure stand.”
Jungkook lets out a quiet chuckle, playing along. But his eyes find you almost instantly.
And yours, without hesitation, find his.
You don’t smile right away. Just tilt your head slightly, the smallest twitch at the corner of your mouth. Barely noticeable. But he catches it.
Yoongi sits next to Hoseok. Jungkook takes the spot directly across from you.
And under the table, your foot nudges his gently.
He startles almost imperceptibly. But then your ankle lingers next to his. Not playful. Not suggestive. Just… there. Present. Real.
Jungkook keeps his eyes on the sugar packet he’s fidgeting with, but a faint pink colors the tips of his ears.
Your knees brush once.
Then again.
He doesn’t move away.
Conversation rises and falls around the table, plans for the afternoon, Hoseok describing a haunted temple he wants to visit at night, Yoongi pretending not to believe in ghosts, but for Jungkook, it all sounds distant. Like static underwater.
Because you’re sitting right there.
Smiling softly at something Hoseok says, sipping your coffee, and letting your ankle stay pressed against his like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
When you lean slightly to reach for the sugar jar, your knee bumps his again. Harder this time.
“Sorry,” you whisper, voice barely audible over the clink of mugs.
He shakes his head. “It’s okay.”
His fingers twitch at his side like they want to do something. Say something.
He shifts slightly in his seat, and this time, it’s his knee that brushes yours under the table.
You glance at him, eyes flicking down for a fraction of a second, and then return to your drink like nothing happened. Like you didn’t just send Jungkook into quiet chaos.
He’s sure Yoongi and Hoseok notice something. Maybe not what. But something.
Still, no one says a word.
And Jungkook sits there in the warmth of the café, ankles tangled with yours under a table full of noise and laughter and coffee steam, and feels the tiniest, quietest bit of hope.
Like maybe last night wasn’t the end of everything.
Maybe it was the start of something else.
—
The bus doors creaked open with a wheeze and a blast of freezing wind. One by one, everyone spilled out, bracing against the cold and rubbing their gloved hands together.
“Okay, no one said we were visiting Antarctica,” Yoongi muttered, shoulders hunched.
“It’s Kyoto in winter. What did you expect?” Namjoon said, already snapping a few photos of the snowy scenery.
But the lake, what was supposed to be a lake, stole everyone’s attention immediately.
“Oh,” Natty breathed. “It’s frozen.”
They all stared for a moment. The water had vanished beneath a flawless sheet of ice, now transformed into a full-on skating rink. There were already a few people wobbling their way across it, bundled up in scarves and laughter.
“We were gonna row boats here?” Hoseok blinked.
“Apparently,” Yoongi deadpanned.
“Well, now we can fall on our asses together instead,” Namjoon said with a grin.
Natty tilted her head thoughtfully, then glanced toward you.
“Wait,” she said. “Should she be skating though?” She turned toward Seokjin. “Is that allowed? You’re her therapist.”
That earned a few looks, not from you, but from the boys. Jungkook rolled his eyes instantly, letting out a sharp breath through his nose and looking away.
Seokjin, startled by the question, adjusted his scarf. “It’s… not ideal,” he said carefully. “But if she insists on it, she needs to be assisted at all times. No sudden moves. No falling.”
“Right,” Yoongi muttered. “Because that’s super easy to control on a frozen lake.”
“I’m just saying,” Seokjin shrugged, “I don’t recommend it.”
“Of course,” Hoseok said, nudging you playfully. “But she’ll do it anyway.”
“Great,” Jungkook said under his breath. “Let’s all vote on her health now.”
You caught that. Everyone did. But no one said anything.
Yoongi looked between you and cleared his throat. “Alright. We skating or not?”
Natty, eager to distract, clapped her hands once. “Let’s go rent skates before the booth runs out of decent sizes. I call dibs on the mint green ones.”
The group started moving again, breaking into smaller pairs as they walked toward the wooden rental shack. You kept walking too, snow crunching beneath your boots, heart thudding in your ears, not from the cold, but from the tension you could feel trailing behind you like a shadow.
Jungkook didn’t walk beside you this time.
He stayed a few steps behind, shoulders tense, jaw sharp. You didn’t have to look to know that.
The wind cut between you, a biting kind of silence. Then, from behind you, his voice, low and steady.
“You sure you wanna do this?”
You paused at the edge of the path, boots pressed into snow. Turned slightly, not all the way.
“Yeah,” you said quietly. “I’ll be careful.”
There was a beat before he replied.
“You say that every time.”
You glanced back then. He hadn’t moved, just stood there, his black beanie tugged low over his hair, scarf loose around his neck. His eyes weren’t teasing like they usually were, no smug grin, no mischief. Just… worry.
It sat there plain on his face, softening the sharp lines of it.
You exhaled through your nose, looking down at the ice rink ahead. “It’s just skating.”
“It’s your leg.”
His words weren’t harsh, just factual. Like he wasn’t trying to stop you, just remind you.
You turned to face him completely this time. “You were there when I broke it, remember?”
A flicker of something passed through his eyes. He nodded slowly. “Yeah. I remember everything.”
That made you quiet for a moment.
Then you shrugged, like it didn’t weigh so heavily on you. “I’ll be okay.”
He walked closer now, boots crunching in snow, until he stood beside you again. Not touching. Just there.
“You don’t have to prove anything,” he murmured, voice almost lost to the wind. “Not to Seokjin. Not to anyone.”
Your chest pulled tight at that. You looked at him, really looked, but he was already glancing away, toward the rest of the group crowding the skate rental.
“I’m not,” you said softly.
But he didn’t answer that.
You both stood in silence for a few seconds longer, the chill biting at your cheeks. Then you turned and headed toward the rental booth, Jungkook falling into step beside you this time, still silent, still tense, but close enough that your arms brushed.
He didn’t argue again.
But he didn’t like it either.
The cold bit at your cheeks as you laced up your skates, the worn leather stiff beneath your fingers. You were halfway through tying the second one when Seokjin crouched down in front of you, already gloved up and ready.
“Let me help you,” he offered gently, reaching for your laces.
You hesitated, your eyes flickering to Jungkook just a few feet away. He was kneeling by his own skates, but his hands stilled the moment Seokjin touched yours.
You didn’t say anything. You just sat there, watching Seokjin fumble slightly, he wasn’t exactly graceful, and smiled politely, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes.
And then, before you could process it, Jungkook stood up and moved closer. “Hey,” he said, voice casual, but there was an edge to it. “I got it.”
Seokjin blinked up at him, then back at you. “I mean, it’s fine..”
“I said I got it,” Jungkook repeated, kneeling down right in front of you, his voice still even, still calm. But his hands were already reaching.
Seokjin hesitated, then gave a small chuckle and backed off, dusting off his gloves as he stood. “Sure. Be my guest.”
You watched Jungkook’s fingers, sure and practiced, as he tugged your laces tighter, tying a perfect knot before double-looping it. He didn’t look up once. Just focused. Quiet. The air between you sharp with unsaid things.
When he finally finished, he stood and offered his hand without a word.
You looked at it for a second too long before taking it.
The rink was mostly empty, just a few couples and some of your friends gliding along the ice with varying degrees of success. Natty shrieked from across the rink as Hoseok spun her in a clumsy circle, laughter bouncing through the cold.
Jungkook stepped out first, guiding you carefully. His hand was still in yours.
It was cold. Beautiful. Silent.
You weren’t sure who held on tighter.
“You got it,” he murmured, his voice close beside you, warm in contrast to the sharp air brushing your face. “There you go… slowly.”
His hand shifted just slightly in yours, adjusting the grip. “You’re doing well.”
You looked down at your feet, watching them glide shakily across the ice. The sound of your blades scraping softly, the occasional slip, the laughter echoing across the rink from the others, it all melted into the background next to the solid presence of his body beside you.
“I’m gonna fall,” you muttered, half-laughing.
“You’re not,” he said, quick and certain. “You’re with me.”
And somehow, that made you straighten up a little. Trust your balance. Trust him.
“Look at you,” he teased, nudging your elbow gently. “A whole week ago you couldn’t even get out of bed without help. Now you’re skating.”
“Barely.”
“But still. Proud of you.” His tone softened, a low smile playing on his lips. “Don’t tell me you’re only doing it because Seokjin said you shouldn’t.”
You snorted. “I do what I want.”
“Right,” he said, smirking. “Totally not a rebellion.”
You gave him a look, and he grinned wider, pleased with himself. The teasing helped. Loosened the knot in your chest that had been there since the night before.
“I mean,” he continued as you took another cautious step forward, “you’re not very good..”
You elbowed him.
He laughed out loud, the sound of it echoing across the ice.
“I’m kidding!” he said. “You’re doing great. You haven’t fallen once.”
“Yet.”
“I’ll catch you if you do,” he said, so casually it made your stomach turn.
You glanced at him.
He wasn’t looking at you, just focused on your movements. On keeping you steady.
But it was there, again. That unbearable softness he saved only for you. It made the cold air feel warmer. Made your hand grip his tighter.
“Jungkook,” you said quietly.
He glanced sideways.
You wanted to say something more. Something important. But the words dissolved on your tongue, and you just held his gaze.
And maybe that was enough.
You both kept moving, slow, careful circles on the ice. His body close, breath visible in the cold. Neither of you saying anything now. The tension had thinned into something quieter. Something that crackled with meaning.
And then, your ankle betrayed you.
It wasn’t a hard slip. Just the slightest catch of your blade on uneven ice. But it was enough to make your balance lurch.
Jungkook reacted instantly.
His hands were at your waist in a second, gripping firmly, pulling you toward him just as your body tilted. You landed against his chest with a startled breath, your palms catching the solid muscle of him as your skates slid to a stop.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered, breathless.
You could feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath your hands, the heat of him radiating despite the winter air. His face was close, too close. His nose brushed yours slightly, and your breath mingled in a small cloud between you.
You caught a clearer scent of him now, his cologne, warm and woodsy and something so deeply him it made your stomach turn. There was also something else. Something quieter. The way his lips parted as he exhaled. The way his eyes flicked down, just once, to your mouth.
Your fingers curled slightly against his chest, and without realizing it, they roamed up to his shoulders, his arms, looking for stability. But there was more to it than that, something instinctive, subconscious. Something tender.
His hands hadn’t left your waist.
He swallowed hard, the sound of it loud in the hush between you. “That’s… probably enough skating,” he said, voice low and strained.
You didn’t answer right away. Couldn’t. You were still close. Still holding on. Still caught in that charged space where every second felt like it was teetering on the edge of something too big to name.
He blinked, as if waking himself up, and gently adjusted his hold, steadying you but taking a small step back. His hands slid away slowly. Your palms dropped to your sides.
“Are you okay?” he asked, his tone soft again, careful.
You nodded. “Yeah. I just—”
“Don’t push it,” he said. “You’ve done more than enough.”
You stared at him for a beat longer.
The quiet wasn’t awkward this time.
It was full. Heavy. Unspoken things suspended between you like mist.
And then, without another word, he offered you his hand again.
This time, you took it slower. Not because you had to.
But because neither of you were quite ready to let go.
When you finally stepped off the rink, cheeks flushed and legs trembling a little from effort and adrenaline, Jungkook stayed by your side, his hand never straying too far from your arm, just in case. You sat on a nearby bench where a soft dusting of snow clung to the edges, and he crouched in front of you with a little grunt.
“Let me,” he said simply, already tugging at the laces of your skates with careful fingers.
You watched him, breath curling out into the cold air. His brows furrowed in focus, cheeks pink from the wind, lips slightly parted as he exhaled through them. You thought of how steady he’d held you. How tightly. How gently.
One skate, then the other.
“There,” he muttered, glancing up, meeting your eyes as he slid your boots back on and tightened them for you. “Better?”
You nodded, heart squeezing with something you didn’t have the words for. “Better.”
The others were still skating, laughing, shouting across the ice. You could hear Hoseok’s dramatic complaints and Natty’s teasing voice. But it all felt a little too loud, a little too far.
“I need to walk,” you said suddenly. “Just for a bit. Clear my head.”
Jungkook stood upright, brushing his hands on his thighs. “Come on,” he said. “There’s a café near the trail. I saw it earlier.”
You didn’t answer. Just started walking, and he fell into step beside you. Like always.
The small café on the edge of the trees had foggy windows and a chalkboard menu written in quick, messy english. The bell above the door chimed when you entered, and warmth hit your face immediately.
You didn’t want anything heavy. Just something to warm your fingers. Something simple.
“Two warm milks,” Jungkook told the woman behind the counter with a polite bow, pulling out his wallet. “She skated.”
The woman smiled like she understood everything in that sentence.
Moments later, you stepped back outside, each holding a to-go cup. The trail curved gently through the snow-dusted woods, and you walked in silence for a while. Just the sound of boots crunching frost, and the occasional sip from your drink.
It felt like a different world out here, quiet and white and still.
“It’s nice,” you murmured eventually. “I forgot how much I missed this kind of quiet.”
Jungkook hummed beside you, fingers wrapped around the warm cup. “Me too.”
He didn’t press you to talk. Didn’t fill the silence with questions or chatter. He just walked beside you, every now and then glancing over as if to make sure you were still okay. Still there.
The woods felt endless. Peaceful. A small break from everything, your friends, the awkwardness, the tangled feelings you hadn’t dared name.
But even in the stillness, you could feel him.
The weight of his presence. The quiet way he watched you. The fact that he hadn’t hesitated to help you earlier, not once.
You stopped walking.
He paused a step ahead, turning toward you.
You looked at him then. Really looked at him. And for the first time since arriving in Kyoto, the noise in your head quieted.
“…Thank you,” you said softly. “For earlier.”
Jungkook gave you a small nod, then looked down at his cup. “Anytime.”
“I wasn’t really like this before,” you said, voice quiet, watching how the snow clung to the low branches around you. “I mean… before you.”
He tilted his head, a small furrow between his brows. “Like what?”
You gave a small laugh, almost embarrassed. “Soft. Hesitant. Nervous about saying the wrong thing. I used to be more… in control. I had rules for myself. Boundaries.” You looked at him, letting the words hang. “And then you happened.”
He didn’t say anything right away, just turned his face toward the trees and exhaled slowly. His breath fogged the air between you.
“You’re not the only one,” he murmured eventually. “I didn’t used to care this much. About anyone. Not really. I was… a lot more guarded. Detached. And then you showed up with your broken leg and your bad attitude and your ridiculous socks.”
You scoffed, elbowing him gently. “You liked the socks.”
He smirked, nudging you back. “I did.”
A beat.
Another.
You looked at him, and he looked at you, and there was something almost shy in the way his eyes dropped to your lips before darting away.
You took a sip of your milk just to ground yourself again. “We should bring Taehyung and Jimin next time.”
Jungkook blinked. “What?”
You smiled. “On the next trip. I think they’d like it here. Especially Jimin, he’d spend hours on the lake taking pictures.”
A soft laugh escaped him. “And Taehyung would disappear into the woods trying to find some cursed shrine.”
“Exactly.” You grinned now, heart a little lighter. “It’d be chaos.”
He watched you for a moment, something fond settling into his features. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Let’s do that.”
You kept walking slowly, the woods stretching out endlessly in front of you, peaceful and white.
The snow crunched beneath your boots as you walked side by side, the cups between your hands still warm enough to bite back the cold. Neither of you had said anything for a while. Not since the mention of Taehyung and Jimin. Not since things felt… real.
Jungkook cleared his throat softly. “Hey.”
You turned your head, lips parted slightly in question.
“I just… I wanted to say I’m sorry,” he said, gaze fixed ahead. “If I’ve been pressuring you. Into anything. I know I feel a lot, and maybe I’ve been letting it spill out more than I should. It’s not your responsibility to catch all of it.”
That made you stop in your tracks.
He took one more step, realized you weren’t beside him anymore, and turned. His eyes were honest, bare and kind and so painfully open.
You stared at him for a moment, taking in the flush on his cheeks from the cold and his dark lashes clinging together with moisture from the air.
“You’re not pressuring me,” you said, voice steady. “Not even a little.”
He blinked. “Really?”
You took a few steps forward until you were close enough for your fingers to brush. “If anything… I think I’ve been the one dragging things out. Making it confusing. You’ve been patient. Too patient. And I didn’t know how to deal with that.”
Jungkook shook his head gently, almost like he was about to argue, but you didn’t let him.
“You’ve never made me feel like I had to rush. Never pushed me where I wasn’t ready to go,” you continued, softer now. “Whatever comes… whenever it does… I’ll welcome it. Because it doesn’t feel far anymore.”
He stared at you like you’d just said the one thing he didn’t even realize he needed to hear. Something warm flickered behind his eyes. That quiet, desperate hope he’d been clinging to for weeks, months, even.
You saw it.
And you let him see that you meant it.
A small smile tugged at his mouth. “That sounds like progress.”
You smiled back. “It feels like it.”
The distance between you was nothing now. Just breath and frost in the air.
He didn’t move any closer, didn’t reach for your hand. But he didn’t need to.
Because for the first time, it didn’t feel like a maybe.
It felt like the start of a yes.
—-
The bonfire crackled at the center of your circle, throwing soft golden light against everyone’s faces. Snow dusted the treetops around the clearing, the air sharp with winter, but your bodies were wrapped in layers and your cheeks flushed with warmth, from the fire, the drinks, the laughter.
Two caravans were parked just outside the small woodland slope where you’d made camp, strings of warm fairy lights hanging between them. Someone had brought a portable speaker, low music humming in the background as you all took turns flipping skewers and tossing marshmallows into each other’s mugs.
For the first time in months, things felt still.
Not the kind of stillness that comes from silence, but from peace. No underlying tension, no waiting for something to crack open and spill out. Even Jungkook, who’d spent most of this trip caught in tides of emotional restraint, was smiling easily, stretching out in his oversized jacket with his cup balanced on one knee.
He laughed at one of Hoseok’s wild stories, head tilted back, eyes crinkled. You hadn’t seen him laugh like that in a long time.
Yoongi had handed him a grilled sweet potato earlier and said nothing, but the way they exchanged glances meant everything. Namjoon was helping Natty stack firewood on the side. Even Seokjin, quieter now, sat cross-legged near the edge of the circle, eyes reflecting the flame as he quietly observed.
You were nestled between Jungkook and Hoseok, a blanket thrown over your shoulders, your gloved fingers wrapped around a tin cup of hot cocoa someone had spiked. Jungkook hadn’t moved away when you sat beside him. In fact, he’d shifted just enough to share his warmth, your knees touching beneath the heavy fabric of your coats.
No one talked about the lake.
No one brought up the museum or what Yoongi and Jungkook might’ve said to each other.
The past few days, all their tangled emotions and unspoken things, settled into the background like melted snow.
This moment wasn’t about who felt what. It was just about being.
And Jungkook, for once, let himself be part of it fully.
No sulking. No retreating into silence. No holding his breath waiting for signs from you.
He just looked into the fire, his hands loosely folded in his lap, smiling like he finally believed he belonged here. With all of you. With you.
“Is it weird,” he murmured after a long stretch of quiet, his voice low enough for only you to hear, “that I kind of never want to go back?”
You turned slightly to look at him. His gaze stayed on the fire.
“No,” you said, equally soft. “I get it.”
And when he glanced your way, eyes shining a little from the reflection of flames, he gave you the smallest smile.
Like he knew you meant more than just the campfire and the caravans.
—-
Hoseok leaps up from the circle and yanks Jungkook by the arm.
“Next round!” he announces with a wicked grin. “You and me. Let’s give them something hard to guess.”
Jungkook groans but doesn’t resist. He stumbles up, nearly knocking over a half-empty thermos, cheeks flushed from heat and laughter.
“What are we even doing this time?” he asks, scratching the back of his neck as Hoseok leans in and whispers the title.
You watch Jungkook’s face twist with disbelief. “Seriously? That’s the movie? they’ll figure it out in no time.”
Hoseok just beams and nods. “Do it justice.”
And they do.
Hoseok spreads his arms dramatically while Jungkook gets behind him, hands outstretched, mimicking wind in his hair.
“Draw me like one of your…” Hoseok declares.
Yoongi nearly spits out his drink, Natty doubles over laughing, and Seokjin claps like a seal. You’re already covering your face with both hands, groaning through your smile.
“French girls! Titanic!” Namjoon shouts, and everyone erupts in cheers.
Jungkook spins back toward the fire, grinning like a little kid. “That was your fault,” he says to Hoseok, flopping down in the empty space beside you. He doesn’t even look, just drops down, letting his weight tilt slightly into your side for balance.
You don’t say anything at first. The laughter lingers in your chest, but you feel the heat of him next to you, his shoulder brushing your back every time he shifts or leans forward to say something. With each round of the game, with each shout and snort and wild guess from the others, he stays just a little closer.
You barely notice it happening, the way your shoulders eventually align. His thigh angles just behind yours now, and when he laughs, you feel the rumble of it right there, warm and soft, so close it sends little sparks up your spine.
And he doesn’t move away.
Seokjin jumps to his feet next, dramatically brushing ash off his pants like he’s preparing for a stage debut.
“Prepare to be amazed,” he declares, flipping his hair back with theatrical flair. “This will be my Oscar moment.”
Yoongi mutters something about giving him a Grammy instead, and Seokjin throws him a wounded look before striding to the center.
But Jungkook doesn’t move. Doesn’t even glance at him.
His gaze shifts sideways instead, to you.
“You good?” he asks, quieter than before, leaning in a little. “Are you cold?”
You blink at him, surprised by the sudden softness in his tone. “I’m fine.”
He watches you for a second longer, then lifts the corner of the blanket draped over his knees in silent offering.
You grin. “God, you’re so transparent.”
He blinks. “What?”
“You’re not even pretending to care about Seokjin’s turn. That’s pathetic.”
“I’m just making sure you’re not freezing to death,” he mumbles, but there’s no bite to it. His eyes roll, but he’s smiling, faint, crooked. A little too proud of being called out.
You tug the blanket off his legs anyway and drape it half over yourself, nudging his knee with yours. “There. Now we’re both warm. Happy?”
He pretends to consider it. “Hmm. Warmer, maybe.”
Meanwhile, Seokjin is fully committed to miming a scene that involves exaggerated slow-motion running and chest-clutching despair.
“Is it a drama?” Natty guesses.
“No!” Seokjin gasps. “It’s cinema! Real cinema!”
Jungkook leans closer and stage-whispers, “If he fake-cries one more time, I’m throwing my beer at him.”
“I dare you.”
You’re both stifling laughter now, pressed just a little too close under the same shared blanket.
Natty snaps her fingers. “Is it Train to Busan?”
Seokjin gasps in betrayal. “Do I look like a zombie to you?!”
“Yes,” Yoongi says without hesitation.
The circle bursts into laughter again, and Seokjin slumps back into his seat, wounded but theatrical as always.
Your name’s called next, and you groan through a laugh, already shaking your head. “I don’t even watch movies like that,” you protest, standing anyway.
“No excuses,” Hoseok says, pointing at you dramatically. “Up. Entertain us.”
You huff and get to your feet, brushing off the blanket. “Okay, okay. But I swear if no one guesses this…”
Jungkook leans back as you walk to the center of the circle, his arms folding across his chest. He doesn’t even pretend to guess early like the others, he just watches. Quietly. Closely.
You step into character instantly, hips swaying, chin lifted in mock arrogance.
“I’m sorry that people are so jealous of me,” you pout, voice a little too high-pitched. “But I can’t help it that I’m popular.”
Groans and confused laughter ripple through the circle.
You point at Natty. “You can’t sit with us!”
Natty gasps. “That’s Mean Girls! Right?!”
“Thank you!” you shout, arms thrown up in triumph.
Jungkook still hasn’t said a word. Not one guess. Just sits there, same position, his head tilted slightly like he’s watching something far more interesting than a game.
He’s smiling now, barely, that quiet kind of grin he does when something is too good to interrupt. His eyes flicker over you, from your dramatic gestures to the messy strands of hair falling over your face, to the stubborn determination written all over it.
How can someone look like that?
Beautiful and ridiculous.
Sweet and dangerous.
Cute and kind of terrifying.
You trip a little in your excitement, and he nearly reaches for you on instinct before you catch yourself and keep going. He shakes his head slightly, biting back a chuckle.
Evil, he thinks again.
So evil. And you have no idea.
You finally flop back down with a huff, cheeks warm, out of breath from all the quoting and flailing.
“Justice for Mean Girls,” you mutter, tugging the shared blanket back up over your legs. “I carried that scene.”
“No one guessed it,” Jungkook says, not even looking at you.
You nudge his thigh with yours. “Natty did.”
“She was being generous.”
You turn to glare at him, but the smirk tugging at his lips is too obvious to ignore.
His arms are still crossed, but his body’s angled toward you now. Not subtle. His knee brushes yours again when he shifts, and he doesn’t pull back, if anything, he leans in a little more, just enough to make the edge of his jacket touch yours. That closeness again, quiet and persistent.
“You didn’t even try to guess,” you accuse.
“I was… watching.”
Your heart skips.
You tilt your head. “Watching what?”
He shrugs, eyes still trained on the fire. “Just… you.”
It’s said so casually that it’s easy to miss the weight of it. But you don’t. Not when his voice dips that low. Not when you can see the little crease between his brows, the faint tug at his bottom lip like he’s still chewing on whatever he didn’t say out loud.
You want to say something snarky, something to break it, the tension, the heat, the way he’s suddenly looking at you like you’re something he’s been trying not to want.
But it sticks in your throat.
“You were kind of terrifying out there,” he adds, almost like a joke, almost like he regrets letting the moment go that quiet. “In a… pink-plastic-burn-book way.”
You snort. “You mean hot.”
He smirks again. “I mean evil.”
“But cute?”
He meets your gaze finally, eyes darker than they were a second ago, voice lower when he says, “Something like that.”
And even though the fire’s still crackling, and someone’s up for the next round of the game, and there’s laughter and shouting around you, it all fades into a blur. Because he’s still looking at you like that. And he hasn’t moved away.
—
The game slowly fizzles out as the night grows colder, the fire now mostly glowing embers and quiet laughter. One by one, the others start peeling off to their respective caravans, rubbing their arms, yawning, calling goodnight through chattering teeth.
Natty suddenly elbows your side. “I need to shower before I pass out.”
You nod, standing up with a stretch. “Me too. I feel like I smell like campfire and meat skewers.”
She grabs her toiletry bag, and you collect your things too, both of you bundled up in sweatshirts as you trek toward the bathroom cabins across the gravel path. The night air is brisk, damp with mountain dew, the kind that settles into your bones if you stand still too long.
The cabin lights hum low and warm when you step inside. You start pulling out your face wash and a clean towel when you catch it, the shift in her energy. Natty’s too quiet, fiddling with her toothbrush like it owes her money.
You squint at her through the mirror. “Okay. Spill it.”
She blinks. “What?”
“You’re being weird.”
“I’m always weird.”
You turn toward her, arms crossed. “You’re hiding something. And I swear if you don’t tell me, I’m going to assume it’s something insane, like you joined a forest cult or found someone’s severed toe.”
She makes a face. “Ew. No.”
You wait. One beat. Two.
Finally, with a deep sigh and a muttered curse, she admits, “Namjoon kissed me last night.”
Your mouth falls open.
“What?!”
“Shhh!” she shoves your shoulder, glancing toward the stalls like someone might hear.
You clutch your shampoo bottle to your chest. “Wait- kissed you kissed you?”
Natty’s already nodding, face pink. “Yeah. We were drunk, I think? It just… happened.”
You gape. “That’s weird.”
“I know! I mean, he’s Namjoon. He’s like… book club and class president and forest-hiking Namjoon.”
You snort.
“And it was good. Like… really good. It almost turned into something more, actually.”
Your eyes widen. “No.”
“I stopped it,” she says quickly. “I wasn’t that drunk. And like, we were sharing a blanket, and then there was this look, and then… it just happened.”
You stare at her for a second longer, then grin slowly. “I mean… he is hot.”
“Objectively, yes,” she mutters, burying her face in her towel. “But it’s still weird.”
“And yet,” you say, watching her reflection in the mirror, “the more time passes, the less weird it gets.”
Natty bites back a smile. “Right? Like my brain is catching up to what my hormones already knew.”
You raise a brow. “So what now?”
She chews on her bottom lip. “I’m sharing the same caravan with him tonight.”
“Oh?”
“Mmhmm.”
You toss your toothbrush into your bag with a smirk. “Well then. I hope you get lucky and get laid.”
Natty laughs out loud, swatting at you with her towel. “You’re the worst.”
“And you’re the one making out with our friend.”
She points a finger at you, still laughing. “If I do get laid, you’re getting all the details tomorrow.”
You raise your hands in surrender. “I wouldn’t accept anything less.”
The shower water runs hot, steam curling up the cabin walls as you rinse off the smoke and ash clinging to your skin. It feels good to be clean again, almost like shedding the entire day off your shoulders.
But the second your head hits the cool air again, the quiet thoughts creep in.
Will you and Jungkook be sharing a caravan tonight?
You towel off slowly, eyes unfocused as you tug on your clean clothes, soft sweatpants, an oversized hoodie, socks thick enough to keep the gravel from biting. The thought repeats, quieter but persistent.
Is he expecting to sleep beside you?
You dry your hair with the towel until it’s just damp, combing your fingers through it before slipping on a puffer jacket. Natty’s still humming to herself, cheeks slightly flushed, probably still thinking about Namjoon. You don’t bring it up again, you’re too distracted now anyway.
The night has fully settled when you step outside. The campground is quiet, dipped in navy and silver under the moon. In the distance, you can still see the dim outline of the caravans, small glowing rectangles waiting at the edge of the trees, nestled in soft silence.
You walk side by side with Natty, both of you crunching over the gravel in tired, slow steps.
Your heart gives a single, quiet thud as you spot Jungkook.
He’s standing just outside your shared caravan, one hand tucked into his hoodie pocket, the other wrapped around a warm mug of something. He looks up as soon as he hears your steps, eyes finding yours first, always yours first, before shifting briefly to Natty.
Then he nods, casual and soft. “Hey.”
Your hands are still cold. Your hair’s still a little wet.
And just like that, the world shrinks again, back to you and him and whatever this quiet thing is that’s been building between your laughs and silences all day.
As you approach, Jungkook steps forward without a word and gently takes the towel and toiletry bag from your arms. His fingers brush yours, warm despite the chill in the air, and he gives you a quick glance, like he’s checking for something beyond what you’ll say out loud.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
You nod, tugging your jacket sleeves over your hands. “Yeah. Just cold.”
He shifts his grip on your things. “Want help getting up?”
You blink at him. “Huh?”
He jerks his chin toward the caravan door. “The steps. They’re kind of high, and you’re…” He hesitates, then smirks slightly. “Short. And sort of broken.”
You huff a laugh through your nose. “Thanks for the reminder.”
“I mean, you’re doing better. But I know it still hurts.”
You glance at the narrow, slightly wobbly metal steps leading to the caravan door. It’s true, they’re a little awkward to climb, especially with your leg still sore and stiff.
Before you can answer, he moves in closer.
“Here,” he says softly. “Just.. hold onto me.”
You hesitate, then reach out without thinking, your hand settling just above his elbow as he angles his body so you can lean into him. The motion is gentle, practiced, like he’s done this a hundred times, like taking care of you comes easier than it should.
With his help, you step up slowly, carefully, feeling the quiet strength in his arm as you move.
At the top, you glance back at him. He’s already close again, stepping in after you with your towel and bag still in hand.
“Thanks,” you murmur.
He nods and closes the door behind him.
Inside, the caravan is dim and quiet, warm from the heater, filled with the faint scent of cedar and fabric softener. The little space feels suddenly too small, too still, and you’re very aware of how alone you are with him again.
Jungkook moves easily around the small space, already folding back the corner of the bed, shaking out a few extra blankets. He doesn’t ask if you’re cold, just assumes. You notice he leaves the heavier one for your side.
You lower yourself onto the edge of the mattress, shifting gingerly to stretch your leg out, and it doesn’t take long before you wince, fingers digging into the cushion beneath you.
He hears it.
“You okay?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder.
“Just sore,” you admit. “Too much walking.”
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just disappears into the tiny kitchenette for a moment. You hear the freezer compartment crack open, the sound of something being shuffled around. When he returns, he’s holding a cold pack wrapped neatly in a dish towel.
“Here,” he says, kneeling beside the bed.
You blink down at him. “What’s that?”
He raises a brow. “What do you think it is? It’s not soup.”
You grin despite yourself, easing back slightly as he gently lifts your leg. He lays the pack against the aching spot, adjusting the towel to make sure it’s not too cold on your skin.
“Thank you,” you murmur.
He shrugs again, still kneeling there like he doesn’t even notice how close you are. “You need to rest it more.”
“I’m trying.”
He finally looks up at you, holding your gaze for just a second longer than necessary. “And your meds?”
You blink. “Huh?”
“You took them, right?”
You hesitate, cheeks warming. “I… was going to.”
His eyes narrow, and he stands with a little huff, walking back to your bag and rummaging through it like he’s done this a dozen times.
Because he has.
He finds the small bottle, then grabs a clean cup and fills it from the sink. Without a word, he brings them both to you, holding out the water like it’s non-negotiable.
You take the pills and drink quietly, trying not to look too smug. Or too touched.
“Anything else?” you ask once you’ve swallowed them. “Want to tuck me in too?”
He raises a brow. “Want me to?”
Your stomach flips.
He doesn’t wait for an answer, just starts unfolding the rest of the blankets, smoothing them out neatly. The bed’s narrow, but there’s enough space for two if you lie close. And you both know that’s exactly what’s going to happen.
Jungkook pulls off his hoodie, leaving him in a loose t-shirt, then sets it aside and sits at the edge of the bed. For a second, he just rubs the back of his neck, like he’s debating something.
Then he looks at you. Quiet. Gentle.
“You okay?” he asks again, softer this time.
And you are.
You slip under the blankets carefully, shifting to make space as Jungkook slides in beside you. The bed dips slightly with his weight, and even though you’re not touching, his presence is right there, warm, steady, unmistakable.
The light above you is dimmed to a soft amber glow, the kind that makes everything feel like it belongs in a dream.
You both lie there for a few moments, silent, the kind of silence that doesn’t need to be filled.
Then, of course, he ruins it.
“You know,” he says, his voice low and teasing, “you were really dramatic with that Mean Girls reenactment.”
You turn your head on the pillow, eyes narrowing. “Excuse me?”
“I thought you were about to pull out a wig and start slapping people.”
You scoff. “You’re just bitter no one clapped for your Titanic performance.”
“I carried that performance,” he says, mock-offended. “Hoseok was barely holding his arms right. I had to steady him and act.”
You laugh, a real, full laugh that you try to muffle with your blanket. “You’re delusional.”
“I’m committed to art,” he counters, eyes playful. “Unlike Seokjin.”
You snort. “Don’t start—”
“No, really,” he says, flipping onto his side so he’s facing you now. “Did you see his slow-motion run? I thought he was having a medical emergency.”
You burst into laughter again. “It was so bad.”
“I had secondhand embarrassment,” he adds. “I had to look away.”
You gasp through your giggles. “You’re going to hell.”
“Worth it.”
He grins like he’s proud of himself, and you roll onto your side to face him too, both of you sharing the pillow now, the distance between your faces shrinking with every breath.
You sigh, still smiling. “Shut up.”
“I’m just saying, he looked like a drowning possum.”
“Shut up.”
He snickers quietly, and for a moment, you both just lie there, the laughter softening into something warmer. Something quieter.
His voice dips, almost a whisper now. “You have a nice laugh, you know.”
You blink.
Then look away, flustered. “Now you sound like a bad actor.”
He just smiles at you. Doesn’t argue. Doesn’t take it back.
You bury your face halfway into the pillow, trying to smother the warmth still clinging to your cheeks from laughing so hard.
But then his voice drops again, softer than before, and this time, there’s no teasing in it.
“I’m serious,” he says.
You glance at him.
“I really needed this trip,” he continues, eyes searching yours. “So… thanks. For inviting me.”
You swallow, a little caught off guard by the shift in tone.
Before you can answer, he adds, “I had the time of my life.”
You smile, heart tucking into itself. “Really?”
He nods, a small breath of laughter escaping. “You guys are… fun. Chaotic, but good.” A pause. “Except Seokjin.”
You both crack up again, muffled giggles under shared blankets, the kind of laughter that leaves your faces turned toward each other, noses almost brushing in the low glow of the caravan light.
Then silence.
Not awkward. Just full.
He looks at you, and you feel it. The shift. The way his gaze lingers a second too long, not just fond, but something deeper. He traces your features with his eyes like he’s memorizing them. Like he knows this might be a turning point and doesn’t want to miss it.
Then his gaze drops, just barely, to your lips.
A beat passes. Then another.
You don’t move. Neither does he.
But then, slowly, he leans in, not rushing, not hesitant either. His hand brushes the blanket where it rests between you, anchoring himself gently.
And instead of your lips, he presses a soft, warm kiss to your cheek.
Just there.
Just long enough to make your skin tingle.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
It leaves your heart skipping, your breath catching just slightly in your throat.
When he pulls back, he doesn’t look away, he stays close, his forehead nearly grazing yours now.
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Summary: revenge never tasted that good when you decide to get back at the man - who ran you over - with the worst punishment he could ever get, and despite all the grudge, maybe some time after, the grudge will gradually turn into something else..?
Genre: e21, biker jk, series ( slow-burn.), smut, fluff, angst.
Taglist: @binniesbabe @ennvfv @minimoninini
Moodboard 1 | Moodboard 2
Previous | Next
You’re not gawking.
You’re just double-checking your purse for the fifth time. ID, wallet, charger, lip balm, train passes, click, zip, done. But your eyes… well, they keep drifting. Specifically to where Seokjin’s standing near the window, shirtless, golden morning light spilling across the width of his back.
You’re not proud of it.
But the man has absurd shoulders. Defined, sun-kissed, and flexing casually every time he moves. And right now, he’s half-laughing at something Namjoon said, reaching for a hoodie and missing your stare by a few tragic seconds.
“Are we still doing the gallery first?” Natty asks from the couch, tying her shoelaces.
“Yeah,” Hoseok calls from the kitchen. “Yoongi wants to get coffee from that place next to the station. The one with the fox cookies.”
“Already dreaming about it,” Yoongi says, yawning as he walks past, also gloriously shirtless, a towel around his neck.
This apartment is a war zone. A toned, humid, half-naked war zone.
You look down at your purse again like it might give you strength.
“Has anyone seen my carry-on?” Jungkook’s voice cuts through the room like a slow drop of honey laced with static.
You look up.
And promptly forget how to breathe.
He’s barefoot, loose sweatpants slung low on his hips, and shirtless for the first time since you’ve known him. No hoodie, no layers. Just bare skin and black ink and the morning sun spilling down his torso like it’s been waiting for this moment, too.
His tattoos crawl over his chest and down his arm, beautiful, sprawling, dizzying. You hadn’t realized how many he had. You hadn’t realized how much you wanted to see them.
Jungkook rummages through a suitcase in the corner, oblivious to the tension rippling through your body like electricity.
“Didn’t peg you as the type to travel so lightly,” Namjoon comments without looking up from his phone.
“I packed last minute.” Jungkook stands upright, stretching slightly, and that’s when he catches you staring.
Too late to look away.
Your eyes lock.
His brow lifts, just barely. A flicker of amusement. His mouth curves, lazy and knowing. He doesn’t say anything, just watches you for half a second longer than necessary before walking past, bag in hand, headed to the bedroom.
The air feels ten degrees hotter when the door clicks shut behind him.
Natty glances up at you from the couch with a small, sharp smile.
You clear your throat and grab your sunglasses like they’ve personally offended you.
“I’m ready,” you announce, though you very much are not.
—-
It hasn’t even been an hour, and this trip is already beginning to unravel.
Not publicly. Not in a way anyone could point out or name.
But you can feel it.
You’re walking a little slower than usual, the cold making your leg ache beneath the layers. Snow crunches beneath your boots. The sky is soft and gray, the ancient buildings of Kyoto rising quietly around you, roofs tipped with frost, steam curling out from little shop windows like an invitation.
And every few minutes, Seokjin turns to you.
“Is your leg okay?”
“Do you want to rest for a bit?”
“Should we stop somewhere warm first?”
His voice is gentle, and his hand hovers near your back every time you step off a curb. He isn’t overbearing, just thoughtful. Too thoughtful. Enough that you start to feel like you’re under glass.
You smile and wave him off. “I’m fine.”
“Still,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to push yourself just because we’re walking.”
You nod once, but you’re hyper-aware of the eyes on you. From your other side.
Jungkook says nothing.
At least not at first.
But when you pause slightly to adjust your coat and Seokjin starts to slow down with you, Jungkook cuts in with a sharp, “God, do you want me to carry you?”
You blink.
“I was just—”
“I mean, I could,” he continues, deadpan. “Just throw you over my shoulder. Saves time. I’m sure it’s very culturally appropriate.”
Hoseok snorts from up ahead.
“Thanks, I’ll pass,” you mutter.
Jungkook just shrugs like he doesn’t care either way, but he drops half a step behind you, not quite walking beside you anymore, but not ahead either. Just close enough to keep pace. Close enough to watch.
He watches Seokjin laugh at something you said, head tilted slightly, smile soft. Watches him walk beside you like it’s easy. Like it’s natural.
Like he’s earned that place.
And maybe he has. Maybe Seokjin hasn’t spent the last month arguing with you in too-small kitchens and brushing past you in quiet hallways and pretending he doesn’t notice the way you breathe when you’re upset.
Maybe he hasn’t watched you cry through gritted teeth at 3 a.m. because your leg felt like it was burning from the inside.
Maybe he hasn’t seen you in oversized hoodies, eyes swollen from sleep, dragging Coco across the carpet because she won’t stop chasing that stupid toy mouse.
Jungkook kicks at a chunk of snow on the sidewalk.
Seokjin glances back again. “Are we even going the right way?”
“Yeah,” Jungkook mutters. “I checked.”
Seokjin raises an eyebrow. “I mean, maybe we should double-check.”
“I checked.”
His voice comes out clipped.
You glance over your shoulder, eyes flicking between them like you’re reading a room no one else knows exists.
And Jungkook doesn’t like that Seokjin’s the one who gets to walk beside you. Doesn’t like how easily he talks to you, how careful he is, how his hand almost touches yours every time you cross the street.
He doesn’t like it at all.
He watches the way Seokjin leans in when he talks to you, his voice all warm and smooth, low enough that no one else hears. Watches the way you laugh, not loud, but real. The way your fingers tug the sleeve of your coat down tighter over your wrist as the wind picks up.
Seokjin notices too, of course.
“Are you cold?” he asks, already starting to unzip his jacket. “I brought gloves if—”
“She’s fine,” Jungkook cuts in.
Your head snaps toward him.
So does Seokjin’s.
Jungkook keeps his eyes forward, shoving his hands into his pockets like he hasn’t just snapped at a guy for offering you gloves. Like it’s not ridiculous. Like he’s not being ridiculous.
“She said she was fine earlier,” Jungkook adds, quieter this time.
“Yeah,” you murmur, clearly annoyed, “because that’s what I say every time I don’t want to talk about it in front of everyone.”
Jungkook bites the inside of his cheek. Hard.
They stop at a corner, waiting for a small group of tourists to pass. A wooden sign in front of a narrow alley reads Coffee & Sweets, 100m. Seokjin points it out.
Jungkook sees you lean slightly on your good leg, testing the pressure on the other, and despite the way his jaw is locked tight, he steps toward you without thinking.
“Here.” He shrugs off his scarf and tosses it at you. Not a gentle offer. Just a flick of fabric across your arms, quick, like a reflex. “Don’t start whining about frostbite later.”
You blink at him. “I wasn’t—”
“I know,” he mutters, already turning away, cheeks burning. “Just take it.”
You do. You don’t thank him, not out loud. But you wind it around your neck anyway, and somehow that makes it worse.
Seokjin watches all of it. Silently. Smiling.
Smiling.
Jungkook hates how easy it is for him. Hates the way Seokjin always knows the right thing to say, the gentle way he leans toward you without crossing any lines. Like he knows exactly what you need, without ever needing to raise his voice or roll his eyes or try.
It’s too perfect. Too measured.
Too much like someone who hasn’t been forced to live in your orbit long enough to know how sharp your edges really are.
He’s been there for that. For all of it.
And now Seokjin gets to waltz into Kyoto and play the part like it’s some vacation romance.
Like you’re someone he’s just getting to know.
Jungkook feels his chest tighten. Not with anger. With something worse.
You stumble slightly on a curb.
Seokjin reaches out, quick and easy, his hand on your elbow. “You okay?”
You nod. “Just the ankle.”
Jungkook says nothing.
But he watches. And he clenches his fists. And the scarf around your neck suddenly feels like a cruel joke.
—-
The bell above the door jingles softly as you step inside the café, the warmth curling around you like a welcome.
It’s tiny, one of those hidden Kyoto gems tucked between an alley and a closed bookstore. Paper lanterns dangle low from the ceiling, and the smell of roasted beans and vanilla sugar hangs in the air. There are maybe four small tables and a long counter displaying intricate fox-shaped cookies behind the glass.
You all squeeze into a corner booth, coats rustling, cheeks flushed from the cold. Seokjin slides in beside you while Jungkook flops into the seat across, his arms crossed, eyes scanning the room like he’s trying not to be impressed.
A waitress passes by with two trays and murmurs something in soft, lilting Japanese.
“We have to order at the counter,” Namjoon says, already pulling out his wallet.
“I can go,” you say, pushing gently against the table to stand.
“You shouldn’t,” Seokjin cuts in, hand on your arm. “Just rest your leg for a bit. I’ll go instead.”
You force a smile. “I’m okay. Really.”
“You’ve been walking for a while—”
“I said I’m okay.” You gesture toward the display. “I just want to see what they have.”
His hand drops reluctantly, and for a moment, you feel a flicker of guilt. But then you glance toward Jungkook, arms still crossed, jaw tight, mouth pressed into that unreadable line.
You look directly at him.
“Come with me?”
His head lifts slightly. “Me?”
“No, the other grumpy guy glaring at pastries.”
Yoongi lets out a snort. “She means you, dumbass.”
Jungkook grumbles something under his breath but slides out of the booth, brushing past Seokjin without looking at him. You walk side by side toward the counter, the wooden floor creaking beneath your steps.
The menu is handwritten in both Japanese and English, delicate ink strokes and tiny illustrations next to each item. You pretend to scan it. But you don’t really see any of it.
Not when you’re this aware of him standing just beside you, close enough to feel the heat of his shoulder next to yours.
“I didn’t actually need help,” you murmur.
He doesn’t look at you. “Figured.”
You turn slightly. “I wanted to talk.”
“That’s never a good sign.”
“Jungkook.”
He finally looks at you, eyebrows raised, defensive already.
You lower your voice, careful not to draw attention. “You need to go easy on Seokjin.”
He blinks once, then snorts. “That what this is about?”
“You’ve been tense since the morning. Snapping, rolling your eyes, making jabs—”
“I haven’t said anything that’s not true.”
“You’re acting like he’s the enemy.”
“Maybe he is.”
Your lips part, surprised by how fast he said that. How sharp it came out.
He sighs and looks away, jaw clenched. “He hovers around you like you’re about to fall apart.”
“He’s just being kind.”
“He’s being performative.”
You take a step back. “Excuse me?”
“Everyone sees it,” he mutters. “You’re the only one who doesn’t.”
You fold your arms. “No, you just don’t like that someone else is looking after me. Someone who doesn’t treat it like a chore.”
His expression hardens. “Is that what you think I’m doing? A chore?”
You hesitate. You didn’t mean to say it like that.
Jungkook shakes his head, scoffing under his breath. “Wow.”
“Jungkook—”
“No, really.” He steps forward, voice low. “you know what you’re absolutely right, it was a chore, you think I’m on this stupid trip because I felt obligated?”
You look down, suddenly unsteady. “You know what I meant—”
“I do.” His voice is soft now, quieter. But not gentler. “I could’ve walked away right after you started therapy and took your cast off, but I didn’t. You know why?”
You don’t answer.
His eyes search yours for a moment longer, then he pulls away. “Forget it. Doesn’t matter.”
You feel the words slip through your fingers before you can catch them. You want to stop him, rewind the moment, rephrase everything.
But he’s already turning slightly toward the counter again.
“No—” you reach for his sleeve, stopping him. “Don’t do that. Don’t shut down like that.”
His eyes flick back to you, guarded. “Why not?”
“Because I’m trying to talk to you, Jungkook. I didn’t come over here to start a fight.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” he mutters. “He gets to be charming. Sweet. The good guy. He shows up at the airport and suddenly it’s like I was never there.”
Your throat tightens. “That’s not fair.”
“No,” he agrees, bitter. “It’s not.”
There’s a silence between you now. Loud and sharp.
You step in closer. “You think I don’t notice the things you do? That I don’t see it? Jungkook, I.. I rely on you.”
He doesn’t meet your eyes.
“That’s the problem,” he says softly.
You blink. “What?”
“I don’t want to be someone you rely on, like a crutch you’ll toss aside once you can walk properly again.”
You don’t know what to say to that.
Because there’s truth in it, ugly, complicated truth that you’ve been avoiding since the day you stopped calling him annoying and started realizing how quiet the house felt when he wasn’t in it.
He exhales sharply. “Forget it. Just… let’s order.”
He turns to the counter before you can respond.
“Seven fox cookies,” he says, voice tight. “And seven cappuccinos.”
You stand beside him, silent now. Because there’s nothing you can say here, not in front of strangers and sugar-dusted glass cases and the space between you that feels heavier than ever.
You wanted to talk. Instead, you’ve peeled something raw.
And there’s no taking it back.
The smell of espresso and caramel hangs in the air, but it does nothing to warm the space between you.
You stand beside him, both of you facing the counter, arms crossed, shoulders tense, the silence heavy and unresolved. The fox cookies are being boxed behind the counter. Your cappuccino is being poured with slow, careful swirls of foam. It should be a cozy moment. It isn’t.
You glance at him from the corner of your eye. He doesn’t look back.
His jaw is tight. His brows slightly furrowed, like he’s focusing too hard on nothing at all.
So you ask it.
Quietly. Flatly.
“So what, you want me to stay away from Seokjin?”
His head turns slowly toward you, lips parting like you’ve knocked the wind out of him.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
He’s quiet for a moment. Then: “That’s not what I want.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Could’ve fooled me.”
He exhales through his nose. “What I want is for you to notice the difference.”
Your brows pull together. “What difference?”
“Between someone who’s just trying to impress you for a week… and someone who’s been here the whole time.”
You stare at him.
His eyes meet yours now, completely, openly. No sarcasm, no mask. Just him.
And for a second, it’s too much.
Because it’s true, isn’t it?
He’s been there. Through the ugly. The annoying. The hard days. He saw you at your worst and stayed anyway. He didn’t show up with compliments and soft gloves, he showed up with gritted teeth and soup he pretended was takeout because he was worried you’d say no otherwise.
You swallow, your voice smaller now. “You think I don’t see that?”
“I don’t know what you see,” he says, a little too honestly. “Sometimes I think I do. Then… someone else shows up and I feel like I’m watching you vanish into a version of yourself I don’t recognize.”
You look away.
“I’m not vanishing,” you say, quietly. “I’m trying to be normal.”
“I liked you before you tried.”
Your heart stumbles. So does your mouth.
“I…” You shake your head slightly. “That’s not fair.”
“I’m not trying to be fair.” His voice is low, quiet enough that only you hear. “I’m just trying to be honest. For once.”
Before you can respond, the barista returns, placing the tray gently on the counter. Jungkook lifts the tray silently, nodding once in thanks.
And without another word, he turns back toward the table.
You watch him go, heart pounding, throat tight, fingers twitching at your sides.
The words echo in your head like they’re bouncing off the walls of a too-small room.
I liked you before you tried.
Tried what?
Tried to walk again without wincing?
Tried to put on makeup and fix your hair this morning so you didn’t look like the version of yourself that limped around the apartment in oversized clothes and slept too much?
Tried to act normal with Seokjin, laugh at his jokes, make conversation that didn’t revolve around pain or dependency or emotional landmines?
You stare at the tiny steam swirl rising from your cappuccino, but all you can feel is the heat rising in your chest.
Because it wasn’t just a line.
It was loaded. Quietly, casually devastating. And the worst part is, he probably doesn’t even know it.
He didn’t say it to be cruel. He said it like it was obvious. Like he was just stating a fact.
And now you’re stuck in this moment, heart beating too fast, trying to decode everything behind that single sentence.
Did he mean you were more real before?
Did he mean you’re fake now?
Did he mean you’re better broken?
A flicker of shame claws up your spine.
You try to tell yourself it’s nothing. That it’s just Jungkook, and he always says things like thishalf-sarcastic, half-serious, mostly guarded. But no. This was different.
I liked you before you tried.
Like trying made you less.
Like effort made you harder to love.
You blink once. Twice. Then follow him back to the table slowly, the weight of that sentence stretching itself across your shoulders, wrapping tight around your ribs.
He slides into the booth again, as if nothing happened.
You sit across from him.
But you’re not really sitting across from him.
You’re stuck in that space between who you were before the accident and who you’re trying to become again. And suddenly, you don’t know which version of yourself he’s waiting to see.
Or which one you’re allowed to be.
Jungkook is already speaking with Namjoon across the table, pointing at the map on someone’s phone, his voice back to normal, maybe a little too normal. You try not to look at him. Not when your head is still spinning with what he said.
I liked you before you tried.
You take a slow sip, burning your tongue slightly, and force a breath through your nose.
It’s fine. You’re fine.
You nod at whatever Natty says next to you, though you don’t actually hear the words. She’s talking about a matcha place she found online, how it’s supposedly run by a monk who also teaches calligraphy. Yoongi’s making jokes about starting a matcha cult. Hoseok is showing off photos from last night’s dinner, all smiles and messy chopsticks.
Laughter bounces around the table.
Except from you.
You smile when you’re supposed to, but it feels like it doesn’t reach.
Then Seokjin leans in.
His hand brushes gently behind your chair, palm resting casually on the wood, his body angled toward you like you’re sharing a secret. “Still hurting?” he asks softly, voice meant only for you.
You nod slightly.
His hand drops to the back of your seat, fingers drumming lightly near your shoulder.
“Let me know if you want to leave early. We can take it slow today,” he adds.
You force a smile. “I’m okay.”
He doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t push.
Instead, he plucks a napkin from the holder on the table and folds it in half, handing it to you without a word when a bit of foam catches at the edge of your lip.
You blink. “Thanks.”
He grins. “You’ll owe me one. Maybe a photo later. You and the fox cookie.”
You try to laugh. It comes out too soft.
Beside you, Natty’s already leaning in with her phone. “Okay, everyone, scoot. Group picture, right now. You’re not allowed to be cute without documentation.”
Seokjin’s hand drifts down from the chair to rest lightly behind your waist as everyone crowds together in the frame. You’re suddenly surrounded, shoulders brushing, cheeks touching, laughter rising again. Natty’s saying something about filters, Yoongi’s complaining that he blinked, Hoseok’s doing peace signs in three directions at once.
You don’t look at Jungkook.
But you feel him.
Across from you, quiet, unmoving, arms crossed again.
When you finally glance up, he’s already looking away.
And that hurts more than it should.
Seokjin’s voice comes close to your ear again. “You sure you’re alright?”
You nod.
But you’re not. Not even close.
You’re overthinking everything, your smile, your silence, the heat creeping up your neck every time Jungkook won’t meet your eyes. Seokjin’s warmth is steady and safe, like a hand you could take if you let yourself.
You step out of the café, bundled up again in coats and scarves, the air sharp and biting against your cheeks. The sky is bright but soft, winter sunlight diffused by drifting clouds. Snow crunches lightly underfoot as you all meander toward the little side street Natty insists holds the “cutest bookstore in the city.”
Seokjin walks close, his hand briefly brushing the small of your back whenever the sidewalk narrows, his steps adjusting to your pace without comment. He doesn’t ask again if your leg hurts, he doesn’t need to. He’s already adjusting, already aware.
You glance at him as he speaks to Namjoon up ahead, animated and teasing, his laughter easy. The sun catches in his hair. His nose is pink from the cold. He looks… soft. Not in the weak way. In the safe way.
Maybe that’s what you need right now.
Something simple. Something safe.
And still, your eyes flick sideways, searching instinctively.
Jungkook is trailing a little behind, earbuds in one ear. His coat hangs open over his hoodie, tattoos just barely peeking out from where the sleeves are shoved up.
He isn’t looking at you.
Not once.
You feel the twist again in your chest. You hate it. You’re mad at him, still stung from what he said. But part of you wants him to look. Just to check. To prove he still sees you.
“Is this it?” Natty calls out suddenly, pointing to a narrow wooden storefront with foggy windows and tiny hand-painted lettering. A carved wooden fox sits in the display.
“Of course there’s a fox,” Yoongi mutters.
The bell chimes as you all step in.
Warmth wraps around you like a blanket. The store smells of dust and ink and something floral, maybe incense. Shelves line the walls from floor to ceiling, Japanese titles, a few English sections, tables stacked with postcards and calligraphy brushes.
Everyone spreads out naturally. Natty and Hoseok make a beeline for the manga corner. Namjoon’s already kneeling to read the spines of translated poetry collections.
Seokjin leans in with a smile. “Want to look upstairs? The girl at the counter said they’ve got old art books and first editions.”
You hesitate. “I probably shouldn’t do stairs too much.”
His smile softens. “I’ll help you. C’mon. If it hurts, we’ll come right back down.”
And maybe it’s the warmth of the place, or the quiet of it, or the way you’re tired of thinking so much, but you nod.
You let him guide you gently up the creaking wooden steps, one hand hovering behind your back like a steadying promise. You don’t look back.
You don’t need to know if Jungkook is watching.
You just need to know if you can feel something here.
If letting Seokjin get close could ease this ache even slightly.
The second floor is small and dusty and filled with warm lamplight. You wander slowly together between shelves, your fingers trailing over the cracked spines of forgotten novels and hand-stitched paper.
Seokjin picks up a weathered print of a painting and nudges it toward you. “Looks like you, a little.”
You scoff. “How?”
“She looks like she’s hiding something,” he says, eyes sparkling. “But it’s beautiful anyway.”
You turn away quickly, trying not to let the compliment settle where it shouldn’t.
But something tugs at you. Not the warmth of his words. Not the way he’s looking at you.
No, it’s the sound you thought you imagined: footsteps on the stairs.
Heavy. Familiar.
You don’t look.
You don’t have to.
Your body knows before your mind does. A prickle climbs the back of your neck, and your first instinct, your first, is to take a step away from Seokjin. To put distance. To pretend nothing’s happening. Nothing is close. Nothing is new.
You don’t.
You stay exactly where you are, shoulders squared.
You turn instead to the shelf in front of you, fingers landing on a worn copy of his favorite manga series, spine cracked, well-loved.
You hesitate, then slide both books off the shelf.
“These are Jungkook’s favorites,” you say without thinking, your voice too quick, too casual. “He wanted to get them for so long but they were sold out.”
Seokjin glances at the covers, then at you, but says nothing.
You grip the books tighter and finally turn, only to find Jungkook already there.
He’s paused a few steps away, not interrupting, just… watching. His eyes flick from the books in your hand to Seokjin’s proximity to you. His jaw clenches, but it doesn’t last.
When your eyes meet, something shifts.
His shoulders drop ever so slightly. His expression eases, not warm, not cold. Just… quiet.
You hold the books up, like a peace offering.
“These were just sitting there.”
He blinks, slowly. “Yeah?”
You nod. “I figured… you probably don’t have this edition.”
His gaze lingers on your face, unreadable. Then he walks forward and takes the books gently from your hands.
His fingers brush yours.
It’s quick. Brief. Stupid how much it stings.
“Thanks,” he murmurs. The word is soft. Real.
You turn before you can say something dumb, like I wanted to make you smile again.
Downstairs, the register is empty except for a quiet man flipping through a sudoku puzzle behind the counter. You place the books there before Jungkook can stop you.
He tries. “Wait, I can get them—”
You shake your head. “Nope. You’ll get the next one.”
The man behind the counter raises an amused brow but says nothing as he wraps them carefully in thick brown paper, looping twine around them twice and tying a perfect little knot.
Jungkook stands beside you, watching quietly.
And when you finally step outside again into the cold, the wind biting at your cheeks and the snow still falling soft, he’s the one walking beside you.
Not saying much.
But not letting anyone else take your other side.
—
The bookstore is behind you, tucked under snowfall and laughter. Everyone’s moving ahead, Yoongi and Namjoon talking about some political book, Natty dragging Seokjin toward a shop that sells rice-flour sweets shaped like tiny animals.
But Jungkook walks faster than all of them.
He always does. Like he’s trying to outrun something.
You quicken your pace, ignoring the dull ache in your leg, and catch up just enough to reach forward and wrap your fingers gently around his wrist.
“Hey,” you breathe, voice low. “Wait up.”
He stops instantly.
You feel his pulse under your fingers. Quick. Alive.
You let go just as fast.
“Can we… slow down?” you ask, glancing over your shoulder. “Let them get ahead a little.”
His eyes narrow slightly, skeptical. “Why?”
You shrug. “I just want a minute. Without everyone.”
He doesn’t move for a second, then gives a slow nod. You both step to the edge of the street, where a narrow little ledge lines a fence. You sit on it, wincing slightly, and he follows without a word, settling beside you.
The snow is still falling, softer now, flakes catching in his hair. You want to brush them away but don’t.
You glance down at your boots, then back at him. “You okay?”
He snorts. “I should be asking you that.”
“I mean it.”
He shrugs, looking away. “I’m fine. I’ve just… had enough bookstores for today.”
You laugh, and it surprises both of you. “Yeah, right. You were holding your manga like a newborn baby.”
He rolls his eyes, but his mouth twitches. The corner lifts, and there it is, his real smile. The one that shows up like a secret.
You hold that moment gently.
“I know I’m a pain sometimes,” you say softly. “And demanding. And messy. And I complain too much. And you probably regret hitting me with your bike more than anything—”
“Yeah..,” he interrupts, brows raised. “Sometimes.”
“But,” you go on, smirking, “you’ve been a great friend, Jungkook. Like, really.”
His smile fades just a little.
You lean in without thinking, lips brushing the side of his cheek. Barely a touch.
A thank you.
A kind one.
He goes still.
The cold doesn’t touch him.
He’s still caught in that moment, your lips brushing his cheek, soft and fleeting, like a secret you didn’t mean to share. Like it was nothing.
But it didn’t feel like nothing.
His skin still burns where you kissed him.
You’re already walking ahead, not limping enough for anyone else to notice. But he notices. He sees the way your shoulder dips slightly with each step, how you shift your weight to protect your leg, how you fake strength out of pride.
You always do that, pretend you’re fine. Push through it like pain makes you weak.
But you let him see the cracks. Always him.
And then you call him a friend.
He should be grateful. He is, in a way. After everything, the accident, the insults, the stubbornness, you still choose to be near him. You still smile. You still tease.
You still kissed him.
But you kissed him like a thank-you. Like a pat on the head. Like it didn’t matter.
That part stings more than it should.
Because he’s been trying not to want more. Not to think about what it would feel like if that kiss had landed a few inches to the left. If your lips had stayed. If your hands weren’t just grateful, but wanting.
Bittersweet is too soft a word for what he feels.
It’s bitter, watching you walk ahead like you didn’t just knock the wind out of him.
And it’s sweet, because you looked back.
Because even when you moved forward, you slowed down just for him.
He jogs quietly to catch up, falling into step beside you like he always does. It’s automatic now.
Because no matter how many times he tells himself it’s fine, that this is enough, that you’re just grateful, he knows the truth.
He doesn’t want to be your friend.
He wants to be something that makes you stop walking altogether.
He wants to be the reason you stay.
—-
Midnight wraps around the city in a hush, laughter and tired chatter echo like a heartbeat. You’re all walking back, some slower than others, a little tipsy, bellies full, cheeks warm from drinks and the late-night breeze. Natty insists on stopping by a nearby convenience store. “I need sweet chips or I’ll die,” she announces dramatically, and somehow, that sparks a ten-minute debate about which kind of chips are superior.
You all end up walking back with armfuls of snacks and instant ramen and drinks, plastic bags crinkling like firecrackers in your hands.
The warmth of the house hits the moment you walk in. Shoes off, jackets peeled away, bags dropped. Someone turns on the aircon and another opens a window, but it’s still warmer inside than anyone expected. You sink into the big living room with the others, Yoongi stretching out on one side of the L-shaped couch, Hoseok sitting cross-legged on the rug already tearing open snack packs, and Namjoon disappearing into the kitchen to grab cups for everyone.
Some of the guys begin pulling off hoodies, loosening collars and shaking out their hair, the quiet kind of comfortable that only comes from hours spent together without tension. The floor’s littered with convenience store food, empty water bottles, and wrappers.
Your eyes find Jungkook without meaning to.
He’s sitting close to Yoongi now, long legs sprawled lazily in front of him, one arm resting over the back of the couch. He’s animated, eyes shining a little brighter than usual. Whatever Yoongi said must’ve triggered something in him, because he looks… happy. Not loud or wild, just genuinely engaged, deep in a subject that clearly matters to him. You don’t catch the details, just a few scattered words, “processing time,” “light rendering,” “crazy if it syncs right”, but the glow in his face is hard to miss.
You forget the beer in your hand. Just watch him.
You shift the heat pack in your lap, sipping your beer slowly, conscious of Seokjin’s presence beside you.
He’s leaning back, thigh brushing yours lightly as he watches the room. His fingers tap the side of his can. “You know,” he says after a beat, “I’ve been on a lot of trips like this. But it’s different with you around.”
You give him a look, skeptical but amused. “Different how?”
He shrugs, his gaze warm and annoyingly unreadable. “Just is.”
You want to laugh it off. You should. But instead, you glance toward the other end of the room, where Jungkook is still deep in conversation with Yoongi, one hand gesturing midair like he’s painting invisible shapes, explaining something with quiet intensity. Yoongi nods every so often, thoughtful, until he finally says something that makes Jungkook laugh, really laugh, and lean back like he can’t help it.
You bite the inside of your cheek.
He looks good like this. Happy. Relaxed. The kind of happy you haven’t seen on him since the accident.
And yet he stayed.
Every day. Every night. Every version of you, quiet, angry, broken, ridiculous, he took it all. Without asking for anything in return.
Not even this trip was his idea. He came because of you. Because you were going.
You feel the weight of that now.
“Hey,” Seokjin says gently, nudging you. “Where’d you go?”
You blink back to the moment. “Nowhere. Just tired.”
He studies you for a second too long. “You want me to get you something? Water? Another pack?”
“I’m okay,” you murmur. And then, without really thinking: “Thanks for… trying.”
He tilts his head. “Trying what?”
You smile, faint but real. “To be kind to me.”
Seokjin says nothing to that, but his hand lingers on your knee a beat too long before he pulls it back, brushing nonexistent dust from his jeans.
Across the room, Jungkook’s voice lowers, like he’s said something more private. Yoongi smiles knowingly, but Jungkook’s eyes drift, just for a moment, toward you. You feel it before you even meet his gaze.
And when you do… he looks away first.
—
The room is dim, lit only by the faint strip of moonlight seeping through the curtains. Everyone else in the house has gone quiet, muffled doors closing, one final laugh from the hallway, someone brushing their teeth in the bathroom down the hall.
And now, silence.
Jungkook lies on one of the twin beds, a thin blanket tossed haphazardly over his legs, staring up at the ceiling like it’s done something to offend him.
He’s tried to sleep. Really, he has.
He turned off his phone. Shut his eyes. Took three slow breaths. Even tried thinking about the river walk, the soft wind, the way the lights shimmered on the water. But none of it helps. The image that sticks, unshakable, unwanted, is you, curled up with Seokjin on the couch, a heat pack on your lap, laughing at something he said.
Jungkook shifts onto his side. The sheets are too warm. The pillow too flat. His mind louder than ever.
Across the room, Seokjin is still up, standing in front of the dresser in pajama pants and a white shirt that rides up every time he lifts his arms. He’s moving slowly, deliberately, as if he’s performing some kind of bedtime ritual for an audience.
Jungkook watches from the corner of his eye, expression unreadable.
He brushes his teeth forever.
He triple-checks that his phone is charging.
He applies something to his face, skincare, of course he does, and stares into the little travel mirror like he’s preparing for a stage role instead of bed.
Jungkook bites the inside of his cheek.
He knows this isn’t fair. Seokjin is nice. Seokjin is considerate. Seokjin has been trying.
“Still awake?” Seokjin asks suddenly, glancing over as he clicks his watch onto the nightstand.
Jungkook shuts his eyes. Pretends.
“I saw you talking to Yoongi for a while,” Seokjin continues, tone light. “What was that about? Looked intense.”
Jungkook doesn’t move. He keeps his breathing even, silent. Like if he says one word, everything will spill out.
Eventually, Seokjin gives up. Climbs into the other bed. The mattress creaks once. Twice. Then goes still.
Jungkook opens his eyes to the dark ceiling.
And lies there, wide awake, feeling like he’s losing something that was never his to begin with.
It’s past midnight.
Deep into the kind of stillness that only comes when a house full of people finally exhales.
But Jungkook is still awake.
He lies on his back, arms folded under his head, staring into the dark like he’s trying to carve holes into it. The soft sound of Seokjin’s breathing fills the room, slow, even, deep. The man had fallen asleep fast, which felt like a personal insult.
Jungkook’s jaw clenches slightly as he hears the occasional shift of the bed against the far wall.
Then again.
A soft, rhythmic scrape. Stop. Then another, more urgent. Then silence.
At first, he thinks he imagined it. Then it comes again, a faint creak followed by something muffled, maybe a breath. Maybe a hiss.
His body reacts before his brain catches up.
He glances at Seokjin, still in bed, still sleeping, one arm flung over his stomach, the blanket a mess around his legs. Good. That means it’s not him over there.
Jungkook throws the blanket off and sits up carefully, listening. The floor beneath him is cool against his feet as he crosses the room in near silence. He presses his ear against the shared wall.
And there it is again.
A low, bitten-off sound. A quiet, stifled groan. Pain.
He doesn’t think. Just acts.
He knocks gently, twice, with his fingernails, soft enough to be a whisper. The response is instant. The bed creaks again. Another hushed sound. Then nothing.
He slides the door open a fraction and steps into the dim light.
Your room is barely lit, just the faint glow of a nightlight by the hallway door. Natty is curled up under the covers, knocked out completely, face turned toward the wall. Her breathing is even.
But you—
You’re sitting up in bed, hair tangled from sleep, one hand clutching your thigh just above your knee. Your jaw is tight, and your other hand is braced against the mattress, fingers curled. You’re doing your best not to make a sound, but your whole posture screams pain.
You flinch, then relax a little when you realize it’s him. “It’s fine,” you whisper quickly. “It’s just—my leg. I think I overdid it today.”
“You think?” He kneels beside the bed without another word, scanning your face in the low light. “You’re sweating.”
“I’m not—” you start, but then wince, the ache pulsing through your knee again. Your voice lowers into a breathless whisper. “Okay. Maybe I’m sweating a little.”
Jungkook vanishes for two seconds and comes back with a bottle of water and one of the instant ice packs from the hallway freezer drawer.
He presses the bottle into your hand and tears the ice pack open with his teeth, cracking it, then shaking it until the cold settles in. You take a sip with a quiet sigh, grateful.
“You took anything for it?”
You nod. “An hour ago. Didn’t help much.”
“You should’ve said something earlier,” he mutters, moving to position the ice pack carefully over your knee. His hands are gentle. “You’re not trying to impress anyone.”
You gesture vaguely. “Everyone seemed fine. I didn’t want to ruin the night.”
He gives you a look. “The night is over. And it’s your leg, not the economy. You’re allowed to say something.”
You grin despite yourself, teeth pressing into your bottom lip.
He adjusts the pack, his fingers lingering against your skin.
“Seokjin gave you a heat pack earlier, right?” he murmurs.
“Yeah.”
A pause. Then a faint scoff. “I thought he was a therapist. He should know you need an ice pack.”
You stifle a laugh, biting your knuckle to stay quiet. “Be nice.”
“I’m being educational.”
You shake your head, but your smile lasts longer this time.
He stays beside your bed, one hand rubbing over your thigh with slow, measured pressure, just above where the pain radiates. It’s soothing. Steady. Not too much.
The silence between you stretches. But it’s not uncomfortable.
If anything… it feels safe.
You glance at Natty, still sound asleep.
Then back at Jungkook, crouched on the floor in his loose shirt and sleep-warm eyes, rubbing slow, careful circles into your leg.
He hasn’t shaved in a day. There’s a faint shadow on his jaw.
And there’s something different about him right now, unfiltered. Focused. Present.
“Don’t you think this is weird?” you whisper after a beat.
“What?”
“You, being here like this. In the middle of the night. Touching me.”
He raises an eyebrow. “I’m helping you.”
“You’re rubbing my leg.”
“Therapeutically.”
You narrow your eyes.
Jungkook rolls his lips together, biting back a smirk. “Would you rather it be Seokjin?”
You blink.
“I mean,” he says, eyes dropping to your knee again as he continues rubbing, casual but sharp around the edges, “he’s the one who gave you the heat pack. Maybe he’d love the chance to, what did he say? ‘make this trip different’ for you.”
“Jungkook.”
“I’m just saying.”
You laugh under your breath, even as you slap his arm lightly. “You’re such an idiot.”
His voice softens and he gives you this look. “I am.”
You freeze.
But before you can answer, or overthink the meaning of it, he leans back on his heels and checks the ice pack, his touch gentle.
“It’s getting colder,” he says. “That should help.”
“It is,” you admit.
He stays like that for a little longer, kneeling on the floor, shoulders relaxed, not looking at you.
You watch him in the quiet.
“Hey,” you whisper finally. “You don’t have to stay down there. Come lie down next to me. The floor’s freezing.”
His head lifts slightly, his brows pulling together.
“What?”
“Just here,” you murmur. “Like… just for a minute. I don’t want you to go yet.”
Jungkook hesitates.
Then shakes his head slowly. “It’s weird.”
“It’s not weird.”
“It’s a little weird,” he says, almost smiling, but you hear the tension beneath it. “You’ll wake up and regret it. Or Natty will wake up and scream. Either way, I’m not dying on this hill.”
You don’t push it. Just breathe in, slowly, letting the cool settle into your skin.
He tucks the blanket a little tighter around your leg. Stays kneeling beside you for a few more seconds, his hand resting on the bed now.
Then he stands. Quiet. Calm.
You watch him retreat toward the door, heart heavy in a way you don’t know how to name.
He pauses before stepping out, glancing over his shoulder.
“If you need anything,” he says quietly, “just knock on the wall. I’ll be there in seconds.”
Then he slips out, leaving only the whisper of his warmth behind.
The door shuts behind him with a quiet click, and Jungkook exhales like he’s been holding his breath the entire time.
He walks back to his room in the dark, bare feet silent on the warm floorboards. The hallway feels endless, his mind louder than his footsteps. When he slips back inside and eases the door shut behind him, Seokjin hasn’t moved an inch. Still sprawled on his bed, mouth slightly open in deep, undisturbed sleep.
Jungkook sits on the edge of his own bed for a moment.
The room feels stuffy again.
Too quiet.
Too still.
He scrubs a hand down his face and finally lays back, folding his arm over his eyes. The cold of the ice pack still lingers on his fingers. Or maybe it’s your warmth that’s lingering instead, the press of your thigh beneath his palm, the softness in your voice when you whisper his name. The way you said, “Just come lie down next to me.”
Like it was nothing.
Like it wouldn’t destroy him.
His teeth press into his lower lip.
Because of course he said no. Of course he backed away. What else was he supposed to do? Slide under the blanket and pretend that wouldn’t mean something? That it wouldn’t unspool all the threads he’s spent weeks trying to knot together? You don’t get it. Or maybe you do, and that’s worse.
This is what you do.
You smile and thank him and look at him like he’s the only person in the room, and then say friend.
You kiss his cheek like it means nothing.
You stare at him too long and invite him to stay and say it’s not weird when everything about this is breaking him.
It’s the softest kind of cruelty.
Because it would be easier if you were cold. If you kept him at arm’s length. If you didn’t pull him close just to gently put him back in his place.
But no.
You keep making it harder.
Keep confusing him.
Keep saying one thing and doing another. And he keeps letting you. Every single time.
Jungkook turns over sharply, dragging the blanket higher. The bed groans beneath him, but Seokjin doesn’t stir. He stares at the wall now, the one that separates his bed from yours. Just plaster and paint and insulation. A few inches of space. That’s it.
He wonders if you’re sleeping now.
If your leg still hurts.
If you meant it when you asked him to stay.
His fingers curl into the sheets, restless.
You’d looked so small in that bed, cradling the ice pack like it was the only thing tethering you to the moment. And when you looked up at him, said his name in that voice, raw, tired, trusting, he felt something break in his chest. Again.
It breaks in new places every time.
He breathes through his nose. Stares at the ceiling again. His body won’t relax. Not when he’s filled to the brim with almosts.
Almost laying down next to you.
Almost brushing his lips against your temple.
Almost saying what he actually feels instead of hiding it behind teasing and sarcastic jabs.
This trip was supposed to be easy.
He came here thinking maybe, maybe, it would help. That the change of scenery might quiet everything boiling inside him.
But it’s louder now than ever.
He shuts his eyes tight, hating the way his chest aches for someone who keeps tugging him close just to draw another line in the sand.
Still.
He knows, without hesitation, that if you knock on that wall, he’ll get up again. In a second.
Every time.
He always will.
—
The scent of coffee drifts through the house like a quiet invitation. One of the showers is running. Hoseok’s humming something off-key in the hallway. Someone’s grinding beans in the kitchen. And the rest are moving around in that warm, half-awake rhythm of people getting ready for breakfast.
Jungkook is already dressed, hoodie on, hair still damp from the shower, bag half-packed near the door.
But he’s not heading to the kitchen.
Instead, he walks quietly down the hall and stops in front of your door.
He hesitates.
Then knocks.
Twice. Soft.
“Are you alone?” he asks through the wood, his voice still low from sleep.
There’s a shuffle, a pause, then your voice: “Yeah. Natty’s downstairs.”
He slides the door open and steps inside.
You’re sitting on the edge of the bed in a loose tee and shorts, brushing your hair lazily with one hand. Your leg’s elevated on a pillow again, the ice pack nowhere in sight but the ache still visible in the way you lean slightly off it. You glance up when you see him.
“I’ll be ready in a minute,” you say, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Don’t rat me out.”
He shuts the door behind him, leaning lightly against it. “Not here to rat you out.”
Your eyes flick to him, sharp, warm, unreadable. “Then what?”
Jungkook runs a hand through his hair. He doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t sit down. Just watches you for a moment too long.
“Did you sleep well?” you ask eventually, reaching for a moisturizer by the window ledge.
He hesitates.
Then shakes his head once. “Not really.”
You hum. “Me neither.”
A beat.
Then he says, quietly, “Sorry I didn’t stay.”
You pause mid-movement.
He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t have to. The weight of last night sits between you like a memory neither of you are willing to hold for too long.
But then you smile, that soft, careless kind of smile that doesn’t hurt you to give, and wave it off.
“It’s fine,” you say. “Your bed’s comfier anyway.”
The words hit him like a fist in the chest.
His jaw tightens, but he hides it with a faint smile. A nod.
Even though every part of him is screaming.
Because you didn’t want him to leave.
You asked him to stay.
You reached out, maybe for the first time, and he said no.
And now you’re telling him it’s okay.
That it didn’t matter.
That it was comfier without him.
And he hates how much that hurts.
Worse, you look like you mean it. You’re not trying to guilt him or get a rise. You’re just letting him off the hook, like always. As if he didn’t lie awake all night thinking about you just on the other side of the wall, wondering if you were hurting, if you were sleeping, if you still wanted him there.
He breathes in through his nose.
“That room sucks,” he mutters, trying to lighten the air. “Seokjin talks in his sleep.”
You laugh under your breath. “Does he?”
“Yeah. Said something about honey shrimp. Twice.”
You snort.
But Jungkook doesn’t laugh. Not really.
He just watches you. Tries to memorize the way your hair falls over your shoulder, the curve of your knee, the way you wince slightly as you stand.
“Are you okay now?” he asks, softer this time.
You nod. “Better.”
“I can help you downstairs.”
“I’ll be fine.”
He doesn’t argue.
But before he turns to go, he lingers.
Because the worst part isn’t that you forgave him for not staying.
It’s that you didn’t even need him to.
You didn’t lie awake over it.
You’re fine. You’re always fine.
And he’s the one carrying all the weight.
“I’ll wait for you by the stairs,” he says.
Then he slips out before you can see too much of what’s written on his face.
Summary: revenge never tasted that good when you decide to get back at the man - who ran you over - with the worst punishment he could ever get, and despite all the grudge, maybe some time after, the grudge will gradually turn into something else..?
Genre: e21, biker jk, series ( slow-burn.), smut, fluff, angst.
Taglist: @binniesbabe @ennvfv @minimoninini
Moodboard 1 | Moodboard 2
Previous | Next
You cradle your to-go cup with both hands like it holds the secrets of the universe. The lid clicks as you lift it for a sip, the foam warming your lips. The coffee shop is still in view through the rearview mirror, and beside you, Jungkook is adjusting the GPS like the doctor’s office might disappear if he blinks too long.
You sigh, dramatically.
“The sky is blue, the birds are singing, and I think I just smelled… freedom,” you announce, pressing your forehead against the cool glass of the passenger window.
Jungkook glances over with one eyebrow raised. “Freedom smells like burnt espresso now?”
“No,” you whisper, as if narrating a nature documentary. “It smells like walking. Like dignity. Like legs that can finally support a grown woman’s rage.”
He chuckles, then shakes his head. “You’re acting like they kept your leg in a medieval dungeon.”
“They might as well have,” you say, turning to him with wide eyes. “Do you know how humiliating it is to have you outside my bathroom when I pee?”
“I didn’t hear you complaining when I brought you cheese puffs at 3 a.m.”
You sip again, fighting your grin. “Cheese puffs don’t erase trauma, Jungkook.”
“I’ll add that to my list of life lessons.”
Silence falls for a beat, filled by the mellow hum of tires over asphalt. You watch the world go by, street signs flicking past, and your heart taps faster than your fingers against the lid of your cup. Anticipation builds behind your ribs like a storm front. You’re about to get the cast off. The thing that’s kept you trapped in your own penthouse, in your own resentment, in his orbit.
Jungkook catches your knee bouncing under the dashboard.
“You nervous?” he asks, quieter now.
You shrug. “Only a little. What if I forgot how to walk without the cast? What if I take one step and collapse in front of everyone?”
“Then I’ll catch you,” he says simply.
You glance over at him. He’s still watching the road, but the corners of his mouth twitch like he means every word. Like catching you wouldn’t be a chore. Like he’s already done it a dozen times.
You swallow.
“You better,” you mutter. “Because if I break it again, I’m legally allowed to haunt you for the rest of your life.”
He huffs a laugh. “Noted.”
You lean back, coffee cradled to your chest like a shield, eyes fluttering shut. You can feel it now, possibility, just at your fingertips. It smells like roasted beans and clean air, sounds like tires turning onto a quiet street. And somewhere deep inside, you dare to hope that getting rid of the cast might also loosen some of the weight you’ve been carrying with it.
And maybe, just maybe, it’ll change whatever the hell is happening between you and Jungkook too.
The exam room smells like antiseptic and bad lighting. You sit on the paper-covered table, arms crossed over your chest, your coffee cooling beside you. The cast is stretched out before you like some ugly souvenir from a war you never signed up to fight. Jungkook leans against the wall, hands in his pockets, his head tilted as he studies the posters of joints and tendons like they’re abstract art.
“I swear,” you murmur, staring down at the plaster, “if this doctor even hints that I have to keep it on longer, I will throw myself out the window. I don’t care if it’s the third floor.”
Jungkook doesn’t laugh this time. He just says, “You’ve waited this long. A few more weeks wouldn’t kill you.”
You shoot him a look. “Speak for yourself. You didn’t have to learn how to shower with saran wrap.”
Before he can respond, there’s a soft knock on the door and your doctor walks in, glasses perched on his nose, chart in hand.
“Morning,” he greets, polite but efficient. “How’s our leg today?”
“She’s dramatic,” you reply. “But I think she’s ready.”
He smiles faintly, then gets to work. There’s the cold press of scissors against plaster, the whir of the cast saw, a sound you’ll probably hear in your dreams. As it cuts through weeks of immobility, through resentment and dependence and bitter midnight tears, you feel something loosen in your chest.
Then he peels it open.
The skin underneath is pale, thinner than you remember. Your leg looks foreign. Your breath catches.
You hadn’t expected that.
The sight of it, your body, but not quite yours anymore, hits harder than you thought it would.
Your doctor is speaking, giving post-removal instructions. You nod, not really hearing him. Words like therapy and weight-bearing float around you, but your eyes are fixed on your leg, and something fragile begins to press against your ribs from the inside.
It’s not the leg itself. It’s everything.
It’s the month spent helpless.
The fear that you’d never feel normal again.
The shame of being seen like that, vulnerable, small, broken.
You blink hard, once, twice. You will not cry in front of Jungkook. You will not.
But your throat is already tight.
“Hey,” Jungkook says softly, like he knows. He steps closer. “You okay?”
You swallow, nodding, still not looking up. “Yeah. Just…” You gesture vaguely toward your leg. “Didn’t think it’d look so… sad.”
“It’ll bounce back,” he murmurs. “You will.”
There’s no teasing in his voice. No sarcasm. Just quiet belief. It unravels something dangerous in you.
The doctor finishes the wrap and straightens up. “You can resume physio next week. Just no excessive workouts. Oh, and I want you wearing a compression brace at night,” he adds casually, scribbling something into your file. “It’ll help with circulation and reduce any swelling while you sleep.”
You nod, biting the inside of your cheek, and thank him as he leaves.
As soon as the door clicks shut, you exhale.
“You’re not gonna hug me and tell me I’m a warrior princess for surviving this?” you ask, trying to force your voice back into its usual cadence.
Jungkook watches you for a long second. “You want me to?”
You shake your head, laughing through your nose. “No. I’ll settle for bubble tea and no pity stares.”
“Done,” he says.
But before you can hop off the table, his hand gently touches your shoulder. It lingers there. Just long enough.
“You did good,” he says.
And that’s when the tear escapes. Just one. You swipe it away fast.
“Damn dust in here,” you mumble.
“Right,” he says, voice soft.
You don’t say anything else as he helps you off the table. But your hand finds his for balance, and this time, you don’t let go right away.
The city slips by in slow-motion through the windshield, bathed in late morning light. You’re quiet in the passenger seat, bubble tea balanced between your palms, leg propped carefully like it’s already yours again. No more cast. No more wincing with every bump in the road. Just you, breathing like you’re relearning how to exist without pain.
And for some reason… that gets to him.
You don’t need him anymore.
Not like before.
You’re not stuck in bed, blinking back frustration because you dropped something and can’t reach it. You don’t have to call his name just to get to the bathroom or lean on his shoulder because your body refuses to hold you up. You don’t have to let him see you like that, half-dressed, half-defeated, angry at the world for making you weak.
You’ve got your strength back.
You’re getting you back.
And suddenly, he’s not sure where he fits anymore.
His hands tighten on the steering wheel.
He should be happy. He is happy. Watching you walk out of that doctor’s office, even limping slightly, even sniffling when you pretended you weren’t crying, it should’ve felt like victory. Like the final checkpoint. The finish line after weeks of tension and slow mornings and uncomfortable closeness.
But underneath all of that, there’s this knot in his chest that won’t loosen.
Because if you don’t need him…
Why would you want him around?
He was useful. That’s what it was. You were stuck, and he was the one person who had to be there. Circumstance. Guilt. Maybe habit, too. You let him see sides of you no one else could. You let him help. You let him matter.
But what happens now?
What happens when you’re walking again, going out again, rebuilding all the pieces of your life he wasn’t part of before?
He glances at you briefly, at your face tilted toward the window, eyes half-lidded, lost in thought. You look like someone who’s finally breathing fresh air after too long underwater. And he hates himself a little for thinking it, but—
You’re healing.
And he feels like the cast you just left behind.
Temporary.
Disposable.
A thing that did its job.
And now, maybe it’s time to let you go.
You’ve been home for less than ten minutes.
The living room is bathed in soft summer light, your leg is elevated on a stack of velvet cushions, and Coco is curled beside you like she’s been waiting all morning just to reclaim your lap. There’s music playing low from the speaker, some playlist Jungkook started and abandoned halfway through, and the scent of coffee still lingers in the air.
He’s in the kitchen now, pretending to scroll through his phone. Pretending he’s not thinking too much.
You glance over just as he clears his throat.
“I was thinking…” he starts, voice casual in a way that immediately makes your stomach tighten, “I’ll stick around for the day. In case you need anything. A ride. Food. Whatever.”
You blink. “Okay…”
“And then maybe I’ll head out tonight.”
You sit up a little straighter. “What?”
He doesn’t look at you when he says it.
“Just for the night,” he continues quickly. “You’re moving around again, you’re good. I just figured.. I don’t know, you might want the place to yourself. Or at least, not have me hovering.”
You stare at him.
“Jungkook…”
He forces a smile. “It’s not a big deal. I’ll come back tomorrow morning, check in, make sure the world didn’t implode without me.”
“Why are you talking like this is goodbye?”
“It’s not,” he says too fast. Then softer, “It’s just… temporary space. Like a little freedom trial run.”
You hate how carefully he’s choosing his words. Like he’s trying not to step on something fragile. Like you are something fragile. But you can hear it in the way his voice dips, in the way he won’t meet your eyes, the quiet fear he’s hiding under all that nonchalance.
“You think I don’t need you anymore,” you say.
He finally looks at you.
And doesn’t answer.
The silence stretches, delicate and raw.
“I’m not leaving,” he says after a beat, softer now. “Not really. I just… thought maybe I should pull back. Let you breathe.”
You let the words sit there.
You could tell him the truth, that you’re not sure what you want. That your body might be healing but everything else still feels unsteady. That his presence has become something dangerous and comforting and too much all at once.
Instead, you nod slowly.
“Fine. Go,” you murmur, eyes flicking back to the TV. “Enjoy your little freedom trial run.”
But your voice isn’t sarcastic this time. Not entirely.
And neither is the quiet way he says, “I’ll be back.”
The apartment feels wrong without him.
Too big. Too quiet. Too clean.
You’re curled up on the couch in an old t-shirt that smells like lavender detergent and sleep, your legs tucked underneath you, the compression brace biting faintly against your skin. There’s a takeout bag abandoned on the coffee table, half a burger, cold fries, sauce you didn’t even touch. You ordered from that place Jungkook always mocked for being overrated, like you were trying to prove something.
But the food tastes like cardboard, and the silence is louder than ever.
You thought it might feel good, being alone again. You used to love it, your space, your rules, your silence. But now?
Now, it just feels like something’s missing.
You glance toward the kitchen without meaning to, half-expecting to see him there with his sleeves pushed up, humming off-key while making dinner he pretends not to enjoy cooking. You wait for the sound of his glass clinking on the counter, or the way he always taps his fingers against the sink while the kettle boils.
Nothing.
Just the soft hum of the heater. Coco snoring softly on the rug. The glow of the TV screen flickering across your empty living room.
He said he’d be back in the morning.
You believe him.
But tonight?
Tonight, it aches.
You pick up the remote and scroll through the endless menu of shows, but nothing sticks. You can’t focus. You haven’t really been able to since he walked out.
Eventually, your hand drifts to your phone.
You tell yourself you’re not going to text him. You’re not that girl. You’re fine.
So instead… you open your content folder.
You scroll past the drafts, past the polished sets and the little clips that always do well. And then, your thumb hovers over the one you’ve been avoiding.
the last video you taped.
Your chest tightens.
You haven’t opened it since that night. The last one before everything fell apart. Before the crash. Before the hospital. Before Jungkook.
It’s the video you never meant to keep unpublished for so long.
The one you didn’t delete.
You bite your lip. The screen glows back at you, quiet and patient.
You remember filming it. You remember how disconnected you felt from your body that night, like you were somewhere far away watching yourself go through the motions. You hadn’t even planned to upload it. You didn’t even remember setting up the lights.
But it’s there.
Unposted.
Unwatched.
Untouched.
Until now.
Your finger hovers.
Maybe it’s time.
Maybe it’s not for them.
Maybe it’s for you.
You press play.
and for a second, nothing happens.
Then the screen flickers, and there you are.
Your body lit in warm amber light, your signature setup, the shadows soft, the focus just a little blurred around the edges. You’re on your bed, satin sheets rumpled beneath you, legs stretched out in front of you, the camera trained low enough to keep your face out of frame but high enough to capture everything else.
You’re in black lace. Delicate. Almost sheer.
You don’t remember picking that set. Or maybe you do, and just buried the memory somewhere deeper. You watch yourself now with a strange sense of distance, like this version of you is someone you used to be in a past life. Someone who knew exactly how to move for the camera. Knew what your audience wanted before they ever said a word.
You part your thighs slowly, deliberately. Not teasing, commanding.
Your fingers drag up the inside of your thigh, smooth and lazy, like you have all night. You tilt your hips, shift into the light, and reach between your legs without breaking rhythm.
Your hand moves in slow, practiced circles over the lace, then underneath it. Your body curves into the sensation with instinctual ease. You knew what they wanted to see. You gave it to them, frame by frame, touch by touch, until your back arches, your breath catches, and your thighs tremble around your own hand.
You finish quietly. Gracefully. Almost cruelly soft.
Then the video ends.
No outro. No preview for next time.
Just darkness.
You sit there, phone still glowing in your palm, the weight of it pressing into your skin. Your heart is beating too fast. Not from arousal. Not really.
From everything else.
You’d forgotten what that version of you looked like. How she moved. How she made desire look like something holy. You were power, control, softness, seduction. You owned the frame.
And now?
Now you’re in a compression brace, eating soggy fries, and watching that girl from the outside like she’s someone else.
But here’s the thing, she’s not.
She’s you.
She was you before the pain, before the mess, before Jungkook.
And maybe posting this is how you remind yourself that she still exists.
That she didn’t vanish in the accident, or dissolve under hospital lights, or get swallowed by months of awkward glances and weird showers and saran wrap.
She’s still here.
You are still here.
You exhale slowly. Then swipe up and hit upload.
No caption. No hashtags. No announcement.
Just you, raw and unapologetic, returning to the world like a pulse in the dark.
—-
Jungkook wipes down the counter with a practiced rhythm, the low hum of his playlist barely audible beneath the hiss of running water. The place smells like pine cleaner and grilled beef from earlier, comforting, domestic. Almost peaceful.
Then his phone buzzes on his kitchen island.
He doesn’t glance at it right away. Probably a group chat or an update from the gym app. But when he finally does look, the screen burns straight into his chest.
New content uploaded.
His thumb stills. The creator’s name sits there innocently, your alias. His stomach dips.
It feels like trespassing. Like slipping behind a curtain not meant for him.
But his hand moves anyway.
He taps the notification.
The screen fills with soft shadows and skin. You’re wearing lace lingerie underneath your silk robe that he’s seen in your closet, half-falling off your shoulder as if gravity knows better than modesty. Your face isn’t shown, but your voice, God, your voice, floats through the speakers, low and sweet, coaxing the viewer forward.
His mouth goes dry.
He should stop. He knows you now. Knows the real woman behind the curated angles and hushed tones. You helped him make breakfast with one leg in a cast and told him to rinse Coco’s bowl before refilling it.
This isn’t anonymous anymore.
And yet—
He watches.
Because there’s something about your presence in this space, commanding, sensual, utterly in control, that leaves him breathless. Something about the way your hand grazes your own thigh like a promise. Something about the way you sigh, barely, like you’re remembering a lover no one knows about.
Like you’re remembering him.
His fingers curl around the edge of the counter. Heat crawls up his spine.
He tells himself it’s wrong. Tells himself to close the tab, to forget he saw it. But the truth, sharp and undeniable, settles in the center of his chest.
It wasn’t the content.
It was you.
You are magnetizing.
And you have no idea what you’ve done to him.
His thumb scrolls through older uploads, each one like a secret memory he was never supposed to see. Your voice drifts through the phone speaker, low and velvety. There’s one where you’re sitting on the edge of a bathtub, steam curling around you as water trails down your thigh.
That thigh.
The one with the tattoo he’s memorized by now.
He swallows hard.
It’s too intimate. Too much. And yet he can’t tear his eyes away.
His hand slips beneath the waistband of his sweats.
You’re not here, but you are. In every corner of his mind. In the warmth pooling low in his stomach. In the ache that blooms in his chest the longer he stares.
You’re the kind of beautiful that ruins you.
And he’s already ruined.
He imagines what you sounded like when you filmed this. What you smelled like. If your hair was damp, curling around your shoulders. If you thought of anyone while touching yourself, or if you thought of nothing at all.
His hand moves faster.
Your breathy moan from the video plays again, looping in his ears. He’s flushed all over, every nerve wound tight and drawn toward the image of your skin, your softness, your control.
When he finally cums, it’s with a low groan punched into his pillow, his body jerking once, sharp and breathless.
but then..
Silence.
The screen dims.
The guilt doesn’t.
Not because he watched.
But because he wants to watch again.
His body stills, chest rising and falling against the pillow, sweat dampening his temple. The room feels suffocating. He wipes his hand against the hem of his sweatshirt, jaw clenched as the screen fades to black. Still, your voice lingers like smoke, curling in the corners of his brain, refusing to leave.
The guilt sits in his throat like a stone.
He reaches blindly for his phone, heart hammering as if he’s sprinted miles. Maybe it’s shame. Maybe it’s panic. But mostly, mostly, it’s the need to hear your voice for real. Not filtered through a screen. Not crafted for subscribers. Just you.
His thumb hovers for only a second before he taps your contact and lifts the phone to his ear.
It rings once.
Twice.
Three times.
He swallows, air catching in his lungs—
Then the line clicks.
“…Hello?”
Your voice is sleepy, confused. Soft. Real.
He closes his eyes.
“What are you doing?” he blurts, too fast, too breathless.
There’s a pause. “…What?”
“I just…” he exhales roughly, sitting up now, fingers digging into his hair. “I know it’s late. I just needed to hear you.”
A beat of silence.
“Are you okay?” you ask gently, something wary threading through your tone.
He laughs under his breath, bitter and wrecked. “No. Not even close.”
You sit up on your side of the line, the rustle of sheets audible. “Jungkook,” you say slowly, “what happened?”
He hesitates. Then he admits, “I watched one of your videos.”
“Which one?”
“The robe,” he says, voice thick. “Falling off your shoulder. You were sitting on the edge of the bed. It was dark. The tattoo—”
Another pause.
Your voice drops, barely above a whisper. “She’s not real, Jungkook.”
“She feels real,” he breathes. “She ruins me.”
There’s a long pause.
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“I don’t either,” he admits. “But I needed to hear your voice. The real one. Not the one you whisper for strangers.”
You exhale, slow and steady. “Well. You got it.”
You stare at the ceiling long after the call ends, phone still pressed to your chest like it’s trying to hold your ribs together.
He watched it.
That video.
The one you filmed on a whim, body humming with loneliness and static, hours before your whole life cracked on the pavement.
You’d posted it willingly. Uploaded it with full consent. No face. No name. No promises. It was meant for strangers. A thousand anonymous eyes, all watching without knowing the real you.
But Jungkook isn’t a stranger anymore.
And that changes everything.
Now you feel seen in a way that leaves your skin burning.
Your fingers clutch the blanket tighter around your shoulders, suddenly aware of how cold the room feels. Or maybe that’s not it. Maybe it’s just shame, blooming like frost across your chest.
You’re the one who invited him into your home. Let him stay. Let him see the limp, the grunts of pain, the messy buns and crumpled receipts on the kitchen counter. You let him wash your dishes. You let him meet Coco.
You let him in.
But you didn’t mean for him to see her.
The version of you that knows how to look at a camera like it’s a lover. The version that lets silk fall off her shoulder like it’s nothing. The version that whispers like she’s got nothing to lose.
You don’t feel powerful now. You feel cracked open.
He sounded so wrecked when he called, his voice low, hoarse, desperate. He wasn’t asking you for anything, not really. He just needed to hear you. Like the lines had blurred so far he couldn’t tell what was real anymore.
And worst of all?
You understand that.
Because a part of you misses him, too. You miss his bad jokes and his sleepy voice in the morning. The way he always remembers to dry Coco’s bowl before filling it. The way he looks at you like you’re someone who still has softness left in her.
But he’s fallen in love with a version of you that doesn’t exist.
And you’re too afraid to correct him.
You wake up to the sound of clinking ceramic and the low hum of the coffee machine. A soft hiss of steam follows, familiar, steady, and it takes a second to realize it’s real, not imagined.
He’s here.
You blink against the morning light spilling in from the window, squinting toward the clock on your nightstand. It’s barely 8 a.m. The city outside is quiet beneath a fresh layer of snow, the kind that softens even the sharpest edges. For a moment, everything feels… clean. Soft.
Like nothing happened last night.
Like he didn’t call you, voice wrecked and needy, whispering about your robe and your thighs like a prayer he didn’t mean to say out loud.
You swing your legs off the bed slowly, testing your leg without a cast against the floor. Still tender, but manageable. You shuffle toward the living room, wrapped in your robe, the real one, oversized and old, not the one he watched you wear on his phone.
He’s in the kitchen, back turned, hoodie sleeves rolled up to his elbows. There’s a plate of toast already on the counter. Scrambled eggs. A few sliced strawberries. Your meds lined up beside a glass of water like clockwork.
You freeze in the doorway.
He turns around with a quiet smile. “Morning.”
You study his face, tired, maybe, but not awkward. Not regretful. Just… gentle.
“You’re here,” you say, stupidly.
He shrugs. “I figured you’d forget to eat again. Or drink your meds cold. Or both.”
You walk in, glancing at the breakfast spread. “You didn’t have to.”
“I know.” He reaches for a mug and pours you a cup without asking how you take it. He already knows. “But I wanted to.”
There’s a bag on the counter. You peek inside, groceries. Fresh fruit, oat milk, pasta, eggs, even that fancy granola you only buy when you’re trying to impress someone.
“You went shopping?”
He shrugs again, casual. “You were running low.”
“In this weather?”
“It’s not that bad,” he says, but the melted snowflakes on his shoulders betray him.
You wrap your fingers around the warm mug, looking down into the coffee. You don’t know how to feel. Gratitude twists with guilt in your gut. He’s still here. Still helping. Still acting like last night didn’t strip you bare.
“I was thinking…” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Maybe we could do something here today? Since we’re snowed in.”
You glance up.
He’s avoiding your eyes.
“I brought that dumb board game from the library. The one with the little swords and the traps,” he continues. “Or we could watch something. A movie. Whatever you want.”
A softness fills your chest before you can stop it. “You mean you don’t want to go for a ten-mile hike in a blizzard?”
He laughs, relieved. “Maybe after lunch.”
You take a sip of coffee. It’s perfect. Of course it is.
Then you say, “We should start planning the trip soon.”
He pauses. “Trip?”
You nod, keeping your tone light. “The one I told you about. I want you to come with me.”
His eyes flick up, surprised. “You were serious?”
“Yeah.”
He leans against the counter. “I mean… I’d love to, but…” His voice falters. “You know I can’t afford something like that. Flights, hotels, food—”
“I wasn’t asking you to fund it,” you interrupt gently. “It’s covered. All of it.”
He blinks. “You want to pay?”
You shrug, eyes fixed on your mug. “I want you there.”
There’s a silence that stretches between you, not cold but heavy. Like fresh snow on old ground.
He breaks it with a low breath. “I’ve never traveled. Not really. Not like you do.”
You glance at him. “Then let’s change that.”
He doesn’t respond right away. You can see the war in his eyes, pride and longing, shame and curiosity. You’ve felt that war too many times yourself.
Finally, he whispers, “Okay.”
And that one word wraps around your heart like a thread tugging too tight.
You smile, small but real. “Good. Because I want to see how you look under foreign skies.”
He exhales a soft laugh, gaze drifting down.
—-
The day passes in a kind of warm haze.
You and Jungkook spend hours sprawled across the massive screen, legs stretched, Coco curled up at your feet. The snow outside doesn’t stop, and neither do the movies, one bleeds into the next, soft dialogue and flickering lights painting the walls in quiet color.
At some point, you both fall asleep during a bad action sequel. You wake up with your head on the couch, and his head leaned onto your shoulder, and he doesn’t move for a long, long time.
Evening creeps in like breath on glass.
After your nap and movie had ended you stretch, gather your laptop, and make your way to the dining table with a quiet, “Alright. Work time.”
He follows, curious. “Work?”
“Trip planning,” you say, pulling up a browser and logging into your travel management site. “If you’re coming, you’re gonna learn how to do this the right way.”
He drags a chair beside you, watching as you click through tabs with the ease of someone who’s done this dozens of times. You open spreadsheets. Budget breakdowns. Shared folders. You’ve got everything color-coded and ruthlessly organized.
“You’re scary,” he mutters, impressed.
“Efficient,” you correct. “There’s a difference.”
You start by showing him how to check for flight bundles and tour packages, how to filter by flexible cancellations, how to spot hidden fees like a bloodhound. Then you move on to accommodations, villas, boutique hotels, private stays with kitchen access.
You book one without hesitation, seven guests, two nights.
Jungkook raises an eyebrow. “Seven?”
You pause, fingers hovering over the confirmation button.
“Yeah,” you say, like it’s obvious. “Natty, Namjoon, Yoongi, Hoseok, Seokjin, you, and me.”
His gaze sharpens at one name. “Seokjin?”
You glance over. His posture is suddenly stiff, jaw tight.
“…Yeah?” you answer carefully.
“Why is your physical therapist coming on the trip?”
You blink. “He’s not just my physical therapist. He’s friends with the others. Natty’s known him for a while, apparently.”
“But you barely know him,” Jungkook says, voice a notch too sharp. “You’ve had, what, one session?”
“Two,” you correct quietly. “And this isn’t about how well I know him. Everyone else wanted him there. That’s why I booked for seven.”
He leans back in his chair, arms folded. “You didn’t hesitate to invite him.”
You turn to face him fully. “I didn’t hesitate to invite you either.”
He scoffs, bitter. “Yeah, but I’m living in your house. I figured I was just part of the furniture at this point.”
That stings.
You shut your laptop gently. “Is this about the trip, Jungkook? Or is this about last night?”
He looks away.
Silence stretches, taut and uncomfortable.
You soften your tone. “He’s not going because of me. He’s going because they want him there. The same way I wanted you there.”
He doesn’t respond.
You sigh. “You’re my friend, Jungkook.”
He looks back at you slowly, eyes unreadable. “Is that all I am?”
You don’t answer right away. Because anything you say might be cruel, or worse, dishonest. And you can’t afford to be either with him.
You settle on: “That’s what you agreed to be.”
His jaw works. He nods once, like he’s locking something down inside himself.
“Right.”
You wish he would say more. Or less. Anything but that hollow tone that makes your chest ache.
You look away. “If it makes you uncomfortable, you don’t have to come.”
“I want to come,” he says quietly. “But not if I’m just a placeholder.”
You close your eyes briefly.
This is the price of letting someone see too much:
They start expecting answers to questions you’re not ready to ask yourself.
“Then come,” you whisper, throat tight. “Because you want to. Not because you think you’re owed something.”
He nods again, slower this time.
By the end of the night, the snow is still falling.
You’re both back on the couch again, this time with a quiet between you that isn’t heavy, just settled. The tension earlier left a residue, but it didn’t ruin anything. Not really. If anything, it carved out space. Space for honesty. Space for what might come next.
Your laptop is open on your knees again, screen glowing softly.
“Okay,” you say, typing as you speak. “Kyoto. Next week. After my third session.”
Jungkook glances over, his voice lower now. “Are you sure you’ll be good to travel?”
You nod. “Seokjin already signed off. He said if I take it easy and don’t do anything stupid, like, say, climb Mount Fuji in one go. I’ll be fine.”
A small smile tugs at his lips. “No more dancing either?”
“No promises.”
You both laugh quietly.
You click through to the booking confirmation. A big, traditional-style hotel with several private rooms under one suite, cozy enough for company, spacious enough for privacy. Breakfast included. A private guide for some historical tours, plus a mild hike just outside the city. Nothing wild. Nothing reckless.
And, your favorite part, a private dinner for all seven of you in a hidden garden restaurant the concierge swore was “like dining inside a poem.”
You forward the itinerary to everyone’s group chat, your phone buzzing seconds later with a flood of messages.
Natty: omg I LOVE KYOTO YOU’RE THE BEST
Natty: planning outfits already
You glance at him from over your screen. He’s already looking at you.
“You okay?” you ask gently.
He nods. “Yeah. Just… I’ve never done anything like this.”
“Like what?”
“Traveled. With people. Been invited, like this. Felt…” he shrugs, lips pressing together, “included.”
Your chest tightens. “You are included.”
You could say more, about how you specifically booked two beds per room so he’d have someone he was comfortable with, how you picked the hotel because it had both elevators and quiet corners, how you made sure the breakfast had options he’d actually eat.
But you don’t.
Instead, you reach over, nudging his arm with your own. “You’re stuck with us now.”
He smiles. Not the easy kind. The slow, unsure, grateful kind. “Good.”
You close your laptop, the trip officially set. The snow continues to fall, Kyoto a week away.
—-
The mat sticks to your back, damp with sweat. Every movement pulls at the muscles around your hip and thigh, a slow burn that radiates with each repetition. You grit your teeth, trying not to show how much it hurts, not in front of them.
“You’re doing great,” Seokjin says, far too cheerful for someone who’s not currently half-dying from resistance bands. “Almost done with the set.”
“Liar,” you mutter, breathless.
He grins. “Pain builds character.”
You shoot him a look. “I have plenty of character. Build someone else.”
From the corner of the room, Jungkook huffs a quiet laugh, arms crossed loosely as he leans against the wall. He’s been quiet since you arrived, offering to help you out of the car, handing you water, then retreating into himself like he didn’t want to take up too much space. He’s always like this when Seokjin is around.
And Seokjin, either oblivious or purposefully playing neutral, claps his hands once, then kneels beside you, reaching for the chart. “One more stretch and you’re good to go. By the way,” he adds, glancing up, “I’m really looking forward to next week.”
You breathe through the stretch, sweat dotting your temple. “Yeah?”
“Kyoto’s one of my favorite places. And I haven’t been with a group in forever. It’ll be good to unwind.”
Your gaze flicks to Jungkook.
His expression hasn’t changed, but there’s a quiet pull to his shoulders now, like someone slowly tying string across his back. Seokjin shifts his weight toward him, voice still easy.
“What about you, Jungkook? You ever been to Japan before?”
Jungkook pauses for a moment too long. “Uh… no.”
“Done any hiking anywhere else?”
Another pause.
He clears his throat. “Not really. Around here, maybe. Trails near my old apartment.”
Seokjin’s tone stays light, genuinely curious. “So this’ll be your first real travel experience?”
And that’s when you see it, the flicker. The way Jungkook’s eyes dip, shoulders pulling inward, fingers twitching like he’s shrinking out of the room without moving at all.
You cut in, voice casual but clear. “It’s his first trip abroad, yeah. And he picked it.”
Both men look at you. You meet Jungkook’s gaze for a beat, then continue:
“He picked Kyoto. Booked the tour days. Helped plan the itinerary. He even found the hotel. I just clicked the button.”
There’s a flicker of surprise across Seokjin’s face. “Really? That’s impressive. You’ve got taste.”
Jungkook’s gaze drops, but this time, it’s not out of discomfort. It’s something quieter. Pleased. A little bashful.
You glance at him, lips tilting. “He’s underselling himself. He’s been managing half this trip while making me breakfast every morning.”
Seokjin laughs. “Well, damn. I might end up rooming with the wrong person.”
Seokjin turns away, reaching for the clipboard to jot something down on the chart, his pen scratching lightly against paper while the air fills with the faint sound of your labored breath. The tension in your limbs pulses from the strain of the session, and sweat beads down your temples, making everything feel heavier.
You barely register Jungkook shifting closer, until his hand presses a cool towel to your forehead, gentle, practiced now. His voice is low, only for you.
“Here,” he says, handing you a bottle of water without looking directly at you. His other hand drifts to your ankle, rubbing slow, careful circles with his thumb, almost absentmindedly. Then, casually, too casually, he mutters, “By the way, I’m in no way sharing a room with that guy.”
You blink at him through your exhaustion. “What, Seokjin?”
He just raises a brow, not denying it.
You roll your eyes, exhaling a tired laugh. “Okay, then who do you want to share a room with? Want me to open a private suite just for you, Your Highness?”
Jungkook doesn’t laugh. He looks amused, but there’s heat under it. “Hobi’s fine,” he says simply. “Natty? Hell yeah. Namjoon? I’d take him any day.”
You hum, sipping your water. “So… everyone but Seokjin.”
“Pretty much.”
You glance at him again. He’s looking down at your ankle, but there’s something quieter in his expression. Not angry. Not even jealous. Just… firm.
He didn’t like how easy Seokjin spoke to you. How comfortable he was in this room, making you laugh, making you grimace and push through pain, all while Jungkook watched from the sidelines. And now, this is him quietly drawing a line, without forcing it, without drama.
It doesn’t go unnoticed.
—-
The airport is buzzing, but there’s a lightness in the air that makes it all feel… cinematic. Everyone’s gathered near their gate, lounging on chairs or standing with luggage and coffee in hand. You’re wrapped in your coat, shoulder brushing lightly against Jungkook’s every now and then, and for once, it doesn’t feel complicated. It just is.
Jungkook stands a few feet away, sunglasses perched on his nose despite being indoors, his hands tucked into the front pocket of his hoodie. He’s talking to Natty, her high ponytail bouncing as she laughs at something he says. There’s a kind of ease to him you haven’t seen often. The way he gestures, the slight grin he wears, it’s so clear he likes being here. With you. With your people.
You sip your iced drink, eyes skimming across the group: Namjoon reading a travel guide, Yoongi scrolling through his phone like the noise doesn’t exist, and Hobi already halfway through organizing the train tickets for Kyoto.
“Man,” you mutter aloud with a smile, “we really should’ve invited Jimin and Taehyung.”
Jungkook perks up, sunglasses slipping a little down his nose as he tilts his head toward you. “What?”
You just chuckle, waving it off. “Your friends. I bet they’d love this. But hey, it just gives us an excuse to plan another trip.”
His lips twitch, like he’s trying to hide how much that comment means to him. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Next time.”
Before you can linger on that softness, a warm paper cup is suddenly extended in front of you.
“Americano,” Seokjin says, flashing a bright grin. “One sugar. Figured you might want a caffeine top-up before the flight.”
You blink, surprised, but accept it with a polite nod. “Thanks.”
He slides his hands into his pockets, eyes flicking toward the large windows that overlook the runway. “Want to take a walk before we board? It’ll help your leg not seize up during the flight.”
It’s thoughtful. And honestly? Good advice. But the air around you shifts slightly, because Jungkook’s not far, and you can feel his attention land on you again.
You hesitate, fingers tightening slightly around the coffee cup. Then you shrug. “Yeah, okay. Just a short one.”
Seokjin falls into step beside you as you begin walking slowly down the terminal, past travelers and duty-free shops, while behind you, Jungkook’s sunglasses stay firmly in place, but his jaw ticks just once.
“Is the coffee okay?” he asks, not looking at you, but watching your hands instead, as if to make sure they’re steady, not trembling from pain or cold.
You nod. “Perfect. Thanks.”
A silence falls between you. Not awkward. Just… gentle. Comfortable.
Then he speaks again, voice quiet. “I’m really glad you invited me.”
You glance up at him. “You’re friends with my friends. It made sense.”
He smiles at that, but doesn’t comment. Instead, he shifts slightly, just enough to step to your outer side, putting himself between you and a family bustling by with rolling suitcases.
You blink. It’s subtle. Barely anything.
But it’s… considerate.
“You always do that?” you ask, amused. “Shield people from strollers and rogue carry-ons?”
He chuckles lightly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Habit. I was raised to never let someone I care about walk closest to traffic.” He pauses. “I know we’re not near a road, but… you get the idea.”
Something in your chest twists slightly. Not in a dramatic, heart-racing way. It’s quieter than that. Softer. A kind of warmth that settles in slow and low.
“You care about me?” you say lightly, teasing but testing.
His smile turns a little boyish. “I do.”
He says it simply. No theatrics. No flirtatious smirk.
And you believe him.
You pass by a bookstore, the scent of paper and overpriced airport souvenirs floating out toward you. Seokjin points to a rack of neck pillows.
“You want one? For the flight?” he asks. “I saw the way you flinched getting out of the car earlier.”
You shake your head with a small smile. “I’ll be okay.”
But he veers off anyway, grabs one in a muted beige that matches your coat, and brings it to the counter.
“I said I’m—”
“Shh,” he says, handing over his card. “Let a man buy something for a beautiful woman, will you?”
You stare at him, stunned, not by the compliment, but the way he says it. Like it’s a fact. Like he genuinely thinks you deserve to be treated kindly. Not charmed. Not impressed. Just… cared for.
When he hands you the pillow, there’s no smugness in his face. Just a shy smile, and the faintest dusting of pink on his cheeks.
“There,” he murmurs. “Now you’ll be a little more comfortable. That’s all I want.”
You blink again, caught off guard. He’s…
Nice.
Nice in a way that makes your heart ache a little. Gentle in a way you’re not sure you’ve felt in a long time. He doesn’t make you nervous, or flustered, or breathless, but there’s something undeniably good about him. And in this moment, you realize:
Maybe he’s not such a bad idea.
—
Jungkook’s brow lifts the moment he steps into the cabin. “Business class?” he mutters under his breath, taking in the wide leather seats, the folded linens, the quiet hum of comfort most people only dream of mid-flight.
You slip past him, limping slightly as you tuck your tote bag into the side storage compartment, and drop into your seat with a relieved exhale.
When he settles in beside you, he’s already pulling his sunglasses off and sliding them into the pocket of his hoodie. A flight attendant offers him a glass of orange juice, which he accepts with a polite nod, though the small tilt of his smirk suggests he’s still digesting the fact that this trip is going to be very different from anything he’s done before.
“Didn’t know I was signing up for luxury rehab,” he murmurs, glancing sideways at you as you adjust your seat back. “This is… wow.”
You smile faintly. “It’s included in the tour package.”
“Of course it is,” he says, sipping his drink, then pointing casually with the rim of the glass. “That’s new.”
You follow his gaze to your lap.
The neck pillow. Beige and plush, still with the little tag on the side. You hadn’t thought to take it off yet.
You blink. “Oh… yeah.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “Did you buy that?”
You pause, fingers brushing the soft edge of it. “No.”
“Don’t tell me he did.”
You glance at him.
Jungkook leans back slowly in his seat, pressing his lips together in a tight line as he swirls the liquid in his glass like he’s suddenly some posh, judgmental wine taster. “So what else did he buy you on your little stroll around the airport? Chocolate? Foot rub? A bridal veil?”
You roll your eyes, pulling a blanket over your lap. “He noticed I was sore and thought it might help on the flight. That’s all.”
Jungkook doesn’t respond immediately. He just hums, noncommittal. But his gaze lingers on the pillow, too long. Like it somehow offended him just by existing.
“You jealous?” you ask quietly, not mocking, just curious.
He glances at you sharply. “No.”
But his knee is bouncing.
You lean back in your seat and close your eyes, still feeling the way Seokjin had smiled at you when he handed it over. The way it had felt oddly… safe. Simple.
But now, with Jungkook this close, warm, and silent, and bristling with something unspoken, you feel the heat shift. A different kind of tension settling over your shoulders.
The plane begins to taxi.
You open one eye. “Don’t make that face the whole flight. It’s three hours.”
—-
The moment you step out of the black van and into the hotel’s private driveway, winter hits you like a secret you weren’t meant to overhear.
Crisp, dry air curls around your face, and your breath rises in pale ribbons. Kyoto in January isn’t harsh, just quiet. The kind of cold that softens the city into silence, that settles gently on rooftops and bare tree branches, that makes everything feel clean, new, paused.
Jungkook exhales next to you, a little puff of fog escaping his mouth. His sunglasses are still on, but his gaze roams the hotel’s façade, glass, slate, wood. Elegant and understated, like a secret hideout for people who know exactly what they’re doing.
“This is…” he murmurs, head tilted. “Very you.”
You glance sideways at him. “You think so?”
He nods, lips curving around the mouth of his scarf. “Subtle, expensive, and not telling anyone how impressive it is.”
Seokjin’s already tugging his suitcase out of the trunk, his movements smooth, practiced. He’s the first one to notice your slight limp as you start up the shallow stone steps, and without asking, he’s there.
“Slow,” he says under his breath, one hand brushing the small of your back. “It’s icy.”
But Jungkook is already stepping closer, wordless, instinctive. He doesn’t offer help. Doesn’t touch you. Just walks beside you like he’s done it a hundred times before. Like the cold doesn’t faze him, as long as he’s near.
You take your time up the stairs.
Inside, the warmth is immediate. The lobby glows with amber lighting, traditional paper lanterns suspended overhead, the faint scent of cedar and something spiced lingering in the air.
Check-in is smooth. The staff bows deeply, and the concierge hands you a sleek envelope of keycards. “Your suite is prepared. Breakfast begins at seven. Your private tour guide will meet you here tomorrow at ten. Dinner will be arranged in the kaiseki room unless you request otherwise.”
Jungkook’s brows raise slightly. “We’re staying… all in one suite?”
“It has four bedrooms and a shared lounge,” you explain, barely suppressing a grin. “And two bathrooms with heated floors.”
Natty spins toward you. “I love you. Like… I would marry you for this.”
Jungkook just mutters, “Is there a hot tub?”
“Yes.” You smirk. “There’s also a fireplace.”
Hobi whoops. “Alright, alright. This is already better than the beach.”
“And colder,” Namjoon says, buttoning his coat tighter. “But I’m into it.”
As everyone heads to the elevator, Seokjin slows to match your pace again. He doesn’t say anything, he just carries your smaller bag without asking. But it’s Jungkook who waits by the elevator button, his eyes flicking between you and Seokjin.
You say nothing. Just step into the lift as the doors slide open.
And when they close behind all of you, warm and golden and pulsing with excitement, you realize: this is a new kind of trip.
But if you’re being honest, you’re not excited.
You want to be- god, you should be. Everything about this screams perfect getaway: Kyoto in winter, a luxury suite, the friends you trust the most, the kind of hush in the air that promises healing, or at the very least, peace.
But there’s no peace when two men are trying to win you over and the trip hasn’t even started yet.
You glance at the mirrored wall of the elevator as it hums upward, catching the slight angle of Jungkook’s body, casual, but not. He leans against the panel like he’s comfortable, one hand gripping the handle of his duffel bag, the other buried deep in his coat pocket. His sunglasses are still perched on his face, even indoors, even though you know he’s watching everything through them.
Especially Seokjin.
Who, at that moment, is standing much too close to you. His shoulder brushes yours lightly with every jolt of the elevator, and he’s holding your small carry-on like it’s made of glass.
You should’ve taken it back. You should’ve said thanks but I got it.
But you didn’t. Because a small part of you wanted to see what he’d do next.
You bite the inside of your cheek.
You’re not ready. You’re not ready for any of this.
This tug-of-war you never asked for. These glances across a dinner table. These strange silences and possessive gestures and this weight you now carry like a second suitcase.
You just wanted to travel. Heal. Get away.
Instead, you’re caught between two people who look at you like you’re something to chase. Something to win.
The elevator dings.
Everyone begins to shuffle out, laughter echoing faintly into the hallway. Natty links arms with Hoseok. Yoongi already has his keycard out. Namjoon is politely letting Seokjin go ahead.
And then there’s you and Jungkook, the last to move.
He reaches out and gently rests his hand on the small of your back, guiding you forward, as if instinctively. As if he can’t help it. And you let him. Mostly because you’re too tired to push against it right now.
The hallway is plush, golden-lit, quiet. You walk a few steps in silence before you whisper, mostly to yourself, “This is going to be a long weekend.”
Summary: revenge never tasted that good when you decide to get back at the man - who ran you over - with the worst punishment he could ever get, and despite all the grudge, maybe some time after, the grudge will gradually turn into something else..?
Genre: e21, biker jk, series ( slow-burn.), smut, fluff, angst.
Taglist: @binniesbabe @ennvfv @minimoninini
Moodboard 1 | Moodboard 2
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The hum of the engine is the only thing filling the space between you. You glance at Jungkook out of the corner of your eye, noting the way his fingers grip the steering wheel tighter than usual. His eyes stay on the road, jaw clenched, face unreadable.
You try not to let it get to you. Instead, you focus on the passing streets and the soft scrape of your crutch resting against the dashboard.
“Last week’s party turned out okay, didn’t it?” you say lightly, trying to sound like you always do, like nothing’s changed.
No response.
You shift slightly in your seat. “I mean, for a night that could’ve gone very, very wrong… it actually went really smooth.”
Still nothing.
He blinks slowly, eyes fixed ahead, and you can feel the temperature in the car drop by a few degrees. You wet your lips and try again.
“People seemed to enjoy themselves. No drama, no disasters. That’s rare.” You risk a glance at him. “You didn’t hate it, right?”
A long silence.
Finally, his voice cuts through the quiet, low, tired. “Didn’t love it either.”
You blink, taken aback, then try to laugh it off. “Okay. Noted. Next time we’ll do a bonfire with zero humans, and definitely no kissing included .”
His fingers flex slightly on the steering wheel, but he still doesn’t look at you.
You hesitate before adding, “Seokjin was… talkative.”
That gets something, a flicker. Barely noticeable. But it’s there.
You keep going, carefully. “He asked if I was seeing anyone. Just like that. Not even a proper segue.”
His knuckles twitch.
You force a small smile. “I told him no, obviously.”
That should land. You expect it to land. But Jungkook doesn’t react. Doesn’t even blink differently. If anything, his face closes off more.
“Right,” you murmur, sitting back, the weight of his silence heavier than it’s ever been.
You stare ahead at the road, watching the city blur. The physical therapy clinic is maybe ten minutes away now. Less.
You speak again, quieter this time. “You’ve been quiet since that night.”
Still nothing.
So you say it for both of you: “I didn’t mean to make anything weird.”
That’s when he exhales sharply through his nose. Not quite a scoff. Not quite a breath.
You turn your head slowly to look at him, and this time, he doesn’t avoid your gaze. His eyes flick to yours just for a second, tired, frustrated, full of something too tangled to name, before snapping back to the road.
He says nothing.
So you nod once, more to yourself than to him, and look out your window again.
Neither of you says another word.
Not for the next eight minutes.
Not until the curb outside the clinic comes into view.
Jungkook shifts into park and kills the engine. For a second, neither of you moves.
You unbuckle your seatbelt with a soft click. “Alright. Round two,” you mutter, reaching for your crutch.
Jungkook’s already out of the car and circling around to your side. He opens the passenger door for you without a word, his expression unreadable beneath the overcast sky. His hoodie is up again. Typical these days.
You start to maneuver your legs out, bracing your hands against the seat, but your foot slips against the edge of the frame.
“Shit—”
Before you can react, his hands are on you.
One firm grip at your elbow, the other catching you right at your waist as your balance falters.
“I’ve got you,” he says, low and immediate.
Your heart lurches, not just from the near fall, but from the way he’s holding you. Steady. Close. His fingers warm even through your layers.
You glance up at him. His eyes are already scanning your face, then your injured leg.
“You okay?” he asks, voice tight. “Are you dizzy? Lightheaded?”
“No,” you say quickly. “Just clumsy.”
He doesn’t let go.
“I can cancel your session,” he offers, more insistently now. “If you’re not up for it—”
“Jungkook,” you interrupt gently, your hand resting on his forearm. “I’m fine.”
He hesitates. His hand lingers at your waist for a beat too long before he finally lets go, jaw clenched.
“Okay,” he mutters.
You nod toward the building. “Walk me in?”
He just nods and falls into step beside you, matching your slow pace as you make your way toward the entrance. The crutch taps rhythmically against the pavement, but the silence between you is heavier than it should be.
You don’t speak again until the doors slide open and swallow you both inside.
Jungkook sits in the corner of the room, his hands shoved deep into his hoodie pocket, legs sprawled, hood still up. He looks like he’s trying to disappear into the vinyl chair beneath him.
But he sees everything.
The way Seokjin crouches next to you as you sit on the therapy table, pant leg rolled up to the knee.
“Alright,” Seokjin says, cheerful and professional, “let’s see what we’ve got today. I’m thinking we push a little harder this time, but I promise you’ll still leave here walking.”
You smile. “That’s the goal, right?”
He grins. “That’s always the goal.”
Jungkook watches Seokjin’s hand hover just above your ankle before gently guiding your leg into motion, slow, steady flexions. Always respectful. Always calm. Nothing inappropriate, nothing weird. Jungkook knows that. He knows.
But still.
He’s touching you.
He’s making you laugh.
He asked if you were seeing someone.
And the worst part? Jungkook doesn’t even hate him for it.
Seokjin is… fine. Nice, even. Clean-cut. Steady hands. No edge, no tension, no broken past dragging behind him like rusted chains, probably rich. Jungkook sits there and knows, that guy won’t mess you up. Not the way Jungkook could.
And yet.
He gets to be in this room. He gets to joke with you. He gets to be the person pushing you forward, while Jungkook sits in the corner, pretending it doesn’t feel like knives under his ribs.
Across the room, you notice it.
The way he’s looking at you. Not directly, but not entirely away either. Like he’s trying not to watch and failing miserably. His eyes linger every time you exhale in discomfort or bite back a wince. When you flinch and Seokjin steadies your leg, Jungkook shifts in his seat. Subtle, but sharp.
You know he cares. You’ve always known. But now it’s different.
Because now you know he fell for you.
You’re not sure what kind of love it is yet. Maybe he’s not either. But it’s in the way he checks on you before you take a step. In the way he watches every hand that gets close to your body like he’s memorizing where it lands. It’s in that silence, not empty anymore, but dense with things left unsaid.
And even if you’re not ready to do anything about it, not yet, it does change things.
You hold your gaze on him for just a second longer than necessary.
Maybe someday, that’ll be enough to tip something over.
“Try lifting just from the hip now,” Seokjin says, his hand steadying your thigh. “Don’t let the knee do all the work.”
You let out a soft exhale, brows furrowed in concentration as you lift. The strain is immediate, dull, but present.
“Like that?” you ask.
“Yeah, good,” he nods, smiling as he adjusts your position. “You’ve been practicing. I’m impressed.”
You laugh lightly. “What gave it away? My barely tolerable grimace?”
He chuckles, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’ve seen worse. You should’ve met the guy last week who screamed every time I touched his hamstring.”
“I’d scream too if someone touched mine without warning.”
“You? You’d just kick me.”
Across the room, Jungkook’s eye twitches. He doesn’t move, but his jaw tightens.
You don’t have to look at him to know he’s watching. You feel it, the weight of his stare every time Seokjin’s hand adjusts your leg’s alignment, every time he gently presses into a muscle or tells you to breathe through the discomfort. You don’t mean to look like you’re enjoying it. You’re just… used to it.
Seokjin doesn’t flirt. Not openly. But his charm is disarming. And right now, it’s making Jungkook spiral.
Jungkook leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the two of you. He’s trying to seem casual. Neutral. But inside, his thoughts are a storm.
He’s too relaxed with her.
She’s laughing like this isn’t the most uncomfortable thing in the world.
And she doesn’t even notice how close he stands sometimes. Or maybe she does. Maybe she doesn’t care.
He swallows down the burn in his chest.
It’s not like he has the right to say anything.
“Let’s stretch your quad next,” Seokjin says. “I’ll support the knee. Just let your foot drop slowly toward the table.”
You follow instructions, wincing as the muscle lengthens. “God, I feel like a rubber band that’s been in someone’s freezer.”
“You’ll thaw. Eventually.”
Jungkook’s had enough.
“So how long do these usually last?” he asks suddenly, voice low but carrying.
Both you and Seokjin pause for a beat.
Seokjin turns his head with a polite smile. “Each session? About 45 minutes. We’re halfway through.”
You glance at Jungkook. His gaze meets yours, flat and unreadable.
Your heart picks up. You give him a look, something between what’s wrong? and not now, but he doesn’t react.
Seokjin doesn’t seem bothered. “You’re welcome to wait by the cafeteria if it’s boring,” he offers kindly.
“I’m good,” Jungkook says, voice clipped.
You breathe through your nose and turn your head back to the ceiling, exhaling through the burn in your quad.
What is his problem?
But you know.
You know.
He’s not mad about the therapy. Not about Seokjin’s hands or his soft jokes or how you call him by name now like you’ve known him for years.
He’s mad because it’s not him doing this with you. Because Seokjin gets to help you rebuild what Jungkook broke. And that fact is eating him alive.
And somehow, knowing that…
… makes this whole thing feel a little different.
Even Seokjin’s voice is dulled now, like it’s happening through a filter.
Because Jungkook is here.
Because he’s watching.
And because deep down… a part of you likes knowing that he cares. Not in a casual, friendly way, but in a wanting-something-he-can’t-have kind of way.
Maybe that shouldn’t matter.
But it does.
You’re finishing your last stretch, lying back against the padded table, catching your breath through the light ache settling into your hip and thigh. Seokjin adjusts the ankle weights beside you and gives you a warm smile.
“You’re doing better than last week,” he says genuinely. “We’ll keep increasing pace little by little.”
You nod, flushed from exertion. “Thanks.”
Then there’s movement behind him, the familiar sound of footsteps too heavy to belong to a staff member.
Jungkook.
He’s walking toward the table with his hands in the pocket of his hoodie, expression neutral but a little too alert. His gaze moves from you to Seokjin.
“You’ve been doing this long?” he asks, tone casual. Friendly, even.
Seokjin blinks, then nods slowly. “About 7 years now. Did my clinicals here, then they hired me full-time.”
“Huh.” Jungkook nods, shifting his weight onto one foot. “You treat a lot of people like her?”
You sit up slightly. “Like me?”
Seokjin chuckles. “Injured, you mean?”
Jungkook shrugs. “I mean… the way you talk to her. You joke a lot. Kinda laid back.”
Seokjin tilts his head, catching the undertone. “I keep things light so people feel safe. Some come in nervous. Some are in a lot of pain. It helps.”
Jungkook gives a tight smile. “Makes sense.”
Then he adds, “Ever had anyone catch feelings for their therapist?”
Your head whips toward him.
Seokjin’s brows lift, but he just laughs under his breath. “You’d be surprised.”
Jungkook hums like he’s not surprised at all.
“And… you? Anyone ever test the boundary with you?”
Seokjin doesn’t miss a beat. “I keep things professional. Always.”
Jungkook nods again, a little slower this time. “Good. That’s… good.”
You glance between them, watching the invisible tension stretch across the air like a drawn string. Jungkook isn’t scowling. He’s not even tense, on the surface. But you know him now. And this, this sudden interest, is not casual curiosity.
It’s a quiet interrogation.
And he’s doing it right in front of you.
Seokjin, ever the professional, offers a cool smile. “You’re protective. That’s good too.”
Jungkook meets his gaze evenly. “Yeah.”
No apology. No explanation.
You break the silence. “Okay. I think I’m good to go now.”
Jungkook moves instantly, holding out your crutch before Seokjin even turns. His hand brushes your arm briefly, a touch that feels heavier than it should.
You glance at him as you stand. “Everything okay?”
His answer is quiet. “Yeah. Just curious.”
“Did you get the car keys?”
“I left them by the bench, I’ll go get them quick you stay here.”
Seokjin watches the door close behind him, then turns back to you with a softer expression.
“So…” he begins quietly, lowering his voice. “What’s the story with you and Jungkook? Were you ever… a thing?”
Your breath catches slightly. You look away, fingers tightening around the edge of the table. “No. Not really. I mean… I guess you could say we were close, but it never went anywhere.”
You pause, swallowing the lump in your throat. “I’m sorry if this is awkward.”
Seokjin shakes his head, offering a reassuring smile. “No need to apologize. It’s just… I can see he cares. Maybe more than he lets on.”
You nod slowly. “Yeah. He does. And that makes things complicated.”
Before you can say more, Jungkook returns, keys in hand. He’s quiet, almost brooding again.
“Our next session won’t be before a couple of weeks until you take your cast off and rest a little, I’ll see you then, okay?” Seokjin adds.
You thank him and turn towards Jungkook. Without a word, he moves to your side, offering his arm. You take it, steadying yourself with a grateful glance.
As you walk toward the exit together, the air between you thick with unspoken things, you wonder how long this fragile balance can hold.
The door slams shut harder than necessary.
Jungkook fastens his seatbelt with a harsh tug, jaw locked, eyes forward.
You settle in slower, heart still pounding from the tension inside. He doesn’t start the car.
You glance at him. “Are you gonna drive, or are we just gonna sit here pretending not to hate each other?”
That gets his attention.
His eyes snap to you. “I don’t hate you.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” you snap back. “You’ve been cold as hell since the party. You barely talk. You glare at everyone who so much as looks at me. What the hell do you want from me, Jungkook?”
He exhales sharply, hands gripping the wheel. “I want you to stop acting like nothing happened.”
“Nothing did happen!” you shout. “I was honest with you. I told you I couldn’t handle something more right now.”
“Then don’t look at me like that,” he growls. “Don’t touch me like I matter. Don’t ask me to be here, to stay, and then act like you don’t see what it’s doing to me.”
“Oh my god,” you breathe out, anger flaring. “What the hell do I have to do to get you to breathe again? What would take the pressure off? You want me to kiss you? Sleep with you? Just tell me, Jungkook, tell me what the hell will shut you up for five seconds!”
His head jerks toward you, stunned.
You’re panting now, voice shaking. “I’ll do it. If that’s what it takes. If that’s the price to get my space back, fine. Just say it.”
Silence.
A beat.
Then, softly, wrecked:
“I don’t want your body if you have to give it to me like it’s a favor.”
That lands like a gut punch. You blink fast, throat tight.
“I want you,” he continues, quieter now, voice cracking, “because you want me. Not because I guilted you into it. Not because you feel sorry for me. Not because you think it’ll shut me up.”
Your breath catches.
He swallows hard, eyes shining just slightly. “I’ve been trying so damn hard to be respectful. To give you space. To not cross lines. But it’s killing me watching you slip away and smiling like it’s all fine.”
You blink, scoffing in disbelief, voice rising again. “Slip away? Jungkook, I live in the same damn house as you. I breathe the same air as you. I’ve let you see me at my lowest and you think I’m slipping away because I’m not climbing into your lap?”
“That’s not what I meant,” he mutters, dragging a hand through his hair.
“Then what do you mean? Huh? You’ve been pissed off since I started my sessions with Seokjin and don’t even lie about it. You want me to not go to therapy now because some guy might end up liking me?”
“That’s not what this is about—”
“Yes, it is!” you shout. “You’re acting like I’m cheating on you and we’re not even together!”
His mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
You throw your hands up. “Jesus, Jungkook. I’m tired. My leg’s broken, my head is barely above water, and I feel like I can’t breathe around you anymore without setting you off.”
“Stop it,” he growls.
“No! I’m serious! You want a release valve? I’m offering it. Because I’m tired of feeling like a villain in my own damn house. Like I broke you by not saying yes fast enough.”
“Stop it!” His voice breaks this time, raw and desperate.
You freeze.
He’s breathing hard, hands trembling on the wheel, but he won’t look at you.
When he finally speaks again, it’s low. Pained.
“I don’t want you like that.”
You blink. “What?”
“I don’t want you like this. Angry. Resentful. Bargaining with your body like you owe me something. I’m not some burden to shake off with a kiss or sex. I care about you, really care. And if that means I have to swallow this and watch you move on with some perfect therapist, then fine. I’ll do it. But don’t throw yourself at me out of guilt. I couldn’t live with that.”
Silence stretches long and thick.
You stare at him, chest heaving, not from rage now but from shame. From grief. From all the unsaid things hanging between you like ghosts.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” you whisper.
He finally looks at you, eyes still shining, but softer now. Quieter.
“I know. But it still hurt.”
You close your eyes, nodding slowly.
And for the first time in what feels like hours, neither of you speaks.
The fight settles, not because it’s over, but because it’s shifted. The storm between you had burned hot and fast, but now it left behind nothing but quiet roads and the soft hum of the engine beneath you. You stare out the window, watching the shapes of passing trees blur into nothing, your breathing finally evening out.
You were drained. Exhausted in a way that felt bone-deep. But it wasn’t just from the fight, it was everything. The morning. The session. The ache in your leg. The pressure you’d been carrying in your chest for weeks, maybe longer.
And then, out of nowhere, Jungkook pulls into a small parking lot outside a 24-hour convenience store. You blink, turning to look at him.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just slips out of the car, disappearing inside. When he returns, he silently places a small tub of your favorite ice cream in your lap, along with two plastic spoons.
No lecture. No smug look. Just that small, quiet offering.
You don’t say much. Just a soft, “Thanks,” before peeling the lid open and taking a bite.
It melts slow and sweet on your tongue, and for a moment, just a moment, you feel like you can finally breathe.
Beside you, Jungkook leans back in his seat and watches the night sky through the windshield, one leg lazily bent beneath the dashboard.
The two of you don’t speak. You just eat, passing the ice cream back and forth in silence, and for the first time all day… there’s no anger, no questions, no guilt.
Only quiet.
Only him.
Only you.
—-
The next morning drifts in slowly, sunlight creeping through the gauzy curtains and painting golden lines across your sheets. You wake up feeling a little heavier than usual, not in a bad way, just the kind of fatigue that follows a long day of emotion and overthinking. Your leg still throbs faintly, a dull reminder of everything that’s changed in the past few weeks.
You’re halfway through brushing your hair when your phone buzzes.
[ Nat ]:
We’re coming over today
Bbq on your terrace
Don’t say already got the stuff 😘
[ Yoongi]:
I got the drinks, don’t pretend you’re too tired, you owe us a hangout.
You smile, faint and reluctant, but… not unwilling. You haven’t seen them in a while. Not properly. And the thought of their loud laughter echoing on your terrace, the scent of grilled meat, the cold breeze from the weather, it all sounds like something you need.
They arrive a little after four. The bags of food are dumped in your kitchen, shoes are kicked off, music plays softly from Namjoon’s phone. They hug you like it’s been months, even though it’s a little over a week since the new year’s party and for a moment, things feel refreshingly normal.
But then you open the door to greet the last guest and your breath falters.
Seokjin.
Your eyes flick from him to Natty, who lifts a brow as if to say, “What? He’s fun.”
Seokjin smiles, holding up a container of pre-marinated ribs like a peace offering. “Hope it’s okay I came.”
You hesitate just a beat too long. “Yeah. Of course.”
From the hallway, Jungkook’s voice cuts through.
“Barbecue?”
You turn, startled to see him lingering in the kitchen doorway. He’s in jeans and a black t-shirt, hair slightly tousled like he hasn’t decided what to do with the rest of his day. But his eyes are alert now, focused sharply on the new guest.
Seokjin notices too. He nods politely. “Hey.”
Jungkook mirrors the nod. “Hey.”
That’s it. No warmth. No curiosity this time. Just two men taking measure of each other in silence.
You watch the tension coil in Jungkook’s shoulders.
But then, unexpectedly, he steps back.
“I’ll head out for a bit,” he says, tone unreadable. “Give you guys space.”
You blink. “You don’t have to-”
“I want to.”
He’s already grabbing his phone, slipping on his sneakers. “I’ll be with Tae and Jimin. Just text if you need anything.”
You nod slowly, not trusting your voice. He pauses by the door, gaze lingering on you for a second longer than necessary, then he’s gone.
And suddenly, you’re left with your friends, a barbecue to host… and Seokjin casually unpacking the ribs while your stomach coils with something tangled and unspoken.
The terrace glows under strings of warm, golden lights, swaying gently with the occasional cold gust. A small fire pit crackles in the center, its flame low but steady, casting flickering shadows over the mix of throw blankets, fold-out chairs, and open containers of grilled food spread across the outdoor table.
Despite the chill in the air, the space buzzes with heat, from the fire, from laughter, from the kind of closeness that only comes when everyone around you knows you deeply.
“You don’t understand,” Hoseok says, gesturing animatedly with half a grilled zucchini on his fork. “I almost died on that hike.”
“You sprained your ankle,” Yoongi says flatly, sipping his drink.
“Exactly,” Hoseok insists. “I was stranded on top of the mountain. Alone. With no signal. And I was out of granola bars.”
“Not the granola bars!” Natty gasps dramatically, clutching her chest like he’d just confessed a war story.
They erupt in laughter, and you find yourself leaning back into the moment, warmed more by the camaraderie than the flames. Your good leg is curled under you, a fleece blanket wrapped loosely around your waist, at least, until another one settles across your shoulders.
You glance to your right.
Seokjin’s already turning back to his plate, as if he didn’t just notice you shivering and fix it without a word. But he’s sitting so close now that the side of his body brushes against yours. Every time he reaches forward for his drink or a piece of grilled meat, his thigh grazes yours. It’s not intentional, but it’s also not avoided.
“Thanks,” you murmur, voice soft enough to be lost in the music and fire crackle.
He just smiles faintly. “You were freezing.”
You don’t reply. Not because you don’t have anything to say, but because your mind drifts elsewhere.
To the empty chair beside you.
To the way Jungkook hadn’t looked back as he left.
Your gaze flickers toward the terrace door, then to your phone, lying face down on the armrest.
“Are you okay?” Seokjin asks gently, sensing the slight drift in your expression.
You nod with a small smile, reaching for your drink. “Yeah. Just a little tired.”
He hums in acknowledgment, his eyes lingering on your face a beat longer than necessary. The firelight dances across his features, soft, golden, pulling shadows along the line of his jaw.
“You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to,” he says, shifting just slightly closer beneath the shared blanket. His knee presses against yours now, not by accident this time. “Sometimes the best part of a good night is just… sitting next to the right person.”
Your gaze flickers to his. There’s something different in his tone, gentle, but deliberate. Confident.
It’s almost enough to make your pulse jump.
“You mean next to the person with the marshmallows,” you say, trying to brush past the sudden tension.
He grins, dipping his head in mock offense. “I brought the marinated pork. That should earn me a spot on your list of favorite people tonight.”
You laugh, but it comes out quieter than you intended.
Then, his arm moves. It’s subtle, practiced, like he’s done it before: the way he adjusts the blanket around your shoulders, his hand brushing your upper arm as he tucks you closer toward the warmth of the fire. And toward him.
“Better?” he murmurs.
You nod. It’s warmer, sure. But there’s also a weight in your chest now that has nothing to do with the temperature.
He doesn’t look away. For a moment, the sounds around you. your friends’ chatter, the crackle of wood, the hum of music fade just slightly. His eyes dip to your lips. Briefly.
Then he’s leaning in.
It’s not sudden or forceful. Just a gradual closing of space. Like he’s giving you time to stop him, if you want to. But you don’t move. Not until his nose nearly brushes yours.
A sharp shout of laughter from across the terrace snaps the moment before anything more happens. You blink, exhale, glance away to cover the flustered heat rising up your neck.
Seokjin leans back, his lips curving in a smile you can’t quite read.
“Blanket’s doing a good job now, huh?”
You look at him out of the corner of your eye, cheeks warm from more than the fire. “Yeah… it really is.”
And just like that, Jungkook’s absence is the furthest thing from your mind.
The fire crackles beside you, flickering orange and blue as someone tosses another log into the pit. The night air is sharp with cold, but the blankets, the heat of the flames, and the buzz of the beer spreading through your veins all keep the chill comfortably at bay.
You take another sip from your bottle, the foam tickling your lip as you lean back against the lounge chair. Hobi is halfway through a hilarious story about getting lost during a hiking trip in Switzerland, using his hands dramatically as he describes almost mistaking a goat path for the trail.
Everyone’s laughing, real, deep laughter that settles in your chest and makes your shoulders relax. Even Seokjin, seated still so close next to you, has his head tilted back, his smile soft and easy, bottle resting against his thigh.
“I’m serious!” Hobi insists. “The map was upside down the whole time. I was about to call a rescue team when I found a vending machine in the middle of the woods.”
“That’s so you,” you laugh, covering your mouth, beer sloshing dangerously near the edge of the bottle.
“You’re banned from planning any future trips,” Natty chimes in, wagging her finger at him.
You shift, straightening a little, the idea hitting you like a jolt of caffeine. “Wait, what if we actually took a trip?”
All eyes turn to you. You sit up more, the excitement swelling in your voice now. “I mean it. I’ll be getting the cast off soon, and I need something to look forward to. Something fun. Like a cabin trip, or the beach. Something chill.”
“You?” Yoongi raises a brow. “Chill?”
You toss a pretzel at him and grin. “Okay, fine. A little chaotic. But come on—wouldn’t that be fun?”
Natty lights up immediately. “I’m in.”
“Same,” Hobi adds. “But only if I don’t have to read the maps this time.”
You laugh, then turn instinctively toward Seokjin, the beer warming your system and emboldening your words. “Would that even be okay though?” You motion vaguely toward your leg. “Like, realistically. Can I travel like that?”
He glances at your leg briefly, thoughtful, his fingers curling a little tighter around the neck of his bottle. “Honestly? I don’t see why not.”
You blink. “Really?”
He nods, tone gentle but confident. “We’ll ease you into it. I’ll make sure you don’t overdo anything. And by then, your strength should be a lot better. A couple of stretches and you’ll be fine.”
“Guess I’ll be the cool one on the plane with a cane,” you murmur, pretending to strut.
Seokjin leans in closer, smirking. “You’d still be the prettiest one.”
The words are low, quiet, probably not meant for anyone else to hear. And yet they echo inside your chest like the snap of a burning log.
You glance away, suddenly very aware of how warm your face feels again.
A trip. New scenery. A different kind of silence. You weren’t sure how desperate you were for that until now.
Someone turns the music down to a soft hum, something mellow and warm, and for the first time in what feels like ages, you’re not counting the minutes. You’re not staring at a clock or watching your phone or reminding yourself to breathe.
Everything just… settles.
The food is almost gone. The cold barely bites. Hobi’s voice is hoarse from laughing too much. Yoongi and Joon are nodding off in a blanket burrito. Natty’s trying to take blurry selfies of the group, yelling at everyone to sit still even though no one listens. You’re wrapped up in a thicker blanket than earlier, the scent of grilled meat still clinging to your hoodie, and Seokjin’s quiet presence beside you somehow balances everything out.
It feels… normal. In the simplest, most sacred way.
You sip your drink silently now, gaze tilted up toward the navy sky. The stars are faint but there. You exhale, long and slow..
But that’s the thing about silence. It always makes room for the truth.
And the truth is: you miss him. as your friend of course.
Not just his voice or the sound of him grumbling every morning or the sight of him sprawled on your couch like he owns the place.
You miss Jungkook.
You miss how he would’ve made fun of Hobi’s goat story. How he would’ve stolen your meat off your plate and claimed it was fair game. How he would’ve teased you or rolled his eyes before handing you a hoodie when he saw you shiver. How his laugh would’ve filled the terrace, he definitely enjoyed the company of your friends too.
Your hand twitches toward your phone again before you stop yourself. You blink down at your beer.
“Would it be weird,” you say suddenly, “if we invited Jungkook?”
A few heads turn.
You keep your tone light, casual. “I mean… he’s been stuck here with me for weeks. A trip would do him good. He’d love it.”
Seokjin glances at you from the side, but doesn’t comment. Natty nods enthusiastically, “That actually sounds great. He does need to have fun. Let’s ask him.”
You smile a little, but it’s tight around the edges.
You’re not sure if you said it for him…
Or for you.
Either way, the idea of him being there, somewhere open, somewhere beautiful, somewhere that doesn’t feel like a glass box of tension and unsaid things, fills your chest with a tiny bloom of hope.
Because if tonight feels this close to normal… maybe having him there would make it whole.
By the time the last of the blankets are folded, the bottles tossed in the recycling bin, and the leftover food packed away, the terrace feels almost untouched again. The string lights still sway in the wind, and the dying fire crackles lazily in the pit, embers glowing like stars trying to outshine the night.
You walk your friends to the door with soft goodbyes and warm hugs, lingering a little longer than usual. There’s gratitude in your chest for their presence tonight, for the way they carried you back into something that resembled peace. But once the door shuts behind them, silence rushes in like a tide.
And he’s still not home.
You drift back toward the fire pit, wrapping a blanket tight around your shoulders. It’s past midnight, but you don’t want to go in just yet. The terrace feels less empty when you’re out here, even if the seat beside you stays cold.
You sit in front of the fire alone.
Waiting.
The wind whistles softly through the glass railings, and the city hums below like a lullaby too big for sleep. You glance at your phone once, then tuck it away. He said he’d be back. You believe him.
But still, the waiting itches beneath your skin.
Your eyes fall shut for a moment, the warmth of the fire licking gently at your legs, the scent of charcoal and woodsmoke sinking into your hair. You breathe in. Hold it. Let it go.
The door clicks open behind you.
Your eyes open slowly, head turning just as Jungkook steps onto the terrace, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, eyes tired, but there.
Alive and home and here.
He pauses when he sees you.
“You’re still up?” he asks quietly, like he hadn’t been hoping for exactly that.
You nod. “Didn’t feel like sleeping yet.”
He walks over, steps careful on the stone tiles, and takes the spot beside you without asking. The fire pops between you, glowing softly against the angles of his face. Neither of you says anything for a moment.
The silence isn’t heavy now. It’s warm, like the last sip of cocoa. Like an exhale that finally makes room for something new.
You don’t look at him. You just say, “Did you have a good night?”
He shifts slightly, eyes on the flames. “It was okay.”
A beat. Then..
“I missed this, though.”
You glance sideways, finally meeting his gaze.
You don’t smile. But your eyes soften.
“Me too.”
You tug the blanket tighter around your legs and tilt your head slightly toward him, the flames casting shadows on his face. “So… what’d you end up doing?”
Jungkook rubs a hand over the back of his neck, exhaling through his nose. “Just hung out with the guys. Jimin cooked, kind of. He tried to make that chicken thing again, the one he always burns.”
You let out a low laugh. “Still thinks oil and fire are the same thing?”
He chuckles, nodding. “Exactly. It was a mess. But it was nice… Loud, stupid, comforting. You know how they are.”
You nod slowly, staring into the fire with a small smile. “Yeah, I know.”
He shifts to look at you. “And you? How was the barbecue?”
You don’t hesitate. “It was fun. Really fun, actually.” You glance at him briefly, then away again. “Everyone brought something. We froze our asses off, but no one cared. Hobi told a ten-minute story about getting stuck on a mountain and still somehow made it sound like the best vacation of his life.”
Jungkook laughs again, and you can hear the picture forming in his mind. “Classic.”
“Blankets, beer, grilled mushrooms… Coco almost stole a whole skewer.”
Jungkook hums quietly, then looks away. “That’s good.”
You glance at him, then nudge his leg with yours gently under the blanket. “I suggested a trip.”
His eyes flick back to you. “A trip?”
“Yeah,” you say, your voice gaining a hint of excitement. “Just somewhere nearby. I’ll be getting the cast off soon, and I kinda want to do something normal. Something that isn’t therapy or elevators or hobbling around like a penguin.”
His gaze lingers on you. “You should. You deserve that.”
You pause, then add, more softly, “I said we should invite you.”
He blinks. “Me?”
“Yeah. I figured you’d love it. And we’re friends now, remember?” You smile faintly. “Roommates and friends.”
For a moment, Jungkook doesn’t say anything. He just watches you, something unreadable simmering behind his eyes. Then he nods. “I’d like that.”
You both fall quiet again, but it’s no longer hesitant.
It’s familiar.
Like slipping back into a rhythm you didn’t realize was already yours.
You let your shoulder rest just barely against his. He doesn’t move away. The fire hums between you, and the city stays quiet.
Just two people talking.
Just friends.
Jungkook hasn’t said anything in a while, but his presence beside you is grounding in a way you didn’t know you missed until now.
You don’t mention Seokjin.
Not the way he wrapped the blanket around your shoulders.
Not the way your knees kept touching under the table.
Not the way he leaned in, so close his breath brushed your cheek.
Not the moment (brief but undeniable), when you thought he was going to kiss you, and you didn’t immediately pull back.
It’s not guilt exactly. You didn’t do anything wrong.
But you also didn’t want to see how Jungkook might react if you told him.
Not tonight. Not when things finally felt steady between you both again.
So instead, you keep your voice light and your smile steady. You leave those moments in the corners of your memory, where they can’t start another fire neither of you is ready to put out.
Because for the first time in a while, things feel normal again.
And you don’t want to ruin that, not when he’s sitting right here, telling you about Jimin’s burnt chicken and laughing in that tired, genuine way you always liked more than you admitted.
You both get up at the same time, stretching limbs sore from sitting too long in the same position. The fire’s dying down, but its heat still lingers faintly in the room as you move toward the hallway together.
Jungkook yawns into his sleeve, rubbing the back of his neck. “Should I give Coco a treat before bed?”
You glance over your shoulder, smiling. “She had almost an entire skewer of meat. She’s probably passed out in a protein coma.”
“Fair,” he says, chuckling as he flicks the hallway light off behind you both. “Spoiled little monster.”
“She gets it from me.”
He hums at that but doesn’t argue. The silence between you is warm again, the kind that only settles in when the day has wrung both of you dry and there’s nothing left but the shared comfort of knowing the other is close by.
When you both stop in front of your bedroom doors, you turn to him just as he’s about to open his.
“Thanks for tonight,” you say, voice quiet. “For coming back.”
His hand pauses on the knob. He looks at you for a moment too long, then offers a soft nod. “Always.”
And with that, you slip into your room, Coco already curled up in a perfect donut on your pillow. You crawl into bed beside her, exhaling deeply as the quiet settles. Somewhere down the hall, a door clicks shut. A faucet runs for a few seconds. Footsteps.
Summary: revenge never tasted that good when you decide to get back at the man - who ran you over - with the worst punishment he could ever get, and despite all the grudge, maybe some time after, the grudge will gradually turn into something else..?
Genre: e21, biker jk, series ( slow-burn.), smut, fluff, angst.
Taglist: @binniesbabe @ennvfv @minimoninini
Moodboard 1 | Moodboard 2
Previous | Next
The sterile brightness of the therapy room does nothing to distract you from the fire building in your thigh.
You grip the side rails of the treadmill like they’re the only things tethering you to this world, and each small step feels like dragging a knife through your muscle. The pain comes in sharp jolts, almost electrical, seizing your breath with every one. Your body wants to give out. You want to scream, or sit down, or maybe pass out. But you don’t. You just keep moving, barely, because he hasn’t let go of your hand.
“Breathe through it,” Seokjin murmurs, walking slowly beside you. His hand wraps gently around yours, thumb brushing soothingly along the inside of your palm. “You’re doing amazing. I promise you are. Just a few more seconds.”
You nod, biting your lip so hard it might bleed. Your eyes sting.
Jungkook stands a few steps away, arms crossed, jaw clenched. He hasn’t spoken since the session began. You don’t need to look at him to feel the heat of his gaze.
Seokjin glances at you, his voice softer this time. “Do you want to stop?”
You shake your head immediately, even though your knee buckles slightly beneath you. “No. I can do it.”
He smiles gently, eyes crinkling. “I believe you.”
You hate how much that encouragement almost undoes you.
Behind you, Jungkook shifts, his sneakers scuffing lightly on the tile. You don’t turn around, but you feel something ripple in the air between you. Something tight. Watching this must be messing with his head in ways he doesn’t know how to name.
“Okay,” Seokjin says. “Just twenty seconds more. Focus on me, not the pain. You’re not alone.”
And you do.
You focus on his hand holding yours. The steady cadence of his voice. His quiet presence beside you like a safe wall to lean against. You take the next step. And the next. Even when pain splinters through your thigh and tears spring uninvited to your eyes, you don’t stop. You let yourself lean on him. Just for now.
The treadmill finally comes to a stop, the belt stuttering into silence beneath your feet. You stay still, chest heaving, sweat clinging to the back of your neck like a second skin.
“Take a moment,” Seokjin says gently, pressing a cold water bottle into your hand. “You killed that.”
You try to smile, but your face is trembling too much to fake anything. As soon as you sit down on the bench near the wall, your breath hitching, the pressure in your chest finally bursts. Tears slip down before you can stop them.
“Hey.. hey,” Seokjin crouches in front of you, voice immediately lowering. “That wasn’t failure. That was pain. That’s allowed. You were incredible.”
You hide your face behind the water bottle, shoulders curling forward.
Jungkook hasn’t said a word, but you can feel his presence behind the mirror-like window, still, watching.
“I hate this,” you whisper. “I hate that it hurts this much. I hate that I can’t even walk right anymore.”
“You’re not supposed to be perfect,” Seokjin says softly, wiping a tear from your cheek with the side of his thumb. His touch is feather-light, no pity in his eyes. “You’re healing. And healing never looks pretty.”
You shake your head, another tear slipping out. “It’s not just the pain. It’s… everything. I feel like my whole life is on hold. Like I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore.”
Seokjin leans back a little, smiling just enough to try and pull you out of the fog. “Then it’s a good thing your life’s about to get interesting again.”
You sniffle. “What do you mean?”
He gestures toward the treadmill. “We’re doing the next round with an incline. Just a small one. Helps reset posture, activate your core muscles.”
You groan through your tears. “I’m going to die on that thing.”
Seokjin laughs, the sound surprisingly boyish. “Not on my watch.”
You force a weak smile, leaning back, trying to breathe evenly. He taps your knee gently.
“Tell you what,” he says, still crouched beside you, “tell me something distracting while we wait for your muscles to calm down. Anything. What are your plans once you’re free from my torture?”
You blink at him, wiping your nose on the back of your hand. “Plans?”
“Yeah. Life plans. Wild dreams. Maybe just what you’re doing this weekend.”
You hesitate, then glance away. “I’m throwing a New Year’s Eve party. At my place.”
“Ooh,” Seokjin grins, folding his arms on his knees. “A proper one? Glitter, countdown, regrettable decisions?”
You laugh, unexpectedly. It’s shaky and hoarse, but real. “Pretty much. I’m redecorating the living room for it, with a theme and all. Don’t ask.”
“I wasn’t going to,” he chuckles. “That sounds awesome. Can I come?”
You raise an eyebrow. “As my therapist?”
“No, as your fan,” he says without missing a beat. “Of your courage. or your therapist. Take your pick.”
You blink at him, caught between flustered and grateful. Somewhere behind the warmth of his words, you feel the weight of Jungkook’s silence again, still unmoving.
Seokjin rises slowly, offering you his hand again.
“Ready to go uphill?”
You glance at the treadmill like it’s your mortal enemy, then back at Seokjin.
“…Not even close.”
He smiles. “Perfect. That’s how we begin.”
Just as Seokjin moves toward the treadmill to set the incline, Jungkook steps in.
You don’t need to look at him to feel the shift in the air. It’s sharp. Disrupted. Like a cold draft that sneaks in beneath the skin.
His eyes move straight to you, still sitting on the bench, cheeks damp, breath shaky, and something flashes across his face. Not annoyance. Not smugness.
Worry.
“You don’t think she should take a break before that?” he asks, directing the question at Seokjin, though his gaze never leaves your face. “She looks pale. Her leg’s probably swollen by now.”
You blink. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not.” His tone is sharper than you expect. “You just cried through ten minutes of pain and now you’re doing uphill?”
Seokjin’s hands drop from the control panel. His posture stays relaxed. “It’s okay if she needs a break. I was going to ask anyway.”
You glance between the two of them, wiping your face again. Jungkook’s arms are crossed over his chest, jaw tight. He moves closer, slowly, like he’s resisting the urge to physically check your pulse.
“I just don’t want her overdoing it,” he says, more to you this time. “This isn’t a race.”
“I said I’m fine,” you repeat, but your voice is quiet. It doesn’t sound like confidence. It sounds like surrender.
Seokjin, gently stepping back, gives you space without any sign of tension. “We can pause for a few minutes. Let her reset.”
Jungkook nods stiffly. Then adds, eyes still on you, “By the way, did your therapist really invite himself to your party?”
The question drops like a stone in a still pond. You frown.
“…What?”
“The New Year’s thing,” Jungkook says, his tone laced with a sarcastic smirk that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “He invited himself just now. You gonna say yes?”
“Jungkook,” you hiss under your breath.
Seokjin blinks, brows raised in amusement, then lifts both hands lightly in mock surrender. “I meant it as a joke. I wasn’t being serious.”
“Still,” Jungkook mutters, glancing away. “Bit weird, don’t you think?”
You narrow your eyes. “I can answer for myself.”
“Sure,” he says. “Go ahead.”
A tense silence settles in the room. Seokjin clears his throat, trying to be diplomatic.
“I’ll give you a minute,” he says with a small, polite nod, stepping toward the far corner of the room and checking something on a clipboard, giving you the illusion of privacy.
You look at Jungkook, voice low but burning. “What the hell was that?”
He shrugs, tone casual but his eyes say otherwise. “Just didn’t want you passing out on a treadmill while your therapist’s too busy flirting to notice.”
“You don’t get to decide how I recover.”
“I’m not deciding,” he says. “I’m just watching out for you. Which apparently no one else in this room is doing.”
You exhale harshly, your heart pounding now for entirely new reasons.
Seokjin, across the room, keeps his back turned, pretending not to listen.
And Jungkook just stands there, fuming quietly, the words he really wants to say sitting heavy behind his tongue.
You watch Jungkook’s jaw twitch, his gaze flitting toward Seokjin’s back like it’s offensive just for existing. The tension in his shoulders is practically vibrating. You sigh, lean forward slightly, and speak low enough that only he can hear.
“It’s okay if he comes over.”
His eyes snap back to you.
You continue, still quiet, still calm. “He knows my friends. He’s friendly. And he’s been… really nice. He didn’t mean anything by it.”
Jungkook scoffs under his breath, rolling his eyes. “Of course he’s nice. It’s his job.”
“Maybe,” you murmur. “But it doesn’t feel fake.”
He looks away again, biting the inside of his cheek. “Yeah, well. That’s how they get you.”
You tilt your head, watching him. “Are you really this worked up over Seokjin? Or are you just not used to seeing someone treat me like I matter?”
That hits. You don’t mean it to be cruel, it’s not. It’s honest. And Jungkook reacts like you’ve pulled the rug out from under him.
He looks at you for a long, long beat. Then blinks slowly, mouth pressed in a tight line.
“Do whatever you want,” he mutters finally. “Invite him. Hell, invite the whole hospital if you feel like it.”
“Jungkook—”
“No, seriously,” he says, backing up a step, voice lower now. “You’re right. He seems nice. Real charming. Go for it.”
He turns before you can reply, walking toward the bench near the door. The shift in him is immediate, like someone flipped a switch from possessive to distant. But the hurt? That stays written all over his shoulders, even as he sits down and stares at the floor like it might offer answers.
Across the room, Seokjin glances over with a warm smile, unaware.
You stare at Jungkook’s profile, wondering what just broke in him, and if you’re supposed to fix it.
Your leg is still trembling slightly, but the pain has dulled to a throb, a manageable kind of awful.
Seokjin adjusts the incline settings on the treadmill, then offers you his hand again. You take it.
“We’ll go slow,” he says, watching your expression carefully. “You set the pace.”
You nod, stepping onto the belt as it starts to tilt upward. The angle isn’t dramatic, but your thigh screams in protest almost immediately. You grit your teeth and push forward.
“Good,” Seokjin murmurs, walking beside you again, his hand hovering just near your arm without touching. “Posture looks stronger already. Just keep breathing.”
You do.
Step. Step. Fire.
Then, between sharp exhales, you glance sideways at him.
“And… if you want to come to the party,” you say, voice light, “you can.”
Seokjin raises an eyebrow, glancing at you mid-stride. “You sure? After the reaction I got?”
You offer a strained smile. “I’m sure. Sorry about that, by the way. My friend, he’s just… protective.”
“Ah,” Seokjin says, a little amused. “Got it.”
“He’s not usually like this,” you add quickly. “He just… doesn’t like hospitals. Or therapists. Or parties. Or people, really.”
Seokjin chuckles. “So… sunshine and rainbows, basically.”
You laugh despite the burn in your leg. “Not exactly..”
Across the room, Jungkook shifts. You don’t have to look to know he’s rolling his eyes again.
Seokjin doesn’t comment further. He just gives you a small nod. “I’ll come by for a bit, then. Say hi. Bring a glittery hat or something.”
You smirk. “That’s mandatory.”
“Understood.”
You keep going, every step uphill dragging your breath out of you, but it’s getting a little easier. Not painless. But tolerable.
And knowing Jungkook is still watching, steeping in silence and unreadable tension, adds a different heat to your spine. One you don’t quite know what to do with.
——
The living room doesn’t look like yours anymore.
It looks like a fever dream from 1997, washed in purple and gold light, with glittering fringe curtains draped over the windows and a silver disco ball spinning lazily from the ceiling. LED floor tiles flash in sync to the soft thump of the music playing from the speakers, and rhinestone-studded cups are stacked beside bowls of neon candy.
You went all in.
Even your cast sparkles, wrapped in a thin mesh of sequined ribbon, with tiny adhesive stars lining the edge like a crown. Your nails match your toes, and the short, glittery slip dress hugs your body like it was poured on, the fabric shifting in the light with every breath you take.
You tug at the hem once, then twice.
From the hallway, you hear the distinct sound of footsteps, Jungkook’s, and then his low, unreadable voice:
“…You know you’re gonna start a fire in that thing, right?”
You turn, slow, your lip curling into a half-smile. “I prefer cause a scene.”
He’s leaning against the doorframe now, arms crossed, black jeans clinging to his thighs and a plain black tee stretched across his chest. He didn’t dress up. Of course he didn’t. But he still looks annoyingly good in his casual contempt.
His eyes trail over you once, briefly, too brief to be polite, too sharp to be casual.
You arch a brow. “Something wrong?”
“Just wondering if the dress came with warning signs.”
You snort, limping slightly as you move to adjust the drink table. “You’re just mad it looks better on me than your attitude does on you.”
His gaze lingers, jaw clenching faintly. “You’re really doing the whole sparkle parade, huh?”
You shrug, not looking at him. “It’s a new year. A clean slate. If I want to bedazzle the trauma out of my life, let me.”
He’s quiet for a moment. Then, softer than before:
“…You look good.”
You glance back at him, surprised.
“I mean it,” he adds. “You look like yourself again. Loud. Flashy. A little terrifying.”
You grin. “Thanks, I think.”
There’s a beat of silence, then you speak again, quieter now.
“Funny, considering you’ve only known me as… you know. A disaster on crutches.”
Jungkook shrugs, but his eyes stay on you. “I’ve seen you yell at your insurance company, nearly murder a nurse with your stare, and redecorate this entire place while half-immobile. I think I’ve seen enough.”
You glance down, smoothing the hem of your dress. “You’ve seen the worst parts.”
“I don’t think so,” he says.
You look up.
He shrugs again, like it’s nothing. “I think this—” He gestures to you, to the room, to the music vibrating faintly through the walls. “—is the same person who screamed at me that day I hit you, and the same person I watched every night too. Just… with shinier accessories.”
You let out a laugh, quiet but real. “You mean when I told you I’d put you in jail? Really? or when I was practically naked online?”
He tilts his head. “Honestly? That was kind of the moment I started liking you.”
Your smile falters, not because you’re upset, but because it surprises you how easily he says it. How effortlessly he drops a line like that into the middle of a glitter-flooded room, while you’re dressed like disco revenge and he’s pretending he doesn’t care.
You shift your weight, cast thudding softly on the floor. “You’re being weird.”
“You’re being sparkly.”
“And you’re being…”
“Jealous?” he offers, not missing a beat. “Maybe.”
You blink.
“Look,” you say softly, “I know we’ve kind of… been on each other’s nerves every day since this whole disaster started.”
Jungkook lets out a small, knowing snort. “Kind of?”
You roll your eyes. “Fine. We’re professionals at mutual irritation.”
“That’s more accurate.”
“But tonight…” You pause, letting your voice settle. “I don’t want to fight. Not with you. Not with anyone.”
He tilts his head slightly. “Planning to actually enjoy yourself for once?”
“Is that so hard to believe?”
“Just… new.”
You nod, then extend your pinky, childishly but deliberately. “So? Truce?”
He looks at your hand. Then at your face.
“Just for tonight?” he asks.
“Just for tonight.”
He hooks his pinky around yours.
For a moment, neither of you let go.
Then a noise buzzes through the apartment, the intercom. The first guest. Followed by the thrum of music shifting into something heavier, louder, brighter.
Jungkook steps back, letting your pinkies slip apart. “Your circus is here.”
When the door swings open, laughter rushes in like wind.
“Are we early?” Taehyung asks, stepping in first with a bottle of champagne in hand and a red party hat already halfway on his head.
“Fashionably,” Jungkook mutters, stepping aside.
Jimin follows with a tray of store-bought macarons and a grin that threatens to split his face in half. His hair is slicked back. Something unexpected takes you by surprise.
They see you, and their faces light up.
“Hey!” Jimin crosses the room first, wrapping you in a gentle, familiar hug, like it’s not the first time. Like it’s not weird anymore. “You look amazing.”
Taehyung’s hug is next, loose and warm, his long arms wrapping around your shoulders like he’s known you forever. “That cast is next-level iconic,” he whispers before pulling back to look at it.
You blink, caught off guard. “Are you two drunk already, or…?”
“Nope,” Jimin says, popping a party cone hat out of his pocket. “Just glad you didn’t cancel the party. Jungkook said you redecorated the entire living room.”
Your eyes flick toward Jungkook, who shrugs like maybe he did mention that, maybe he didn’t.
You smile and reach for the rest of the hats on the table, helping Taehyung adjust his lopsided cone and forcing Jimin to pick a color. The three of you dissolve into playful bickering about gold vs. holographic, and for a few blissful minutes, your apartment feels like something from another version of your life, one where things didn’t break first before coming together.
Jungkook watches quietly from the kitchen as he opens another bottle, clearly hearing everything, but not joining in.
Then the doorbell rings again.
He answers it before you can move.
Namjoon, Natty, and Hobi file in next, adding more warmth and volume to the room. Someone turns the music up. Shoes are kicked off, drinks are poured, coats are hung. A glitter bomb goes off in the bathroom hallway (probably Hobi), and your living room becomes a kaleidoscope of laughter and lights.
And still, Yuna never shows.
You half-expected her to be here, clinging to Jungkook like usual. But he never mentioned inviting her. And judging by how relaxed he looks, arms uncrossed for once as he chats with Namjoon at the drink table, maybe that was intentional.
The knock at the door this time isn’t a buzz from the intercom, it’s a solid, confident knock-knock-knock, like whoever’s behind it knows they’re already welcome.
Jungkook looks up from his conversation with Namjoon. “I’ve got it,” he says, already heading down the hall.
A few seconds later, the door swings open again.
Yoongi walks in first, shoulders hunched against the cold, dressed in a black turtleneck and long coat. “Sorry I’m late,” he mumbles as he toes off his shoes, “I brought extras.”
Two people follow him inside, friends you don’t recognize, both friendly enough, smiling and offering polite waves before trailing Yoongi into the party like satellites.
“Glad you made it,” you say, raising your cup slightly in greeting. He nods once, already heading toward the drinks.
The apartment fills out quickly after that. Conversations crisscross through the air. Taehyung’s already dancing solo, and Jimin has claimed DJ duty from your tablet. Namjoon’s examining your glitter-covered cast like it’s a modern art piece, and Hobi is trying to take selfies with it.
Then the knock comes again.
You glance toward the door, just as Jungkook does too.
He pauses, brow slightly raised. “Expecting someone else?”
You don’t answer. Just limp toward the door with your sequined cast flashing under the disco lights.
You open it—
And there he is.
Seokjin.
No lab coat. No clipboard. No compression polo.
Just a black silk button up, sleeves pushed up over his forearms. Dark, fitted pants. Hair tousled just enough to look deliberate. A thin chain peeks out from his collar, glinting in the hall light.
“Wow,” you say before your brain catches up. “I didn’t know you clean up good.”
He chuckles, easy and warm. “I was told glitter was mandatory. So I figured silk was a decent compromise.”
Your heart does something strange, a kind of flutter and freeze all at once.
You step aside to let him in. “Welcome to the chaos.”
He glances around the glowing, glitter-splashed apartment, eyes wide. “You weren’t kidding about the theme. I feel underdressed.”
“You’re fine,” you say, maybe too quickly.
Across the room, Jungkook turns to look just in time to see Seokjin laugh at something you say, then reach his hand up to adjust the strap of your dress dangling from your shoulder.
And it’s subtle, but you catch it: the way Jungkook’s jaw sets, like a gear locking into place.
Seokjin hands you a small bottle of wine. “Housewarming gift.”
“You’re about a couple of years late.”
He winks. “Fashionably.”
If there ever was a truce, it’s currently going up in glitter-scented smoke.
Because Jungkook is not being subtle anymore.
He stands across the room, leaning against the kitchen island, one hand in his pocket and the other wrapped around a half-full glass. His gaze is a low simmer, not overt, not dramatic, but fixed. On you. On him. On every laugh you share with Seokjin. On every time you toss your hair back or tip your head closer to hear him over the music.
You feel it like heat licking your skin.
And you try- really try, to ignore it. Because you meant the truce. Because you didn’t put on rhinestones and glitter just to spiral into another spat. Because tonight is about letting go, even if your leg is still in a cast and your body still aches and your heart still doesn’t know what it’s doing.
So you turn away.
You grab Jimin by the arm and pull him onto the dance floor, laughing when he immediately spins you, even if you nearly trip over your own foot.
Taehyung joins in too, bumping hips and waving a plastic disco wand in the air like he’s summoning the ‘70s. You toss your head back, the music pulsing through your body like it belongs there, like you’ve been waiting for this exact frequency to come home to yourself.
Drink after drink. Sip after sip.
Someone hands you a fruity cocktail with a fake flamingo swimming in it. You don’t question it. You just down it, giggling into the rim of the cup.
Namjoon pulls you into a group photo. You find yourself next to strangers who know your name now, friends of friends who ask about your leg, your decorations, your playlist. Someone compliments your cast, and you genuinely light up.
You’re floating, a little off-balance, slightly too loud, just tipsy enough that your cheeks are flushed and your smile is sticky-sweet.
And yet—
Every time you glance across the room, he’s still there.
Jungkook. Silent. Watching.
He hasn’t said a word to you since Seokjin arrived. Hasn’t smiled at you once. Not even one of those smug, crooked half-grins you usually hate.
Just that stare.
Like the truce was written in disappearing ink.
You don’t ask him about the stares.
Not yet.
Instead, you decide to weaponize your joy.
Because if Jungkook wants to act like a brooding gargoyle by the punch bowl all night, then that’s his problem. You’re not babysitting his emotions. You’re not dragging him out of his sulk. Not tonight.
You toss your hair over your shoulder, lift your chin, and laugh a little louder at something Hobi says. He’s already a little drunk and trying to teach Seokjin and Jimin a drinking game, and failing spectacularly. The room bursts into chaotic laughter when someone trips over the cat’s toy, and you let yourself fold into the madness.
You even catch Seokjin watching you once or twice, a soft, open smile tugging at his lips.
But Jungkook’s stare, that’s a different kind of heat. It clings to the back of your neck, crawls down your spine like a warning. And every time you glance his way, he looks away a second too late.
Fine.
You’ve had three cocktails and half a flute of champagne. The glitter on your collarbones is catching the lights. Your cast is wrapped in silver sequins and you’ve got music in your veins.
So, when the next bass-heavy song hits, something stupid and thumpy that Jimin swears is a party classic, you spin toward the shadows where he’s still lurking.
And you find him.
Just standing there. All black shirt and clenched jaw and crossed arms. Still watching you like you were built to bother him.
You grin.
“You,” you call out, finger pointed with dramatic flair.
He lifts a brow, a tiny twitch in his cheek. “Me?”
You nod and wobble just a bit on your good leg. “Yes, you. Get your boring ass over here.”
“I’m good,” he says flatly, barely lifting his drink in fake salute.
“Oh no,” you laugh, swaying closer, “You’ve been glaring at me all night. You owe me a dance.”
“I wasn’t glaring.”
“Oh, come on,” you say, stepping up and tugging his sleeve, playful but firm. “Let’s just pretend you’re not being weird for five minutes.”
He lets out a breath like a sigh and a growl had a baby. “This is such a bad idea.”
“Then it’s perfect for New Year’s.”
Before he can argue, you’ve already dragged him a few steps forward, the music bouncing around you, the floor sticky with spilled drinks and happiness.
You don’t talk. You don’t ask him why he’s been staring. You don’t bring up Seokjin. Or the truce. Or the heat crawling up your arms just from touching him.
You just dance.
Bodies close. Just enough distance to keep from combusting.
You dance like you’ve forgotten how to overthink, like the night belongs to you.
And maybe it does.
Because for once, Jungkook doesn’t pull away.
He moves with you. Hesitantly at first, stiff shoulders and reluctant rhythm, but you see it, the way his eyes dip to your mouth and stay there a second too long. The way his fingers twitch like he wants to reach for your waist but doesn’t trust himself to touch you gently.
You spin, glitter catching the disco light, and when you turn back around, you collide into his chest.
“Oof,” you breathe, your palm landing on his sternum.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.
He’s warm. Solid.
Your eyes flick up to his, and there’s something there, molten and unreadable. The music fades into a slow beat for a second, pulsing like a heartbeat between you.
“Careful,” he murmurs. His voice is low and rough, like he’s been holding back something sharp in his throat. “I might start thinking you actually like me.”
You smirk, playful. “Relax. I’m just drunk enough to tolerate you.”
“Hmm,” he says, tilting his head as his fingers brush lightly down your bare arm. “Then maybe I should’ve gotten you drunk a couple months ago.”
You blink. And there it is, the electricity, snapping like a live wire between you.
But before you can say something reckless, someone clears their throat nearby.
You both glance over.
It’s Seokjin. Bright smile, silk shirt, way too charming for your own good.
“Hope I’m not interrupting,” he says with a hand extended toward you, eyes twinkling. “But I think the party host owes me a dance.”
You hesitate. Jungkook goes very still beside you.
Your eyes flick to him, just for a second, but his expression is unreadable. His jaw is locked tight, lashes lowered, and that muscle in his cheek? Twitching.
You swallow your guilt, ignore the heat of Jungkook’s gaze on your back, and place your hand in Seokjin’s.
"You're not interrupting,” you tell him lightly.
He grins. “Then come on, partner.”
As Seokjin pulls you away onto the dance floor again, Jungkook doesn’t follow. Doesn’t stop you.
But he watches.
And you feel it like a burn on your spine.
The truce?
Yeah, it’s ashes now.
The beat changes into something smoother, a slow groove laced with a sultry bass, and Seokjin adjusts his hold on your waist with practiced ease.
“You clean up well,” he says with a crooked smile. “But I should’ve guessed. You strike me as someone who has a flair for grand entrances.”
You tilt your head, amused. “Is that a compliment or a warning?”
“Oh, definitely a compliment,” he says, leaning just a little closer. “Though if I wasn’t your physical therapist, I might’ve said something far less professional.”
You laugh, biting your lower lip. “Good thing you are, then.”
“Tragic, really,” he muses, then twirls you gently, one arm guiding your back with just enough pressure to make you feel steady despite your cast. “But hey, at least now I get to call making you blush medically relevant.”
You raise a brow, feigning calm even as your cheeks heat. “You think I’m blushing?”
“I know you are,” he says smoothly, voice lower now, intimate enough that you’re suddenly aware of how close your faces are. “And it’s a good look on you.”
His hand lingers longer than necessary as the song stretches. It’s innocent enough to pass as polite, but deliberate enough to draw attention.
And it does.
Because across the room, half in shadow by the drinks table, Jungkook watches.
He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe.
His jaw clenches once. Then again.
He tears his eyes away for a second, brings the red plastic cup to his mouth, but forgets to drink. His free hand curls into a fist, nails pressing so hard into his palm that the sting wakes something dark in his gut.
When he dares to look back, Seokjin is whispering something in your ear, too close, too familiar, and you laugh, throwing your head back like you’re at ease.
And maybe you are.
With him.
Jungkook exhales slowly through his nose.
He doesn’t know if it’s the music or the lights or the way your eyes keep glinting like you’re happy without him, but something inside him twists and doesn’t stop twisting.
“You sure your leg’s okay with all this dancing?” Seokjin murmurs, his hand still secure on your lower back as the two of you sway gently. “Not that I’m complaining. You’re making it very hard to keep my eyes to myself tonight.”
You smile, that warm, tipsy flutter still in your chest. “I think she’s enjoying herself,” you say, glancing down at your bedazzled cast. “She needed a night out.”
“So did you,” he adds, voice softer now. “Honestly… it’s good seeing you like this. It seems like you’ve been through a lot.”
There’s a beat. One of his hands drifts up, not quite to your cheek, but close, before he catches himself. Instead, he leans just slightly in, his words brushing over your skin like velvet.
“Would it be inappropriate to ask if you’re seeing someone?”
You blink, not from surprise, but from the way his voice dips just enough to feel like something more.
Your lips part. You don’t answer.
Because suddenly a shadow steps into your line of vision.
“Hey,” Jungkook’s voice cuts in, tight and low.
You step slightly back from Seokjin’s chest just as he turns, smiling politely, but Jungkook isn’t looking at him. He’s looking at you.
“Can I talk to you?” he asks, jaw clenched. “Inside.”
You frown. “Right now?”
“Yeah. Now.”
Seokjin glances between you both, clearly catching on. You open your mouth to object, to say something to smooth it over, but Jungkook’s eyes don’t waver. And your heart stutters at the heat behind them.
You nod once and excuse yourself from Seokjin with a weak smile.
Jungkook doesn’t wait. He walks ahead, storming into your bedroom. You follow him in, the bass of the music muffled behind the door as it clicks shut.
“What the hell was that?” he snaps the moment you’re both alone.
“What was what?” you ask, voice raised to match his.
He steps closer, chest heaving slightly. “Him. All over you. Whispering in your ear like you were on some damn date.”
“Are you kidding me right now?” You throw your arms up. “It’s New Year’s Eve. We were dancing. You said truce, remember?”
“That’s not—” He runs a hand through his hair. “I just… I saw the way you looked at him.”
“You mean, was it the same way you look at Yuna?”
Silence.
Thick, loaded silence.
Jungkook’s jaw ticks. “Yuna’s not here.”
“Yeah. I noticed.”
He steps closer again, voice quieter now, but rougher. “Don’t change the subject.”
“I’m not—” He stops himself, breathing hard. “I just don’t want you getting hurt. He’s your therapist, for fuck’s sake.”
You shoot him a look. “So are you looking out for me, or are you just pissed that someone else actually finds me interesting?”
That lands.
Square in the chest.
His mouth opens. Closes.
Then opens again, this time, lower, sharper.
“You think I don’t—” he cuts off, steps even closer until the air between you trembles. “You think I haven’t—?”
But the words won’t come.
Because if he finishes that sentence, it changes everything.
And he knows it.
So do you.
The music booms faintly from the other side of the walls, too festive for the storm brewing in the dark.
He exhales hard, voice hoarse.
“I don’t like it,” he mutters. “Him. You. That look in your eyes. I don’t like it.”
You stare up at him, defiant, but your breath catches.
Because somewhere in that anger… is fear.
Fear of losing something he still won’t name.
“You don’t like it?” you echo, your voice sharper now, slicing through the heat between you. “You don’t get to not like it, Jungkook.”
His jaw flexes. “The hell I don’t.”
You laugh, bitter and disbelieving. “Since when do you care what I do with someone else?”
“Since it stopped being just about your leg,” he fires back.
That silences you for half a beat.
But he keeps going, like he’s been holding it in for weeks, and it’s finally, finally breaking out.
“I hate that you smile at him like that. I hate that he makes you laugh like I can’t. And I hate…” His breath falters, chest rising hard. “I hate that he got to be the one to ask if you’re seeing someone when I’ve wanted to ask that for weeks.”
Your stomach drops.
Your eyes widen, just slightly, but he sees it. The flicker. The shift.
And it terrifies him.
“So why didn’t you?” you whisper.
His hands curl into fists at his sides. “Because if I said it out loud… it would mean something.”
“And what?” You step toward him now, anger blooming in your chest like fire. “You don’t want it to mean something?”
“I don’t know what I want!” he snaps, the words raw, spilling like blood. “I don’t know what the hell this is, or when it started, or why I wake up thinking about you and go to sleep wondering if you’re still awake in the next room.”
You stop breathing.
“And then I see you with him, and you’re all… soft and open and letting him look at you like you’re… like you’re his, and it makes me want to punch a fucking wall.”
You inhale shakily. “So you dragged me in here to punish me? For dancing?”
“I dragged you in here because I couldn’t take one more second of pretending like I don’t see you.”
His voice breaks.
Not loud. Not dramatic.
Just a quiet, ragged crack that slices something clean down the middle.
Your breath catches.
He shakes his head, frustrated, like even he doesn’t know what he’s saying anymore. “I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to want you without ruining everything.”
You look at him, really look.
At the way he’s trembling slightly, fingers twitching like he doesn’t know whether to touch you or run.
And suddenly, all that cocky bravado from the hallway, the smug teasing, the infuriating smirks, none of it’s there.
Just Jungkook.
Terrified of losing something he hasn’t even claimed yet.
“You’re scared,” you say, softer now.
He exhales a laugh. But it’s hollow. “Of course I’m scared.”
Your heart aches.
“Then say it.”
He swallows hard. “I’m scared you’ll let someone else see you the way I do. And that you’ll never look at me like that.”
You’re both quiet.
The music still thuds from the other side of the door, but it might as well be miles away.
He looks at you, eyes wide, vulnerable, desperate to be understood but too damn afraid of what happens next.
You could cut the air between you with a knife.
“Jungkook…” you begin.
You exhale slowly, like the air in your lungs has gone stale.
“Jungkook…”
Your voice is quieter now, pulled taut with something close to regret. “We always end up here.”
He looks at you, eyes dark and unreadable.
“Every party. Every night. Every moment that feels almost normal ends with a fight.” You fold your arms. “And I told you already… there’s nothing between us. Not now.”
His jaw clenches. He doesn’t say a word.
You keep going, softer now. “I meant it. I still mean it. And I don’t want to keep pretending like this is something it’s not, just because we’re lonely or bored or, whatever this is.”
You pause, chest rising and falling.
“But the future…” you shrug lightly, giving him the honesty he deserves. “Whatever the future holds, I’m open to it. I never said never. But right now? Right now, I’m a mess. My life’s on pause, my leg’s broken, and my head’s not even halfway healed from everything I’ve been through.”
Jungkook still doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.
You stare at him for a second. Then your voice cuts through the air.
“When did it start?”
He blinks.
“What?”
“Your feelings,” you say. “Was it before you knew who I was? Or after?”
He hesitates. Just a flicker. But it’s enough.
“After.”
The word slices through you, sharp and unavoidable.
You give a bitter little nod. “Thought so.”
He steps forward, suddenly desperate. “Wait. Let me explain.”
You don’t say anything. Just wait.
“Before I knew it was you,” he says, voice quiet, “you were already everything.”
You blink, startled by the sudden shift in tone.
“I’d come home late. Exhausted. Half-alive. And I’d open my phone, and there you were. Whispering into the dark like you knew I was listening. Like you wanted me to.”
He lets out a breath.
“You weren’t just content. You were… comfort. A distraction. Some kind of escape that didn’t ask questions. I thought maybe it was a phase I’d grow out of, but it wasn’t. You filled a void I didn’t even know I had.”
You feel your breath catch, but he keeps going.
“And then I found out who you were,” he says, stepping closer. “That you were you. Real. Human. Infuriating. and we’re practically living together for now. Tearing into my nerves and still making me want to laugh. Or scream.”
A bitter smile tugs at his mouth.
“And suddenly I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Not the version behind the screen. You. The woman who rolls her eyes at everything I say. The one who leaves a mess in the living room, and scolds me if I don’t wrap her cast.”
He shakes his head like he can’t believe it himself.
“You were already under my skin before I knew your name. But now that I do?” His voice drops. “I can’t seem to get you out.”
You laugh, but it’s not really a laugh. It’s sharp and bitter and shaky all at once.
“Do you even hear yourself right now?”
He flinches slightly, but doesn’t back away.
“You liked me when I wasn’t real,” you say, voice trembling. “When I was just a screen, a sound, a filtered fantasy you could shut off whenever you wanted. But the second I became flesh and blood, when I got loud, when I argued back, when I didn’t fit in your little fantasy box, that’s when you couldn’t stop thinking about me?”
You cross your arms, but your voice falters.
“I don’t know what to do with that, Jungkook. I don’t know if you want me, or just the idea of me. And I’m tired. I’m tired of every party ending like this. I’m tired of fighting with you over every damn thing.”
He opens his mouth, but you cut in, softer now.
“I told you from the beginning, there’s nothing right now. I need time. This isn’t just proximity and adrenaline and leftover tension.”
You look down, swallowing the ache in your throat.
“But whatever the future holds… if it’s with you, I guess I won’t fight it.”
You raise your gaze to his again, more vulnerable now, eyes searching his face.
“But I need to know, was I ever more than just a phase to you? Or did I only start mattering when you realized I was the woman you used to fall asleep to?”
He exhales harshly, running a hand down his face. His voice is low when he finally speaks, not angry, not defensive. Just wrecked.
“You were always more than a phase.”
You scoff, turning away, but he steps forward.
“I didn’t know it then,” he says quickly. “But I do now. You think I don’t hate myself for how I first looked at you? Like you were something I could consume and forget? I do. Every damn day.”
You freeze.
“I watched your content because it made me feel like I wasn’t completely alone,” he continues, softer now, more raw. “It was you, your voice, your laugh, your quiet moments when you thought no one was really watching. You made everything else in my life feel bearable. And then I met you, and I realized… you’re real. And so fucking far from perfect. And still somehow everything I’ve been missing.”
He moves a step closer. His voice cracks when he says, “You make me want to be better. Even when we’re screaming at each other. Even when I hate how much I want you.”
You don’t say anything. You can’t.
He leans in slightly, just enough to feel your breath.
“I didn’t fall for your content,” he whispers. “I fell for the person who made it. I just didn’t know it was you until it was too late.”
You freeze.
The word slams into your chest like a misfired bullet.
Fall.
Your breath catches before you can stop it. Your brain scrambles, looking for a way to make it make sense, surely he didn’t mean it like that.
Your voice comes out tighter than you want it to. “Fall?”
Jungkook’s eyes flicker, but he doesn’t look away. “Yeah.”
You blink at him, heart pounding. “You fell? As in—fall fell?”
His jaw tightens slightly. “What else do you think I meant?”
You stare at him. For once, you don’t have something sarcastic or sharp to throw back. The room feels too small. The music outside suddenly too distant.
“I thought it was just feelings, not necessarily love, i thought we’re just… arguing,” you say quietly. “Fighting and tolerating each other and trying not to kill each other in a confined space.”
“I was trying not to kill you,” he says, a faint bitter smile curving at his lips. “Didn’t stop me from falling anyway.”
You feel the panic rising in your throat, hot and unbearable.
“Jungkook, you can’t just say shit like that,” you whisper. “You can’t say you fell and expect me to- I’m not there. I don’t even know if I can get there.”
“I know,” he says, not missing a beat. “I’m not asking you to meet me there. I just needed you to know I’m not faking any of this.”
You turn away before your expression gives you away, fingers curling into your palm, trying to keep steady.
He’s not asking. He’s not demanding.
He’s just feeling.
And somehow that’s worse.
Before either of you can speak again, there’s a knock.
A too-cheerful one.
“Guys?” Natty’s voice chirps from the other side, muffled by the door and the thump of party music. “The countdown’s starting in, like, thirty seconds! Come out! You’re supposed to kiss someone at midnight, remember?”
You don’t move.
Neither does Jungkook.
“Don’t make me come in there and assign you random strangers,” she warns with a teasing edge, then her footsteps retreat down the hallway.
You let out a shaky exhale.
Of course the universe would shove a stupid tradition in your face right now.
You turn back to Jungkook, and for the first time since the word fall left his mouth, you meet his eyes. His expression is unreadable. Guarded.
You clear your throat. “Well. That’s… festive.”
He huffs a humorless laugh. “You don’t have to kiss anyone if you don’t want to.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t want to.”
His eyes snap to yours.
“But I didn’t say I wanted to kiss you, either,” you add quickly, too quickly.
“Right,” he says softly, nodding. “Right.”
You feel like a coward. Like a liar. Like someone who’s still standing on a cliff’s edge, staring down at the fall and pretending the wind doesn’t tempt you.
But there’s no time for more words now.
You break the silence first. “I don’t think it’s right to kiss you after what we just said.”
Jungkook doesn’t react right away. Just stares.
You keep going, voice low. “That conversation… it meant something. And I don’t want to blur it with a kiss we’ll probably regret the second it’s over.”
His jaw flexes. “So what, you’re just going to pretend this didn’t happen?”
You shake your head. “No. I’m just not going to confuse it even more.”
He swallows hard.
“I’m gonna kiss someone else,” you say simply. Gently. Like you’re offering him mercy, even if it doesn’t feel like that to either of you.
And without waiting for his reply, you open the door.
The moment you step out, it’s like plunging into warm water. The lights flicker with gold and silver, music thumps through the floorboards, and laughter bubbles everywhere, wild and loose and free. As if the rest of the house isn’t pulsing with heartbreak just behind a closed door.
“FOUR!”
You move through the crowd, your steps uncertain, heart still trapped between the last thing he said and the silence that followed.
“THREE!”
Your eyes sweep the crowd. And then you see him.
Seokjin is near the kitchen island, leaning slightly against the marble edge, a champagne glass in hand and his hair slightly tousled from the dancing. He’s mid-laugh with someone you don’t recognize, but his eyes meet yours like he’d been waiting.
“TWO!”
You reach him before you lose your nerve. He straightens just slightly when you stop in front of him, gaze curious, and the other person drifts off instinctively, as if they can feel the gravity shift.
“Hey,” you say, voice barely heard above the party.
His smile is soft. “Hey.”
You glance around. Then back to him. “Can I ask you something kind of ridiculous?”
He tilts his head. “Sure.”
You wet your lips. “Would it be okay if I kissed you at midnight?”
Seokjin’s brows lift, but there’s no shock in his expression. No hesitation, either. Just a slow, blooming smile that lights up something warm behind his eyes.
He leans in, voice low, teasing but gentle. “I was hoping you’d ask.”
“ONE!”
And then you move.
You grab him by the front of his shirt and pull him in, and Seokjin doesn’t waste a second, he kisses you like he means it, like he’s been waiting for this all night. His hand cradles your jaw, thumb brushing lightly beneath your ear, and the pressure of his mouth on yours is firm, intentional. Nothing about it feels casual.
It’s not polite. It’s not uncertain.
It’s warm. And wanting.
He tastes like champagne and something sharper, and your heart thunders in your chest when his other hand drifts to your waist, fingers curling lightly into your side like he doesn’t want to let go.
The music crashes back in around you as the room erupts into cheers and shouts, but for a beat, it’s just the two of you, still caught in the gravity of that kiss.
When you pull back slightly, breath shallow, Seokjin searches your face with a flicker of amusement and something deeper. “Happy New Year.”
You nod, dazed, heart pounding. “Happy New Year.”
He hesitates. “Are you…?”
You already know what he’s asking.
“I’m not seeing anyone,” you answer before he can even ask. “Not officially.”
His lips twitch at that. “Good to know.”
And from across the room, through bodies and streamers and confetti, you feel it. That stare.
Jungkook.
Still watching. Still burning.
The party dies slowly.
Like a fire burning out, one flicker at a time, laughter thinning, lights dimming, music slipping into something low and nostalgic. One by one, the guests filter out with slurred goodbyes and smudged eyeliner, arms wrapped around shoulders and champagne bottles tucked under coats.
You stand by the glass doors once it’s all over, arms crossed, body half-wrapped in a throw blanket. The floor is littered with confetti, empty glasses, half-eaten desserts, and a trail of glitter party cones abandoned in corners. Somewhere near the fireplace, someone forgot their jacket.
The silence settles in sharp contrast to the chaos that lived here hours ago.
You pull out your phone and call the gatekeeper’s wife. “Yeah, you can come in now. The party’s over. It’s a mess.”
You don’t say I’m a mess too, but it’s loud in your chest.
You hang up. You don’t check if Jungkook’s behind you, but you know he is. You’ve felt him hovering around the edges of the night like a bruise. He didn’t speak to you after the kiss. He didn’t even look at you.
But every movement since… said everything.
He picked up after people. Handed out bottled water like a host running on autopilot. He smiled too easily at others. Laughed at jokes no one even finished. All of it felt like a performance, like if he kept pretending long enough, he could convince his heart none of it mattered.
But you knew better.
You heard it when he didn’t respond to Natty’s teasing about midnight kisses. You saw it when Seokjin asked if you wanted him to stay longer, and Jungkook turned away so hard his neck flushed red.
You felt it now in the tension that lingered between you like stale smoke.
You sigh and finally speak without turning around. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
Silence.
Then “Yeah,” Jungkook says quietly. “You shouldn’t have.”
You close your eyes.
His voice sounds hoarse, like he hasn’t used it in hours. Or like it cracked somewhere and never fully healed.
You twist to face him, heart tightening. He’s standing by the counter, arms braced on the edge like he’s holding himself upright. His eyes are on the floor, and you hate the way he won’t look at you, because you know what it means.
You walk toward him slowly. Stop a few steps away.
“I didn’t kiss Seokjin to hurt you,” you say, soft but sure. “It wasn’t about that.”
He doesn’t answer.
You try again. “I panicked. You said you were falling and I just… I didn’t think you were there yet.”
That makes him lift his eyes. “So if I hadn’t said it, would you have kissed me instead?”
You pause. Swallow. “I don’t know.”
His expression hardens. “Right.”
“Jungkook,” you whisper, “you have to understand, if we go there now… if we do this when things are still this messy, I’ll ruin you. I’ll ruin myself. And I can’t afford that. Neither of us can.”
He pushes away from the counter. “So what, you’re protecting me?”
“I’m protecting us,” you fire back, voice cracking. “God, do you really think this is easy for me?”
He stares at you. “I think rejecting me right after I told you I was falling for you and then kissing someone else might be the opposite of easy.”
You blink, and something behind your ribs aches.
“I’m sorry,” you say, for the hundredth time that night. “But I need more time. To get my shit together. To figure out what I feel and when I feel it and if I’m even allowed to have something real after everything I’ve been through. After what I made.”
He lets out a quiet laugh. Not amused. “Right. You were always just content, huh?”
You flinch. “Don’t.”
He shrugs, but it’s bitter. “I was falling for you. Still am. Even when I hate how you make me feel.”
You step forward. “I don’t want to lose you.”
His eyes finally meet yours, and this time they’re full of something raw. “Then stop pushing me away.”
But you already have.
And even though you don’t say it, you both know.
You’re going to keep doing it.
“No more enemies,” you continue. “No more fights that leave us both bruised.”
He exhales slowly, the hard edge around his eyes dimming.
“Just… roommates. Friends. Really close friends.”
You reach out, just briefly, and place your hand near his on the counter, not quite touching, but close enough to promise something real.
“We can’t lose each other. Not when we need each other this much.”
He nods, voice low but certain. “Friends. Yeah. I can do that.”
You both know it’s a fragile peace, maybe even a beginning, not the end of everything, but the start of something less broken.
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Summary: revenge never tasted that good when you decide to get back at the man - who ran you over - with the worst punishment he could ever get, and despite all the grudge, maybe some time after, the grudge will gradually turn into something else..?
Genre: e21, biker jk, series ( slow-burn.), smut, fluff, angst.
Taglist: @binniesbabe @ennvfv @minimoninini
Moodboard 1 | Moodboard 2
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The party was over.
The lights were dimmed, the music long gone, the leftover cookies wrapped in clingfilm and shoved to the back of the counter. Somewhere in the other room, you slept behind a closed door, unaware, untouched, safe in your own peace.
But Jungkook sat alone in your living room, staring blankly at the blinking lights of the Christmas tree. His back ached from the couch. His fingers toyed with the hem of his sleeve.
And his chest?
His chest felt hollow.
It wasn’t even a breakup.
He kept telling himself that.
You didn’t owe him anything. There wasn’t a promise broken or a confession rejected. There was no moment where he reached for your hand and you pulled away.
But still, it felt like rejection.
It felt worse than any “no” he’d ever been given.
Because he had to hear it from behind a wall.
Because he heard it when he was finally starting to imagine a future where maybe, maybe, you didn’t hate the idea of him staying.
But instead, all he heard was:
“I’m just waiting for all this to be over.”
“For him to leave.”
“It’s not personal.”
But it was personal.
It had to be.
Because when he looked at you, it wasn’t just curiosity anymore. It was something deeper. Something raw. Something that terrified him in the quietest ways.
The worst part was knowing that his feelings hadn’t started with you, the real you.
They started with the version he watched through a screen. The one he used to cope with his loneliness. The one who never spoke back.
Long before he knew your name, your sharp tongue, your snort-laugh, your obsession with oat milk, he knew your moans.
Your sighs.
The way your hips rolled slow under candlelight.
There were nights he didn’t even touch himself, just watched.
Watched like someone starved.
Like someone clinging to a thread of intimacy in a world that had none left for him.
You saved him, and you never knew.
That was the sickest part.
Because now, sitting here on your couch, in your apartment, surrounded by your scent, your presence, your realness, he couldn’t separate the two versions of you anymore.
The one on screen was confident, ethereal, untouchable.
This one, the one he carried up the stairs, the one who asked him to pass her the remote, was sarcastic and tired and human.
And he liked both.
Too hard. Too fast.
Like a man who had nothing else to hold onto.
He used to think your content made him feel less alone.
Now it made him feel disgusting.
Because he knew too much.
Because he saw your body first.
Because even now, after all this time, a part of him still remembered how you looked under those soft red lights.
He didn’t even know what you were thinking in those videos.
Didn’t know if you were pretending.
Didn’t know if any of it was real.
But he wanted it to be.
And that terrified him more than anything else.
Because if it wasn’t real, if you were never really there, then what had he been holding onto all those nights?
Just the idea of you?
Just pixels and performance and wishful thinking?
No wonder you didn’t like him.
No wonder you couldn’t feel anything real.
Because you had been real the whole time, and he had never looked at you that way until it was too late.
Until after he knew.
Until after he started wanting you not just on screen, but beside him.
In the mornings. In the small talk. In the stillness.
He ran a hand over his face, rubbing the heat from his eyes.
This was pathetic.
He wasn’t in love. He wasn’t.
He just… he needed something.
Needed you, because you were the first thing in a long time that made the silence feel less unbearable.
This was always temporary.
You said it yourself.
And now all he had to do was stick to the plan:
Wait it out.
Help you heal.
Disappear like it never happened.
But God, the ache in his chest told him that even if he left… he’d never stop hearing your voice.
And it would never mean the same thing again.
He tossed in bed
again and again.
His body was exhausted, aching from hours on his feet, heavy from wine and the fake warmth of holiday cheer. But his mind?
His mind was wired.
Wired and wrecked.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw you.
Not from tonight.
Not from the party.
But from the very beginning.
Soft lighting. A velvet robe slipping off your shoulder. That familiar click of your camera turning on.
It was like his memory had rewound itself.
Like his body remembered what he used to crave, long before he ever knew your name.
He turned onto his stomach and groaned into the pillow.
This is fucked up.
He hated how easily it came back.
How easily the want crept in.
How much worse it felt now that he knew you, really knew you, and couldn’t touch you.
He tried to think of anything else.
Tried to focus on your bickering. Your eye rolls. The way you kicked him when he teased you. The way you huffed when he called you spoiled.
But all of it just made him ache harder.
Because he missed it.
Not the fight. Not the act.
You.
He sat up suddenly, like something had snapped in his spine.
His room, well, your guest room, felt suffocating. The sheets were too hot. The silence too loud. His thoughts too fast.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat there for a moment, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.
Then… almost instinctively… he got up.
The hallway was dim and cold.
Your door was cracked open just enough to reveal a sliver of your sleeping frame. The blanket had shifted, your leg sticking out, your arm flopped over the pillow.
Peaceful.
So fucking peaceful.
He didn’t mean to stare. Didn’t mean to hover in the doorway like some ghost stuck in between wanting and letting go.
But he did.
And the longer he stood there, the harder it was to breathe.
Because even in sleep, you looked like you didn’t need him. Like you were already somewhere else.
Like you meant it when you said this was temporary.
He forced himself to step back.
Walked past your door.
Past the kitchen.
Stopped in front of the one room he swore he wouldn’t open again.
The one room that still smelled like you. Still held the same soft lights. Still had the tripod folded up neatly in the corner like it was waiting for something.
You had locked it the day after the doctor said your recovery would take months. Told him you wouldn’t be needing it for a while.
But the key was right here on a nearby hook.
Right where you said it would be.
He didn’t think.
Just unlocked the door.
And stepped inside.
It hit him like a drug.
The scent, warm, vanilla, faintly floral. The faint hum of the LED strips along the ceiling. The familiar feel of velvet under his fingertips as he brushed the edge of the bed where you used to lay.
Where you used to perform.
This was where you transformed.
Where you spoke into the lens and made strangers believe they knew you.
Where you made him believe it, too.
He stood there like he’d just walked into a church.
Silent. Shameful.
Reverent.
His fingers twitched.
He shouldn’t.
He shouldn’t.
But his phone was already in his hand. Already lighting up.
Already searching your username like it was muscle memory.
The screen loaded fast.
Too fast.
And there she was.
You.
Neck down. Teasing. Wearing that robe he still caught glimpses of in your closet sometimes.
“Missed me?” you said to the camera, in that low, honeyed voice he used to fall asleep to.
It took everything in him not to collapse.
His thumb hovered over the video.
He hesitated.
This wasn’t like before.
Now it felt dirty.
Wrong.
Too personal.
But his brain was already gone.
His heart already in his throat.
So he pressed play.
And watched you unfold in front of him again, pixel by pixel.
Not the girl sleeping in the next room.
But the one he used to need to feel alive.
The video plays quietly.
As always, your face isn’t visible.
Just skin, shadows, the soft drag of breath. A voice — your voice, smooth and deliberate, filtered just enough to protect you.
He had never seen your face.
That was the power of it.
That was what made it feel distant. Safe. Fictional.
Until now.
Jungkook stands in the middle of the room, the glow from his phone casting long shadows over the sheets where you used to film.
He watches your body move across the screen, so sure of itself.
So in control.
And even though your face is hidden, even though the camera never once tilts high enough to capture your expression, he knows it’s you.
It hits like a gut punch.
The tattoo. The jewelry. The cadence of your voice, unaltered in certain clips. The stretch of your thighs, the way you arched just before the camera cut to black. it’s all you.
It’s always been you.
And he’s watched you more times than he could ever admit out loud.
He sinks onto the edge of the bed slowly. The same bed you used in more than a few of those videos. The sheets have been changed since, the props are set aside and put away. But the energy still lingers.
You haunted this space.
No… you owned it.
You built something in here, not just a fantasy, but a version of yourself that answered to no one. A version of you that was free.
And he had no idea.
He swipes through the feed slowly. Each video a little darker, a little more polished than the last. But your face was never in them. Not once. Just flashes of your mouth, your hands, your breath.
That breath used to unravel him.
He presses pause and sets the phone down, screen first, like he can’t stand to look at it anymore.
Like it burns.
His head drops into his hands.
“You never even showed your face.” He whispers to the dark
The silence stretches. A dull ache builds in his chest.
He knows too much now.
And somehow, it feels like not enough.
The room is silent.
Too silent.
Jungkook is still sitting at the edge of the bed, hunched over, hands clasped between his knees, eyes locked on the floor. The phone is beside him, face-down. Still warm. Still heavy with everything he shouldn’t have seen again.
He hears it before he sees it.
The soft pad of your crutch tapping the hardwood. A faint rustle of fabric. A pause outside the doorway.
Then—
Your voice. Quiet. Barely a whisper.
“It’s weird, huh?”
His head snaps up like he’s been shot.
You’re standing at the door.
Hair messy. Eyes half-lidded with sleep. Barefoot. Dressed in one of those oversized shirts you always wear to bed. There’s a sleep mark creased into your cheek, and yet… somehow, the sight of you makes his chest seize in a way he can’t explain.
Jungkook scrambles to his feet.
“I—fuck. I didn’t mean— I wasn’t—”
You raise a hand.
Not angry. Not startled. Just… calm.
“It’s okay.”
He blinks.
“No. It’s not. I shouldn’t be in here—”
You take a few careful steps into the room, leaning on your crutch, until you’re close enough to look him in the eye.
“I figured you’d come eventually.”
His mouth opens. Nothing comes out. He looks down at the bed, then back at you, unsure what part of this moment is real. Or allowed.
“You knew I—?”
“Of course I did.” You let out a breathy laugh. “You’re not exactly subtle.”
His ears flush red.
“I just…” He rubs the back of his neck. “I couldn’t sleep.”
You nod once.
Then you lower yourself down carefully onto the edge of the bed, not looking at him, just staring at the room you used to perform in. Your voice softens.
“This place used to feel like a fortress.”
“Like no one could touch me in here. Not really. Not without permission.”
He swallows hard. He sits beside you, a few inches away.
“I didn’t mean to… I wasn’t trying to invade—”
“I know.”
Silence again. A different kind this time. Warmer.
And then—deliberately—you shift, pulling up the edge of your oversized shirt just enough to reveal the curve of your upper thigh.
There it is.
That same tattoo.
That same one he’s seen in a dozen angles, under different lights, but never this close. Never like this. With you beside him. Real. Breathing. Watching.
“You used to wonder what it meant, right?”
His eyes flick up to yours.
You nod slightly, granting him permission.
So he reaches out — slowly — and presses his fingers to the ink.
It’s warm. Soft. Alive.
He traces the edge with his thumb. Gentle. Reverent.
“I used to pause the videos when it showed,” he admits, voice hoarse. “I always wanted to know the story.”
You smile faintly.
“It’s not deep. I got it after my first ever payout. I was broke, living off noodles, sharing a place with three other girls. I wanted something that reminded me I was building something. Even if it was messy.”
He doesn’t know what to say to that.
So he just keeps his hand there, fingers barely moving. Like letting go would undo the entire moment.
“You never showed your face,” he says, quietly. “But I still couldn’t stop watching you.”
“And now you know why,” you murmur, looking down at his hand. “I didn’t show it. My life was already split in two. This room… this was the only place I got to decide who I was.”
The air feels heavier suddenly.
More honest.
Jungkook looks at you — at the girl who used to drive him insane with her voice, her body, her mystery — and now all he sees is you. Not the fantasy. Not the obsession. Just the person who let him in.
“I wish I didn’t find out like this,” he says.
You glance at him.
“I know. But you did.”
A beat.
“And I’m not sorry for any of it.”
He stays quiet for a moment.
Then his hand slips away from your thigh, and it hovers between you both — open, restless, like there’s something more he needs to say but doesn’t know where to begin.
“I heard you talking to Yuna tonight.”
Your breath hitches.
You turn toward him slightly, wary. But his eyes don’t look confrontational. Just tired. Heavy with thought.
“In the kitchen,” he adds. “I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, I just… heard you.”
You sit up straighter, heart crawling into your throat.
“What did you hear?”
“You said you didn’t feel anything toward me. That you two started off as enemies but now you’re just… used to each other.” He swallows hard. “You said living with me put your life on hold. That the past two months were hell.”
You blink.
You remember those words. You remember exactly how you said them.
But hearing them back, like this — in the dark, in this room, with him looking at you like he’s already mourning something you didn’t even realize he wanted — it lands different.
“Jungkook—”
“It’s fine,” he says quickly, trying to wave it off, but the crack in his voice betrays him. “You were being honest. I guess I needed to hear it.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
He looks at you sharply.
“Then how did you mean it?”
You open your mouth. Close it. Then take a deep breath.
“I meant that my life stopped the second I got hit by your stupid bike. That I was forced into this limbo, into a home that didn’t feel like mine, with someone who didn’t want to be here either. And I was angry. At everything. At you. At myself.” You pause. “But I didn’t say I didn’t feel anything toward you.”
He stares.
Silent. Searching.
You lean forward slightly, voice softer now.
“I said I didn’t have anything toward you. There’s a difference.”
His brows furrow, but you can tell he’s listening.
“What does that even mean?”
“It means I haven’t figured it out yet,” you admit, voice almost a whisper. “It means I don’t know what this is. But it’s not nothing.”
That seems to hit him like a second wind.
His shoulders loosen, just a bit. But his gaze doesn’t waver.
“Everything changed after I found out,” he says, voice low and steady now. “I didn’t think it would. I didn’t think I’d care.”
You wait.
“But I did.”
He leans in just a little closer.
“It’s not just that you’re her. It’s that I already felt something — I just didn’t know what. And then when I realized you were her… the girl I used to watch to feel less alone…”
He trails off, breath catching.
“It was like every part of you that I tried to ignore—suddenly made sense.”
Your chest tightens.
“You said you were lonely,” you say quietly.
“Yeah,” he nods. “And you made it easier. Back then, I didn’t know your name, your face, anything. But you still felt… familiar.”
He laughs once under his breath, shaking his head.
“And now you’re real. You’re stubborn and loud and impossible and you steal all the hot water and leave crumbs in the kitchen—”
“Okay—”
“But I like knowing it’s you.”
You stare at him.
He stares right back.
And then, after a second, you shift, lifting the hem of your shirt just slightly again, exposing the same tattoo.
“You can touch it again.”
Jungkook’s eyes darken. Not with lust, but with something heavier. Tender.
He brings his hand to your thigh once more, slower this time. Like it means something. Like he knows you’re letting him in.
“Do you think you’ll ever make content again?” he asks suddenly, barely above a whisper.
You pause.
You pause.
But not because you’re unsure.
You know the answer.
Your eyes lift to his, steady and unwavering.
“Absolutely.”
He blinks, like he wasn’t expecting it to come so easily.
You hold his gaze, more sure of yourself in this moment than you’ve been in weeks.
“Once everything gets back to normal,” you add softly. “Once I can walk again. Once my body feels like mine again.”
You reach down, gently brushing your fingers over your cast. Still healing. Still stiff. But not broken anymore, not really.
“I miss it,” you continue, voice calm. “Not the money. Not the attention. I miss the control. I miss deciding how I want to be seen. What I want to give. What I want to hold back.”
Jungkook doesn’t respond at first. He just watches you. Watches the way your face relaxes as you talk about it, like saying it aloud gave you back a piece of yourself you’d lost.
“I thought maybe you’d want to quit,” he admits. “After I found out. After everything.”
You give a small smile.
“Of course you did. That would’ve made it easier for you to process.”
He exhales, nose wrinkling like he knows you’re right.
“But I’m not quitting,” you say, more firmly now. “This is mine, Jungkook. Whether you watch it or not. Whether anyone does or not. I built this. And I don’t have to erase it just because you finally saw what’s behind the curtain.”
He nods slowly.
“I get it,” he says. And he sounds like he means it.
He leans forward again, elbows on his knees, his hands hanging loosely between them.
“I don’t think I was ready to see the full version of you,” he says, almost to himself. “But now that I have… I don’t think I can go back to pretending I didn’t.”
You’re quiet for a beat.
Then:
“Good.”
He glances back over at you.
“Why?”
“Because I never asked you to watch me,” you say. “But you did. And now you have to live with the fact that I’m not some perfect fantasy you downloaded to survive your loneliness. I’m a person. And I still do what I do.”
Jungkook swallows.
You can feel the words pressing against his throat, things he might say, things he might still be struggling to understand. But he doesn’t argue. Doesn’t flinch.
He just nods again.
And finally, quietly:
“Okay.”
It’s not a promise.
It’s not approval.
But it’s respect.
The silence stretches again.
There’s no pressure to fill it, not tonight. But still, something itches at the back of your throat. Something unfinished.
You shift on the bed, adjusting your cast, your voice breaking the stillness gently.
“I don’t know how I feel about you.”
Jungkook turns his head toward you slowly, but doesn’t speak.
You go on, voice level, almost matter-of-fact.
“I don’t like you. Not in that way. Not yet, at least.”
His brow twitches, but he doesn’t react beyond that.
“But I also don’t hate you anymore,” you say. “Which, honestly, is already a big shift.”
You glance down at your hands, thumbs brushing across each other absently.
“And if something ever comes along in the near future, between us…”
“I probably wouldn’t mind.”
The words hang in the air like something sharp and delicate. Honest. Not soft, not romantic, but true.
“But for now?” You lift your gaze to meet his. “I don’t want anything. From you. Or anyone.”
A beat.
“Is that okay?”
Jungkook’s jaw flexes once, but then relaxes. His eyes are darker now, but not wounded, just absorbing.
“Yeah,” he says finally. “That’s more than okay.”
His shoulders fall slightly, the tension in him draining like a slow exhale.
“I think… I needed to hear that.”
You nod once. Quiet agreement. You both did.
And just when you think the conversation might taper off, he leans forward again, elbows on his knees, hands clasped.
“If I saw you with someone else a few weeks ago, before I knew who you really were—” he starts, voice low and even, “I probably wouldn’t have cared.”
You turn your head toward him slowly.
“Jimin?” you ask.
He nods once.
“Yeah. If I saw you with him then? It would’ve been whatever.”
You wait.
“But now?” He lets out a breath. “After I found out who you are… what you were to me before I even knew your name…” He hesitates. Then meets your eyes.
“Now it would bother me.”
Your pulse stutters, just once.
He shrugs one shoulder, almost like he’s apologizing for the thought.
“It’s like you’re this little secret I didn’t know I was keeping. Like… I spent all this time watching you, needing you, and now that I know it’s you…” He trails off. “I don’t want anyone else to have that.”
Your throat tightens, but not with discomfort.
It’s not possessive, not really. It’s vulnerable. Conflicted.
You stare at him for a long moment.
“You know you can’t keep people,” you say softly.
“I know.”
“And I’m not yours.”
“I know that too.”
But something in his voice, that raw, low edge, makes it clear he’s still trying to convince himself.
You reach for your crutch beside the bed, shifting slightly like you’re about to stand, but don’t yet.
“It’s getting late,” you murmur. “You should head back.”
He looks at you like he’s not ready to leave. But he nods anyway.
“Yeah.”
He stands slowly. Hesitates.
“You good?”
You glance up at him.
“I’ve been worse.”
A ghost of a smirk twitches at his mouth, then fades just as quickly.
He lingers a beat longer before quietly heading toward the door.
But right before he steps out, you call after him.
“Jungkook?”
He pauses.
“Hm?”
“You’re not the only one who kept a secret.”
He turns his head slightly over his shoulder.
“I know,” he says, and then he’s gone.
Jungkook lies in bed, staring at the ceiling like it holds the answers to every question crashing through his chest.
But it doesn’t.
The only thing he sees, with his eyes wide open in the dark, is you. The shape of your figure beneath that oversized shirt. The way your voice didn’t tremble when you said absolutely. The way you exposed that tattoo like it meant something to him now. Because it did.
His pillow feels too stiff. His blanket too heavy. His skin too tight.
Every nerve in him is raw, rubbed down by the collision of the girl he lived with and the woman he used to watch with headphones on and the lights off.
He runs a hand down his face, dragging a groan from his throat.
“What the hell are you doing to me…”
You said you didn’t like him. Not yet.
But you didn’t hate him anymore.
And somehow, that felt worse.
Because now he’s infected with something slow-burning and unreal. Something dangerous. Something that doesn’t just fade when he turns off his phone.
He flips onto his side, then onto his stomach. Stares at the pillow. Punches it. Lies still again.
But his mind keeps looping back—
To that room.
That dim light. The candle wax. The tripod in the corner. The velvet curtain.
And then you, not from earlier tonight, but from the screen, from the videos. Body illuminated by soft, filtered light. Skin glowing like gold. Head tilted back, mouth parted. Always out of frame. Always faceless. Until now.
His body heats with the memory.
But it’s not just arousal, it’s something worse. Something deeper. A need to understand you, to get closer, to see more.
He turns again.
Still not asleep.
Still not free.
And eventually, exhaustion drags him under.
That’s when the dreams come.
It starts in the same room.
But you’re not sitting beside him anymore.
You’re filming again.
Draped in sheer black fabric. Bare legs crossed on the edge of the bed. One hand behind you, the other sliding slowly up your thigh.
But this time, in the dream, you look at him.
Your eyes find him in the corner of the room, where he stands frozen, shirtless, breath caught in his throat like he’s intruded on something sacred.
The camera is rolling. The red light blinking.
But you don’t look away.
You acknowledge him.
And then, still staring, you speak.
“You’re here now.”
Your voice is unfiltered. Undistorted. Real.
His heart kicks up.
He tries to move forward. His hand reaches out to stop the recording, to tell you no, you shouldn’t be seen like this anymore, not now, not when you’re you.
But your body shifts, slow and graceful, and suddenly he’s the one in front of the lens.
He’s shirtless. Breathless. Caught under your gaze like a spotlight.
“You wanted this,” you whisper, still seated on the edge of the bed.
He can’t answer. His mouth doesn’t move.
You lean in, touch the inside of his wrist. That same place he touched your tattoo earlier. But now it’s his skin burning.
And you say:
“You already saw everything. Why are you still looking away?”
The dream morphs.
The room darkens. The camera is gone.
Now it’s just the two of you on the bed, facing each other in silence. You’re wearing the same oversized shirt. No makeup. Hair wild. Eyes soft. The real you. The one he saw tonight.
You reach for his face, thumb brushing his cheekbone, and instead of arousal, his chest fills with something else entirely.
Longing.
And it terrifies him.
He jolts awake.
His chest is heaving.
Sweat clings to his collarbones. His hands are curled into fists under the blanket, and he doesn’t remember making them.
It’s still dark.
He’s alone.
The room is quiet, but he swears he can hear your voice echoing:
“Absolutely.”
He lies there, eyes wide in the dark, haunted by a dream that told him more than he’s ready to admit.
You weren’t his fantasy anymore.
You were real.
You were yours.
And he didn’t know if he could ever want anything less than all of you now.
You wake up with a pounding behind your eyes and a dull, nauseating throb in your leg. The sun slices through the curtains, too bright, too direct, too rude, and you pull the blanket over your face with a hiss.
Your mouth is dry.
Your body aches.
And for a blissful, brief moment, you forget.
Forget last night.
Forget the conversation.
Forget the way he touched your tattoo with that strangely careful hand, like he was trying to read you like Braille.
But then you shift, and a sharp, sudden stab pulses through your thigh.
You groan, pushing yourself up with a wince. “Ugh. Why does it feel like my leg got run over again?”
Just outside your room, you hear a mug clink against the counter.
Then footsteps.
“Because maybe you shouldn’t have insisted on sitting on the floor like some twisted version of Buddha last night.”
You blink at the door.
“Are you eavesdropping?” you call.
Jungkook steps into the doorway, holding a glass of water. His hair’s a mess, hoodie zipped up halfway, and his expression is unreadable. “You’re talking to yourself loud enough I’m not sure I need to.”
You roll your eyes but take the water anyway, pressing it to your cheek. “Everything hurts. My leg, my head, my pride.”
He snorts, brushing his hand through his hair.
“Want me to call your doctor?” he offers casually, as if this is just another morning where he’s always the one to do that.
You hesitate.
And then sigh.
“…Yeah. I think I do.”
—-
He’s pacing the living room with his phone pressed to his ear.
You watch from the couch, leg propped up and wrapped in a blanket, half-hoping the pain will magically fade if you ignore it long enough.
“Mhm. Yeah, she says it feels sharper than before. No, there’s no fever or redness. Just sore.”
He pauses, then glances at you.
You raise your brows.
He mouths, he says it’s normal.
“Okay,” Jungkook says finally. “So part of the healing process. Got it. Yeah. I’ll tell her.”
He hangs up and walks over.
“He says it’s expected. Especially after the swelling goes down — the nerve endings can feel a little more exposed. He suggests rest, elevation, and—”
“I know what he’s going to say,” you cut in, frowning. “Ice, water, and don’t be stupid.”
Jungkook smirks. “He didn’t say the last part. That one was all me.”
You grab a throw pillow and lob it at him. He dodges with annoying ease, catching it mid-air before it hits the floor.
“Impressive,” you mutter, crossing your arms. “You should try that with emotional responsibility sometime.”
He tosses the pillow back onto the couch and raises a brow. “Spoken like someone who hasn’t taken her meds today.”
You blink. “Did you just weaponize my health against me?”
He shrugs. “I’m just saying… your leg hurts, you’re cranky, and I don’t feel like carrying you to the bathroom again. So maybe it’s time for that painkiller cocktail?”
You give him a glare but reach for the bottle on the side table anyway, popping the cap open.
He watches you dry-swallow a tablet, then nods in approval. “Good girl.”
You whip your head toward him, scandalized. “Don’t ever say that again.”
He’s already backing away with his hands up in mock surrender, laughing as he heads to the kitchen. “Alright, alright. Let’s feed you before you start biting.”
You sink back into the couch, trying not to smile.
The smell of scrambled eggs and butter fills the air. You hear the clink of plates and Jungkook humming something off-tune. The same guy who once used your untouched decorative bowl for cereal is now plating food like a semi-functioning adult.
He walks back in holding two plates, one stacked with cheesy eggs, the other with toast that isn’t completely burned.
“Wow,” you blink at it. “You actually cooked?”
He rolls his eyes. “Relax, I didn’t make a soufflé. It’s eggs. Even I can’t mess that up.”
You take a bite. It’s… good. Annoyingly good.
You glance up at him suspiciously. “Is this poisoned?”
Jungkook’s already halfway through his own plate. “You’re not that lucky.”
You chew in silence for a minute, the room filled only with the soft sound of forks against plates.
And then, in a tone so casual it almost slips past you, he says, “We should probably figure out what we’re doing for New Year’s.”
You pause mid-bite. “What we’re doing?”
He shrugs without looking at you. “Yeah. It’s in, what, a week? You’re still stuck in here. We can’t both pretend it’s not happening.”
You blink, caught off guard by the fact that he’s thinking that far ahead.
A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it.
He narrows his eyes. “What’s funny?”
You shake your head, grinning. “Nothing. Just… we fought on Thanksgiving.”
He raises a brow. “True.”
“And then again on Christmas.” You smile into your eggs. “And you’re delusional if you think we can get through a whole holiday without trying to kill each other.”
There’s a beat of silence.
And then he leans back, eyes softening just a little. “Maybe we don’t have to get through it. Maybe we just… survive it. Together.”
You blink.
Your first instinct is to deflect. Make a joke. Roll your eyes and call him dramatic.
But for once, you don’t.
You just nod, slowly.
“Alright,” you say. “But I’m picking the theme.”
He scoffs. “You have terrible taste.”
You stretch your arms slowly, the fork dangling from your fingers as the warmth of the food, the pills, and the absurd comfort of the moment begin to settle into your limbs.
The medication hits faster than expected, a warm tide dragging you out, dulling the pain in your leg, and replacing it with a strange, floating stillness. You blink once. Then again. Your fingers feel slow, like they belong to someone else.
Jungkook notices it before you say anything.
“You good?” he asks gently, peering at you over his now-empty plate.
You nod, eyelids heavier than they were a few minutes ago. “Mhm. Just… floaty.”
He makes a soft sound, not quite a laugh. “Yeah, that stuff knocks you out. You want to lie down?”
You shake your head lazily, curling into the side of the couch with a fuzzy throw. “No, I’m… good here.”
He doesn’t argue. Just gets up, collects the plates with a casualness that feels oddly domestic, and vanishes into the kitchen with the clinking of dishes and the distant rush of water, you can hear Coco meowing while waiting for her treat which he gives it to her right away.
Your eyes flutter closed for a moment.
Just a moment.
When they open again, he’s back, leaning against the doorway, towel in one hand, a strange look on his face.
His gaze is on you.
And it stays there.
You watch him from under half-lidded eyes, the world slightly blurred around the edges. But his expression is clear. Focused. Something gentle, something unreadable. His mouth is neutral but his eyes… they’re doing too much.
You try to blink the fog out of your head.
“What?” you mumble, your voice like syrup. “Why’re you looking at me like that?”
He startles a little, as if caught. Blinks once, maybe twice.
Then shrugs. “I wasn’t.”
You hum, clearly not believing him. “You were. You’re doing the thing again.”
“What thing?”
“The ‘deep thoughts with Jungkook’ thing. Like your brain’s spinning and I’m your screensaver.”
He laughs, but there’s a crack in it. He walks over slowly and sits back on the couch beside you, not too close, but not far enough either.
You can barely keep your head upright, and he notices that too.
“You should lie down,” he says, quieter now. “Seriously.”
“I’m fine,” you mumble again, already leaning your head to the side, letting it rest against the back cushion. “You were staring.”
He exhales through his nose, but doesn’t deny it this time.
“Sorry,” he says eventually. “I was just thinking.”
You murmur, “Dangerous.”
“Probably.”
You open your eyes again, but only halfway. “What were you thinking?”
He’s quiet for a beat.
“That I forgot how soft your voice gets when you’re tired.”
Your breath catches, the words floating into you like something too delicate to hold.
Another pause.
Another look from him, long and strange and unblinking.
“I was also thinking…” he swallows, eyes trailing over your half-dazed face, “…that I don’t hate the idea of this.”
You raise an eyebrow weakly. “This?”
“Us. Sitting here. Not fighting.”
You smile, a little dopey, a little dazed. “Don’t get used to it.”
“I won’t,” he says, and somehow, that sounds like a promise.
You feel yourself drifting, the medication pulling you under like gentle waves.
But just before you slip under completely, you swear you feel the couch dip a little, his arm brushing against yours. His warmth closer than before.
You don’t look at him again.
But you feel it.
The way he watches you like a secret he doesn’t want to share.
You’re still lying half-sideways on the couch, half-dazed from your nap and the lingering effects of the meds. The afternoon light has cooled into something softer now, seeping through the sheer curtains. You blink a few times, groggy and warm beneath your blanket, just in time to hear the front door unlock.
Voices spill into the penthouse before you even lift your head fully.
“Knock knock,” Hoseok sings cheerfully as he steps in, a bag slung over one shoulder and his energy a few notches too high for your still-sleepy state. Natty’s right behind him, holding a tray of drinks from that fancy boba place near her gym, and Yoongi, well, Yoongi just waves quietly, face blank but eyes soft when they land on you.
Jungkook is the one who opens the door for them, surprisingly civil. He steps aside without saying much, simply muttering, “She’s on the couch. I’ll give you guys a minute.”
And then he disappears down the hall like a ghost.
Natty kicks off her shoes. “You look like you got run over by a nap.”
“I did,” you croak, stretching as best you can with your leg propped up. “And by medication. And by life in general.”
Yoongi snorts, pulling up a chair. “So… the usual.”
You shake your head, but you’re smiling already. “Glad you’re all here. I needed this.”
Hoseok passes you your drink, settling beside you with a loud sigh. “Can we talk about that party last night? Because I don’t remember half of it and I’m still trying to figure out if that’s a blessing or a curse.”
“I remember everything,” Natty declares. “Especially the way you fell asleep on a beanbag next to the fireplace. Like a child.”
“Whatever, it was warm,” Hoseok defends himself.
You laugh. The weight in your chest that had settled there overnight, from what you and Jungkook talked about, from what he saw, doesn’t disappear, but it quiets a little. You tuck it away for now. This isn’t the moment.
You sip your boba through the straw. “Anyway. I think I’m throwing a New Year’s Eve party.”
All three of them turn to you at once.
“Oh god,” Yoongi mutters. “We’re doing this again?”
“You threw up halfway through Thanksgiving,” Natty points at Hoseok.
“And she literally fought through Christmas,” Hoseok adds pointing at you.
You grin. “Exactly. So, third time’s the charm.”
Natty leans in, playful. “Are you inviting your new roommate?”
You roll your eyes, brushing that off before anyone gets too curious. “Don’t start.”
They smirk but don’t push it, they’ve known you long enough to know when not to dig.
Instead, Hoseok glances at your leg. “How’s that doing?”
You adjust the pillow under your ankle with a small wince. “It’s better. But I’ll need physical therapy soon. Doctor said I need to start once the swelling’s completely gone.”
Yoongi perks up. “Actually… wait. That reminds me.”
Natty and Hoseok look at each other too, as if syncing telepathically.
“Remember when we were camping near Achasan?” Hoseok starts.
You nod slowly. “Yeah?”
“We met this guy,” Natty chimes in. “Well, technically, we ran into him when Hoseok almost fell downhill.”
“It was slippery!” Hoseok defends.
“But the guy helped us out,” Yoongi finishes. “Turns out he’s a physical therapist. A good one, too. Owns a whole-ass rehab center in the city.”
You blink. “Really?”
Natty nods enthusiastically. “Yeah. He’s super chill. Young. Like our age? Runs the place with his older cousin. It’s more of a modern wellness clinic-slash-rehab center. Has this reputation for working with athletes, dancers, even people in entertainment who want privacy.”
Hoseok adds, “We got drinks with him that weekend. Swapped socials. I’m sure he’d take you on if we reach out.”
You glance between them, surprised by the offer. “You guys think he’d actually help?”
Natty smiles. “We wouldn’t recommend him if he wasn’t legit. And we trust him.”
There’s a flicker of something like hope stirring in your chest.
“You want us to text him?” Yoongi offers.
You nod slowly. “Yeah. Why not.”
“Perfect,” Hoseok grins, already fishing out his phone. “New Year’s party and a new leg. You’re starting 2026 strong.”
You chuckle, but the warmth stays in your chest. Your world, once again, is shifting in slow increments, a little bit of movement, a little less weight on your shoulders, a little more clarity ahead.
From down the hall, you hear something clink, Jungkook in the kitchen, maybe, pretending not to listen.
But you know better.
Later, after your friends leave and the apartment returns to its quiet state, you find Jungkook back in the kitchen.
He’s cleaning something, hands wrist-deep in soap and water, sleeves of his black hoodie pushed up, brows furrowed in casual focus. He doesn’t look up when you enter, but his voice comes low and neutral.
“They brought boba for you, huh?”
You lean against the doorway, hands tucked under your arms for warmth. “They always do. It’s their version of love.”
He hums. “What flavor?”
“Matcha. But not the good kind. I drank it anyway.”
This time, a slight smile flickers across his face. He still doesn’t meet your eyes.
You wait for a beat before speaking again. “They told me about someone.”
Now he glances over his shoulder. “Someone?”
“For therapy,” you clarify. “A doctor they met while camping near Achasan. Kim Seokjin. He runs some big rehabilitation center out there. Sounds like he knows what he’s doing.”
You watch his hands freeze in the soapy water, just for a second.
Then he nods once and resumes scrubbing the glass in his grip. “That’s good.”
“I mean, I still have to talk to him. See if he’s available. But… I’m kind of excited. It feels like something’s finally moving forward.” You push a breath through your nose, looking past him toward the balcony doors. “I miss walking. I miss dancing around my kitchen to stupid music at 2 a.m. I just wanna feel like myself again.”
It slips out naturally. Honest. Hopeful.
But something shifts in the air.
You don’t notice it right away, maybe it’s in the slight change of his posture, the way his shoulders subtly stiffen. Or the fact that he suddenly seems quieter, like his mind has wandered somewhere far from your apartment.
You tilt your head. “What?”
Jungkook finally sets the glass down, rinses his hands, and dries them on a towel a little too briskly.
“Nothing,” he says, but there’s something in the way he avoids your gaze that gives it away.
“You sure?”
He leans back against the counter, crossing his arms. “Yeah. Just… it’s good. That you’re getting better.”
You nod slowly, but you don’t miss the flatness in his voice. The absence of warmth.
There’s a pause before you murmur, “You just went quiet.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
He exhales through his nose, gaze fixed somewhere over your shoulder. “I guess… it just hit me.”
“What did?”
“That once you’re better, I won’t really have a reason to be here anymore.”
His voice isn’t sad, exactly. It’s not emotional. If anything, it sounds factual. Like he’s stating something inevitable. Still, it settles in your chest with an uncomfortable heaviness.
You say nothing at first.
Because it’s true. When you’re healed, when you can walk, move, function on your own again, his part in this story ends. That was always the unspoken agreement.
But now, standing here across from him in the low-lit kitchen, the idea of that ending feels less like relief and more like loss.
You keep your voice light. “You could still come by for boba.”
He chuckles once, but it’s empty. “I doubt I’d be invited.”
You push off the doorway, stepping slowly across the kitchen tiles until you’re close enough to see the tightness around his eyes.
“Is that really what you want?” you ask.
Jungkook’s gaze drops to the floor. “Does it matter?”
A long silence stretches between you.
Then, gently, “It does to me.”
His jaw shifts. He still doesn’t look up. And you don’t press him. You simply reach for a glass on the counter and fill it with water, your movements calm, steady. Like you’re anchoring yourself in something that isn’t ready to be named yet.
Behind you, Jungkook finally speaks, quiet and honest.
“I just didn’t think it would feel this… fast.”
You nod once, turning the water off. “It didn’t feel fast to me. It felt like a lifetime.”
He lets out a low breath.
And even though nothing more is said, something has changed again.
A knowing.
A weight shared.
You leave the kitchen with the glass in hand, not needing to look back to feel the way his eyes follow you all the way to the hall.
The hospital air always smells too clean. That mix of sterile floors and disinfectant that clings to your clothes even hours later.
You sit on the edge of the cushioned table while the doctor inspects the swelling around your ankle and checks the flexibility of your knee. Jungkook’s in the corner of the room, arms crossed, hoodie pulled over his head. He doesn’t say much, just watches with that unreadable expression he’s mastered over the last few weeks.
“Your bones are healing well,” the doctor says, pressing lightly around your shin. “We’ll schedule an X-ray just to be sure, but I’d say you’re ready to begin physiotherapy. Slowly, of course. Nothing too aggressive for the first few weeks.”
You nod, the words lifting something light in your chest. “So I can start soon?”
“Even this week, if you feel up for it. You’ll need someone to accompany you, especially at the beginning.”
You nod again without glancing at Jungkook.
On the way out, you both thank the staff. The sun is low by the time you reach the parking lot, streaking the pavement in soft orange light. Jungkook helps you into the passenger seat, silent as ever, before circling around to the driver’s side.
The drive starts quiet.
Too quiet.
Until you break it. “You haven’t said anything.”
He keeps his eyes on the road. “What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know. You were the one who insisted on coming. I thought you’d have thoughts.”
He exhales sharply through his nose. “It’s good news, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. So why do you sound pissed?”
Jungkook tightens his grip on the wheel. “I’m not pissed.”
“You’re driving like you are.”
His jaw ticks, but he doesn’t respond.
You shift in your seat, frustrated. “God, it’s like every time we take a step forward, you act like the world’s ending.”
He throws a glance at you. “Because every step forward means you need me less.”
The silence that drops between you is deafening.
You blink at him, stunned. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. Seriously.” His voice is calm, but underneath it is something raw. “Do you think I don’t see what’s happening? You’re almost healed. You’re planning your next party. You’re meeting new doctors. I’m just the guy who brought you ice packs and argued with your doctors.”
“You’re also the guy who nearly broke my leg in the first place.”
He flinches, barely, but it’s there.
You regret the words as soon as they’re out, too sharp, too low, but you don’t take them back. Not yet.
“Don’t do that,” he says quietly. “Don’t throw that in my face just to feel like you have the upper hand.”
“I’m not—” You pause, gritting your teeth. “I’m just tired of walking on eggshells with you. One minute you’re warm, the next you’re emotionally constipated. I don’t know where we stand.”
“You’re not supposed to know,” he snaps. “That’s the whole point. We’re not, this isn’t—”
“This isn’t what?” you cut in. “It’s not anything, right? That’s what you’re trying to say?”
He slams on the brakes at a red light, the car jolting slightly. Both of you are breathing harder than you should be.
You look at him.
Really look at him.
His knuckles are white around the steering wheel. His brows drawn. But his eyes, they’re softer than you expect. Hurt, even.
You sigh. “Just say what you’re thinking.”
He swallows. “I’m thinking that… I don’t know how to do this.”
“This?”
“This. Us. This weird in-between where we pretend we hate each other but I wake up thinking about your voice and your stupid fake laugh and that goddamn silk robe you wear when you-”
“Okay, first of all,” you interrupt, raising a hand, “that robe is iconic—”
He shoots you a quick glare, but it falters when he sees your smirk. The corner of his mouth twitches, unwillingly, like it wants to smile but doesn’t have permission.
You settle back into your seat, a breath deflating your chest. The light turns green, but he doesn’t move.
The honk behind you snaps him out of it, and he pulls the car forward slowly.
“I didn’t mean to start a fight,” you say eventually. “I just… don’t want to pretend like none of this is affecting you.”
“It is.”
“I know.”
Another few beats of quiet pass.
Then, softer now, he says, “So… Kim Seokjin?”
You glance out the window, biting your cheek to hide your smile. “What about him?”
“You’re gonna switch to him?”
You shrug. “He’s supposed to be the best.”
“Right.”
Pause.
“I could still drive you,” Jungkook offers, almost too casually. “If you need a ride.”
You glance over, heart tightening for no reason you care to explain.
“I’ll let you know,” you murmur.
And neither of you say a word for the rest of the ride.
But something lingers in the quiet.
Something like the beginning of clarity.
—-
The clinic is in a quiet part of the city, tucked between a bookstore and a coffee shop with ivy trailing down the bricks. It’s warm inside, the air lightly scented with eucalyptus and something faintly citrusy. Calming music plays somewhere in the background, more spa than hospital.
You sit on a plush couch while Jungkook stands a few feet away, arms folded, glancing at the wall of framed certificates. He hasn’t said much since you got in the car.
Again.
A tall man in pale blue scrubs walks in, glancing down at a file in his hand before looking up at you. And then, he smiles.
“Miss…” He squints, then grins. “Ah, the VIP. You must be the one my friends wouldn’t stop talking about.”
You raise a brow. “Depends on what they said.”
He laughs. “Nothing too scandalous. I’m Dr. Kim Seokjin. You can just call me Jin.”
You shake his hand, noting the warmth in his grip. He holds it a beat longer than expected before letting go.
Jungkook clears his throat behind you. Loudly.
Seokjin turns toward him with another friendly smile. “You must be the… friend?”
Jungkook’s brow lifts. “I’m Jungkook.”
No other title offered.
“Nice to meet you,” Seokjin replies easily, then gestures for you to follow him. “Let’s talk about your plan.”
You hobble into his office, Jungkook trailing behind like a shadow. The space is minimal and clean, with a whiteboard on one wall and a stack of muscle diagrams on the other. Seokjin gestures to the chair beside his desk, and you ease yourself into it with a small wince.
He immediately notices. “Still tender?”
“A little,” you admit. “It’s better, though.”
“Good. From what I’ve seen in your records, the healing is going smoothly, but we’ll have to go slow with weight-bearing activities. I don’t want you rushing into anything and risking regression.”
He says it with a slight tilt of his head, gaze meeting yours directly.
You nod. “I trust your judgment.”
His lips twitch into a grin. “Dangerous words to say to a man you just met.”
You chuckle. “I’ll take my chances.”
Behind you, there’s the unmistakable sound of Jungkook shifting in his seat.
Seokjin continues, flipping through your chart. “So here’s what I suggest, we’ll start with low-resistance stretches, focus on joint mobility, and slowly work into strengthening exercises. One session or two a week, about forty-five minutes each. You’ll be walking normally again in no time.”
You’re already smiling. “That sounds amazing.”
“And I’ll be there every step of the way.” He adds it smoothly, eyes flicking to yours again. “Unless that makes your… friend jealous.”
You glance at Jungkook, whose face is unreadable but stiff, like he’s biting the inside of his cheek to keep from speaking.
You blink at Seokjin. “He’s not—” you begin, then hesitate. “We live together. Temporarily.”
“Ah,” Seokjin says with a little nod that says everything and nothing. “Got it.”
He scribbles a few notes down, then prints your tentative therapy schedule. When he hands it to you, his fingers graze yours.
Not an accident.
Jungkook notices. You don’t have to look at him to know.
After confirming your next visit, you and Jungkook step out into the hallway. He’s unusually quiet on the way down the stairs. You can almost hear the steam building under his skin.
Once outside, you glance over at him. “What?”
He doesn’t look at you. “Nothing.”
“Jungkook.”
Still not looking. “He was flirting with you.”
You blink. “I noticed.”
“And you liked it.”
You laugh under your breath. “And what if I did?”
Now he does look at you, eyes dark and a little too sharp. “You’re not his patient yet.”
“I’m about to be.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“Doesn’t mean what?” you cut in. “That I can’t enjoy a compliment? A little attention that doesn’t come with sarcasm and eye rolls?”
He looks away again, jaw tight. “He’s not your type.”
You raise an eyebrow. “And you are?”
That shuts him up.
You let the silence settle.
Then, after a moment, you murmur, “You’re not allowed to be mad. You’ve made it very clear that whatever this is between us, if it’s even anything, is temporary, and we both agreed that for now there’s nothing going on.”
He still doesn’t speak.
So you add, quieter this time, “And you’ll be gone soon. Remember?”
Summary: revenge never tasted that good when you decide to get back at the man - who ran you over - with the worst punishment he could ever get, and despite all the grudge, maybe some time after, the grudge will gradually turn into something else..?
Genre: e21, biker jk, series ( slow-burn.), smut, fluff, angst.
Taglist: @binniesbabe @ennvfv @minimoninini
Moodboard 1 | Moodboard 2
Previous | Next
You don’t wake up to pain anymore.
Or at least, not every morning.
In fact, you walk now, carefully, with that slight limp and occasional wobble, but it counts. You’re mobile. You don’t need Jungkook to carry you to the bathroom anymore, or hover behind you like a human crutch every time you get off the couch. You still hold onto walls sometimes, but it’s your own hand reaching for balance, not his.
It feels like a small, stubborn victory. A private kind. The kind that doesn’t require applause but still deserves it.
You’ve been walking more just because you can. Around the penthouse. Around the kitchen. Back and forth from the couch to the front door when no one’s watching. Jungkook caught you doing that once, pacing slowly in circles with a grim little smile on your face, and he didn’t say a word. Just leaned against the wall with a cup of coffee in his hand, watching like you were a strange new species he was afraid of startling.
You’re not sure what’s changed between you two, exactly. Things feel… easier. Still laced with tension, still full of things unspoken, but not heavy like before. The kind of tension that curls at the edges of comfort. Like you’re both learning how to exist in the same space without flinching.
Jungkook still makes smart-ass comments. You still roll your eyes and pretend to be annoyed. He still disappears sometimes into his room for hours with no explanation. You still get a weird fluttery ache in your chest every time he looks at you too long.
And somehow, now, you’re planning a Christmas party together.
Well — “planning” might be a stretch.
It started with a random comment from him while you were trying to re-tape a broken decoration from last year.
“You know what this place needs?” He said, snatching the tape from your hand like you were a toddler about to ruin the art project.
“What?”
“A real party. Like.. lights, music, food. Booze. A tree that doesn look like it was decorated during a blackout.”
“Excuse me,” you’d huffed, truly offended. “This tree slayed last year.”
“This tree is dying.”
But then, like most things with Jungkook, the sarcasm blurred into effort. Real effort.
You came out of your room two days later to find him struggling with a tangled string of fairy lights, hair tied up messily and a half-eaten candy cane between his lips. He had a holiday playlist blasting, badly curated, mostly chaotic, and when you asked what the hell he was doing, he just said:
“Thought you were throwing a party?”
And just like that, the plan was real.
There’s a guest list now, a short one. Your friends. His friends. People you can both tolerate in the same room. There’s a menu, which neither of you have fully agreed on yet. And there’s a spreadsheet you made while stuck on the couch that Jungkook refuses to follow because, quote, “spreadsheets are oppression.”
But you’re doing it. You’re planning something. Together.
And maybe that’s the strangest thing of all.
You hear the door open with a shove, like someone just kicked it in.
Which is not unusual for Jungkook, he doesn’t seem to know how to open things gently, but this time it’s followed by a grunted curse and a loud, unmistakable crash.
You limp cautiously toward the hallway, heart thudding a little, only to freeze at the sight in front of you.
He’s fighting with a tree.
A real one. Enormous. Fluffy. Green. Alive-looking, even. Bits of snow (you hope it’s snow) dust the needles. It’s at least seven feet tall and he’s wrestling it in like it’s a wild animal he hunted down himself.
You blink. “Is that a corpse?”
Jungkook stops mid-struggle, lifting his head, hair mussed, nose red, a pine branch caught in the collar of his jacket.
He grins. “Merry Christmas to me, huh?”
You gape at him. “What the hell is that?”
“A tree,” he says, like you’re the idiot here. He finally muscles it through the door and lets it fall with a thud, needles scattering across your expensive floors. “A real one. You said you wanted this place to feel different this year.”
“No, I didn’t,” you argue. “You said that. You said my tree looked like it got dressed in the dark.”
He shrugs like that supports his case. Then holds up a plastic bag in his other hand. “Also picked up your meds. And chocolate. You’ve been out.”
You stare at him.
The tree. The bag. His snow-damp boots tracking slush across the floor.
You blink again. “Did someone body-swap you?”
Jungkook drops the bag onto the kitchen counter, ignores you completely, and starts peeling off his jacket. His hoodie underneath rides up a little as he stretches, revealing the toned strip of his lower stomach, which you do not stare at (You definitely stare.)
“I swear,” you mutter, walking over to the bag. “If this is how you’re flirting, you’re doing it backwards.”
He doesn’t respond. Just starts dragging the tree toward the living room.
You almost say something, a joke, probably, or a complaint about the floor, but you catch the look on his face as he pushes furniture aside.
Focused. Determined. Maybe even… soft around the edges.
Like this matters to him.
So you say nothing and let the moment hang.
—-
The knock on the door startles you.
You glance at the time, just past 8 p.m. You weren’t expecting anyone, but the pile of shipping confirmation emails in your inbox should’ve been a hint. When you swing the door open, the postman is practically drowning behind a mountain of boxes.
“More?” you mutter, taking the top one from his arms.
“Last load,” he promises, sounding winded. “I think.”
You tip him, thank him with an apologetic smile, and start dragging the boxes inside one by one. They’re labeled with your ridiculous handwriting: party hats, favors, candles, gifts for the girls, and one that simply says ( PRIVATE: DO NOT OPEN, Jk.)
You stash that one under the coffee table before he comes out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. “What’s all that?”
“Christmas spirit. In bulk.”
He arches a brow. “Did you buy enough for the whole country?”
You gesture toward the boxes with a huff. “These are essential supplies. You’ll thank me when you see the gold-foiled napkins.”
He crouches beside the stack, casually nosing through them. “You went full Pinterest board, didn’t you?”
“And you’ll benefit from it,” you shoot back.
He eyes the glittering reindeer print on one. “So… we’re doing the whole thing?”
“Yup.”
He smirks. “And you said I was extra.”
You wave him off, but freeze when he shifts the bottom box slightly, his hand brushing the hidden one beneath the table.
You jump in. “Hey, don’t touch that.”
“Oh?” He raises an eyebrow, already grinning. “Now I really want to.”
“I’m serious.”
He ignores you completely, pulling the mystery box into the light. “Do not open? That’s suspicious.”
“Jungkook, I swear—”
He opens it.
His fingers still on black leather.
He lifts the jacket slowly — the soft creak of leather filling the quiet between you. It’s sleek, heavy, perfectly his size. Minimalist hardware. Slightly distressed finish. The kind of thing that says: dangerous but clean. Stylish but lived-in.
There’s a tiny embroidered patch near the inside lining with his initials: JJK.
His brows lift. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just runs his hand down the front of the jacket, then flips it over.
“…This is—” He cuts himself off. Tries again. “You bought me a damn leather jacket?”
You feel suddenly awkward. “You’re riding your bike like an idiot with just a hoodie on.”
“That hoodie’s iconic.”
“It’s suicidal.”
He breathes out a stunned laugh and looks back at the jacket, like it’s something he can’t quite believe is real. “This is really nice.”
You shrug. “Whatever. Don’t make it a thing.”
“It’s a jacket.”
“It’s a practical gift.”
He lifts his eyes to yours. “It’s thoughtful.”
You roll yours. “Don’t get emotional.”
He drapes it carefully over the arm of the couch. “So when do I get to wear it?”
“Tomorrow. At the party. No one’s allowed in unless they’re at least 30% better-looking than usual.”
He grins. “So I can just wear a T-shirt, then?”
You throw a bag of plastic snowflakes at him.
“Okay, okay,” he laughs, dodging. “Damn. You really went all out.”
You shrug again, picking at the tape of a gift bag. “I like Christmas.”
He studies you for a second. Then says quietly, “Thanks. For the jacket.”
You nod, suddenly not sure what to do with your hands. “Don’t make it weird.”
He smirks. “Too late.”
You chuck a bow at his face. He ducks, snatches it midair, and tosses it right back
—-
You wake up to the sound of clinking dishes and the faint scent of cinnamon and something buttery wafting from the kitchen.
It takes you a second to register where you are, not because it’s unfamiliar, but because for once, your body doesn’t feel heavy. The ache in your leg is dull, distant. You can walk. Limp, sure. But walk.
You reach for your phone, lazily scroll through the notifications, then glance at the time.
11:42 AM.
You’ve slept in, and apparently, he hasn’t.
Dragging yourself out of bed, you pad into the hallway with your cast-clad foot thudding softly against the floor. You don’t bother fixing your hair or adjusting the oversized T-shirt you slept in. If he has something to say, let him.
When you step into the kitchen, you’re greeted by the sight of Jungkook standing at the counter in his pajama pants, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, whisking something in a mixing bowl like he’s in a holiday baking commercial.
There’s flour on the tip of his nose.
He glances over when he hears you.
“Oh. You’re alive.”
“Barely,” you murmur, yawning. “What’s going on in here?”
“I’m pre-making the cookie dough. Thought we could cut them into shapes later.” He shrugs like it’s nothing, but you catch the ghost of a proud smile tugging at his mouth.
You blink at him. “You baked something voluntarily?”
“I was bored.”
“And… you made cookies.”
“Don’t make it weird.”
You snort. “Too late.”
You move slowly toward the counter and lean your weight against it, watching him. His hair is messy, curls flattened slightly on one side, and he smells like sugar and coffee and heat.
Your stomach does something it shouldn’t.
He doesn’t look at you, but his voice is quieter when he says, “You doing okay?”
You nod. “Better. I walked to the bathroom this morning without screaming.”
“Impressive.”
“I know. Put me in the Olympics.”
He glances at you now, amused. “If the Olympics ever needs a cranky limping elf, I’ll sign you up.”
And you simply flip him off
By early afternoon, you’re both in your groove.
Christmas jazz plays through the speakers, the couch is buried under bags of decorations, and the kitchen smells like vanilla extract and melted chocolate. You’ve set up a folding table against the wall for the snack spread — “The Party Zone,” Jungkook calls it, in his dramatic game show voice.
You’ve tasked yourself with drink prep while Jungkook slices vegetables and grates cheese with laser focus. Every so often, you pass him a slice of orange or a cherry tomato. He never says thank you, just steals it with his teeth and keeps working.
The rhythm between you is oddly comforting.
It’s quiet, but not in a bad way, just the kind of quiet that builds when two people stop pretending they hate each other.
You stir a pot of mulled cider on the stove and sneak a look at him.
He’s rinsing cocktail glasses now, serious and efficient, arms flexing under the weight of the bottles he lifts into the fridge. You pretend not to notice the way his waistband dips a little too low when he stretches.
You snap your attention back to the drinks.
“Don’t forget to make labels for the cocktails,” he says suddenly, without turning.
“Who do you think I am? A Pinterest mom?”
“I think you’re obsessive enough to care if someone confuses sangria with punch.”
You sigh. “Fine. I’ll make the stupid labels.”
He chuckles, soft.
You’re scribbling “Spiked Cider” in red marker on a folded index card when he passes behind you and places something cold on your neck.
You squeal, flinching. “What the hell?!”
He’s laughing now, holding up a red-and-green wrapped chocolate from the fridge. “Just making sure your reflexes are still working.”
You glare. “You’re a menace.”
“You’re welcome.”
By the time the sun begins to dip below the horizon, most of the work is done. The drinks are chilling, the snacks are prepped and stacked neatly in the fridge, and the apartment smells like everything good in the world.
You haven’t changed into your party outfit yet. That’ll come later, once you’re showered and makeup’s done and your Santa outfit’s ready to wreak havoc.
You went with red velvet. White fur trim. A cropped sleeveless top with faux buttons and a tiny candy-cane striped bow between the bust. A matching high-waisted mini skirt with white pom-poms dangling from the waistband.
It’s borderline offensive.
And perfect.
You finish curling the last section of your hair before you put your outfit on, swipe a gloss over your lips, and give your reflection one final once-over. The cast on your leg ruins the fantasy a little, it’s not exactly what Mrs. Claus would wear, but you make it work. You always do.
When you step out of the bedroom and into the living room, the fireplace crackles softly, lights from the tree twinkling in the corner.
Jungkook is bent over near the speakers, fiddling with a playlist, a Santa hat already perched on his head. The second he hears your footsteps, he looks up,
And stops.
His gaze travels from your bare thighs to the velvet bow hugging your chest. He blinks once. Twice.
Then smirks, mouth twitching as he leans back on the arm of the couch. “You look like Christmas threw up on a Victoria’s Secret model.”
You arch an eyebrow. “That a compliment or an insult?”
“Little of both.” He lifts his drink. “But mostly compliment. You’re gonna give three people heart attacks before the first hour’s over.”
“Good,” you hum, stepping closer to the fire. “That’s the goal.”
He watches you carefully, eyes trailing after you a second longer than necessary before his expression softens, something quieter settling over his face.
There’s a beat of silence before he speaks again.
“…I’ve been meaning to say something.”
You glance over, instantly wary. “That sounds ominous.”
“It’s not. I just—” he sets his drink down and runs a hand through his hair, suddenly serious. “About Thanksgiving.”
Your chest tightens. “Jungkook-”
“No, let me.” He stands slowly, closes the distance between you until the firelight is casting soft shadows between your bodies. “I was kind of a dick. I pushed too hard, and I said shit that didn’t come out the way I meant it. And I—I don’t want things to get that ugly again.”
You cross your arms, gaze dropping for a moment. That night’s still sharp in your memory, voices raised, wine glasses untouched, the weight of resentment hanging heavy in the air.
He continues, softer now. “I didn’t like how that felt. Fighting with you like that.”
You glance back up at him. “You think I did?”
“No. I know you didn’t.” He hesitates. “You looked at me like you hated me. I’ve never had someone look at me like that before.”
There’s vulnerability in his voice, raw and stripped down. The kind that doesn’t ask for pity, just honesty.
Your throat feels tight.
“I didn’t hate you,” you say, quiet.
“But you could’ve.”
“Maybe. For a second.” You let the words hang there, the truth of them suspended between you. “You said things that hurt. And I said things I didn’t mean. But I don’t want to keep doing this either, Jungkook.”
His brow furrows, like he’s thinking it through. “So what, we try being nice to each other now?”
You laugh under your breath. “God, no. That sounds exhausting.”
He smiles, finally, a real one this time. “Then maybe we just… try not to set the house on fire every time we disagree.”
“I can work with that.”
“Good.” He eyes your outfit again, teasing creeping back into his tone. “Because I’d hate for your little elf skirt to go up in flames.”
You roll your eyes, but there’s warmth blooming in your chest now — the kind that settles, rather than stings.
“You done staring?” you ask, turning to adjust a few decorations on the mantle.
“Not even close.”
You don’t look at him, but your smirk is unmistakable as you say, “Pervert.”
He shrugs, utterly unapologetic. “You knew what you were doing when you put that on.”
The doorbell rings just as Jungkook finishes stacking the final layer of Christmas-themed cupcakes onto a serving tray.
You glance over your shoulder from where you’re pouring drinks into red and green plastic cups. “That better not be your friends already. I’m not emotionally prepared for the circus.”
Jungkook wipes his hands on a dish towel and heads for the door. “I think it is the circus.”
You snort as he swings open the front door, and you hear a burst of laughter followed by Natty’s unmistakable voice.
“Oh my god, this place looks amazing!”
“Wow,” Yoongi adds, more subdued but clearly impressed. “It smells like cinnamon and glitter in here.”
You limp a little toward the entryway, cast still wrapped snugly but decorated with a red bow that Natty immediately notices.
“You look utterly festive!” she grins, rushing forward and gently hugging you from the side. “You look like the kind of Santa who charges by the minute.”
Yoongi chuckles as he hands you a small box. “Brought a bottle of something expensive and difficult to pronounce. Also a candle.”
“You are both deeply predictable and I love you,” you tell him.
As Natty launches into a breathless update on someone from her office dating a guy who owns reindeer, actual reindeer, the doorbell rings again.
This time it’s Namjoon.
He steps inside, looking unfairly tall and good in a navy wool coat, arms full of gifts and a store-bought pie.
“You said no one’s bringing food,” he says, slightly out of breath. “So I panicked and brought dessert anyway.”
“Classic people-pleaser move,” Jungkook says from the kitchen, already opening the box.
Namjoon points at him while checking out the spread. “Coming from you, Mr. ‘I made three different dips so no one feels left out.’”
“I don’t believe in social exclusion,” Jungkook replies deadpan.
The room starts filling with conversation, music, and that buzz of overlapping laughter of Hobi and Taehyung who seem to get along very well. You sit and give your ankle a break, and lean back against the couch with a cup of cranberry punch in hand.
That’s when the final knock comes.
“Last one?” you ask, already feeling warm and a little tipsy.
Jungkook walks over to open the door, but you hear his voice falter.
“…Oh. Hey.”
You look over curiously, and freeze.
There’s Jimin, radiant as always in a fluffy white sweater, dimples deep as he grins.
And next to him are three women.
One of them has silver-blonde hair and a smile too polished to be casual. Her eyes scan the room like she already knows it.
And Jungkook’s reaction?
He’s stiff.
“Didn’t know you were bringing guests,” Jungkook says.
“Last-minute,” Jimin shrugs, completely unfazed. “This is Yuna, Mira, and Jasmine.”
And Yuna, the one Jungkook can’t seem to stop looking at, gives him a small wave. “Hi, Jungkook. It’s been a while.”
Your stomach tightens, inexplicably. The room doesn’t go quiet, but suddenly you feel quieter.
“Okay, not to alarm you,” Natty says, tilting her head toward the kitchen where Jungkook stands awkwardly beside Jimin and a tall girl in a satin red dress, “but he’s been weird ever since she showed up.”
You follow her gaze subtly.
Jungkook has a drink in one hand, the leather jacket you bought him tossed over a chair, and a faintly distracted look on his face. He’s not really listening to what Jimin’s saying. His eyes keep drifting, not obviously, but enough for someone who knows him to notice.
The girl beside him is smiling a little too wide. You’re not even sure what her name is. Yuna?
“Do they know each other?” Natty asks, lowering her voice.
“I… don’t think so?” you say, brows pinching slightly. “I mean, I don’t remember seeing her around him before.”
Yoongi snorts into his drink nearby. “He’s got that look.”
“What look?” Natty frowns.
“The ‘I’m pretending to be chill but actually dying inside’ look,” Yoongi says casually. “Usually means he either used to like her or still does.”
Your stomach flips.
You blink a few times and laugh it off. “You guys are reading too much into this.”
Because truthfully… Jungkook has been off all night. Quiet. Thoughtful. Distant in moments. And okay, yeah, maybe he stole a glance at Yuna when he thought you weren’t looking. Maybe once or twice his expression softened in a way you haven’t seen since you started living with him. Maybe it stung a little.
You turn away from the kitchen and pour yourself another drink.
Natty watches you carefully. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You always say that when you’re not fine.”
You shoot her a tired look, and she just smirks — but kindly. “You like him,” she says softly.
Your mouth opens. “I don’t—”
“You do. And I don’t blame you. Honestly, I thought I’d hate the guy forever. But he’s… different now. Around you, at least.”
You say nothing.
You just keep sipping your drink while the laughter from the kitchen grows louder, Jungkook’s low voice mixing in with Jimin’s and Yuna’s.
He doesn’t even realize you’re not looking at him anymore.
You’re not jealous.
You’re not.
You have zero reason to be. Jungkook is… Jungkook. The human migraine who broke your leg, stole your peace, and somehow embedded himself into your life like glitter you can’t vacuum out of the carpet.
And sure, he’s been surprisingly… decent lately. And helpful. And thoughtful in ways that make your stomach feel weird and your chest tight. But that doesn’t mean anything.
You don’t like him.
You don’t.
Which is why it doesn’t make sense that you’re standing here, still thinking about the way he looked when that girl, Yuna, apparently, walked through the door.
He didn’t light up or anything.
But his whole posture shifted, like someone plugged him into a socket. His eyes sharpened, his jaw flexed. He looked… aware. Like he was suddenly too aware of her.
And you noticed.
Which you shouldn’t have, because again: you don’t like him.
But the contrast is too sharp to ignore.
He was laughing earlier. With you. Arguing over whether you needed that many Christmas hats and complaining about the glitter that somehow got into his hair. He even helped you arrange the snack table and insisted on getting the angles of the candy canes just right.
And now he’s over there, stiff-shouldered, distracted. Like he’s trying not to act nervous.
Why does that bother you?
It’s not like he’s your boyfriend. Or even your friend, technically.
Just a guy who owes you a broken leg and a lot of favors. Who you live with. Who’s seen you cry and passed you your meds and looked at you that one time in the kitchen like he forgot how to breathe.
…Ugh.
You take a long sip of your drink.
He can act weird around his crush if he wants to. You don’t care.
You really don’t.
Even if Natty and Yoongi are still side-eyeing him like they’re watching a reality show unfold in real time.
Even if Yuna keeps flipping her hair and touching his arm when she talks.
Even if he lets her.
You roll your eyes at yourself. Get a grip.
You’re not here to play mind reader with Jeon Jungkook.
You’re here to host a damn party.
It’s not intentional.
At least, not completely.
You’re just standing near the fireplace, the room warm with laughter and drinks, when Jimin drifts closer, all easy smiles and soft flannel, dimples flashing like they’ve been waiting all night to make their debut.
You’re not flirting. Not really.
You’re just…talking. Laughing. Letting your shoulder brush his, letting your laugh hang a little longer in the air when he compliments your decorating skills. His energy is magnetic, the kind that naturally invites touch and closeness, so when his hand finds your shoulder mid-conversation, giving it a light squeeze, you don’t stop it.
“You’ve got pretty solid arms,” he remarks, eyes narrowing slightly with playful curiosity. “Did you used to work out?”
You arch a brow. “Used to? I still work out. Sort of.”
“Sort of?” he chuckles, and before you know it, his fingers are wrapping around your bicep, testing its shape like he’s judging a contestant on a strength competition.
You laugh again, partly in surprise, partly because it feels good to be admired for something as simple and honest as muscle.
And then-
“Hey.”
Jungkook’s voice drops in from nowhere.
You turn, startled.
He’s standing a few feet away, hands in his pockets, the glow from the firelight painting half his face in shadow. His hair’s slightly tousled like he ran a hand through it, and his eyes briefly flick from you to Jimin’s hand still lightly resting on your arm.
Jimin lets go immediately, mumbling something about getting another drink.
You expect Jungkook to say something - anything, but he doesn’t.
He just lingers.
Silent.
Oddly still.
His gaze isn’t sharp or jealous or angry. It’s not amused either.
It’s… unreadable.
Neutral, almost. But with an edge you can’t quite name. Like he walked over expecting to say something and forgot what it was halfway there.
“Yuna went to the bathroom,” he says finally, his voice a little too casual. “She said she liked the gingerbread cookies.”
You blink at him. “Cool.”
A pause.
He shifts on his feet, tongue briefly swiping across his lower lip like he’s buying time.
You wait.
“Are you…” he starts, then stops. “Never mind.”
He turns like he’s about to walk away, then hesitates again.
You tilt your head. “What?”
He meets your gaze for a second, something flickering in it, uncertain, defensive, maybe even hurt, but it’s gone too fast to catch.
“Nothing,” he says, voice flat now. “Just thought you hated Jimin.”
You raise an eyebrow. “I don’t hate him.”
“No?” he shrugs, but his tone’s off. “Huh.”
Then he walks off, disappearing into the kitchen just as Yuna returns from the hallway with her lipstick freshened.
And you’re left standing by the fireplace… trying not to feel like you did something wrong.
Even though you’re totally allowed to flirt.
Even though you don’t like Jungkook.
Even though it wasn’t about him.
Except now, suddenly, it feels like it always has been.
You shouldn’t care.
You don’t care.
It’s just… the audacity.
You grab a drink off the counter, something neon pink in a short glass with a candy cane stuck in it, and toss it back like you’re trying to punish your esophagus. The sweet burn slides down far too easy.
You weren’t even into Jimin. It was just banter. Playful. Stupid. A distraction.
But Jungkook? Standing there with Yuna at the snack table, helping her refill her cup, laughing at something she says, brushing her hair off her shoulder like he’s in a shampoo commercial?
Oh, he can choke.
You grip the counter tighter, blinking rapidly as your brain plays a humiliating little highlight reel.
“Just thought you hated Jimin.”
What does that even mean?
What, is he gatekeeping who you flirt with now?
You snort to yourself, teeth clenched.
He’s got no business acting weird, no right to look at you like you’d personally betrayed him with a shoulder rub, while literally standing next to the girl he clearly brought a whole attitude shift for. Yuna, with her shiny hair and her ballet flats and her skin you could bottle and sell.
You down another drink. This one’s got cinnamon on the rim. It burns going down, the kind of burn that warms your chest but fogs your judgment.
You’re not even drunk yet, just tipsy and irritated.
Which is worse, somehow.
You feel a hand tap your shoulder. “You good?” Natty asks, eyeing your empty glass.
You shrug. “Yeah.”
“‘Cause you look like you’re about to throw that snowman centerpiece at someone.”
You glance at the stuffed decoration on the counter. The poor thing does have a smug expression.
Natty raises a brow. “So. What’s the deal with him?”
“Who?”
She gives you a look. “Don’t who me. Jungkook.”
Your eyes drift toward the living room.
He’s still with Yuna.
Still smiling that polite smile that never quite touches his eyes.
He doesn’t even glance your way.
“Nothing,” you mutter. “There’s no deal.”
“Didn’t seem like nothing earlier when he came over and almost vaporized Jimin with a look.”
You force a laugh, but it comes out sharp. “He’s a guest. In my house. If he wants to be weird about it, that’s on him.”
Natty looks at you a beat longer, then nudges a new drink toward your hand. “You’re lying to me.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You are.”
“Am not.”
She doesn’t argue. Just tilts her head and smirks. “Fine. But don’t be mad when you wake up with a hangover and an identity crisis.”
You roll your eyes but take the drink anyway.
Sip this time.
Slow.
Because your thoughts are speeding up and you need something to balance them out.
You glance over again, and this time Yuna leans in to whisper something into Jungkook’s ear, and he laughs, soft, sweet, familiar.
And something hot spikes behind your ribs.
You turn away before you do something dumb.
Like stare.
Or wonder what she said.
Or wish it was you.
Which it’s not.
You don’t like Jungkook.
You don’t care who he talks to.
You don’t.
You don’t.
You don’t.
So why does it suddenly feel like you’re losing a game you didn’t agree to play?
You wander away from the kitchen, drink in hand, the sugary liquor coating your tongue like a bad decision in progress.
Somewhere in the background, someone turns the music up just a little. Yoongi and Natty are arguing over who has the better music taste, again. Hoseok is laughing at something Taehyung said, the two of them tangled up in some kind of dramatic reenactment by the Christmas tree. Namjoon’s holding a cup of eggnog and nodding like he’s the narrator of this chaotic night.
You should be enjoying this.
This is your party. Your space. Your friends. Your playlist. Your drinks and snacks and centerpieces and overpriced faux-snow by the windows.
But you can’t stop looking over.
It’s like there’s a magnet in your chest, annoying, persistent, tugging your gaze toward the other side of the room.
Where Jungkook stands.
Still.
Next to her.
He’s not doing anything objectively wrong. His hands aren’t on her now. He’s not whispering anything intimate. He’s just there, next to Yuna, who is glowing like she swallowed Christmas lights, laughing softly, brushing nonexistent lint off his shirt sleeve.
And he’s letting her.
Your jaw tightens.
Another sip. Bitter this time. Maybe because you’re swirling it too much.
Natty was right, you are lying.
Not just to her.
To yourself.
Because deep down, you do care. You do care that Jungkook suddenly decided to have a functioning personality the moment Yuna walked in. You care that he ignored the way you looked in your ridiculous little Santa outfit, the one you wore fully aware that it was extra and over the top and attention-grabbing, only to melt into that soft, breezy smile for someone else.
You don’t like him.
But it would’ve been nice if he looked at you the way he’s looking at her.
You shake your head, willing the thought away.
Stupid. All of it.
You retreat to the fireplace, your spot, curling into the corner of the couch with a cushion pulled into your lap. The room pulses around you, warm with people and noise and the faint scent of pine and cinnamon.
And yet you feel like a glitch in the party — the one pixel that won’t blend in.
“Need company?”
Jimin again. He flops down next to you without waiting for permission, knocking his shoulder into yours.
You manage a smile. “Sure.”
“You still sore about the bicep thing?”
“Not at all,” you say, even though you definitely are.
He chuckles, nudging you again. “You’ve got nice arms. I stand by it.”
You roll your eyes but don’t stop him when his arm drapes along the couch behind you, his fingers lightly brushing your shoulder.
You tell yourself it’s fine.
You’re fine.
You’re being normal.
Totally normal.
But then, out of the corner of your eye, you catch him again.
Jungkook.
He’s standing by the drink table now, without Yuna. His eyes are on you. Cold. unreadable. Like he’s seeing something he doesn’t like. Like he has the right to look at you like that.
You meet his gaze and raise your glass.
To what, you’re not sure.
But he looks away.
You don’t.
And that’s when you realize your jaw’s still clenched, your nails digging crescent moons into the velvet of the couch cushion.
You don’t remember when your other leg ended up tucked under you or when you and Jimin got close enough to share a blanket, but it’s warm, and the house is cold, and he’s funny.
Too funny.
Everything he says seems to land right lately. Maybe it’s the liquor warming your bloodstream or the fact that you’re desperate to forget the way Jungkook looked at Yuna earlier. Either way, you’re laughing more than you should.
And Jimin knows it.
He leans closer, chin nearly brushing your shoulder, his voice dropping just a little as he murmurs, “I knew you’d have a good laugh. I just had to break past the whole murderous resting face thing.”
You snort. “I do not have a murderous resting face.”
He tilts his head like he’s studying you. “No, no. You’ve got a hot girl who’s always two seconds away from slapping someone's face. There’s a difference.”
You laugh again, too loud, too much. Your head tilts slightly toward him, unintentional but natural, comfortable, familiar. The buzz in your brain feels almost delicious now. Just numb enough.
Jimin’s voice drops further. His breath brushes your ear as he says, “But now I know better. You’re a softie. I can tell.”
You feel your spine straighten just slightly, not from nerves, but from awareness. Not because of Jimin. But because the moment he said that, you felt his eyes.
Jungkook’s.
You don’t have to turn to know he’s looking again. Watching. Measuring.
You sip your drink and say nothing.
“Don’t look now,” Jimin says, low and teasing, “but I think someone’s finally jealous.”
You raise a brow, playing dumb. “Who?”
He smiles, like he’s enjoying this a little too much. “Tall. Tattooed. Moody. With a thing for tiny skirts and arguments.”
You glance at him sidelong, feigning innocence. “I didn’t know Taehyung had a tattoo.”
Jimin barks out a laugh, tipping his head back, and then leans in again, this time brushing the back of his fingers lightly along your knee, just a casual touch. Barely there.
And it’s nothing.
It’s everything.
Because when you risk a glance up, Jungkook’s across the room with a drink in his hand, but he’s no longer talking. No longer pretending. His expression is blank, deceptively blank, the way it gets when his emotions are bubbling too close to the surface.
You tilt your head at him.
He looks away.
Good.
You don’t know what you want from him, not really. But if he thinks he gets to flirt around the room, then glare at you for daring to have fun with his friend? He’s more delusional than you thought.
“I’m getting another drink,” you mutter, getting up, maybe a little too fast.
“You okay?” Jimin’s voice trails behind you.
“totally.”
You don’t look back.
Because you can feel the tension stretching even tighter behind you, like Jungkook’s gaze might catch flame if you turn into it.
And still, still — he doesn’t approach.
He just stands there, quiet, simmering.
You tell yourself that’s fine.
That it doesn’t matter.
But your next drink is stronger. And your hands are shaking when you pour it.
“Okay, okay—!” Hoseok claps loudly, standing up from the couch with a grin stretched across his face, cheeks flushed with warmth and alcohol. “Everyone shut up. I’m officially bored. Which means it’s time for something stupid.”
Groans and cheers echo back at him, depending on who’s more sober.
“No truth or dare!” Natty calls out. “We’re not fifteen.”
“Relax,” he says, waving a dismissive hand. “We’re not playing that. I’ve got something better. Ever heard of Tap Tap Shot?”
A few people murmur confusion.
“You sit in a circle,” he explains, already dragging cushions into a messy loop. “One person claps twice then points at someone. That person has to take a shot unless they clap back within two seconds and point at someone else. And if they mess up or are too slow, they take a shot and do a dare. Which, yes, I will come up with personally.”
“Oh no,” Yoongi groans from the floor. “I don’t trust you with power.”
“You shouldn’t,” Hobi beams. “Now sit your asses down.”
You somehow end up wedged between Jimin and Namjoon, and across the circle, of course, is Jungkook.
He hasn’t looked at you since the last drink you poured. Or maybe you just haven’t looked at him. You’re not sure anymore.
The game starts chaotic and fast, full of shouting and laughter and groans when people mess up. Taehyung messes up first and has to wear a Santa hat and say ho ho ho before every sentence. Natty snorts so hard she chokes on a chip.
It’s fun.
It’s light.
Until it’s not.
Because Jimin claps fast, like, too fast, and when the circle falls quiet to hear Hobi’s next dare for Namjoon, Jimin leans close to you, elbow grazing yours.
“I hope I lose,” he whispers, smiling.
You side-eye him. “Why?”
He just shrugs, all mischief. “Curious what kind of dares Hobi’s got in that brain of his.”
And sure enough, a few turns later, Jimin does mess up. Intentionally or not, no one knows.
Hoseok’s eyes light up with glee. “Alright, Park Jimin. Since you clearly can’t clap on beat, your punishment is a body shot.”
Groans. Cheers. Laughter.
“Pick someone to do it off,” Hobi adds. “Or I’ll pick for you.”
You expect him to pick one of the three girls he came with.
He doesn’t.
He turns to you.
“What do you say?” he grins. “Wanna be my tray?”
Your eyebrows raise, amused, surprised. “Are you serious?”
“Totally,” he replies, voice low. “Unless you’re scared.”
You’re not. You don’t care. You don’t even glance across the circle.
“Fine,” you say, and pull your hair off your neck. “Where?”
Hoseok’s already pouring the shot, lime in Jimin’s hand, salt handed to you.
The circle is loud now, people filming, whooping. You lean back, mouth pressed into a smirk as Jimin bends toward you, his fingers brushing your waist to steady himself. The salt grazes your collarbone, his tongue follows after.
You hear the silence before you see it.
One glance up and Jungkook’s no longer in the circle.
Not even on the couch.
You catch a glimpse of the terrace door just swinging closed.
Your smirk fades.
Your pulse doesn’t.
The laughter fades behind you as you shut the terrace door gently behind you, the night air biting at your arms and bare legs. The rooftop lights shimmer above, dim but steady. Jungkook stands with his back to you, elbows propped against the ledge, shoulders tense beneath his black shirt. He doesn’t turn around.
You don’t say anything right away. You’re not even sure why you followed him. Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s the way your chest tightened the second he walked out. Maybe it’s because even when he’s annoying, he always leaves first, and you’re tired of him running from things he starts.
So you speak.
“Is this going to be like Thanksgiving all over again?”
That gets him.
His shoulders stiffen, and then he turns slowly, jaw clenched, brows tight like he’s been holding something in. His gaze meets yours, unreadable, but intense.
“You tell me,” he says coolly. “You’re the one playing games in there.”
You scoff, crossing your arms. “Excuse me?”
He shrugs. “You were basically all over Jimin.”
You blink, stunned. “All over him? Are you serious right now?”
“You let him do a body shot off you in front of everyone.”
Your voice rises. “You’re one to talk! Weren’t you just busy playing hairdresser with Yuna all night?”
“That’s different,” he snaps.
“How?”
“She’s not you.”
The silence after that is thick, like snow before a storm.
You laugh—dry, disbelieving. “So let me get this straight. You can flirt with your little crush in the middle of my party, but I can’t talk to a guy who, God forbid, touched my arm?”
He stays quiet, looking at you with a mix of frustration and something else, something quieter, darker.
“Why do you even care, Jungkook?” you push. “You don’t like me. You’ve said it a hundred times. I’m a spoiled brat, remember? An attention seeker. A walking PR stunt.”
He flinches. You see it.
You take a step closer.
“I don’t owe you anything. Not explanations, not feelings, nothing.”
“I know,” he says finally, voice low.
“Then why are we fighting again?”
You’re breathless now. It’s not even cold anymore. Just your pulse in your ears and the weight of his gaze and the tension stretching tighter and tighter between you.
He runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t know.”
You shake your head. “This is Thanksgiving all over again. A party ruined, another fight, and tomorrow we pretend it never happened, like idiots who live together but don’t even like each other.”
His eyes search yours. “You don’t like me. Right?”
You want to say it. You should say it. But the words snag in your throat, and suddenly you’re not so sure of anything anymore.
You look away first.
He exhales. “Right.”
And just like that, the moment frays.
The door creaks open behind you, someone yelling for more drinks, and the music swells again from inside.
“I’m going back in,” you mumble, brushing past him without another word.
But you feel his eyes on your back the whole way.
You return inside with a flushed face and a bitter aftertaste. You don’t even remember where your drink went, maybe you left it on the terrace, or maybe you just need another. But by the time you push back into the living room, the lights feel warmer, the music louder, and the energy ten times more chaotic.
Natty’s on the floor laughing at something Yoongi whispered in her ear, Taehyung’s dancing by himself near the snack table, and someone’s passed out with cat ears on. You almost don’t notice it, how Jungkook slips in right behind you, silent as a shadow, and doesn’t go back to Yuna.
In fact, he doesn’t even glance at her.
He makes a beeline for the couch.
Your couch.
Where you’re sitting.
You tense as he drops next to you, too close for it to be casual. His thigh brushes yours, the scent of his cologne suddenly overpowering, and you blink at him, wary.
“What are you doing?” you murmur, leaning away just enough to question, but not enough to escape.
“Nothing,” he says, voice low, like a smirk tucked into a word.
You roll your eyes, turning toward the game again, but you feel it, his attention, all of it, resting on you like heat. It’s not flirty or playful. It’s intentional.
You keep sipping your drink to ignore the sudden electricity.
And then Hobi’s voice cuts through the room again, energized and chaotic.
“Alright, next round! Everyone’s in! You know the rules, drink or do what’s on the card!”
Groans and cheers erupt. You shake your head, trying to slip out, but Jungkook nudges your leg with his knee.
“Don’t be a buzzkill,” he mutters. “You started this.”
“Excuse me?” you glare.
“You let Jimin lick salt off your neck. You don’t get to leave the game now.”
Your jaw drops. “It wasn’t my idea…”
He grins, and it’s dangerous. Reckless.
“I didn’t say I had a problem with it.”
And you know he’s plotting something.
It happens fast.
A round or two pass, someone kisses a pillow like it’s a lover, someone else spills their drink all over Yoongi’s pants, and then it’s Jungkook’s turn.
He picks a card.
Reads it.
Pauses.
Then his eyes cut directly to you, heavy and unreadable.
He tosses the card aside and grabs a shot glass from the center of the circle. “Body shot.”
There’s a pause.
Taehyung whoops. “Who’s the lucky one?”
Jungkook shrugs. “She is.” His head nods toward you like it’s obvious.
And suddenly every nerve in your body lights up.
You freeze. “What?”
“You heard me,” he says, already dipping the rim of the glass in salt.
“Jungkook—”
“You started this,” he repeats, quieter now. “Let me finish it.”
The room falls away.
There’s laughter, gasps, background music—but it all blurs.
Your breath catches when he leans closer. “Where?”
You blink.
He clarifies with a whisper, “Neck? Chest? Stomach?”
You curse under your breath and point to your collarbone, pulse racing.
He doesn’t smile, doesn’t joke. He leans in slowly, the tip of his tongue grazing your skin, warm and deliberate as he licks the salt from your skin. The shot comes next, smooth, burning down fast, and finally the lime wedge between your lips.
Which he leans in and takes with his mouth, brushing his lips over yours barely as he bites it.
He pulls back, lips wet, pupils blown wide.
You don’t breathe.
He sits back beside you like nothing happened, casually licking his thumb.
And that’s when you realize—
He’s not drunk.
He meant it.
And judging by the shift in the room’s energy, the way Yuna looks stunned from across the circle, and Jimin’s smirk falters, everyone else noticed it too.
Jungkook doesn’t look at them though.
He only looks at you.
Like he’s already imagining doing it again.
And again.
And again.
The game fizzles out after that.
Someone mutters a joke about the heat in the room. Natty fans herself dramatically and announces she’s going to change into something lighter. A few people get up to grab snacks or refill drinks, but you?
You don’t move.
Neither does Jungkook.
Your skin still tingles where his mouth was. You want to say something, anything, call him out, shove him away, laugh, but when you finally glance at him, he’s acting like nothing happened. Not a single flicker of emotion on his face.
He’s…cool.
Too cool.
Which pisses you off more than anything.
You grab your drink and walk off without a word, pretending you’re not rattled. That your heart isn’t in your throat. That everyone in the room didn’t just watch him claim you in front of them, only to return to being his maddeningly unreadable self.
You make it halfway to the kitchen when someone intercepts you.
He laughs gently, not buying it. “You sure? That looked intense.”
“I’m fine.”
“You say that like someone who’s trying to be.”
You glance up at him, and his eyes are kind but mischievous, less flirtatious now, more curious. It’s weirdly grounding. And when he reaches for your glass and offers to refill it for you, you let him.
At least he isn’t pretending nothing happened.
When he comes back, you clink glasses and lean against the kitchen counter together, pretending the world isn’t spinning weirdly now.
But your eyes betray you.
They keep drifting back to the living room.
Where Jungkook sits, sprawled out on the couch, Yuna hovering beside him with uncertainty in her eyes. She tries to hand him a drink. He barely acknowledges it. tries to say something. He nods without smiling. She puts a hand on his thigh. He gently removes it.
And then—
His gaze finds yours.
From across the room.
Locked in.
You feel it in your stomach: the shift.
Not just heat. Not just jealousy.
Need.
You look away too fast, like it burns.
“Someone’s watching you,” Jimin whispers, his voice close to your ear.
“I noticed,” you mutter, sipping more than you mean to.
You and Jimin drift toward the music when it picks up again, something vintage and dreamy and impossible to dance to properly, which only makes it better. The crowd thins a little. Hobi’s lying upside down on the carpet talking about capitalism. Yoongi’s now passed out. Natty’s in a fuzzy robe. It’s that point in the night where everything feels soft and unreal.
Jimin twirls you lazily.
Your laugh is genuine for a moment, until you spot Jungkook again.
He’s still watching.
He hasn’t smiled since the shot.
He hasn’t looked away once.
Someone changed the playlist to something rhythmic and full of bass, just enough to get everyone swaying without trying too hard.
You’re mid-spin with Jimin when you feel someone tap your shoulder.
“Mind if I steal you?” Namjoon’s voice rumbles above the music, and he’s grinning like he knows he’s already won.
You glance at Jimin for permission—he just smirks and steps back with a teasing bow. “Be gentle with her,” he jokes. “Or don’t.”
Namjoon chuckles and reaches for your hand. “Come on. I promised myself I’d dance with the birthday girl.”
“It’s not my birthday,” you laugh, even as you let him pull you toward the open space near the fireplace.
“Feels like it.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re already laughing as he exaggerates a ridiculous two-step, your balance wobbling just slightly with your leg in the cast. “Hey, careful.”
“Oops,” he murmurs, frowning with mock thoughtfulness. “Hold on.”
Before you can protest, Namjoon slides his foot under yours and hooks your other ankle gently over his, hoisting you slightly so your weight’s on him. You squeal, too loud, too surprised, but you’re laughing again before it even registers.
He holds your hips to steady you. “There,” he says proudly. “One working pair of legs between us.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“You’re having fun.”
“Unfortunately.”
You’re giggling uncontrollably now, his clumsy dancing, your awkward position, the alcohol, and your fingers find the back of his neck for balance, foreheads nearly brushing.
Across the room, Jungkook has completely stopped pretending he’s interested in the conversation Yuna’s trying to continue. His jaw is tight. Eyes narrowed.
Because from where he’s sitting?
It doesn’t look innocent.
Not when Namjoon’s lips are this close to yours.
Not when your laugh rings out like that.
Not when your cast is resting over Namjoon’s thigh and his hands are still on your waist like he forgot to let go.
And you? You catch Jungkook’s stare again.
And this time?
You don’t look away.
You hold it, challenging, your grin flickering with something more dangerous.
Let him stew.
If he’s going to flirt with Yuna and watch you from the sidelines, he might as well see the show. Right?
Namjoon dips you dramatically just for the hell of it, and you squeak, again, half terrified and half giddy.
And when you’re upright again, still flushed and breathless, you mouth thank you into his chest, still giggling.
Namjoon just winks. “Anytime.”
But Jungkook is already getting up.
Yuna calls after him, confused, but he doesn’t answer. He’s moving, headed straight for where you’re standing with Namjoon, and when he gets there?
He doesn’t speak.
He just slides into your space like it belongs to him and hooks two fingers through your belt loop like it’s casual.
Like he hasn’t been burning alive for the past half hour.
You freeze.
So does Namjoon, blinking between you two.
“You good?” Namjoon asks, eyebrow raised.
Jungkook’s voice is low and careless. “Yeah. Just want to dance with her for a sec.”
Your mouth parts to argue, to say no, to be difficult—
But Namjoon’s already laughing and stepping away with a knowing look. “Play nice.”
Jungkook waits until you’re alone again before tugging you gently toward the edge of the room.
And this time?
You do want to know what’s going through his head.
Because it’s written all over his face now: jealousy, tension, frustration—and something else.
Something dangerous.
You’re both still swaying.
Sort of.
There’s no rhythm anymore. Just tension. Bitter and bristling.
“You think this is Thanksgiving all over again?” he says, low and sharp. “That’s rich. Back then you were actually pretending to behave.”
You arch an eyebrow. “You mean back then I wasn’t humiliating you in front of your friends?”
He scoffs, stepping back just slightly, his jaw tight. “You think this is about me?”
“Isn’t it?” you shoot back. “You’ve been glaring at me all night like I kicked your puppy.”
“You were practically on top of Jimin!”
You tilt your head, faux-innocent. “What, are there rules now?”
He doesn’t answer right away, just breathes hard through his nose like he’s barely holding something back. And then he mutters it—
“He’s my friend.”
“And I’m not your anything,” you finish for him, sweet and sharp, like the shot Jimin licked off your neck not even an hour ago. “So what’s the problem?”
“That is the problem!”
The words fly out of him like he didn’t mean to say them, but now they’re hanging there, awful and true and confusing.
You stare at him.
And then you laugh, cold and disbelieving. “Wow. So I’m just… not allowed to have fun? Because your friend might want to sleep with me? Grow up, Jungkook.”
He steps forward again, but this time not to touch you, to tower, to hover, to glare.
“You don’t actually like Jimin.”
You cross your arms. “And you’d know that how?”
“Because you’re only doing it to piss me off.”
Silence.
You feel your spine straighten. You hold his gaze, eyes glittering.
“And what if I am?” you whisper. “Seems like it’s working.”
His jaw flexes again. His shoulders are so tight it’s a miracle he hasn’t snapped.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Right back at you.”
Neither of you speak for a long second. In the background, someone snores. A bottle rolls across the floor with a soft thunk.
Your voices fall to near-whispers now.
“You walked out the second it wasn’t about you anymore,” you say, voice calm but cutting. “The second someone wanted me, and it wasn’t you.”
He blinks, chest rising a little faster.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” he mutters.
“I’m not. But your temper’s doing all the talking.”
He steps even closer now, the space between you hot with resentment and leftover tequila. “You think this is a game?”
You smile, slow and daring. “Isn’t it always with you?”
And there it is. Another beat. Another breath too long.
Jungkook exhales, almost a growl. “Just stay away from Jimin.”
Your mouth parts in disbelief. “Did you seriously just tell me what to do?”
“I’m asking,” he bites out. “Because if you screw around with him just to mess with me, you’ll ruin something that’s actually real.”
You blink, thrown for just a second.
Then the ice returns.
“You’re worried about your friendship with him, not your relationship with me.”
“There is no relationship with you.”
“Exactly.”
The words leave a bigger sting than either of you expect.
You both fall silent again.
You look away first this time. Your voice is quieter now. “Party’s still going.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m going back in.”
“Fine.”
But you don’t move.
Neither does he.
Because you’re both standing in the fallout of a moment that shouldn’t matter as much as it does.
Eventually, you say, without looking at him, “Tell your friend he can’t dance with me either, while you’re at it.”
Then you leave him alone and head out to the terrace.
And he lets you.
For now.
The bass is a distant thump now. Laughter fades behind the door as you push back into the kitchen, the sharp air from the terrace still clinging to your skin.
You’re not really sure what you’re doing here, you just needed a second that didn’t smell like cologne and beer and Jungkook’s confusing intensity.
The light over the island flickers softly as you walk in, and you’re mid-reach for a water bottle when you hear it:
A crunch.
You freeze.
Yuna’s standing by the counter, her body angled toward the charcuterie spread like it’s a secret buffet. She has a cracker in hand, a slice of brie folded over it, and a casual expression like she absolutely didn’t just witness you re-enter the room looking like you fought a ghost and lost.
She chews.
Swallows.
Then casually, “Want one?”
You blink. “…Sure.”
You step closer, hesitantly, and grab a slice of cheddar. It’s a weird sort of truce — your fingers brushing over the same mini cheese knife like this isn’t the girl Jungkook spent all night orbiting.
“I didn’t think you’d come to the party,” she says after a pause, reaching for a grape.
“I live here.”
“Oh.” A soft laugh. “Right.”
You glance at her sideways. She’s pretty, obviously. But not in that threatening way you expected. More… glowy. Relaxed. Like someone who moisturizes with lavender oil and drinks lemon water by choice.
Silence settles in again.
And then:
“I saw you with Jimin,” she says, not accusing. Just noticing.
You resist the urge to bristle. “Yeah?”
She nods. “He’s cute.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Are you… warning me off?”
Yuna laughs, startled. “God, no. I’m not his mom.”
You don’t answer. You sip your water. The silence isn’t heavy, not yet — just odd.
“I thought you hated me,” you murmur.
She glances up. “You’ve never said more than two words to me.”
“You were with Jungkook.”
“And?”
“And you were the girl he liked.”
Yuna tilts her head. “Past tense?”
You don’t answer that either.
She seems to consider it. Then shrugs. “We tried. It was a thing. It wasn’t.”
You glance over, caught off guard by how normal she sounds. “He was into you.”
She smiles, almost sadly. “Yeah. But he never really let me in.”
“…You’re not jealous?”
Yuna shakes her head, slow and sure. “Of who? You?” She meets your eyes. “You think he let you in?”
That gives you pause.
And maybe she sees the hesitation, because she softens a little. Takes a sip from her glass before continuing.
“You’re both weird about each other,” she says, half-laughing. “Like… enemies with history, but also magnets? I don’t know what’s going on there.”
“We’re not a thing.”
“Sure.”
“I mean it.”
“I believe you,” she says. “I also think people lie to themselves when feelings are inconvenient.”
You blink.
“Anyway,” she continues with a shrug, “he looked miserable out there. Maybe go easy on him.”
You stare at her.
She offers a final grape toward your side of the plate, like a peace offering.
“People get weird when they care,” she adds simply.
You’re not sure why you’re still standing there.
Yuna’s words buzz in your ears, people lie to themselves when feelings are inconvenient. That shouldn’t hit as hard as it does.
You grab a napkin and lean against the counter, folding it slowly between your fingers just to keep your hands busy. She’s still here, picking at crackers.
And for some reason, you say it.
“I don’t like him.”
She looks up, a little amused. “Did I say you did?”
“No,” you mutter. “But I feel like people think I do. Just because we, I don’t know—talk sometimes.”
Yuna shrugs lightly. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”
But now that you’ve started, you can’t stop. You sigh, running a hand through your hair. “Look… I know how it looks. Me and Jungkook. But it’s not like that.”
She tilts her head.
“We hated each other at first,” you say, voice dipping lower. “Like, full-blown loathing. I was mad, he was insufferable, and the entire thing was a disaster. He ran into me with a bike, you know that?”
Yuna raises her brows. “No. That’s kind of hilarious.”
“It was not. I broke my leg.”
Her eyes widen like she hasn't seen your cast the entire night.
“Exactly.”
You shift your weight onto the good leg. The words roll out of you, honest and worn. “And somehow I ended up here. With him. In my house. My life just.. got put on pause. Everything. My job. My plans. My body. I can’t even shower without saran wrap. I’ve been living like this for two months, and it’s all because of him.”
Yuna nods slowly, listening.
“I don’t hate him anymore,” you add, softer. “I mean… you live with someone for that long, you just… adapt. I got used to him. He’s not as horrible as I thought, but that doesn’t mean I like him.”
You say it calmly. Quietly. Like it’s the most neutral, unfeeling, rational explanation.
But you don’t hear the soft shift behind the kitchen archway.
You don’t hear the pause.
Or the way the party music fades out just enough for Jungkook, who had been heading in for a drink, mind swirling with guilt and half-formed apologies, to catch every goddamn word.
His feet freeze just past the hallway.
Your voice continues, unaware.
“I’m just waiting for all this to be over, honestly. For my leg to heal. For him to leave.”
You chuckle dryly, peeling the label off your water bottle.
“It’s not personal. He just… reminds me that this whole mess isn’t my life. It’s just temporary.”
Yuna doesn’t respond right away.
But Jungkook does, silently, by stepping away from the door and disappearing back into the darkened hallway before either of you see him.
By the time you glance up again, the kitchen is quiet. Safe. Like nothing you said could possibly have shattered someone just around the corner.
He just stands there in the dim hallway, a half-empty glass in his hand and something sharp splintering behind his ribs.
It’s fine.
This was the plan.
He was going to stick around until you got better. That was the bare minimum. He broke your leg, he owed you that much. You never asked for more. You never wanted more.
So what the hell was he expecting?
He exhales slowly, backs away from the kitchen before his footsteps can give him away. Slides the glass down on some side table and heads out through the terrace door into the night, the cold biting just enough to distract him.
The sky is too dark to see clearly, but he focuses on the nothingness, lets it bleed into his chest.
You don’t like him.
You don’t hate him either, apparently, but that doesn’t make it any easier to swallow.
The irony? He’d finally started letting himself like you. Really like you, in the weird, quiet ways he doesn’t admit out loud.
He had started imagining what it would be like if he didn’t have to leave.
But now?
Now he knows better.
He’s not going to make a fool out of himself. Not again. Not with you.
So he pulls his hoodie tighter around him, leans against the railing, and stares out at the night like it owes him nothing.
Summary: revenge never tasted that good when you decide to get back at the man - who ran you over - with the worst punishment he could ever get, and despite all the grudge, maybe some time after, the grudge will gradually turn into something else..?
Sunlight filters through the curtains in soft ribbons of gold, warming your skin before you even open your eyes.
You stir slowly, the ache in your leg dull now, manageable. The ice pack you barely remember has long since melted and slid to the floor. But the sharpest reminder of last night is the subtle sound of breathing that isn’t yours.
When you shift just enough to glance over the edge of the bed, you find Jungkook, still on the floor, curled up on his side, one arm draped over his bent knees, hair messy, jaw slack in sleep.
Your first instinct is to say something snarky.
Your second is… to stay quiet.
You settle for staring at the ceiling and pretending your chest isn’t tight from the image of him sleeping there, having stayed just in case.
Eventually, the movement stirs him. He sits up slowly, groaning a little under his breath, blinking like he forgot where he was.
When he notices you’re awake, his expression shifts, not quite warm, not cold either. Just unreadable.
“Your leg okay?” he asks gruffly, rubbing the back of his neck.
You nod. “Yeah. Still sore, but not like last night.”
He nods once. “Good.”
Silence stretches, too long, too tight.
You break it first.
“I need to shower.”
He stands, brushing dust off his sweatpants. “Yeah, okay. I’ll help you wrap the cast.”
You hesitate, not because you don’t want the help, but because things feel different. Last night wasn’t nothing, and now neither of you seems to know how to act.
Still, you sit up, swinging your good leg over the bed. You keep your eyes forward as Jungkook rummages under the sink for a plastic bag and medical tape.
“Left leg,” you murmur as if to remind him which leg he needs to wrap.
He crouches in front of you, tape between his fingers, and gently lifts your casted leg into his lap. His hands are warm. Focused.
He wraps the plastic carefully around your knee and lower thigh, tucking the bag in snugly, securing it with a few tight, even strips of tape.
It’s during the process, when his fingers brush higher along your thigh to smooth the plastic, that he sees it.
A tattoo, half-hidden under your oversized sleep shorts. The curve of it is elegant, black ink blooming in delicate, geometric lines just below your hip. Small. Subtle. But familiar.
His hand stills.
You don’t notice at first, or maybe you pretend not to.
But Jungkook’s brow furrows.
Something flickers in his mind. A memory. The shape of that ink… the placement.
He’s seen it before. He knows he has.
But not here. Not in person.
Online.
Behind a blurred photo. A cropped image. From an account he’s not supposed to admit he follows. One of those rare nights when insomnia hit and curiosity outweighed judgment. An OnlyFans profile with no face. Just silhouettes. Tattoos. And confidence so casual it was almost cruel.
His stomach tightens.
It couldn’t be you.
Could it?
“You good?” you ask, blinking at him when he doesn’t move.
He clears his throat, loosens his grip, and quickly finishes taping the bag in place. “Yeah. Done.”
You study him for a beat, narrowing your eyes. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
He stands, brushing his palms against his pants. “Just tired.”
You don’t believe him, but you let it go. For now.
“Thanks,” you say, quieter than usual.
He nods without looking at you. “Be careful. Floor’s still a little wet.”
You wait until the door clicks behind you before exhaling.
And on the other side, Jungkook leans back against the wall, brows drawn, jaw clenched.
There’s no way.
Right?
—-
It shouldn’t matter.
It shouldn’t even register.
But it does.
The image burns in his mind long after he leaves your room, the curve of black ink, elegant and sharp against your skin. A shape he’s seen before, more than once, in a place no one would expect him to be looking.
Not you. It can’t be you.
He paces his room, jaw tense, hair falling over his forehead. His phone buzzes somewhere on the desk, but he doesn’t check it.
He’s too busy thinking.
Remembering.
That profile.
It started as a joke. A dumb link in a group chat from Taehyung months ago, “Bro, check this one out, her voice?? unreal.” Jungkook hadn’t expected to click it. And yet… he did.
Late at night. When things felt quiet. When the world wasn’t asking for anything.
No face. Just glimpses.
Ink. Skin. A laugh, once, low and knowing. Just enough mystery to keep him hooked. The kind of confidence he found both maddening and magnetic. He didn’t subscribe first, but he followed the free previews more often than he’d ever admit before he decided to spend over half of his money on your subscribtion fees.
And now that same design is permanently inked on your thigh.
His stomach twists.
He wants to tell himself it’s a coincidence. Plenty of people have tattoos. Geometric ink is common. But the placement… the details… it’s too damn close.
And suddenly, the way you’ve lived since the accident makes more sense. The penthouse. The cashmere. The custom espresso machine. The fact that you haven’t worried once about work or money or the hospital bill.
Shit.
Jungkook exhales sharply and runs a hand over his face.
If it is you…
What does that even mean?
He tries to brush it off. Goes to the kitchen. Opens the fridge. Shuts it again. His mind keeps circling back like a dog to a buried bone.
By the time you finish showering and hobble into the kitchen for water, he’s sitting at the counter, scrolling absently through his phone, eyes flicking up the second he hears your crutch hit the floor.
He’s acting normal. Too normal.
You feel it instantly.
His voice is too even when he says, “You need help?”
His smile is too small. Too flat.
You squint at him. “What?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing.”
But he watches you. More than usual. Not with amusement. Not with anger. Just… calculation.
Like he’s trying to figure you out.
You don’t notice it at first.
The tension’s always been there, baked into every interaction, every sarcastic word and forced truce. But this morning, it’s different. Subtler. Like he’s holding something back.
Jungkook barely meets your eyes as he watches you drink your water, his fingers tapping a restless rhythm against the edge of the counter. His expression is unreadable, a far cry from the usual stormcloud annoyance or barely-disguised amusement.
He doesn’t speak unless spoken to. Doesn’t throw any jabs. No smirks. Just silence.
And that’s the most suspicious thing of all.
You glance at him over the rim of your glass. “Did I murder your dog or something?”
That gets a twitch in his jaw. But nothing else.
“No,” he says, flat. “Just tired.”
“Sure,” you mutter. “You’ve never used that excuse before.”
He doesn’t answer.
He disappears into his room soon after, and you’re left alone in the kitchen, a faint chill following in his wake. Something’s off.
Meanwhile, behind his closed door, Jungkook’s scrolling.
Fast. Focused. His phone is angled low, like even the walls could judge him.
The account is still up.
The same muted tones. The same tattoos. The same quiet power in every cropped, faceless shot. He finds the one post that matters, a close-up of a thigh, half-lit and draped in silk sheets.
And there it is.
The tattoo.
Identical. Down to the curve near the edge. The sharp point near the hem of the fabric. He zooms in. Zooms out.
There’s no mistake.
His stomach tightens.
He sits back, staring at the screen like it just cursed at him. His heart’s pounding, though he doesn’t know why. It’s not like he’s never seen someone he knows on the internet before. But this is different.
Because it’s you.
Because you’re in the other room right now, towel-drying your hair, wearing one of your obnoxiously fluffy robes, probably humming some random playlist.
And suddenly he knows way more than he ever should.
You don’t know he knows.
And he doesn’t know what to do with that.
He tosses the phone on the bed, rubs his face with both hands, and exhales like he just ran a marathon. He doesn’t go back out right away. He needs a second. Or ten.
He needs to act normal.
But when he finally returns to the kitchen, you’re already on the couch, flipping through something on your iPad. You barely glance up when he sits on the opposite end.
“Still tired?” you ask, voice edged.
He shrugs. “Something like that.”
Your eyes narrow. “You’re weird today.”
He looks at you finally, but not like before. There’s no fire in it. Just… weight.
“Maybe I just don’t feel like pretending today.”
You blink. “Pretending what?”
He shrugs again, but his eyes don’t move.
You hold his stare for a second too long before looking away.
You don’t know what changed. But something did.
That night, he doesn’t eat dinner with you. Says he’s not hungry. You catch him staring when he thinks you’re not looking. His usual rhythm, the annoying comments, the exaggerated sighs, is gone. Replaced by a quiet distance.
And it’s worse than fighting.
You sit in your room later, your leg propped up, half-watching a show you’re not even following. Your mind keeps spinning back to the way he looked at you this morning.
Like he knew something he shouldn’t.
Like he was trying to unsee it.
He can’t sleep.
Not even after the gym. Not even after a full meal and a hot shower. The memory keeps playing in his mind on loop, that sliver of ink, stark against your thigh as he wrapped the plastic over your cast. The way your robe slipped just enough. The way you didn’t even flinch, like you forgot it was there.
Or like you didn’t think he’d recognize it.
But now?
Now he can’t unsee it.
Jungkook lies on the couch in the dark, the blue glow of his phone illuminating his face as he pulls up the account again. One post. Then another. The more he stares, the more obvious it becomes.
The locked guest room you won’t let him near?
The sudden delivery packages labeled only with your initials?
The hyper-controlled privacy settings on your phone, the alarms that go off if he steps too close?
He scrolls faster, past previews and voice snippets, and then stops on one of the older videos.
The sound of a soft, familiar laugh.
It’s not loud. It’s not clear. But it’s yours.
He sits bolt upright.
All at once, it’s like the fog lifts.
The penthouse.
The Gucci robe.
The silence.
The refusal to talk about your actual job.
The way you never once asked him for help with the hospital bills, even joked that you could probably buy the hospital if you wanted.
You meant it.
He gets up, pacing.
He thinks back to the first few days, when he asked what you did for a living and you waved it off with a smirk and a vague, “Online stuff.” The slight panic whenever he mentioned the room. And how it stays locked the entire time.
His stomach turns.
You’ve been right in front of him this entire time. And he’s been watching your anonymous content for months.
Unknowingly.
He doesn’t even know how to be mad. Or embarrassed. Or horrified.
He’s all of it.
And none of it.
The next morning, he’s in the kitchen before you, nursing a black coffee like it personally offended him. His expression is unreadable, his voice gruffer than usual.
You limp in slowly, hair messy, hoodie oversized. “You made coffee?”
He doesn’t answer at first. Just sips.
You raise an eyebrow. “Still pretending you hate caffeine?”
His eyes flick toward you, unreadable. “I’m not pretending anything.”
That throws you off. Just slightly. Enough that you glance at him, then away.
You busy yourself grabbing a cup, ignoring the tension crawling up your neck.
He speaks again, voice too casual. “What’s the Wi-Fi password again?”
You blink. “You already have it.”
“Right,” he says, too quickly. “Must’ve forgotten. I’ve been… poking around. Noticed your router has like four private networks.”
You freeze, just a second. Barely noticeable. But he sees it.
You keep your voice even. “Yeah. For security. Smart home stuff.”
He hums into his mug. “Sure.”
The silence stretches.
You finally turn to face him. “Is something wrong?”
He shrugs. “No. Just wondering when you were gonna tell me.”
Your heart skips.
“…Tell you what?”
He doesn’t blink.
“That I’ve seen your thigh before.”
The words hang in the air like a slap.
The cup in your hand tightens, ceramic creaking faintly. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
He laughs, low, humorless. “You know what it means. Don’t play dumb now.”
Your pulse roars in your ears. “Jungkook—”
“That locked room. Your mystery job. The stupid money. I put it together.” He leans back, arms crossed. “Took me a minute, but once I saw that tattoo? Game over.”
You stare at him, breath catching.
He tilts his head, watching you carefully.
“I thought you hated me,” he adds. “But now I’m thinking maybe you’ve just been terrified I’d figure you out.”
You don’t answer.
Because he’s not wrong.
And suddenly the balance shifts, not toward trust, but something sharper. More dangerous.
He knows.
Now what?
Your mouth opens, then closes. There’s a static ring in your ears, like your brain is trying to buffer reality.
He knows.
He knows.
And not just some vague idea. Not a suspicion.
He’s seen it.
All of it.
Your skin turns cold despite the heat crawling up your neck. You grip the edge of the counter to keep your knees from buckling.
When you finally speak, your voice is quieter than it’s ever been around him.
“How long?”
He doesn’t look away. “Since yesterday. Tattoo gave it away.”
Of course it did.
Your eyes flick to his phone on the counter like it might still be glowing with the evidence, your content, your body, your voice. Things you crafted so carefully to stay anonymous. Intimate by choice. Yours to give.
And now… his to keep.
You swallow hard. “You went looking.”
“I didn’t mean to.” He shrugs, unapologetic. “I wrapped your leg. Saw it. It was familiar. I checked. And-” he smirks, cold and cruel, “-bingo.”
You don’t know if it’s rage or embarrassment boiling in your stomach. Maybe both. Maybe worse.
He leans against the counter, arms folded.
“Oh,” he adds, like it’s an afterthought.
“By the way… love your content.”
That one lands like a slap.
You flinch before you can stop yourself.
There’s a smugness in his eyes now, the kind that says I win. The kind that says I know who you are now and you can’t do a damn thing about it.
Something shifts in your chest. Something ugly and deep.
You laugh, but there’s no humor in it.
“You think that’s clever? You think you’ve got something over me now?”
His expression doesn’t change.
You step forward, jaw tight, the cast on your leg knocking faintly against the wood floor. “You think just because you watched a few videos that you know me?”
“I’ve seen more of you than most people have,” he says coolly.
“And that makes you what? Superior?”
He shrugs. “It makes you a liar.”
You stare at him, chest heaving.
“You don’t get to call me that,” you say, voice trembling. “You don’t get to use that against me.”
“Why not?” he shoots back. “You’ve been using me this whole time.”
You reel. “Are you kidding me?”
“You dragged me into this mess. You lied about everything. You—” he stops himself, jaw clenched. “Don’t turn this around.”
“I never owed you my entire life story,” you spit. “Just because I didn’t hand you a fucking PowerPoint of my career doesn’t mean I’ve been lying.”
“Oh, come on,” he scoffs. “You’ve been walking around like some mystery heiress, playing the woe is me act, and now it turns out you’re a millionaire sex symbol? You don’t think that matters?”
“I’m not ashamed of what I do.”
That makes him pause.
You say it again, stronger. “I’m not. I love what I do. I built something. I worked for it.”
His eyes search your face, maybe for guilt, maybe for weakness, but you don’t give him either.
“And guess what?” you add. “Just because you didn’t know doesn’t mean I was hiding.”
He flinches, just barely.
The silence stretches, tense and bitter.
You finally step back, your voice dropping low.
“You think you know me now? You think because you saw a few curated snapshots of my body that you get the full picture?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Congratulations,” you whisper. “You finally got a front row seat to something that was never meant for you.”
Then you turn, limping out of the kitchen, back straight despite the wobble in your leg and the tremble in your hand.
And he just stands there, stunned.
Because for a second, just a second, it almost felt like he should be ashamed.
It’s quiet for hours after the fight.
You don’t hear him moving around. No slamming drawers. No dramatic exits. Not even the sound of the TV.
Just the occasional shuffle of feet, the soft creak of wood, and the endless, spiraling hum of your thoughts.
You stay in bed with your back to the door, arms folded tight against your chest, jaw clenched from how hard you’ve been biting your tongue. There’s a crack in the armor now, and you hate it. You hate how exposed you feel, not from the fact that he knows, but that he saw it before you were ready.
You don’t realize you’ve drifted until a knock rattles gently at your door.
One soft rap. Then another.
You say nothing.
Then, his voice: low. Careful.
“Hey.”
You close your eyes.
“I’m not here to fight,” he adds quickly. “Just… can we talk?”
You don’t answer right away. He doesn’t leave.
Finally, you sigh. “Door’s open.”
He pushes it slowly, peeking in like you might throw a shoe at him.
You’re sitting up in bed, blanket over your lap, one hand cradling your sore knee. Your expression is unreadable.
He walks in and sits in the chair by your vanity — far enough to be polite. Close enough to feel.
“I didn’t come to gloat,” he says after a pause. “I was an asshole.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Took you long enough.”
He smirks faintly but doesn’t push it.
Then, after a beat, “Can I ask you something?”
You nod cautiously.
“Why?”
His voice is quieter than you expected. Not judgmental. Just… curious. “Why that job? Of all things?”
You exhale, slow and deep, head tipping back against the headboard.
“I guess I could say it started with curiosity,” you begin, voice steady, “but that’d be a lie. I started because I was broke. Desperate. And tired of men like my boss thinking they owned me for a paycheck that barely covered rent.”
Jungkook listens, brows drawn.
“I posted one thing. Anonymous. Just to see. And I made triple my paycheck in a night.” You shrug. “And I never looked back.”
He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees.
“But you could’ve stopped there,” he says. “Made some money, disappeared. But you… built something. It’s a whole brand. It’s huge.”
You give him a look. “You do realize that’s just a job like any other, right?”
“I know,” he says. “I just… I guess I never thought about it like that.”
You study him for a moment. He doesn’t flinch under your gaze anymore.
“I make my own hours,” you say. “I protect my own boundaries. I decide what to give, how much, and to who. It’s mine. And no one gets to take that from me — not even you.”
A long silence stretches.
Then: “I never meant to take anything.”
Your throat tightens. “But you did, Jungkook. You took the choice away from me. To tell you. Or not. To let you see that part of me.”
He swallows hard, guilt finally blooming behind his eyes.
“I felt stupid,” you admit. “That you knew. That you’d seen so much of me, and I don’t even know anything about you..”
He laughs softly, and to your surprise, it’s not cruel this time.
“Well, my favorite color is forest green.”
You blink.
He clarifies, sheepish. “Just in case you care.”
You shake your head with a tiny, reluctant smile. “Of course I don’t.”
He exhales, rubbing a hand down his face. “I really did act like a dick earlier.”
“You were hurt,” you say simply. “That’s okay.”
“But I wasn’t entitled to be,” he says. “And that’s the difference. I acted like I had the right to be angry. Like you owed me honesty. But I never asked for it. I never earned it.”
You glance away, your voice softer. “I didn’t trust you.”
“I get it now,” he says. “You’ve probably had people take advantage of you for less. And I walk in here with a bruised ego and act like that makes me the victim.”
You finally look at him, really look.
And for once, there’s no war behind your eyes. Just… quiet.
“It’s not just about sex,” you say. “It’s about power. Choice. And when I’m working, I know exactly where the power is. I own it. But here…” You gesture vaguely at your cast. “Here, everything’s different. I’m vulnerable. Trapped. And I didn’t want you to see both versions of me and treat me like I was less.”
He’s quiet for a long time.
And then:
“I don’t think you’re less,” he says. “I think you’re the strongest person I’ve met.”
You blink, stunned by the sincerity.
He runs a hand through his hair, avoiding your gaze now. “Seriously. You live alone, you make a life most people would kill for, you don’t apologize for who you are, and now you’ve been dealing with me-” he gestures to himself, “-in your space, in your face, and you’re still standing?”
You can’t help the faint laugh that slips out. “Barely.”
“Well,” he grins, “your balance has always been kinda shit.”
You throw a pillow at him, and for a second, the tension cracks.
But only for a second.
Then, softly: “So… what now?”
You glance down at your hands.
“I don’t know.”
He nods. “Me either.”
But there’s something different in the silence now.
Not thick. Not angry.
Just… honest.
And maybe for the first time in weeks, that’s enough.
You shift on the bed, uncomfortable under his gaze, under how different it feels now. How heavy.
Jungkook still sits on the edge of the vanity chair like he doesn’t want to leave, like he’s still waiting for something.
But you’re not giving it to him.
Not now.
You clear your throat and look away. “You’ve seen enough.”
He flinches like you slapped him.
You don’t mean it cruelly, not entirely. But you do mean it.
Because the longer he stays here, the more you start to feel… exposed. Unwrapped. Like he’s peeling back layers you’ve spent years protecting. And even though he hasn’t said anything cruel in the last half hour, your skin still itches like you’re being watched.
Really watched.
Not like a follower. Not like a customer.
But like a man seeing something he never expected.
So you pull back.
“Forget it,” you say. “Forget what you saw, what you know. Just—go back to pretending I’m some spoiled brat who broke her leg and forced you into servitude.”
He straightens. “That’s not what I—”
“Please, Jungkook,” you cut in, voice sharp. “Let’s just go back.”
“To what?”
“To before,” you say firmly. “To how it was.”
He stares at you for a beat, jaw tight. Then he leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice low.
“You mean the fighting. The insults. The constant bickering.”
You shrug, not looking at him. “We were good at it.”
“We were miserable.”
“Yeah,” you say. “But we weren’t vulnerable.”
That silences him.
He doesn’t know how to argue with that.
So instead, he stands. Slowly. Like whatever thread had been keeping him there just snapped.
You watch his shadow move across the floor. Stop at the door.
But before he leaves, he turns, hand resting on the frame.
His voice is soft. “You’re not just content, you know.”
You freeze.
He looks at you, not with pity. Not with pride either. Just… something in between.
“I’ll forget what I saw,”
—
Jungkook hasn’t been the same since he found out.
It’s subtle, at first. A pause too long when you pass him in the hallway. The way his eyes flick toward you when you speak, like he’s looking for a voice he once knew differently. There’s tension in the air now, not the kind that causes shouting, but the kind that makes the silence feel too thick to breathe through.
You’re not stupid. You know what he’s thinking about.
He knows everything now.
That you were never just another rich girl with a pretty face and a cat named Coco. That you were someone else too, someone thousands of strangers watched with devotion. Someone he watched. Obsessively.
You catch him one evening, leaning against the kitchen counter, nursing a glass of water like it’s scotch. He’s not looking at you. He’s looking through you.
“You okay?” you ask, trying to sound casual, though you know damn well he isn’t.
His jaw clenches. “Yeah.”
You wait. Let the silence sit there. Until he breaks first.
“I can’t stop thinking about it,” he admits, like he’s ashamed. “Your voice. The way you… were.”
Your heart thuds once, heavy. “Jungkook—”
“Every time I close my eyes, I hear it. Like… like it’s under my skin or something.”
You swallow hard. “That was content. It’s not who I am.”
“No,” he says, slowly, eyes lifting to meet yours. “But it was you. And the way you spoke, it wasn’t fake. It didn’t sound like a performance.”
You don’t answer.
Because he’s right.
You used to lose yourself in that room. In the lights and the velvet chair and the silence before you pressed “record.” You weren’t pretending. You were just… free.
“I didn’t know it was you,” he says. “I used to think… fuck. I used to wait for your videos. Like an idiot. You were my favorite. And now… you’re right here. You’re real. And I don’t know what to do with that.”
There’s something raw in his voice now. Confusion. Hunger. Guilt.
You grip the edge of the kitchen table. “Then don’t do anything with it. Just forget it.”
He laughs bitterly, pushing a hand through his hair. “Do you really think I can forget that?”
You narrow your eyes. “Do you think I want you to remember it? That I want you looking at me like that now?”
“I’m not trying to look at you like anything,” he says tightly. “I’m trying to understand. How you could sound like that. Look like that. And then shut the door on it like it was nothing.”
“It wasn’t nothing,” you snap.
A beat of silence. Then he asks it.
The question you’ve been dreading.
“Can I see it?”
Your stomach sinks. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because that room isn’t for you. It wasn’t for you. It wasn’t for anyone, not really. It was mine.”
He nods slowly, lips pressed tight. “Then why share it at all?”
That stings.
You look away. “Because I had to. Because it was the only way I could feel anything. Because when I walked into that room, I stopped being a person everyone wanted something from. I just got to exist.”
You take a breath. “But if you go in there now, you won’t just see the walls and lights and the tripod. You’ll see me. The me I’ve locked away. And I don’t know if I’m ready for you to see that.”
Jungkook is quiet for a long time. You expect him to drop it. Maybe even walk away. But he just says, softly, “Then let me look. Just once. We don’t have to talk about it. Not ever again. I swear.”
Your fingers twitch against your thigh.
You hate him a little, for asking.
But you hate yourself more for considering it.
You stare at the floor. The hallway. The locked door that’s been collecting dust since your accident.
“Fine,” you whisper. “But we never speak of it again.”
He nods. Not a word. Just follows you as you limp toward the hallway, your crutch quiet on the plush carpet. Your hand hesitates on the doorknob.
“You sure?” you murmur, without looking at him.
“I was never more sure.”
You unlock it.
The click is deafening.
The room opens like a memory you buried too fast. You step in first, breathing in air that hasn’t moved in weeks. It still smells faintly of you, of expensive perfume and candle wax and static tension.
Jungkook enters behind you. And stops.
You hear it. The sound of him exhaling, long and slow.
It’s not just a room. It’s a feeling. The black velvet curtains, drawn halfway over thick soundproof windows. The lights, still mounted and facing a chaise lounge draped in burgundy. A mirror leans against one wall, angled with precision. And on a shelf near the corner, props, lingerie, scripts you half-followed. The room is seductive, but not sexual. Intimate, yes, but powerful.
This is where you took the world and bent it to your will.
You don’t speak.
Neither does he.
Jungkook walks forward slowly, gaze sweeping across every detail. He crouches near the camera stand, his hand brushing the metal gently, reverently, like he’s afraid he might break something sacred.
“This is where you filmed?”
You nod.
He looks at the chair next. Trails his hand across the velvet, eyes far away.
And then he turns toward the mirror.
You feel it before you see it: the moment his eyes meet his own reflection, standing in your place, where you used to be. Where you used to become someone else.
“This is where I watched you from,” he says quietly. “But I never imagined this was what it looked like.”
He turns to you. His voice is different now. Not charged, not tense. Something else. In awe.
“You were always in control here.”
You feel your throat tighten. “Yeah. I was.”
You limp toward the window, rest your hand on the curtain. “Everything else in my life felt out of control. But not in here.”
There’s a long beat of quiet before you add, softly, “I didn’t stop because I wanted to.”
Jungkook’s eyes flick to you.
You don’t look back. You keep your gaze on the fabric pooled between your fingers. It’s thick, smooth, dark. It still smells faintly like you, like sandalwood and warm skin and silence.
“I kept going until the night of the accident,” you say. “Actually, less than an hour before.”
Jungkook doesn’t speak, but you feel his attention sharpen.
“I finished a video,” you murmur. “Turned off the camera. Cleaned everything up. Like always. I was exhausted, but satisfied. Then I went out. Got hit by a bike, and everything paused. Like the whole world just stopped spinning.”
He takes a small step forward, slow, cautious, as if afraid he’ll scare you off with sound.
You laugh, bitter and low. “It’s kind of fucked up, right? One second I was here, on fire, in control, and the next I’m in the street, with a broken leg and pissed off and in more pain than I’ve ever felt.”
His voice is low, quiet. “You were making content the night I ran into you?”
You finally turn to him, gaze steady. “Yeah.”
Something shifts in his face. A ripple of guilt. Awe. Something heavier under the surface.
“I didn’t know,” he says quietly.
“No one did.” You smile faintly. “Everyone thinks I just disappeared. Ghosted the platform. But I was lying in a hospital bed watching my leg swell to twice its size, praying I’d walk again. That’s why I stopped.”
There’s something like shame curling around his posture. “So you didn’t burn out.”
You shake your head. “Not even close.”
Silence again. It stretches this time, not uncomfortable, but loaded.
Jungkook’s gaze slides back across the room. The lighting rigs. The red velvet. The mirror.
“How did you feel when you were here?” he asks, almost like he’s talking to himself.
You exhale through your nose. “Unstoppable.”
He nods.
Then: “Do you miss it?”
You don’t answer immediately.
You walk, slowly, carefully, toward the bed in the center of the room. The one you used to drape yourself over like silk. Your fingers skim the edge of the headboard. You don’t sit. You just hover there. Remembering.
“I miss how it made me feel,” you say. “Not the money. Not the attention. Just… the power. The choice. The fact that I could decide how I was seen. And no one else got a say.”
His voice is quieter now, almost reverent. “No wonder it was magnetic.”
You glance up.
He’s standing near the shelf now, hands in his pockets, looking not at the props, but at you.
“What?”
He swallows. “I used to think it was because of how you looked. The voice. The way you moved. But it wasn’t that. Not really.”
You stare.
“It was the way you owned it,” he says. “Like the whole world disappeared and you were just there, completely in control, even if I couldn’t see the full picture. There was this… presence. Like gravity.”
You feel your throat tighten.
No one’s ever put it like that.
“I’m sorry I caused that to stop,” he adds, voice low.
You blink.
The words hang between you, unexpected, sincere, almost too honest.
You laugh, short and dry. “Well, I’m the one who walked into the street without looking, so technically it’s a joint effort.”
He almost smiles. “Still. It makes me sick thinking that I took this away from you.”
“You didn’t,” you say, more firmly now. “You delayed it. That’s all. The room’s still here. The lights. The camera. Me.”
You gesture to the space around you.
“I haven’t lost anything. It’s just… been waiting.”
His eyes flicker to the mirror again, then back to you. “Are you going to start again?”
You pause.
“I don’t know,” you admit.
But something inside you stirs, something you haven’t felt in weeks. An itch. A pulse. A whisper of who you used to be every time the record light turned red.
Maybe it isn’t gone.
Maybe it’s just buried under bone and bruises and the sharp memory of pain.
You lower yourself onto the velvet sheets, slowly, letting your weight sink into it like you used to. Your hand brushes the side. It’s familiar. Comforting.
And then you look up at him. Jungkook. The boy who broke your leg. The boy who knew you without knowing you, and now knows everything.
He watches you like he’s still seeing it all click into place.
“I thought I had to keep this part of me separate,” you say quietly. “Like it’d ruin everything if someone in my real life found out.”
“And now?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” you say. “Maybe it’s already ruined. Or maybe it’s just… different now.”
He takes another step toward you, and his voice is deeper this time. Thicker. “Does it scare you? That I know?”
You hold his gaze. “Terrifies me.”
He doesn’t move. But his voice is almost a whisper now. “It doesn’t change anything for me. I mean, yeah, it messes with my head. But it doesn’t make me think less of you. If anything…”
He trails off.
You arch a brow. “If anything, what?”
He breathes in. “It makes everything make more sense.”
You don’t respond. Just watch him.
He’s close now. Not quite touching distance, but close enough to feel his energy.
“And you’re right,” he says. “We won’t talk about this again. Not unless you want to.”
“Good,” you whisper.
“But… I won’t forget this,” he says, softly, eyes burning into you. “This version of you. I don’t think I could.”
You nod, slowly. Because neither could you.
You look around one last time. The lights. The silence. The mirror.
And for the first time since the accident, you feel like yourself again. Not just the version of you that limps through your penthouse, irritated and restless, but the one who ruled this room. The one who held herself like a secret only a few ever got to truly know.
And Jungkook, god help you, he’s one of them now.
He doesn’t say anything for a moment.
Just stands there, watching you.
You wonder what he sees now. Whether it’s the woman who cursed him out at the ER, or the one who used to hold an audience in the palm of her hand from this very spot.
Maybe both.
Maybe something else entirely.
Then he says, barely louder than a breath, “There were nights I thought I’d lose it. I mean, really. During the worst of it… I was lonely. Isolated. Work wasn’t working. I didn’t feel like a person. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. But I watched your videos, and for a few minutes… it felt like I mattered again.”
Your chest tightens.
You look up at him, stunned into silence.
“You talked like you could see me,” he goes on. “Like you were speaking to me, not at me. And even though I knew it wasn’t real, I held onto it. It got me through shit I never told anyone about.”
He breathes out hard, jaw flexing. “You didn’t just own this room. You pulled people out of whatever hell they were in. You pulled me out.”
You don’t say anything. You can’t.
Because for a long time, you thought the anonymity was protection. You never revealed your face, not fully. It was a rule you never broke. Cropped frames, carefully blurred shots, shadows and silhouettes. You let them have your voice, your body, your mystery, but never your identity.
And still, he had been watching. Longing. Feeling known by a stranger.
Now you’re standing in front of him. Full face. Full history. Full truth.
“You never saw my face,” you murmur, half in awe.
He nods slowly. “Never needed to.”
You blink.
His voice is rougher now, full of disbelief. “You could tell everything just from the way you moved. The way you spoke. I didn’t have to see your face to feel like I already knew you.”
You swallow hard, throat tight. “And now?”
Jungkook’s gaze meets yours, so direct, so grounded you almost step back.
“And now,” he says, “you’re real.”
Something inside you cracks a little.
Because for so long, you were only that voice. That body. That echo behind a camera.
And now someone has seen both.
You clear your throat, brushing past the weight of the moment before it buries you whole. “We said we wouldn’t talk about this again.”
“I remember.”
You limp out of the room. He follows. Neither of you speak.
At the threshold, you stop and turn, one final glance at the space that held your secrets like velvet.
You pull the key off its hook and close the door gently, pressing it shut with your palm like you’re sealing something sacred. Then you lock it. Slowly. Deliberately. The click feels heavier this time.
“It stays locked,” you murmur. “And we never mention it again.”
Jungkook’s voice is soft but resolute. “Never.”
You hang the key back on its hook, heart hammering louder than it should. When you turn, he’s not looking at the door.
He’s looking at you.
The real you.
The woman behind the voice that once saved him without ever showing her face.
And now, he knows.
You don’t speak. You don’t have to. Because the air between you is full of unspoken understanding. Not desire. Not forgiveness. Not even comfort.
Just… recognition.
You both walk away, quiet, calm, unrehearsed.
And for the first time in weeks, the silence feels okay.
Not empty.
Just honest.
You make it exactly nine hours before the first crack appears.
It’s the morning after. The coffee is too strong. The sunlight too sharp. The silence between you and Jungkook too… different.
You sit at the kitchen island, spoon tapping against the rim of your cereal bowl, and you pretend not to see him hovering by the fridge like he forgot how it works.
He pretends he’s not looking at you from the corner of his eye.
But he is.
You feel it.
It’s not unbearable, not exactly. It’s worse than that, it’s aware. Hyper-conscious. Like the air in the penthouse gained weight overnight, and now everything sinks a little slower.
You clear your throat.
“You always breathe that loud in the morning or is this a new development?”
His head turns slightly, like the sound surprised him.
He straightens. “Sorry I forgot your royal ears are sensitive before noon.”
You glance at him, the corner of your mouth twitching. “Just asking. You sound like a winded bear.”
“I sound athletic,” he mutters, grabbing the milk from the fridge. “You sound like a cartoon villain.”
You roll your eyes. “Nice try. Go drink your protein shake and pretend you’re better than me.”
He does. You both fall into a comfortable silence.
Except it’s not comfortable.
Not anymore.
He’s not looking at you the way he used to—full of irritation or disbelief. He’s looking at you like he’s listening to something you’re not saying. Like he’s remembering something you never meant for him to see.
And maybe you’re doing the same.
You stir your spoon in the milk. Then, without looking up:
“You said we wouldn’t talk about it.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re thinking about it.”
“I’m thinking about eggs,” he lies.
You glance up. “You don’t even eat breakfast.”
“I do now.”
You raise a brow. “That’s pathetic.”
He exhales through his nose, and for a second, it almost feels normal again. Almost.
Then you both look at each other. And it’s back. The room. The key. The memory.
He looks away first.
Later that afternoon, he walks past your bedroom door and pauses like he wants to knock.
He doesn’t.
You hear him breathing outside for a moment. Then footsteps. Then nothing.
You wait an extra ten seconds before exhaling.
You thought locking the room would be enough.
Turns out, you locked the wrong thing.
The next evening, it happens again. You’re watching TV, stretched out on the couch with Coco curled in your lap. Jungkook enters with a bowl of something that smells like garlic and fake confidence.
“Is that dinner or a cry for help?” you ask without looking at him.
“It’s pasta.”
“Pasta shouldn’t smell like violence.”
He scoffs, settling onto the other end of the couch. “You wouldn’t know. You order meals that cost more than rent.”
“You live here for free.”
“And you’re still the rudest patient I’ve ever met.”
“Then leave.”
“Gladly.”
He doesn’t.
You both sit there, watching a show neither of you follow, letting the blue light wash over your faces like nothing happened.
But you can feel him beside you, too still. Too quiet. And you know, without turning, that he’s looking at your face in a way he never did before.
Because now he can.
Because now he knows.
You reach down and stroke Coco’s back, grounding yourself in the familiar.
After a while, he speaks again.
“You really never showed your face?”
Your head turns slowly toward him. Your eyes lock.
“I thought we agreed.”
“I’m not talking about that,” he says quickly. “Not the room. I just mean… ever? Not even once?”
You narrow your eyes. “No. I never did.”
He nods, but he looks… off. Conflicted.
“What?”
“I guess I just…” he hesitates. “It’s weird.”
“What is?”
He glances at you, then looks away. “That I used to wonder what you looked like. For months. And now I know. And it’s…”
Your pulse jumps. “It’s what?”
He shrugs. “More than I imagined.”
Your stomach twists.
“Jungkook.”
“I’m not—” He stops. Exhales hard. “Sorry. I know. Not talking about it.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then, in true Jungkook fashion, he opens his mouth again.
“…But technically, since I paid for your content, like… a lot of it… doesn’t that make this penthouse half mine?”
You whip around so fast Coco startles in your lap.
“What?”
He grins, already backing up. “I’m just saying! If you think about it, I contributed. Financially. Morally. Emotionally. This throw pillow? Might’ve been purchased with my monthly subscription.”
You grab the nearest cushion and hurl it at his head.
It lands with a satisfying thump against his chest, where he catches it dramatically like it wounded him.
“Hey!” he protests, laughing. “That’s no way to treat an investor!”
“Investor my ass,” you mutter, grabbing another pillow just in case. “You want a refund or something? A membership card?”
“Actually, I was hoping for a plaque,” he says, still dodging. “You know—Top Ten Supporter: Jeon Jungkook. Est. 2025.”
You lunge forward this time, and he yelps, barely avoiding the second pillow.
“Keep talking and I’ll tattoo your username on Coco’s collar.”
That shuts him up.
For a second.
You both settle back onto the couch, breathless from the laughter, and something lighter lingers now—fragile but real.
Then, without looking at him, you mutter, “Now move your ass and get Coco a treat.”
He stares at you.
You raise your eyebrows, eyes still on the TV. “You heard me, Patron Saint of Premium Content. She likes the salmon ones. Top shelf.”
He sighs, dragging himself up with theatrical defeat. “You’re so bossy.”
“And you’re still here.”
He pauses, shoots you a sideways look.
Then disappears into the kitchen.
Coco meows once, very pleased.
—-
Later that night.
You wake up with your leg aching again. The pain is manageable, dull, but insistent. You limp to the kitchen for water. The penthouse is quiet. Too quiet.
Until you see him.
He’s standing in front of the locked door.
Just staring.
You freeze.
“Jungkook.”
He turns, eyes wide, like a kid caught touching something fragile.
“I wasn’t— I wasn’t going in.”
“I know,” you say.
A long silence.
“I wasn’t even thinking about the content,” he adds. “I was thinking about you.”
You shift your weight, wary. “What about me?”
He shrugs. “How it must feel. To have someone suddenly know all your secrets without ever earning them.”
You don’t answer.
Because he’s right.
Because that’s exactly what it feels like.
“You’re not who I thought you were,” he says quietly. “But also… you kind of are.”
Your voice is soft when it comes. “I’ve spent years building walls around parts of me I couldn’t afford to share. And now—bam—you’re in.”
“I didn’t mean to break in.”
“Still hurts like hell,” you whisper.
He nods, jaw tight.
Then, finally, he steps back from the door. Turns his back to it.
“I won’t go near it again,” he says. “I promise.”
You look at him. He looks at you.
And something settles between you.
Not forgiveness. Not understanding. But maybe… truce.
You say nothing more. Just walk back down the hallway, and this time, you know he doesn’t follow.
Summary: revenge never tasted that good when you decide to get back at the man - who ran you over - with the worst punishment he could ever get, and despite all the grudge, maybe some time after, the grudge will gradually turn into something else..?
The faint hum of music leaks from the living room, muffled by the closed door of your bedroom. You sit cross-legged on the edge of your bed, the heavy cast on your leg making every movement feel clunky and awkward. Jungkook’s presence fills the room, even though he’s mostly just leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, waiting for you to decide what to wear.
“Seriously, that?” he scoffs, nodding toward the dress you’re holding up in front of the mirror. It’s a soft, flowy thing, pastel blue, pretty enough but completely impractical for your situation.
You raise an eyebrow, smirking. “What’s wrong with it? It’s not like I’m planning to run a marathon tonight.”
“Yeah, but you might need to run to the bathroom,” he says, voice dripping with mock concern. “How exactly do you plan on doing that with this cast? Hopping on one leg?”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” you snap, slipping the dress over your head despite the protest of your leg. “If you’re so worried, why don’t you wear it instead?”
He snorts. “Please. The last thing this party needs is me looking like I lost a bet.”
You catch the edge of a smile threatening to break through your defenses but quickly squash it. “I’m not feeling this dress.”
He shrugs, trying to keep the casual tone. “I don’t like it.”
“Wow. Supportive as always.” You grab your brush, running it through your damp hair with exaggerated patience.
Jungkook steps closer, suddenly reaching out and tugging the brush from your hand. “You’re doing it wrong. Here.”
Before you can protest, his fingers work through your hair, smoothing it back. It’s a small gesture, but the way his eyes flicker with something unspoken sends an odd warmth through you.
“Don’t read into it,” he mutters quickly, backing away. “I’m not suddenly your stylist.”
You laugh softly, catching the rare softness in his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t ruin it.”
He grins, mischievous. “No promises.”
——
You stand in front of your closet, staring at the array of dresses, none of which seem quite right for the night, or your leg situation. Jungkook leans against the doorframe, arms folded, eyes narrowing as he surveys the options.
“Too bright. Too boring. Too… whatever that is.” He gestures vaguely at a floral print before his gaze settles on a deep burgundy velvet dress hanging a little too neatly at the far end.
He pulls it off the hanger and holds it up. “Here. This one. It’s dramatic enough to distract from your disaster of a leg and just fancy enough so people don’t think you’re hosting a pity party.”
You blink, mouth opening slightly before snapping it shut again. “Are you seriously suggesting I wear this?”
He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Well, unless you want me to pick out a sack and call it a night.”
You take the dress from him reluctantly, feeling the plush fabric between your fingers. It’s unexpectedly soft, and the deep burgundy does something strange to your mood, something that isn’t just annoyance.
“Fine,” you say finally, dragging it over your head. The cut hugs your shoulders and falls perfectly despite the awkwardness of your leg. “You’ve got a weird way of showing concern, you know.”
Jungkook smirks. “Hey, I’m just honest. Besides, you don’t look half bad when you’re not busy being a walking disaster.”
You roll your eyes but can’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Barely.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Barely’s better than nothing.”
—-
The doorbell rings sharply, breaking the quiet of the apartment. Jungkook moves to open it, and soon a group of his friends filters inside, their laughter and easy chatter filling the space.
You blink, surprised to see only guys, no girls among them. You recognize some of them vaguely from the stories Jungkook’s mentioned, but you’ve never met them properly before.
Behind them, Jungkook carries in an impressive haul: boxes and bags packed with food, roast chicken, heaps of sides, bowls of mashed potatoes and gravy, and a pumpkin pie that smells rich and sweet.
“You really ordered all this?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.
He shrugs with a smirk. “If I’m stuck here, might as well make it worth it.”
His friends begin unpacking, teasing one another and throwing snacks your way. The energy in the room shifts, it’s lively, noisy, and for the first time in days, a little warm.
You sit to the side, watching the scene unfold. The noise and movement overwhelm the stillness you’ve grown used to, but there’s something oddly comforting in the chaos. It’s not your usual crowd or your usual kind of celebration, but it’s company nonetheless.
You can’t help but feel a flicker of something you haven’t felt in a while, maybe hope, or maybe just relief.
Still, your eyes keep drifting to Jungkook. He’s relaxed here, joking with his friends, but every now and then his gaze flicks over to you, checking if you’re managing.
And maybe, just maybe, this night won’t be so miserable after all.
The room hums with chatter and the clatter of dishes, but Jungkook is back at your side again, like a bad habit you can’t shake.
“You really don’t look like you’re doing fine,” he mutters, eyes narrowing.
You glare at him. “Maybe if you stopped treating me like a cracked vase, I wouldn’t feel like I’m about to shatter.”
He scoffs. “Yeah, because ignoring reality is so much better.”
“Oh, and what do you know about reality? You’re just here to prove how great your life is compared to mine.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. I’m just sick of babysitting someone who can’t even move without whining.”
Your jaw tightens. “At least I’m not the one who can’t sit still for five minutes without pacing around like a damn lunatic.”
Jungkook’s voice drops, cold. “Maybe if you weren’t such a pain in the ass, I wouldn’t have to.”
You fold your arms, sneering. “Trust me, I’m not trying to make this easy for you.”
He smirks, venom laced in the grin. “Good. I like a challenge.”
You meet his gaze evenly. You’re about to fire back with something even nastier, maybe something about how he’d rather be anywhere but here, when the front door opens again.
More voices spill in. Familiar ones.
Your head snaps toward the entrance, and time slows for a moment.
“What the hell?” you mutter, blinking.
Because there they are, your friends.
Natty, Hobi, Joon and Yoongi. You haven’t seen them in weeks. Arms full of drinks, coats half-off, grins wide as they catch sight of you. Like they were never gone, like they didn’t leave you to rot through the holidays with a busted leg and fading patience.
“Surprise,” Namjoon shouts, practically tossing a bag of takeout onto the counter before pulling you into a careful hug. “You look like shit!”
“I hate all of you,” you choke out, completely stunned. “Why are you here?”
“We were invited,” Natty snorts, pulling back to gesture over her shoulder.
Your gaze slides across the room until it lands on him.
Jungkook, who’s standing with a red solo cup in one hand, the other tucked into his hoodie pocket. He avoids your eyes, pretending to be distracted by the playlist blasting from the speaker, already half-surrounded by his own friends, the ones that invaded your kitchen the other day, laughing and cracking open beers like this is just another night for them.
You narrow your eyes.
The pieces click together slowly.
“Seriously?” you hiss, “You invited my friends just so you could enjoy the party?”
Jungkook barely glances at you, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “Well, you were gonna complain either way. This way, I don’t have to hear it.”
“You’re unbelievable,” you seethe. “You act like you care, then pull this?”
“I do care,” he says flatly, sipping his drink. “Just not enough to let you ruin my entire weekend.”
He walks off before you can respond, disappearing into the cluster of people now filling your living room.
You spot him again a few minutes later, leaning against the kitchen counter, talking to some girl with perfect hair and way too much lip gloss, laughing at something she said. You don’t know when she even got here.
Of course he’d find someone to flirt with. It’s only been what, ten minutes since he made a show of “checking in” on you for the hundredth time?
Typical.
You roll your eyes, muttering something under your breath as you shift on the couch. Your leg is throbbing again, the noise in the room pulsing behind your eyes, and the smell of spiked cider and cologne is starting to turn your stomach. And now Jungkook’s over there grinning like he’s some damn hero.
You sip your drink just to give your hands something to do. He throws this whole dramatic gesture, inviting your friends, ordering food like it’s some grand sacrifice, and then what? Ditches you for the first walking cliché in a crop top?
“What a joke,” you mumble, mostly to yourself.
You’re not jealous. That would imply you care. But you are irritated, deep in that place between your ribs where your pride sits. Because if this is how he planned to “keep you company,” he could’ve just skipped the fake concern entirely.
He’s doing it for the image. The attention. That self-satisfied, look-what-a-decent-guy-I-am bullshit that makes your blood simmer.
And as if on cue, he glances your way again. Just a flicker, barely a second, but enough to confirm he’s performing. For you? For her? For his friends? You don’t know.
You raise your glass in mock cheers, deadpan and unimpressed.
He holds your gaze a beat too long before the smile fades from his face and he looks away.
Good.
You settle back into the cushions, your scowl practically etched into your face.
Let him play pretend. You’ve got better things to do, like surviving this party without throwing something at his smug head.
-
You swirl the drink in your cup, eyes skimming over the room. It’s buzzing now, music humming low beneath the noise of chatter and clinking glasses. Your friends are here somewhere. Laughing. Mingling. Acting like it’s just another party, like nothing about this week was different.
You haven’t seen them in weeks and not one of them bothered to check in beyond a few half-assed texts. Not when you left the hospital. Not when you could barely get out of bed. Not when you needed help showering, dragging yourself across the apartment, trying not to fall apart.
You spot Natty across the room, drink in hand, snapping a photo near the fireplace setup Jungkook probably staged. She looks amazing, perfectly styled, glossy lips, not a single thought behind those sparkly eyes.
The bitterness rises in your throat before you can shove it down.
They’re not bad people. Not really. But they disappeared when it mattered, when you were drowning in silence and pain meds and resentment. When you didn’t have the energy to beg anyone to stay.
You grip the edge of the couch cushion a little tighter.
Maybe it’s your fault. You always made it look easy, like you were strong enough, rich enough, independent enough to handle anything. And now that you actually need someone?
They assume you’re fine.
You let out a quiet breath, glancing down at the ridiculous velvet dress Jungkook picked out earlier. His backhanded compliment still rings in your ears, something about how at least the color would distract from your face looking like death. You’d have clawed his eyes out if you weren’t too exhausted to stand.
And now he’s across the room, all dimples and charm, like he didn’t just drag you through hell for the past month.
You take another sip.
You’re not angry, exactly.
Just done pretending this doesn’t hurt.
You don’t even notice him at first, not until a familiar figure lowers himself carefully onto the couch beside you.
Yoongi.
You blink at him, unsure what to say. It’s been over a month. Longer, maybe. He looks the same, all soft flannel and tired eyes, like he hasn’t slept properly in weeks. His cup is half full, his expression quieter than everyone else’s.
“I was gonna say you look like hell,” he says, voice low, almost teasing. “But Namjoon already beat me to it, didn’t he?”
You scoff under your breath. “Glad everyone’s in agreement, then.”
He gives you a sideways glance. “You mad at me?”
You lift a brow. “Should I not be?”
Yoongi sighs. “Fair.”
The silence between you stretches, thick with the weight of everything that wasn’t said. The party moves around you, but here, on the couch, it’s just the two of you.
“I’m sorry,” he says, after a long pause. “I should’ve come by. Or called. Or something.”
You cross your arms. “You think?”
He flinches a little, but nods. “I know I fucked up.”
You want to stay cold, arms wrapped tight around your pride. But his voice is real. Quiet. Regretful.
“I’ve been dealing with some shit,” he continues. “Not an excuse, just… I didn’t want anyone to see me like that. So I disappeared. Which, I know, is the same thing all of us did to you.”
You glance over at him, brows knit. “That’s not exactly comforting.”
“I know.” He leans back, exhales like the air itself is heavy. “But I still wanted you to know. I thought about you a lot. Just didn’t know how to show up when I couldn’t even show up for myself.”
Your throat tightens. You’re angry, still. But also tired. And if there’s anyone who ever saw through your bullshit without needing it spelled out, it’s Yoongi.
“You should’ve tried,” you say, quieter this time. “I didn’t need much. Just… someone.”
He turns to you, eyes sincere. “Then let me try now.”
You stare at him for a beat. Then slowly, reluctantly, you lean in, letting him pull you into a hug. His arms are warm, familiar, and when your cheek presses against his shoulder, some part of you lets go.
Just a little.
“I missed you,” he says quietly.
You nod against him. “Yeah. I missed you too.”
Jungkook spots you from across the room, your silhouette unmistakable in the dim lighting. At first, he thinks you’re just sitting alone again, until he sees Yoongi’s arm around your shoulders.
He pauses mid-sip, brow twitching.
The girl he was talking to is still rambling beside him, but his attention’s long gone.
You pull back from Yoongi, laughing softly at something he murmurs. It’s not loud enough for Jungkook to hear, but he sees the way your expression softens, the faint gleam in your eyes.
It bothers him more than it should.
Eventually, he peels himself away from the kitchen and crosses the room, slipping into the conversation like he owns it.
“Well, well,” he drawls, arms folded across his chest. “Look who suddenly remembered you exist.”
You shoot him a look. “Do you have to comment on every interaction I have tonight?”
Jungkook smirks. “Just making sure your pity party got a decent turnout.”
Yoongi gives him a tired glance. “Good to see you too, man.”
Jungkook ignores that. His gaze stays on you. “So? You good now? Friends forgiven and all that?”
You roll your eyes. “I’m fine.”
“Wow. What a heartwarming reunion,” he says dryly, then adds under his breath, “Glad I threw a whole party for it.”
You narrow your eyes. “You didn’t throw this party for me.”
Jungkook shrugs, cocky. “Didn’t say I didn’t.”
You fold your arms, jaw tight. “If this is your idea of doing something nice, you can save the effort next time.”
Jungkook raises a brow, unbothered. “Right, because doing anything for you is clearly a waste of time.”
“Funny, you weren’t saying that when you were hovering around me every five seconds like some self-appointed nurse.”
“Oh, don’t flatter yourself. I was making sure you didn’t break the other leg being dramatic.”
Your mouth drops open. “Dramatic?”
He steps closer, eyes glinting. “Yeah. You act like you’re the only person on earth who’s ever been through shit. Like you’re entitled to everyone’s sympathy just because your rich-girl holiday plans got ruined.”
That stings. You feel your face go hot. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know enough.” His voice sharpens. “You mope around this place acting like a prisoner when you’re living in a fucking penthouse. Newsflash: people have it worse.”
Your hands tighten into fists at your sides. “And what, you think throwing one party makes you some kind of hero? You did this so you wouldn’t feel guilty. So you could have fun without having to think about me.”
Jungkook flinches, barely, but you catch it. And for a second, he doesn’t say anything.
Then: “You’re impossible.”
“Good,” you snap, stepping forward until you’re toe-to-toe. “Because I’d rather be impossible than a smug, emotionally constipated asshole who pretends to care when it’s convenient.”
He laughs once, low and bitter. “And I’d rather be an asshole than a girl who pushes everyone away and then gets mad when they don’t stick around.”
You’re so angry you could scream. Your leg throbs, your chest is tight, and the noise of the party in the background feels like it’s miles away.
Before either of you can say something truly irreparable, you feel a hand on your arm.
“Okay,” Yoongi says gently, stepping between you. “That’s enough.”
You blink, momentarily startled. He gives Jungkook a look, calm, unreadable, and then turns back to you.
“Come on,” he murmurs, voice steady. “Let’s get you off your feet for a bit.”
You hesitate, still burning from the argument, but the heat in your chest is starting to curdle into exhaustion. You nod silently and let Yoongi guide you away.
Behind you, Jungkook doesn’t move.
He just watches you disappear down the hallway, fists clenched at his sides, jaw locked.
And for the first time tonight, he doesn’t look like he’s won anything.
He stays rooted in place, glaring at the hallway long after you’ve disappeared down it.
Jungkook leans against the kitchen sink, the echo of your words still clanging around in his skull like a bell he can’t unring.
“You pretend to care when it’s convenient.”
He runs his thumb along the rim of a red solo cup, brows furrowed, jaw tight.
The party moves on without him. Someone starts a round of shots near the living room. A song he usually likes pulses from the speakers, but it’s all just noise now. Background static. He’s not really here anymore, not since you stormed off with Yoongi.
He had only meant to jab back like always. That’s what the two of you do, bite, bark, walk away. He didn’t think it’d stick. He didn’t expect your expression to drop like that, your voice to shake when you said his kindness felt fake. And maybe it was fake at first, guilt wrapped in sarcasm, but lately…
Lately it hasn’t felt like pretending.
Jungkook sighs and glances toward the hallway again.
He hasn’t exactly made this easy for you. Sure, he’s the one stuck playing nurse, but you’re the one trapped with a broken leg, an empty house, and people who bailed when you needed them most. Your entire life’s been upended, and what has he done? Mocked you. Questioned your pain. Thrown a party to avoid facing the fact that maybe you’re not as invincible as you act.
Maybe he should’ve been more than just convenient.
He wipes his hand on his jeans and pushes away from the counter, mind already racing. He wants to check on you. Apologize, maybe. Or at least say something that doesn’t sound like a goddamn insult.
But he hesitates.
Because deep down, he doesn’t know if he’s capable of saying the right thing when it counts.
—-
The party fizzled out slowly, like a flame running out of oxygen. By midnight, the bass had quieted, the laughter had dimmed, and the smell of takeout and bourbon lingered faintly in the air like a ghost of the evening. One by one, his friends trickled out the front door, tossing Jungkook a half-hearted “Thanks, man” or “Happy Thanksgiving” as they disappeared into the night.
Your friends left shortly after, arms full of containers, voices already distracted by their next destination. Yoongi was the last to go, squeezing your hand gently before muttering, “Take care of yourself, yeah?” You nodded, eyes already distant.
Now the house was quiet. Too quiet.
Jungkook stood in the living room, hands on his hips, scanning the aftermath, half-drunk cups, empty plates, a sweater someone forgot. He glanced toward the hallway.
Still no sign of you.
He should check on you.
But after the fight you’d had, the way he snapped, the way you looked at him like he was just another person who didn’t get it, you weren’t sure he thought you wanted him to.
He scrubbed a hand through his hair and moved toward the hallway anyway.
In your room, the silence was oppressive.
You’d tried to be brave. To get up on your own, take your pills, maybe even change into something more comfortable before collapsing in bed, but painkillers and exhaustion were a dangerous combination. You stood too fast. Reached the dresser too soon. Misjudged the angle.
Your bad leg buckled. You gasped, catching yourself on the edge of the dresser just before you crashed to the floor.
And that’s when the door burst open.
“What the hell are you doing?” Jungkook’s voice was sharp, but his hands were already on your arms, steadying you, guiding you slowly back to the edge of the bed.
You tried to jerk away. “I’m fine-”
“Yeah, I can see that,” he snapped, exasperated, eyes flicking to your pale face and the way your fingers gripped the sheets like a lifeline. “What, trying to snap the other leg too?”
You narrowed your eyes, angry now, wounded. “You don’t have to help me. The house is empty. No one’s watching. You can stop playing the nice guy.”
His hands stilled.
For a beat, the room was full of nothing but your breaths, fast and shallow, mingled with the faint hum of the fridge down the hall.
He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he helped ease you back onto the bed, adjusted your leg gently onto a pillow, and wordlessly grabbed the glass of water and your pills from the nightstand.
You stared at him.
“Jungkook—”
“I’m not helping you because someone’s watching,” he said finally, voice low. His jaw ticked. “And I’m not doing it because I feel like it either.”
You frowned. “Then why?”
He didn’t answer. Just handed you the glass and turned away, standing at the doorway like he was afraid of what he might say next.
You scoffed quietly. “Right. Just what I thought.”
Jungkook paused. He almost turned around. Almost told you the truth, that he regretted every word of your fight, that he hated the way he made you feel disposable, that for the first time tonight, he realized how much he’d misjudged you.
But instead, he muttered, “Just… don’t be stupid,” and walked out.
The words echo in your mind, heavier than they should be.
You hate that he said that. You hate that it stung. And most of all, you hate that he was right, you were being stupid, trying to prove something to no one, pushing your body beyond its limits just to feel a sliver of control again. And now, once again, he had to be the one to pull you back.
Not because he cared.
Just because he was there.
You reach for the pills with trembling fingers, finally managing to down them with a gulp of water. The silence settles over your skin like a blanket you didn’t ask for, thick, suffocating, full of everything that went unsaid.
Down the hall, Jungkook stands in the kitchen, both palms braced on the counter as he stares down at the mess of half-empty bottles and melting ice. The bass of the earlier music still rings in his ears, but it’s faded now, muted by guilt, frustration, and something far more irritating.
He sighs.
This wasn’t how tonight was supposed to go.
He’d planned the party to lift the mood, not just yours, but his too. A way to forget the mess for a while, to distract from the awkward tension between you, to make the best of a weird situation.
But of course, with you… things were never that easy.
He squeezes his eyes shut. That fight… He shouldn’t have said what he said. The sarcasm, the bite in his voice, it wasn’t about you. Not really. It was about the way you looked at Yoongi like he was a lifeline. About how soft your voice got when you talked to them, and how sharp it always was with him. About how stupidly helpless he felt seeing you nearly fall just now, and how that helplessness twisted into anger before he could stop it.
He exhales, slow and controlled, before glancing toward the hallway again.
Then, reluctantly, he moves.
Back in your room, you’ve turned the lights off, sinking into the covers, trying not to let your brain spiral into self-pity. You should be grateful, right? Your friends came. Yoongi apologized. You didn’t break your neck in the dark. Jungkook, well, he did something. Again.
So why do you feel even worse?
There’s a knock.
You tense.
Then his voice comes, low and rough. “Hey… can I come in?”
You’re silent for a moment before answering, “Do I have a choice?”
The door creaks open. He steps inside, pausing at the edge of your room like it’s unfamiliar territory.
You don’t look at him. Just stare at the ceiling.
“I didn’t mean what I said earlier,” Jungkook mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “About the party. About you being dramatic. I was just… frustrated.”
“Right,” you say coolly. “Because this is so easy for you.”
His jaw flexes. “No. It’s not.”
That surprises you. Enough to make you glance his way.
He’s watching you now, dark eyes a little tired, voice a little lower. “I don’t know what it’s like to be… stuck. But I know what it’s like to be angry. At everything. At yourself.”
You blink. Slowly.
“And I didn’t throw this party just for you,” he adds. “But I didn’t not throw it for you either.”
You almost laugh at that. “Wow. A double negative. So generous.”
He huffs a faint breath of amusement and steps closer. “You looked like you needed something to feel normal again.”
You bite your lip. The weight of his words settles over you in a way you weren’t expecting.
“I didn’t need normal,” you whisper. “I needed someone to actually stay.”
The air goes still between you.
Jungkook doesn’t answer right away. His eyes flick over your face, reading the pieces of a truth you didn’t mean to spill.
Finally, softly:
“I’m here now.”
You don’t respond. You don’t trust yourself to.
And for once, he doesn’t push.
He just sits down on the edge of the bed, quiet, hands folded in his lap, staring straight ahead like maybe, just maybe, he’s going to stay a while.
The room is still, bathed in shadows. The only sound is the faint hum of the heating vents and the occasional rustle of blankets as you shift, careful not to jostle your leg.
Jungkook hasn’t moved from the edge of the bed.
You wonder if he’s thinking of leaving. You kind of wish he would. You kind of wish he wouldn’t.
Then, after a stretch of silence, his voice breaks through the dark, low, almost hesitant.
“Did things go well with your friends?”
You blink up at the ceiling, surprised by the question. Maybe even a little thrown by the gentleness in his voice.
You think about Yoongi’s apology, the warmth of the hug, the laughter in the living room that felt both too familiar and impossibly far away. You think about how none of them showed up until today. How you were left alone for weeks, pretending it didn’t bother you.
“They did what they could,” you say finally. “That’s all anyone ever does, right?”
Jungkook doesn’t respond at first. You can’t see his face, but you hear the quiet exhale through his nose.
“I don’t think it’s about what people can do,” he says. “I think it’s about what they choose to do.”
You glance toward him, surprised again. His silhouette is still, his posture unreadable in the dark.
“Why are you being philosophical all of a sudden?” you mutter, half-joking.
He shrugs. “Maybe the silence got to me.”
Another pause.
Then, quieter:
“I just think you deserved better.”
You don’t know what to say to that.
So you say nothing.
And for a long moment, neither does he.
You shift slightly beneath the blankets, wincing as a dull ache pulses through your leg. Jungkook notices, of course. He always does, even when you wish he wouldn’t.
His voice breaks the silence again, quieter this time. “I shouldn’t have said what I did earlier. About the party… about you.”
You blink, caught off guard.
“You were right,” he goes on, almost like he’s forcing the words out. “It wasn’t about you. Not at first. I just thought… I don’t know. That maybe if I brought your friends here, I could avoid dealing with you. Or feeling guilty. Or both.”
Your throat tightens. He’s not looking at you, but the honesty in his voice is almost too much.
“And then I saw you talking to Yoongi,” he adds, “and I realized I’ve been an asshole. Not just tonight. From the start.”
The words hang between you like smoke.
You exhale slowly. “You have,” you murmur.
That earns a short, dry laugh from him. “Yeah. I know.”
You stare at the ceiling, voice softer now. “But I haven’t exactly been easy to live with either. I’ve been mean. Ungrateful. And just… angry. At everything.”
There’s a beat of silence before Jungkook replies.
“Yeah, well. You broke your leg because of me. I’d be pissed too.”
You laugh, just barely. It’s tired, raw, but real.
Another pause. Then:
“I’m sorry,” he says again, and this time, it lands heavier.
You swallow hard. “Me too.”
He still doesn’t move, but somehow, the air feels different now, less sharp, less defensive. A little less lonely.
You lie like that for a while, not speaking. Not needing to.
And in the dark, with the party long over and the house finally quiet, something almost like peace settles between you.
Or at least you thought so.
The illusion of peace doesn’t last long.
Morning arrives with the kind of vengeance only sunlight through half-drawn curtains can deliver. It’s too bright, too loud, too awake, like the universe itself decided to interrupt your brief moment of emotional truce.
“Are you gonna keep pretending to be dead?” Jungkook’s voice cuts through the silence, sharp and unbothered, as if last night’s rare peace never happened.
You groan into your pillow. “Do you ever shut up in the morning?”
“I live with someone who forgets to take her meds unless I remind her five times a day.”
You lift your head slowly, glaring at him through tangled strands of hair. “So we’re doing this again? Kicking off the day with another round of bickering?”
He raises a brow and places his coffee mug on the side table with a deliberate clink. “I prefer to call it reminding you that I’m the only sane one in this house.”
“Oh, perfect,” you mutter. “Keep that ego inflated and I’ll ask the doctor to check your brain instead of my leg.”
He exhales, but you catch the slight twitch at the corner of his lips. A smile, half-suppressed, half-amused.
—
About twenty minutes later, you’re on the couch, your casted leg elevated on a pillow while you wait for the at-home doctor Jungkook insisted on calling.
“You didn’t need to make this into a whole appointment,” you tell him for the third time, arms crossed over your chest.
“Right, because your genius idea was to almost fall again last night. Totally under control,” he retorts, not even looking up from his phone.
“It was one step,” you snap. “And I didn’t fall.”
“You almost did. That’s enough to make your medical history longer than your personality.”
You narrow your eyes. “Are you trying to get kicked out of your own house?”
He glances up then, smug. “Technically, your house. Which means I should be the one getting hazard pay.”
Before you can respond, the doorbell rings. Jungkook gets up to answer it, and a few moments later, the doctor steps in, an older man with kind eyes and a clipboard in hand.
“Good morning,” he greets, walking over to you. “Let’s take a look at that leg.”
You give him a tight smile and shift your position as he crouches down.
“She’s been putting weight on it when I’m not looking,” Jungkook says helpfully from the other side of the room.
“I’m right here,” you say through gritted teeth.
“She’s also very cooperative,” Jungkook adds dryly.
You shoot him a glare while the doctor chuckles under his breath.
“Ah,” the doctor says knowingly, tapping the edge of your cast. “I see you two are adjusting to recovery just fine.”
“I’m adjusting to having a six-foot-tall nuisance following me around,” you mutter.
Jungkook raises both hands. “Hey, don’t blame me. I could’ve left you in your apartment to rot, remember?”
“Tempting offer. Can I still take it?”
The doctor sighs as he wraps the cuff around your arm to take your blood pressure. “Alright, lovebirds, let’s focus on the leg.”
Both your heads snap toward him.
“We’re not—” you start.
“She’s not—” Jungkook blurts at the same time.
The doctor simply hums. “Of course you’re not.”
You glance sideways at Jungkook, who looks equally horrified and mildly betrayed. But there’s also something else, something subtle lingering behind his expression. A flicker of guilt, maybe. Or regret. You can’t tell.
You turn away before you overthink it, focusing instead on the cold pressure of the stethoscope against your skin.
And yet, beneath all the sarcasm, all the sharp jabs and petty insults… the air feels different this morning. Thicker. Heavier. Like something’s shifted, just enough to make you wonder if maybe, just maybe, the worst of it is behind you.
“Well,” you mutter eventually, not quite looking at him, “maybe I can survive having you around a little longer.”
Jungkook looks up, startled.
“Don’t get used to it,” you add quickly.
“So,” The doctor speaks, peeling off his gloves. “Here’s the good news: everything is healing on schedule. No signs of complications so far, and your body’s responding well to rest.”
You exhale, shoulders relaxing.
“The not-so-fun part?” he continues. “We need to start thinking about physiotherapy.”
Your face drops. “Already?”
He smiles gently. “Not right away, but soon. The longer you wait, the harder it’ll be to regain strength and mobility. I’ll refer you to someone who can do in-home visits to start.”
You sigh, leaning back against the couch. “Can’t I just… not walk forever?”
“Not unless you want your leg to forget it was ever useful.”
Jungkook snorts from the corner, and you shoot him a glare. Dr. Shin pretends not to notice.
“In the meantime,” he adds, turning toward Jungkook now, “I want her walking around the apartment at least a few times a day. Slowly, and with the cane at first. Even short laps around the kitchen and living room are enough.”
Jungkook raises a brow. “Even if she whines?”
“Especially if she whines,” the doctor replies without missing a beat.
You scowl. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“Immensely.” He gives you a wink, then begins packing up.
As he heads toward the door, he pauses and glances back at Jungkook. “Make sure she actually does it, yeah? No slacking.”
Jungkook salutes. “On it.”
Then he’s gone, leaving the door swinging shut behind him and a silence in his wake that’s heavier than before.
You glance over at Jungkook. “So. You gonna force me to do laps like I’m in gym class?”
He smirks. “If you throw up on the floor, I’m not cleaning it.”
You roll your eyes. “Noted.”
But the smile that tugs at the corners of your lips feels real this time, small, maybe, but genuine. And for a brief, flickering moment, you catch something soft in his expression too.
And then your door bell rings.
You frown. “Are you expecting someone?”
He blinks. “No.”
Another ring. Louder this time. Followed by the unmistakable voice of Kim Taehyung:
“Yah, open up! I brought coffee, and Jimin brought his judgment!”
You stare at Jungkook.
Jungkook mutters something under his breath and heads to answer it.
You hear the deadbolt, then footsteps, then Taehyung’s unmistakable drawl:
“Took you long enough. You didn’t tell us you moved into a luxury rehab center.”
Jungkook sighs. “I didn’t tell you to come over either.”
“That’s not how friendship works,” Jimin says, and you can already hear the smile in his voice. “We were in the area. Besides, we wanted to see the hostage situation.”
You roll your eyes and start the slow process of getting out of bed, cane in hand.
In the kitchen, Jimin and Taehyung are already making themselves at home, shoes off, coffee unpacked, like they’ve done this a hundred times. Jungkook stands stiff near the fridge, arms crossed.
“So?” Taehyung asks, poking around the counters. “How’s it been? Living with the heiress of hell?”
Jungkook doesn’t answer right away. Just shrugs. “It’s fine.”
Taehyung turns. “Fine?”
Jimin blinks. “You’ve been stuck here for over a month, and the best you’ve got is fine?”
Jungkook exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “She’s not that bad.”
That gets a pause.
Taehyung shares a glance with Jimin, then leans against the counter, folding his arms.
“Not that bad? Bro, are we talking about the same person?”
Jimin chimes in, gentler but sharper:
“The one who threatened to drag you to court the second she woke up in that hospital bed?”
Jungkook’s jaw clenches. He looks away.
“You said she called you reckless. Dangerous. That she’d ruin your record if you didn’t take care of her yourself,” Jimin continues. “She didn’t ask. She forced you into this.”
“Yeah, I remember.”
Taehyung raises an eyebrow. “Do you? Because lately it’s like you’ve forgotten. Running around making her breakfast, fixing her pillows, brushing her damn hair, what happened to being pissed?”
“I am pissed,” Jungkook snaps.
But the way he says it doesn’t sound very convincing.
Taehyung steps closer. His voice drops.
“She’s got you wrapped around her finger, man. And she didn’t even need to try. You forgot how this started. You’re here because she threatened your freedom. Because she owns the situation. Every second you’re here, you’re just proving her right.”
Silence.
Then Jungkook speaks, low and bitter:
“I haven’t forgotten.”
Jimin watches him carefully. “Then act like it.”
You don’t hear all of this.
By the time you reach the hallway, you only catch the sound of laughter, the clink of mugs, and Jungkook’s voice, quieter than usual, flatter somehow.
When you appear in the doorway, Jimin greets you with a practiced smile, and Taehyung gives you a nod that doesn’t quite reach his eyes as he hands you a cup of coffee you didn’t ask for.
But Jungkook…
He doesn’t look at you at all.
And just like that, whatever warmth had started to form that morning dissolves—
replaced by the cold distance of someone remembering exactly why he hates you.
But you say nothing.
You drink the coffee. You nod at the appropriate moments. You let them talk over you. Around you. You don’t press when Jungkook doesn’t laugh at your sarcasm. Don’t flinch when his answers come clipped and short, like he’s keeping something in.
Like he’s keeping you out.
Eventually, you excuse yourself. Say you need a moment to lie down. They don’t argue.
You make it halfway down the hall before realizing you left your phone on the kitchen counter. You turn back, quiet, barefoot on the hardwood.
But before you cross the corner, you hear your name.
“—you’re getting too used to it.” That’s Taehyung.
A pause. A sip of something.
“You’ve been here too long,” Jimin adds, his voice lower. “You’re starting to forget why you’re even doing this.”
Jungkook doesn’t respond right away.
When he does, his voice is flat. Worn.
“I haven’t forgotten.”
Another beat.
“Then why do you sound like someone who wants to stay?”
There’s a long silence. Your breath catches.
Then Jungkook laughs, bitter and humorless.
“Trust me. The second she can stand on her own, I’m out of here.”
Your fingers curl tighter around the wall.
You should move. You should turn back. You should stop listening.
But then Taehyung speaks again, and the words stick like glass:
“Good. Because she’s not grateful, Jungkook. She’s just pretending she needs you. She’s only nice now because she has to be.”
And Jimin, ever the quiet executioner, murmurs:
“And the worst part? You’re falling for it.”
You don’t wait to hear the rest.
By the time you’re back in your room, the coffee is cold in your hands, and everything in your chest is colder.
—
The next time you see him, you pretend nothing’s changed.
You don’t mention what you overheard. Don’t ask why he couldn’t look you in the eye this morning. Don’t say a word about the betrayal still lodged in your chest like a splinter.
Instead, you serve it all back in sugar-coated silence.
“I’ll take my walk now,” you say that evening, voice light and unbothered, “since I wouldn’t want my caretaker to get in trouble with the doctor.”
Jungkook, sitting on the edge of the couch, barely glances at you. “Don’t trip.”
You smile, saccharine and sharp. “Aw, you’d miss me if I broke the other leg, wouldn’t you?”
His jaw ticks. “Only because I’d have to carry you around twice as long.”
The fake smiles. The pointed sarcasm. The chill creeping back into the room like mold in the walls.
It’s almost comforting.
Almost.
But something’s different this time. Because now, every word you throw his way has a second meaning. Every insult tastes bitter in your mouth, like you’re the one drinking poison and hoping he notices.
And him?
He gives it all back, just like he used to. Dry remarks, clipped comebacks, a constant buzz of irritation in his voice. But sometimes you catch him watching you when he thinks you’re not looking. Like he’s wondering why something feels off. Like he’s trying to figure out where the softness went.
He doesn’t ask. You don’t offer.
It’s easier to hate each other.
It’s safer.
So that’s what you do.
You mock his cooking. He insults your taste in music. You slam the bathroom door. He “forgets” to help you with the laundry. The truce is gone. The moment is gone. You’re just two people stuck in a penthouse with too much history and no idea how to start over without burning everything down first.
And the worst part?
Neither of you says what you’re really thinking.
It starts with something stupid.
You ask him to hand you the charger from the other side of the couch.
He tosses it.
It misses.
“Are you serious?” you snap, twisting to reach for it, nearly slipping off the cushions.
Jungkook shrugs from across the room, not even bothering to look. “Didn’t realize your arm was broken too.”
You grab the charger, jaw tight. “And I didn’t realize basic decency was above your pay grade.”
He looks up then, slowly, like he can’t believe you’re really doing this again.
“Basic decency?” he repeats, standing now. “Sorry, I didn’t know taking care of your spoiled ass for five straight weeks didn’t qualify.”
Your laugh is hollow. “You mean babysitting me? Because you were too reckless to keep your damn eyes on the road?”
His mouth twists. “Right. Forgot it’s still my fault you decided to walk straight into traffic like you’re invincible.”
“And I forgot you’re not actually a hero, Jungkook. Just a guy with a savior complex and a really, really bad temper.”
He steps closer. Voice low, sharp.
“Says the girl who threatened me with a prison sentence just to get free in-home service. Tell me again who’s got the temper?”
Your eyes narrow. “You know what your problem is? You think you’re the victim in every story. Poor Jungkook, the misunderstood bad boy who accidentally broke someone’s leg and now wants a cookie for showing up.”
“And you think you’re the only one who’s ever been hurt. Like the whole world owes you because you got knocked down once.”
You feel the burn before the words even leave your mouth.
“Maybe the world does owe me, because all I’ve gotten since this happened is pity from strangers and resentment from you.”
Silence.
He exhales slowly. His voice lowers, venomous now.
“I don’t resent you because you got hurt. I resent you because you made it my responsibility.”
Your throat tightens. You don’t blink.
“And yet, here you are. Still here. Why? Because you’re such a good person? Or because you’re too much of a coward to walk away?”
His jaw clenches, hard. “Careful.”
“Or what? You’ll do what, Jungkook? Slam a door? Punch a wall? Storm off to your sad little apartment and cry about how unfair life is?”
He laughs once, sharp and humorless. “At least I didn’t build my personality around being difficult.”
“At least I have a personality,” you shoot back.
For a second, you both just stare at each other. Breathing heavy. Words hanging in the air like smoke after a fire. The silence between you pulses with heat, too close to hate, too far from anything soft.
And then, quieter:
“I heard you.”
His brow furrows. “What?”
You cross your arms. Steady. Controlled.
“Today. When your friends were here. I heard everything.”
That hits him like a slap.
He blinks, once. Doesn’t move.
“So no,” you add, voice cutting now, “don’t worry. You’re not getting too comfortable. We’re very much back to square one.”
You grab your cane, turn, and walk away without waiting for a response.
The house is quiet now, the bustle of the day faded into stillness. You move slowly, each step measured and careful as you make your way down the hall to your room. The pain in your leg has been simmering all evening, but it’s manageable, until it isn’t.
As you slip beneath the covers, hoping for relief in sleep, a sudden, sharp attack of pain stabs through your leg. It jolts you upright, breath catching painfully in your throat. Your body tenses, every muscle clenched against the fire racing through your bones.
A low, involuntary groan escapes from your lips, a sound so raw it feels like it could shatter the fragile calm of the night.
From down the hall, you hear the soft scrape of footsteps, Jungkook’s. Within seconds, he’s at your door, his expression shifting instantly from irritation to concern.
“Are you okay?” His voice is low, cautious, as he steps inside and closes the door behind him.
You try to speak, but the pain twists your words into a whisper. “Leg… sharp.”
He moves quickly but gently, kneeling beside your bed. His fingers find your ankle, careful not to press too hard, and slowly lift your leg to assess the source of your discomfort.
“I’m going to get your meds, okay? And the ice pack.”
You nod, too exhausted and achy to argue. Your eyes are half-closed, and the pain still pulses through you like an angry tide.
Jungkook disappears into the next room and returns with your medication and the ice pack, wrapped in a thin towel. He helps you sit up just enough to take the pills, his hands steady as they steady you.
“Breathe,” he says quietly, his eyes locked on yours, grounding you. “It’s going to help.”
The cold of the ice pack is a sudden shock, but it quickly numbs the burning ache, bringing a measure of relief. You lean back into the pillows, eyelids fluttering as the tension in your muscles slowly begins to ease.
Jungkook lowers himself to the floor beside the bed, back resting against the wall. His usual guarded demeanor softens as he watches you, the wariness replaced by something like protectiveness.
Minutes pass in silence. The only sounds are your evened-out breathing and the faint tick of the clock on the wall.
You feel the weight of exhaustion pulling you under, the pain fading into a dull throb. Just as your mind begins to drift, you sense movement beside you.
Jungkook’s hand brushes gently over the blanket covering your leg. His fingers linger there, hesitant, as if unsure of how much care to show after all the fights and harsh words between you.
But he doesn’t pull away.
Instead, he stays.
Your eyelids close fully now, surrendering to the fatigue. Sleep comes slowly, but finally, it takes you.
When you’re deep in rest, your body relaxed and free of tension for the first time in what feels like forever, Jungkook’s eyes remain open.
He watches the rise and fall of your chest, the peacefulness on your face. The sharp edges of anger and resentment blur, replaced by a quiet concern.
He shifts slightly, curling in closer, his shoulder brushing the bedframe.
Time slips by.
The night deepens.
The house breathes with the quiet rhythm of two people tangled in something far more complicated than simple anger.
Jungkook’s eyelids grow heavy. His breath evens out.
Eventually, he falls asleep right there on the floor, staying close in case you need him.
Because despite everything, despite the fights, despite the resentment and the silence, he’s not going anywhere.
Summary: revenge never tasted that good when you decide to get back at the man - who ran you over - with the worst punishment he could ever get, and despite all the grudge, maybe some time after, the grudge will gradually turn into something else..?
Genre: e2l, biker jk, series ( a long one.), smut, fluff, angst.
Taglist: @binniesbabe
Previous | Next
Mood board 1 | Mood board 2
A couple of hours after your friends left, Jungkook turned on the dishwasher and dashed back to the fireplace in your living room, where you were still lying down. He could sense your eyes on him, so he looked back immediately.
“What?”
You tilted your head, biting back a comment.
“Don’t tell me you need to pee again, ” he whined, rubbing his palms together as if the friction would warm his freezing hands.
Outside, the storm was raging, the temperature well below freezing. Earlier, your phone had sent an alert warning everyone to avoid going out. You could swear the entire building was swaying.
“Are you always like this?” you finally asked, wondering where to start.
“Like what?” he replied, honestly relieved he didn’t have to escort you to the bathroom again.
“You know, like that.” You gestured at him from head to toe. “You seem like a man with no plan whatsoever.”
He chuckled quietly, shaking his head. “You got that from just three days with me?”
You shrugged. “Seems like enough to make a judgment.”
“Is this about your friends and the whole Busan thing?” he said, turning to face you fully. “Listen, rich girl, I’m just here to do my thing and get the hell out as soon as I can. You and I are completely different people. I don’t care if you hike or bike or travel. You do you. But you should probably keep your opinions to yourself.”
“You just proved my point.” You grabbed a pillow and hugged it closer. “You’re way too laid back.”
“And that’s a bad thing?”
“Sometimes. But you’re laid back in a… bad way.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” He raised an eyebrow, clearly not liking where this conversation was headed.
He wasn’t born with any privileges. His whole life had been a search for purpose, and somehow, that never bothered him, he accepted that people needed to suffer a little to figure out their lives.
Okay, maybe it bothered him a little now. He felt exposed after your words.
You shrugged, unapologetic. “One look at you and I can already tell you need help, ”
“That’s your assumption. You don’t know shit about me.” He cut you off, standing up quickly and grabbing his phone. “Goodnight.”
He left for the guest room without looking back.
You might be wrong, your assumptions might be false. But his personality? It was exactly the type you’d avoided your entire life. Hence, here you both were.
A sigh escaped you. The weight of your words hung heavy in the silence. You sat there, stuck in place (because you couldn’t walk), debating if you should apologize. If you could move, you would have gone to him by now.
But you couldn’t. And he wasn’t getting an apology. Call yourself petty if you want.
“Coco?” you called softly.
In an instant, she was there, rushing over and curling up flat against your belly, waiting patiently for her kisses and scratches.
You smiled, grateful for the warmth she brought, and squeezed her gently into your arms.
Before long, the two of you drifted off to sleep, her gentle purring the perfect lullaby carrying you into a deep, peaceful rest.
-
Jungkook’s phone buzzed constantly as he texted back and forth with his friends in their group chat. They seemed to be having the best time, riding their bikes on the outskirts of Seoul, hitting nightclubs, even hooking up, while he was trapped at your place, forced to take care of someone he barely knew.
He was fully aware it was his fault. He should’ve been paying more attention while driving his bike. He’d learned the hard way. But oh, how he wished he could rewind time and undo it all. This felt like an endless nightmare.
Taehyung:
“Want me to pick you up tomorrow?”
“We could grab a drink or two at Jimin’s place.”
“We can call Mia. You can’t miss that, can you?”
Jungkook was seconds away from accepting, especially knowing that the girl he secretly admired would be there. He’d been whipped the moment he laid eyes on her, the way she got off someone’s bike had caught his attention. She was exactly his type.
It was suffocating to stay cooped up around you all day. Your apartment felt like a different, miserable universe. Still, Jungkook wasn’t oblivious to your condition. You might have other people who could care for you, but he caused this. So, despite everything, he knew it was his responsibility.
His fingers hovered hesitantly over the screen before he typed:
“I don’t know. You wanna come hang out here?”
Jimin:
“At the rich girl’s house? Nah, I’m good.”
Jungkook had spent almost every night out with his friends for weeks, and being cut off from them, unable to catch up, was starting to weigh on his mental state. He felt himself slipping, losing grip on his sanity.
Meanwhile, you woke up this morning feeling groggy from the meds. It was day four or five since the injury, you couldn’t quite keep track, and you still weren’t used to swallowing the mountain of pills with endless water and soup.
“Hey, rich girl.” Jungkook’s voice was rough as he cautiously approached Coco, who was not exactly the friendliest cat to him. He was honestly shocked at how much you and Coco behaved the same way, both distant, both guarded.
He stepped into the living room holding a couple of treats, trying to lure her out. After all, she was a pet, and unlike how he sometimes treated you, he couldn’t be mean to her.
You were too drowsy to respond. It felt like you were floating, the last pill making your teeth feel glued shut and your tongue unbearably heavy. A soft hum escaped your lips, the only sign you were listening, though you weren’t quite sure you were.
“I was kind enough to say no to going out with my friends, you know. I’m supposed to take care of you because apparently, no one else wants to, ”
“Shut up.” Your lips felt heavy, but hey, congratulations, you managed to say something.
Jungkook didn’t even look at you, too distracted trying to open the treat sachets. “So I told them to come over.” His tone shifted completely when coaxing Coco, soft, playful, warm. “Come here, Coco.”
The cat immediately jumped onto his legs, waiting patiently for her treat. You weren’t in the mood to argue this morning, so you let his friends come over. You needed some company, or at least the noise, to take your mind off things.
Your quiet consent was all Jungkook needed. He didn’t say another word, settling by the fireplace, slowly giving Coco her treat and gently rubbing her back. The cat seemed to enjoy his company, which surprisingly stirred something inside you.
A few minutes later, Jungkook returned with a cup of warm milk and a ham and cheese sandwich, a thank you for letting his friends come over, even after you’d been harsh with him the other night.
Good thing someone was here to look after Coco, because within seconds, you were drifting off into your first nap. Sleep was a mercy, helping time pass more quickly, and you were quietly thankful for it.
-
“Where is she?” Jimin and Taehyung stepped inside, eyes wide as they took in your insanely rich penthouse. They’d heard about it from Jungkook, but seeing it in person was something else entirely. They’d never seen anything like this before.
“She’s asleep. Come in.” Jungkook quietly locked the door behind them. They walked in on tiptoes, careful not to wake you.
Taehyung, hands in his pockets, stepped closer to the couch where you lay, a small smirk on his lips. “I like her better when she’s asleep.”
“Yeah, me too, ” Jungkook scoffed.
Jimin, tilting his head curiously, moved closer. “She doesn’t seem half bad.”
The younger two turned toward their older friend and laughed in disbelief. “Just wait until she’s up, ” Taehyung said with a grin. He’d met you back at the hospital, he knew exactly what he was talking about.
Coco came darting into the room, hissing softly at the strangers. Jungkook quickly knelt down and rubbed her back. “It’s okay, Coco. They’re just friends.”
“Look at you, handling her kitten like a pro, ” Jimin teased, arms crossed, a lopsided grin on his face. “Are you two getting along well?”
Jungkook stood up, clearly annoyed. “With the kitty? Yeah. With her? Absolutely not.” He motioned for them to follow. “Shh, come on. Let me show you around the house.”
Hours seemed to pass, and all you wanted was to stretch your legs. Your tailbone throbbed, your lower half stiffened painfully. You needed to walk, right now. The frustration gnawed at you.
“Jeon?”
If you could see Jungkook’s face right now, you’d find him laughing with his friends in the kitchen just seconds ago, preparing their late lunch. But the moment he hears your voice calling his name, his eyes practically pop out of his head, and his face drops. He’d do anything to send you back to sleep right now.
He even shushes his friends, waiting a beat, hoping you won’t call him again, but all hope is lost when you do.
“Jungkook?”
“In a minute.” He sets down the knife, rinses his hands, and walks into the living room. “What’s the matter?”
“Are your friends still here?” You lift your head, catching them peeking through the kitchen doorway. Jungkook follows your gaze and rolls his eyes.
“Yeah. It’s still early afternoon. You wanna go back to sleep?” You can’t see, but his fingers are crossed behind his back.
“I need the bathroom.” You pull the blanket off and Jungkook moves closer to help you up. The second you stand, your bones crack with relief, your body is practically begging to move.
“Holy shit, what was that?” Jungkook exclaims, concern lacing his voice at the sounds you made.
“What’s that smell?” You sniff the air, your head instinctively turning toward the kitchen.
“We’re cooking lunch.” He grabs your elbows, guiding you in small, careful steps toward the bathroom. “Girl, your fridge is empty. You should consider restocking.”
“Was it empty when you first came here?” You grimace with each step. The meds from this morning are probably wearing off.
“No.” He answers, totally unaware that he’s been the one vacuuming your fridge these past few days.
“Whatever. You know I can’t go anywhere. You can get groceries or just DoorDash it if you want, gosh, why is this cast so tight?” You hiss in pain, doing your best to avoid putting weight on your injured leg. “What’s for lunch? I’m starving.”
“Vegan pasta.” He opens the bathroom door for you.
“Oh, are your friends vegan?”
“No, we’re out of meat.”
You roll your eyes. “Of course we are.”
Finally inside the bathroom, Jungkook helps you settle in before waiting outside. “Do you mind closing the door? I think your friends can hear me pee.”
“They’re lucky they didn’t get to do that yet, ” he quips, flickering the bathroom light on and off. It drives you nuts.
“Cut it out.” Your whines are useless, he doesn’t stop.
-
A little less than an hour later, you settled back onto your couch, pretty sure your butt had left a permanent imprint. Jungkook had helped you take a short walk around the house to loosen up your joints and limbs, which was a much-needed relief. But as soon as the pain and stiffness crept back, he gently helped you back onto the couch and headed back to the kitchen.
It hurt, knowing your real friends were somewhere out of the country, enjoying themselves while they could have been here, bothering you, staying over for a night or two. You loved them dearly and treasured their company, but you couldn’t ask them to put their lives on hold just for you.
Your eyes watered as you listened to the strangers laughing and arguing around your house, filling your space with noise that could have been your friends’ instead.
“Y/n? You still up?” Jungkook’s voice startled you; you were just seconds away from closing your eyes for a second nap. “Lunch is ready if you want some.”
“Thank you.” You sat up, your eyelids heavy but hunger winning over. You craved something savory.
“I’ll get your plate in a second.” He turned toward the kitchen but you stopped him, quicker than expected. “We can have lunch here by the fireplace, with your friends…”
He paused, scratching his eyebrow, clearly unsure whether to accept.
“…or not. You’re thinking about this too much. Forget I said anything.”
“No, I’m sure they won’t mind.” He forced a small smile before jogging back to the kitchen.
You regretted making the offer the moment it left your mouth. Lunch alone would only feed your overthinking and emotion, and being alone was the last thing you needed.
You weren’t doing well mentally or physically, and you hated to admit you desperately needed company. This house was once where everyone gathered, you hosted Halloween parties, Christmas dinners, birthdays, anything. Now it felt hollow and abandoned.
Meanwhile, Jungkook was having a silent argument with his friends. They didn’t mind having lunch with you; it was him who resisted. He’d invited them over to escape his own reality, and somehow, even though you couldn’t stand the sight of him at times, you still wanted to be included.
“I don’t mind, I guess, ” Jimin shrugged, grabbing cutlery from the drawer. He was about to leave the kitchen when Jungkook grabbed his wrist.
“But I do, ” Jungkook whispered, a little louder than necessary. “I’ve been stuck here babysitting her for days. You two are leaving eventually, but I’m the one who has to stay. I could use thirty minutes away from her.”
“You can stay in the kitchen if you want.” Jimin took the stacked plates and headed out to the living room, leaving Taehyung leaning against the counter, hand on hip. Jungkook let out a defeated sigh and buried his face in his hands.
“I think he has a crush on her, ” Taehyung said carelessly, grabbing his opened can of beer and strolling out to the living room.
The lunch was painfully quiet, the only sounds the soft crackling of wood in the fireplace and the occasional clink of forks against plates. Your eyes stayed glued to your half-eaten food, but you could feel a couple of pairs of eyes drifting toward you every now and then.
You set your fork down, appetite fading fast. You guessed Jungkook must have done all the cooking, his friends kept whispering about how good it tasted, and it really did. But your head felt heavy, and the pain was creeping in, sharper by the second.
“Don’t like the food?” one of his friends asked. When you looked up, you recognized him from the hospital, though his name escaped you.
“It’s alright.” You forced the words out. “I just need my meds.”
“You know, pain meds shouldn’t be taken occasionally, ” Jungkook said, reaching for your pill organizer. “If you can tolerate the pain, you don’t need them. Think you can handle it?”
“Do you want me to break your leg so we can test that theory?” you snapped, already grabbing your cup of water, waiting for him to hand over the pills.
You were trying to be respectful, but you were the one with a fractured limb here. His friends tried hard to keep their reactions in check, heads bowed toward their plates as they hurried to finish and leave.
“I don’t even know why I’m arguing. Here, have your pills. Hopefully, they’ll send you back to sleep, ” Jungkook muttered.
“Jungkook, ” one friend began, but Jungkook shot him a glare before his foot nudged the other under the coffee table.
“I’m sorry, ” the friend said quickly, “I’m Jimin. Jungkook’s friend. I was really upset when I heard about the accident.”
“Oh, save it, ” Jungkook snapped, bitterness dripping from his tone. “Cranky rich girl won’t be nice to you.”
“Thanks, Jimin, ” you said, swallowing your pill with water. “Your idiot friend couldn’t keep his eyes on the road. He didn’t even get a scratch, and I’m stuck in bed.”
“I know he wasn’t careful enough and he regrets it, trust me. But you’ll heal in no time. He’s here to take care of you, like he should.” His words were reassuring, and somehow, you felt tears prickling behind your eyes. He was such a sweetheart.
“My cousin’s best friend broke her leg too, ” another friend chimed in with a mouthful of food, “but she died from a pulmonary embolism.”
Jungkook nearly choked on his beer, and Jimin again nudged him under the table.
“Again, I apologize, he didn’t mean it like that.”
“He meant exactly what he said, ” Jungkook shrugged, carelessly twirling pasta onto his fork, “You could die too, you know.”
Jimin buried his face in his hand. What a clown show.
-
It was frustrating, no, infuriating, to think that you’d be stuck in a cast for the next two or three months. From your knee down to your ankle, the damn thing felt suffocating. You could barely move without feeling like your skin was tightening underneath it.
The swelling had gotten worse, and even with painkillers and immobilization, it felt like your leg was growing inside the cast. You called your doctor, who recommended applying ice packs to your thigh to help with the inflammation. It was supposed to reduce the pressure. Jungkook had taken over the ice pack duty religiously, swapping them out every couple of hours. He even tried to help you walk around the house to improve circulation, but the pain was unbearable.
You’d been taking longer naps just to escape the discomfort. And weirdly enough, you did wake up feeling slightly better, enough to start using sleep as an excuse to avoid… well, everything.
Your friends had been incredible, though. Even Nat, who was usually out of town with her chaotic schedule, still managed to stop by every now and then, always with homemade soup or a baked treat. She tried to bake at your place once, but your fridge had been practically empty. You hadn’t had much appetite anyway, but Jeon had taken it upon himself to sweep through your pantry like a plague.
The specialty candy you got from Japan? Gone. The emergency chocolate bar for your period? Gone. Even the jar of pickled garlic had been stripped of its contents, just the cloudy brine left swirling in the jar.
So this morning, he went out and restocked your entire fridge and pantry. He came back looking smug, waving around a receipt that looked longer than your arm.
“I don’t get why I need baby wipes, ” you frowned, scanning the list.
“Instead of getting up to wash your hands, you could just use them, ” he replied with a shrug, already digging into the grocery bags. “Look what I found.”
“What?”
He held up the biggest container of cheese balls you’d ever seen and dropped it onto the coffee table like it was a treasure.
“I saw you had tons of these bags stashed in the pantry. This tub was cheaper, more bang for your buck. Not like money’s a problem for you.”
He said it so offhandedly that it barely registered as a dig, though you still narrowed your eyes. He was already unscrewing the lid and helping himself.
You glanced back at the receipt. “You got steak? I have some in the freezer.”
“Yeah, had that the other night while you were knocked out. I was starving, and it was the last option.” He popped two cheese balls into his mouth, his fingers already coated in neon orange.
“And the chicken thighs?”
He avoided eye contact and shoved more snacks into his mouth.
“If you stay here any longer, I might actually go broke.”
“Don’t worry, ” he said casually, “you could totally sell your bath towels. You have like a million lying around this house.”
“Whatever. Help me up, I need to go to the bathroom.” You tossed the blanket off your lap and groaned as the shift in position made your leg throb. It had been a couple of hours since you last moved, and something didn’t feel right.
“I already helped you pee before I went out. Can’t you hold it in a bit longer? I need to rest, ”
“Rest? Rest from what? Stuffing your face?” Your voice pitched up. “Jeon, I’ve been surviving on soup for two weeks, I’m peeing every ten minutes, and you’ve been living off some luxury five-star meal plan. You left me no choice. Now help me up.”
“You know, sometimes being loud doesn’t help.”
“…What?”
“Just ask nicely.”
That was the switch.
Your face flushed with red-hot rage. Your chest started to rise and fall rapidly. Without thinking, you grabbed the TV remote from the couch and hurled it across the room. He dodged, of course, but that only made your blood boil more.
“Ask nicely?” you hissed through gritted teeth.
He just stood there.
“Look, it’s your fault just as much as it’s mine, ” he said after a beat. “You were in the way.”
“Yeah? Totally. Makes perfect sense. I got my leg broken, and you… what exactly happened to you?” Your eyes dropped to his legs, perfectly functional as he stood there without a care. “You know what, Jeon? I hate that I left the house that day. Because I ended up being hit by someone as reckless and clueless as you.”
He rolled his eyes. “You’re being dramatic. I just said you should ask nicely. What’s the big deal?”
“The big deal is that I hate you. No, I despise you. I hate the way you talk, the way you breathe, the way you barge into this house like it belongs to you.”
“Listen, rich girl, my friend offered, not me. I wouldn’t have stepped foot in here otherwise. Something about you just grates on me. And yeah, I hate you too.” He paused, then added, “But neither of us had a choice. Nobody else showed up to take care of you. Not even your best friend. And I don’t want to end up in jail.”
“Oh, trust me. The minute Nat walks through that door, you’ll be out of here faster than you can finish that stupid tub of cheese balls. Maybe jail is where you belong. You need me, Jeon. Not the other way around.”
He let out a short, humorless laugh and dropped onto the couch. “Then go to the bathroom by yourself.”
Putting the anger aside, just for a second, it genuinely breaks your heart to realize how much you once took for granted. You used to do everything on your own. Simple things like walking to the bathroom or running an errand. Things you never thought you’d miss. Now, you’d give anything just to pee without turning it into a life-or-death event.
Nat had said she had something to take care of, and she was supposed to be out of town. You could’ve called one of your other friends, but no one else was close enough. Closer than Jeon, sure. But not close enough to see you like this. Broken. Helpless.
“So that’s how it’s going to be, huh?” you mutter under your breath, eyes still fixed on him across the room.
He doesn’t answer. Arms crossed, lips pressed together, gaze like a silent dare.
Fine.
The crutches had been leaning against the wall for days now, untouched. It might finally be time.
You stretch with all your might, grabbing one of them, and slowly help yourself up. Your limbs feel hollow. Weeks of soup and rest made your muscles weak, fragile, even. Every step you’ve taken recently has been short, stiff, cautious. Now your body just feels… drained. The painkillers still haze your brain, and your eyelids feel heavy.
But anger? Anger helps. A bit.
You brace your hands against the crutch and move your leg, letting it hang slowly. Your foot touches the floor a little too hard, and a jolt of pain shoots up your calf like an electric shock. You hiss, barely biting it back.
Still, you push up.
And Jeon just stands there. Watching. Arms still crossed. He knows what’s about to happen. Hell, he’s counting down the seconds.
The first step is shaky, but you manage. The sudden weight of your body, unsupported, is foreign and terrifying.
The second step is where everything goes wrong.
A pop, like bubble wrap snapping under pressure, echoes from within the cast.
The burn that follows is white-hot.
“Hey, what was that?” Jeon’s voice sharpens immediately. “Was that your bone breaking again?!”
And the second he says it, panic takes over.
Your balance falters, and just like that, you go down.
Hard.
The impact rattles through your spine and out your teeth, and your breath is gone before you can even scream. But then it hits you. The pain. Not like when you fell the first time, this one is sharper, more terrifying. Like something tore. Something wrong.
You scream.
And scream again.
High, loud, gut-wrenching, raw. It cuts through the air, bouncing off the walls, echoing like an alarm in a burning building. You don’t know if you’re screaming from pain or fear or both.
Chills crawl across Jeon’s skin. He normally flinches at this kind of thing, blood, pain, raw emotion. But this time, he’s moving on instinct. He’s at your side in seconds, scooping you into his arms like you weigh nothing, his breath ragged as he carries you back to the couch.
“Shit, hey, hey, you’re alright, ” he pants, his words rushed and scattered. “You’re okay, stop screaming.”
But you don’t stop. You can’t stop. The pain is too much and it feels like your whole leg is on fire.
So he yells, loud and abrupt, right in your face.
“Stop screaming!”
It works.
For a second.
You blink at him, tears spilling over your lashes. You’re trembling, confused, and hurting everywhere.
“I don’t know, something hurts, ” you sob, your voice barely coherent.
Jeon crouches at your feet, scanning the cast with frantic hands. Then he leans down, fingers gently tugging at the hem of your pajama pants to expose the tips of your toes. He freezes.
And then… his face changes.
His lips go slack. His eyebrows draw in. Something shifts in his expression, tightens in fear.
Your heart drops. “What do you see?” you whisper, voice breaking again.
He doesn’t answer right away. Doesn’t look at you either. He just stares.
“Jeon, ” your voice comes out hoarse, panicked now. “What do you see?”
-
“She’ll be fine, you have nothing to worry about, ” the orthopedic says with calm assurance as he finishes wrapping the fresh cast around your leg. “Your first cast was a little too tight after the swelling increased, it caused some blistering. That’s not unusual, but this one should be much better.”
Jungkook stands behind him, arms crossed, jaw clenched, watching every movement with hawk-like focus. It’s not care exactly, more like he’s making sure this doesn’t become his problem again. The guilt of watching you fall earlier clearly hasn’t left him, even if he’s doing a poor job of showing it.
“She can walk on her own, right?” he asks, not even pretending it’s about you. He wants the doctor to say it out loud, to declare that he’s off the hook now.
The orthopedic glances up at him, and you can tell he understands exactly why Jeon’s asking.
“I mean, she can use her crutches, ” the doctor replies plainly. “But she still needs some assistance. Especially with stairs or uneven flooring. And bathing, it’s fine as long as she wraps the cast properly. A plastic bag works. Just no soaking.”
You nod, absorbing it all even though your voice feels like it’s been shredded raw from earlier. Still, you manage to rasp, “And… the bone?”
“Is healing well, ” the doctor says warmly, giving you a brief smile. “Actually, it’s healing pretty fast. That’s a good sign. Keep taking your meds, especially the calcium, and once you run out, send someone in to pick up more.” He pauses, his tone growing slightly more serious. “But don’t push yourself too soon. Any complications now could prolong your healing. Be smart.”
You nod again, tighter this time. You don’t care how shredded your vocal cords are. You would’ve asked even if it meant coughing up blood. Your leg matters. You want to move. You want to live in your own body again.
The doctor finishes up and excuses himself with a final nod.
As soon as the door closes, Jungkook steps forward, his face unreadable.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just reaches for your wrist, gently this time, surprisingly, and gives it a small tug. His touch is warm. Steady.
“Let’s go home, ” he says.
There’s something about the way he says home that stings. Because it isn’t his home. It’s yours. Yet somehow he’s started to haunt its corners like he belongs there.
There’s no patience in his tone. No warmth. He doesn’t wait for you to process, doesn’t ask if you need a moment. He just wants this over with.
“Don’t yank me, ” you mutter.
“I’m helping you, ” he snaps, already reaching to guide you into the wheelchair. “You wanna fall again?”
You glare at him, but your body aches too much to fight. So you let him push you.
As he wheels you through the hallway, it’s tense. Silent except for the soft hum of the hospital lights and the squeak of the chair’s wheels. You don’t thank him. He doesn’t expect it.
And as the elevator doors close, neither of you looks at the other.
Just two people stuck in the same moment, both pretending they’d rather be anywhere else.
, -
Time has been crawling at a painfully slow pace these past few weeks. You’re now in your third week post-accident, counting down the days until you can finally ditch the cast and walk like a normal human again.
At least the discomfort has eased a little since your cast was adjusted, no more unbearable itchiness, no more suffocating tightness. And your new roommate? He’s been treading a lot more carefully lately. Guess last time was a lesson learned. Maybe now he’ll stop being such an ass.
From your spot on the couch, you watch him with thinly veiled disgust as he drinks straight from the carton of milk he just bought. He lounges back, scrolling through his phone, the volume on his videos obnoxiously loud. You can feel his eyes flick toward you now and then, sensing the unspoken questions hanging thick in the air. Eventually, he sighs and raises an eyebrow.
“What?”
You cross your arms.
“First off, it’s absolutely disgusting that you’re drinking straight from the carton. Second, for the love of everything holy, please tell me you haven’t done that with anything I’ve also drunk from.”
He shrugs, completely unfazed.
“Might have.”
He sets the carton down and sprawls back, one leg casually crossing over the other.
Okay. Noted. Never, under any circumstances, accept a drink from him again.
“Also, ” you add, unable to hold back the question that’s been bothering you for days, “it’s Tuesday. Afternoon. You’ve been here for weeks now. Don’t you have a job?”
He barely leaves unless it’s to pick up groceries, meds, or something from his place. It’s odd. Suspicious, even.
“I do have a job.” His reply is maddeningly brief, clearly not offering more.
You narrow your eyes but choose not to push.
“Oh. Okay.”
You fidget with the edge of your blanket, but his gaze doesn’t let up. It’s direct. Calculated.
“Don’t you?”
You blink.
“Huh?”
“Don’t you have a job?” he repeats, his stare unwavering. “I’ve been here for almost a month and not once have I heard you mention work.” He pauses, then adds, pointedly: “And while we’re at it, why is the room next to mine locked?”
Your brows knit.
“Yours?” The word rankles. The audacity.
“Mhm.” He leans back like he owns the place. “I sleep there, so technically, it’s mine.”
Your fingers twitch against the blanket. God, you hate him.
“Are you answering my question, or am I answering yours?”
“I already told you what I do.”
“That wasn’t an answer.” His smirk is infuriating, and your nerves are now officially set on fire.
“The room, ” he presses, arching a brow.
You exhale sharply.
“Let me get this straight, you’re asking why a room in my own house is locked?”
He doesn’t flinch.
“Unless you’ve got something to hide.” Another shrug. Another swig from the damn milk carton.
Your jaw tightens.
“I strongly believe that is none of your business, Jeon.”
⸻
The weight of the season presses down on you.
Normally, this time of year, you’d be traveling, staying with friends, doing anything but rotting away at home. The contrast between now and just a month ago makes your skin itch with restlessness.
“I was gonna tell you earlier this week, I won’t be around this weekend, ” Jungkook says, turning fully toward you. “If you need anything, maybe let Nat know?”
Your stomach sinks.
“Nat’s out of town, ” you murmur. “She won’t be back for another week.”
“And your other friends? Can’t someone stay with you?”
The question lands like a slap, worse than it should. You swallow around the lump tightening in your throat.
“It’s fine. I’ll manage.”
Jungkook doesn’t look convinced. His eyes linger a second too long, studying you like he wants to call your bluff, but he doesn’t.
His phone rings, saving you from whatever he was about to say.
“What’s up?” he answers quickly, already halfway into what he now calls his room.
You stare at your phone. Your thumb hovers over your chat with Nat before you delete the half-written message and toss the phone aside.
You’ll sleep on it. Maybe by tomorrow, it’ll make more sense.
But deep down, you already know the truth:
You hate the holiday season.
Coco, your cat, has long since given up on you, scratching now at the guest room door instead, desperate for Jungkook to come back out.
⸻
Jungkook’s phone call must’ve lasted a while, because you drifted off, lulled by the heavy fog of painkillers. These days, sleep is the only thing that makes time move faster.
He returns later, settling onto the couch across from the fireplace.
For a long moment, he just watches you. The slow, steady rise and fall of your chest. The way your face softens in sleep, all the tension gone from your brow.
His friends were right, you don’t look half bad like this.
A flicker of guilt stirs in his chest. He still feels awful about the accident. He’s not a terrible person, even if he’s spent the last few weeks doing a convincing impression of one.
But what gets to him the most?
He pities you.
Your friends all left for the holidays without a second thought. Your family, assuming they even know, hasn’t called once.
The parties he’s been looking forward to all month now feel… off. Wrong, even. He’s been planning this weekend for weeks, but the idea of walking out the door while you lie there, drugged and half-asleep, gnaws at something deep inside him.
His fingers hover over his phone, seconds away from canceling.
But then he pauses.
Is he really the one who’s supposed to step in?
Maybe not.
But still, maybe this could be his one good deed for the year.
⸻
The weekend arrives, and with it, a creeping sense of anxiety that coils tight in your chest.
Jungkook was supposed to run a few errands before heading out, but when he finally returns, he’s lugging in bags and boxes, the gatekeeper trailing behind him with arms just as full.
He drops your car keys onto the table with a soft clink.
“Are you seriously just staying on the couch? It’s Friday.”
You huff.
“My leg is literally broken, Jeon.”
He rolls his eyes, but this time, there’s no bite in it. His voice softens.
“Do you need help showering and changing before I leave?”
You let out a small laugh, shaking your head.
“Wow. Really laying the kindness on thick before ditching me for the weekend, huh?”
His lips twitch into a smirk.
“What?”
You take your time in the shower, savoring the warmth of the water and the familiar scent of your body wash. For a brief moment, you let yourself enjoy it, pretend you’re anywhere else but here, pretend your leg isn’t broken, that Jungkook isn’t standing just outside the curtain just in case.
His voice cuts through the steady stream of water.
“So, what do you usually do for the holidays?”
You roll your eyes. Of course he couldn’t just let the silence be.
“You know, it wasn’t awkward until you started trying to make it not awkward, ” you mutter, tilting your head back to rinse out the shampoo. You don’t bother giving him a real answer.
But Jungkook doesn’t drop it.
“I’m genuinely curious. You and I are completely different, so I’m wondering how someone like you spends the holidays.”
You pause, because he’s not wrong. You are different. The things you used to do, the life you lived before this stupid accident, it all feels like it belongs to someone else now.
There’s a lump in your throat as you swallow down the ache.
“We had a routine, my friends and I, ” you say eventually, quieter now. “We split tasks, Hobi handled the tickets, I booked the accommodations, and Natty always planned the activities. It depended on who came up with the idea.”
Jungkook lets out a low whistle.
“Yeah, definitely rich rich.”
You roll your eyes, even though he can’t see it.
“We’re not rich. We just plan ahead.”
“Right, ” he drawls, the skepticism in his tone unmistakable. “Because a last-minute trip to Europe is totally something normal people do.”
You don’t dignify that with a response. Instead, you focus on the water cascading over your skin, the scent of your shampoo wrapping around you like a fleeting comfort.
But the memories creep in anyway, London’s twinkling lights, Christmas markets lined with mulled wine and roasted chestnuts, laughter echoing through snow-dusted streets. The adrenaline of skiing in Switzerland, the warmth of a bonfire after a long hike in Norway.
And now?
Now you’re here.
Stuck in your own bathroom.
A broken leg anchoring you in place.
You clear your throat, trying to shake off the bitterness.
“What about you?”
Jungkook is quiet for a beat. You hear the faint buzz of his phone before he mutters,
“Hold on.” He shifts, probably checking a message. “Honestly? Nothing fancy. Just the usual, family dinner, parties with friends. Same thing every year.”
“Must be nice, ” you murmur, reaching for your towel.
He scoffs.
“I guess. It gets repetitive, though.”
You pull the shower curtain back slightly, just enough to peek out. He’s leaning against the counter, scrolling through his phone with one hand, the other tucked into the pocket of his hoodie. His expression is unreadable, but there’s something almost… detached in the way he speaks.
“Why do I feel like you’re about to complain about having a normal, stable holiday tradition?” you tease, wrapping the towel around yourself before stepping out.
Jungkook glances up, his gaze flickering over you briefly before he looks away.
“Because stability is boring.”
You shake your head, suppressing a chuckle.
“Some people would kill for boring. I used to… but karma bit me in the ass, and now here I am.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just watches as you carefully move toward the sink. Then, after a moment, he mutters,
“Yeah. I guess they would.”
It’s quiet after that.
And maybe, just maybe, it’s not as awkward as before.
“Let me help you to your room before I make this call.”
-
Jungkook helps you back to your room, making sure you’re settled before quietly stepping out.
You sit in front of your mirror, dragging a towel through your damp hair when a sharp jolt of pain shoots through your leg. It’s become a familiar signal by now, your body, dulled by medication, knows exactly when it’s time for another dose.
Before you can reach for the pills, there’s a soft knock at your door.
“Come in, Jeon, ” you call out, already knowing who it is.
Jungkook steps inside, eyes fixed on the floor.
“Uh… are you decent?”
“Still in my towel, ” you reply, raising a brow. “Why?”
He shifts awkwardly, then finally meets your gaze.
“Actually… change of plans. Do you have anything to wear for tonight?”
You frown, confused.
“What do you mean? I thought you were going out.”
He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Yeah… but none of your friends are around, and spending the holidays alone sucks, so…” He hesitates, clearly second-guessing himself. “I figured maybe I could bring the party here. You could join us. Or, I guess… we could join you.”
You just stare at him, stunned. Because Jungkook, the same Jungkook who barely tolerates you, who was supposed to leave without a backward glance, is standing in your room, offering to stay.
He shrugs, trying for casual.
“You hate the holidays, right? Figured I’d make them a little less miserable.”
His fingers drum idly against the doorframe.
“Look, I know you probably don’t want to hear this, but…” He pauses, searching for the words.
“You need to be a little open-minded about this.”
You tilt your head, watching him through the mirror.
“About what, exactly?”
“About tonight. About the fact that, whether you want to admit it or not, you shouldn’t be alone right now.” His voice is steady, but there’s something under the surface. Firm. Careful. Almost gentle.
Your fingers tighten slightly around the towel draped over your shoulders. He’s not wrong, and that’s what makes it worse. Because the truth is, you have been spiraling. Distracting yourself. Pretending you’re fine. Avoiding the kind of silence that sinks in and doesn’t let go.
You take a slow breath, then meet his gaze in the mirror.
“So what, you’re my savior now?”
Jungkook huffs a quiet laugh.
“Nah. Just someone who knows what it’s like.” His eyes soften, just a little.
“Now, are you getting dressed, or do I have to pick something out for you?”
A reluctant smile tugs at your lips.
“You’d pick the ugliest thing I own just to piss me off.”
“Obviously.” He smirks. “So hurry up before I get any ideas.”
You sigh, running the towel once more through your hair.
“I look awful. I’m pale, I’ve definitely lost weight, my nails are chipped, and, oh, right, the giant cast on my leg. Truly stunning.”
“Alright, fine. I’ll do your stupid nails.”
He throws out the offer so casually that your jaw drops.
“Do you really think my nails are going to fix this? Come on, look at the bigger picture.” You shake your head, already eyeing the dresses in your closet, knowing deep down that you were going to say yes the second he walked in.
“Oh my god, ” you mutter, feigning horror. “You’re totally doing this out of pity.”
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Summary: revenge never tasted that good when you decide to get back at the man - who ran you over - with the worst punishment he could ever get, and despite all the grudge, maybe some time after, the grudge will gradually turn into something else..?
Genre: e2l, biker jk, series ( a long one.), smut, fluff, angst.
You were informed that by 8 in the morning you’ll be discharged and ready to go home, there wasn’t any need for you to stay for the rest of the day but they just wanted to make sure that your lab tests and other scans are perfectly fine. Natty was an awfully great help but still you wouldn’t tire her with things you could ask Jungkook to do.
“This is your prescription of meds, buy it so you can drive me home.” You hand it to him along with your card, of course you won’t let him pay for it.
He’s hesitant when he grabs the paper and card, feeling a little uneasy that he’s kind of forced to do this, he absolutely regrets getting his bike in the first place, you’re like a nightmare to him.
“Alright.” He leaves the room which leaves Natty piercing his entire figure. “Aren’t you exaggerating this?”
“It wasn’t my idea to begin with, plus he doesn’t have another option, i could so easily just file a lawsuit and he’ll spend at least a year rotting in jail.”
Nat helps you rise before dressing you in the easiest thing you could fit in right now, nothing too extra just a dress with a heavy jacket over it, even if it was freezing cold outside, you wouldn’t risk putting on a pair of pants or leggings.
“Thank you.” You take a second to breathe, you’re still not 1 day post your injury so you’re still not used to being this immobilized, you were sleeping the entire night and the medication they gave you made the pain a little manageable, but right now the pain feels intense and the muscles around your injury are very stiff considering the entire area is swollen.
“Are you okay?” Nat rubs your back, you nod and force a smile, even when you feel a little frustrated and anxious, getting up from bed was always easy but right now it’s a little overwhelming. “I’m alright. Did you get my car?”
“Mhm, it’s parked near the gate so that you don’t have to get rolled in the chair for long.”
Her words felt extremely heavy, you find it hard to accept that you’re going to be have to rolled on a wheelchair.
Gosh, if anything this makes you resent Jungkook even more.
“Are you ready?” Nat asks before supporting your lower half and wrapping an arm around your waist. “Yes, slow please.” You manage to get up and balance on one leg, your injured leg brushes against the floor and you feel as if there’s an electric jolt shocking your entire body which makes you curse on the inside.
Nat helps you turn and sit on the wheelchair before adjusting your leg ever so slowly so you’re comfortable which you know you won’t be for at least the next few months.
You hear a couple knocks on the door and it’s another wave of anger possessing you when you see Jungkook carrying the bag of meds and chewing on a pretzel loud. “Here’s your meds.”
“You.” You breathe again fighting every ounce of anger inside of you, if you could walk you could easily beat his ass up.
He pauses and hardly swallows the bite in his mouth when he sees the look on your face, luckily Natty stands between you two and grabs the bag of meds away from him. “Did you get everything? Shit y/n that’s a whole lot of meds.”
The bag contained at least eight kinds of pills, regular OTC painkillers and other ones that are only used on prescription, two kinds of antibiotics, a muscle relaxant, calcium pills and vitamins. and other drugs that you’ll need along your healing process.
“Let’s just go home.” You clench your jaw and take one quick look at your surroundings, making sure you haven’t left anything behind.
Once you get to the ground floor, you can’t pinpoint what exactly you’re feeling, but it’s a hint of embarrassment combined with so many things, you hardly needed assistance over anything and now you’re being pushed on a wheelchair? You hated being vulnerable.
Jungkook on the other hand watches Natty unlock your car and wonders do you actually own two cars? This one being far more luxurious than the one he saw you riding last night. His jaw drops when Nat opens the car door and he checks out the leather interior.
“One step at a time, ready?” Natty grabs your arm. “Jeon? A little help?”
“Oh — shit yeah, sure.” He takes a step closer and in one quick swift he effortlessly carries you into his arms and puts you into the passenger seat, your leg brushes against the middle console and the jolts of lightning strikes again making you almost curse out loud. “You dumb fu—“
“I didn’t mean to i’m sorry.” He practically didn’t, he was a little too distracted with your car. Natty buckles you in and hands Jungkook the keys. “You drive.”
Jungkook feels overwhelmed and surreal, is he actually going to drive this car? It feels Exhilarating just the idea of him getting behind the steering wheel, “You do have a driver’s license right? Like for cars?” You interrupt, “i don’t want you running someone else over with my car.”
Jungkook rolls his eyes and shuts the door to your side and gets into the car, his breath hitches when he turns on the vehicle and his hands finally land on the steering wheel. “So are you secretly rich or what?” He asks shamelessly, whatever went through his brain he just blurted it out. Natty almost chokes on her own spit when she stares at Jungkook. “Just shut up and drive.” At this point you’re exhausted and you miss home, and honestly as soon as he takes the last turn leading to your building it evoked so many feelings inside you.
You were never hospitalized for any reason, and this entire thing that happened last night was really traumatic to you, the stay at the hospital was really stressing and what’s stressing you more is the unstoppable pain that you know you’re not going to have any medical supervision around you to make it easier, and honestly Natty can’t stay here the entire time and of course you can’t trust the man sitting next to you right now.
Considering Jungkook knows where you live he parks right at the entrance of the building and you are welcomed with the gate keeper and his wife holding a gigantic bouquet of flowers. “Welcome back Miss y/l/n. We hope you get well soon.” They rush towards the car and even grab a hold of your hand to rub it. “We’re truly sad about what happened, did you send the guy to jail?”
You side eye Jungkook before forcing a smile to the guards. “I may.”
“Let us help you out—“
“No, don’t mind it really, just get the elevator please.” You gather enough courage to try and move but your leg hurts non stop and you need to take anything to kill the pain like right away.
“Natty lock the car and Jungkook?”
“Yeah?” He’s still distracted running his hands over the buttons of your car
“A little help.”
“Of course.”
-
Day one was a burning hell, not only you were in scorching pain, and it wasn’t only your leg hurting, it was radiating all over your entire body, you were prescribed medicine to numb the pain and it did help, except you were drowsy all the time. If you were on the couch you’d find yourself drifting to sleep, and no matter how hard you try to fight the sleep, you felt your eyelids closing, and your head heavy, your body craved sleep for hours and at this point it doesn’t matter if you’ve eaten anything or not, hence your trips to the bathroom have decreased significantly, so you’re either on the couch sleeping, or in your bedroom, sleeping also.
As for the intruder who you’re trying to make the most out of, he’s at your place most of the time and you still can’t judge if he’s helpful at all or not, and it still doesn’t feel like revenge and when your pain sharpens you feel the urge to break his leg too and finish him. You want to be angry and sometimes you wanna use your voice and be loud but you physically can’t.
Him on the other side, he’s lurking around your place when he shows up, finally finding out that you were in fact filthy rich, every inch in his body is itching with curiosity wanting to know what on earth do you do for a living.
Tonight you were sitting in your living room in front of the fire place, your mental and physical well being is not doing so well tonight, nausea hits again along with pain, this time you know you can’t hold back the vomit. Even your cat Coco is alert and she’s hovering around you.
Not to mention the minute Jungkook walked inside your house she was hissing at him non stop, almost as if she knew how much you resented the man.
Jungkook’s holding the bag of meds looking through the pills with slight panic. “Didn’t they give you anything for nausea?” He’s about to lose his mind and he gets really iffy and hates hearing anyone hurl or vomit. “What do i do?”
“I don’t know perhaps watch the road?” You bite at him and karma bites you right back and you gag, he quickly thinks before emptying the meds out of the bag and hands it to you.
Nothing managed to escape your stomach because there wasn’t anything there to begin with. “Shouldn’t you call your friend?”
“And what are you here for? “ you gag again and cough,
“She could be a better help than I am.”
You pull out a tissue and clean your mouth before falling back against the couch. “I fucking hate you.”
Coco jumps right onto your belly and crawls next to your head, her paw landing onto your hair, you hold her closer and rub her back, “I’m alright Coco don’t worry.”
Jungkook rolls his eyes and disgustingly holds the bag to throw it into the bin. “I think you should get something to eat.” He suggests before mumbling to himself. “And take your meds and get back to sleep.”
“What did you say?” You were skeptical and you thought you heard him say something
“I said you should get something to eat.” He looks you dead in the eye before pointing to his own ear. “Listen.” He enunciates.
Honestly one look at the man and you’re genuinely cringing, his general attire is all baggy and dark, his hair is either frizzy and curled up or covered in a beanie that you’re assuming it stinks. Thankfully he didn’t get really close so you can smell him, and now you’re not the one to judge, you’re day two without washing up and you desperately need a shower.
“Your friend got you a pot of soup this morning while you’re sleeping.” He mentions before taking a quick glance around. “Don’t be mad but i kinda had two bowls because it smelled incredible—“
You
Were
Cranky!
You were never mad over food but he’s pushing all your buttons at this moment, everything about him is making your insides boil even more than before. And now the soup that was brought home for you is two bowls less than it actually is.
Okay, breathe, you need to breathe.
The angrier you get the more your pain feels worse. “You did what?”
“I had some of your… soup?” He unsurely speaks. “Oh so i guess you’re mad.”
Your eyes scan the room quickly before they land on your crutches that are way across the room leaned against the wall, if you could walk you would’ve shoved them right up his—
“I’ll go get you some.” He rushes and the moment he’s out of your sights you immediately feel yourself calming down, you kind of wish you just put him into jail or something instead of having him right there in front of you almost the entire time.
Fuck your pain is getting worse and all through yesterday not a single complaint about the pain escaped your lips but for now, you’re groaning and screeching, your hand collecting the blanket that’s been covering you into your fists. It feels like the bone is penetrating your skin and constant waves of stabbing pain are felt through your entire leg.
You’ve been through pain before but nothing was like what you were experiencing right now, you closed your eyes shut and tried to breathe the pain away but it was useless. “Shit”
And before you know it your eyes well in tears even when you did your best to hold them back, “Please god, make it stop.” You breathe again, the echoing pain is truly overwhelming and it’s something you’ve never felt before.
Jungkook walks out of the kitchen holding a bowl of soup, he thought he heard you saying something, “You called?” But his mouth falls when he actually sees your tears streaming down your cheeks.
“Why does it hurt so much?” Your crying grows louder, the sound a mix of frustration, fear, and when you look at Jungkook a pinch ( if not more) of anger is in your voice too.
Jungkook stands a few feet away and he’s completely frozen in guilt, the hot bowl in his hands may have burned him but that doesn’t matter now. He watches you in silence, his doe eyes wide with regret, his hands even start shaking.
“It’s getting worse every second.” You sob again, your fists tightening around the blanket.
Jungkook swallows hard his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how to fix this— I—“ He steps forward hesitantly, torn between wanting to help and fear he’ll probably make this worse. He takes a couple steps closer and takes a seat on the floor next to you, “Listen to me, you need to have some soup so we can give you the pain killers, okay? You can’t have it on an empty stomach.” He puts the bowl onto his lap before offering you a spoonful, “work with me y/n, just a couple of bites and i’ll give you the pill.”
Your head falls back onto the pillow that supported your head and you cover your mouth with the back of your hand, your head shakes left and right before you breathe. “I can’t take it anymore, just call someone or take me back to the hospital—“
“We are not going there.” He puts the bowl down onto the coffee table before looking you in the eyes. “The doctors said it’s okay to experience the pain, if you’re not eating before your pill then you’re on your own i can’t do anything more than what i’m already doing.”
So he’s gonna leave you twist in pain even when he’s the reason for all of this?
So you had to give up and take a few spoonfuls of your soup before finally taking the meds that were prescribed after your meal.
And not even 20 minutes after, you were in deep sleep like nothing even happened.
And Jungkook finally has his moment of peace and silence in front of the fireplace, he gets back up to head to the kitchen and puts the bowl into the dishwasher before grabbing himself a beer and looking around the house. He finds Coco making her way into the hallway and watches him move around, before carelessly stretching and falling asleep next to your pair of taken off socks, or sock actually. “Good girl.”
You’re in deep sleep that even if someone shot a grenade next to you, you wouldn’t even flinch. So this is probably his opportunity to take a look around your very spacious place.
He looks around, some of his friends own penthouses but yours was very high end and cozy at the same time, the view to the city was incredible and the materials and decor used around your place are really mesmerizing, a couple stairs up and the first door he sees he opens it, apparently it’s your bedroom and it had the same view, his jaw drops when he gets into your walk in closet and sees the amount of expensive jewelry and clothes that are stacked there, he’s never seen anything like this before.
A couple more steps towards the end of the corridor he finds another room and he’s a little taken back when he realizes that the door to this room was locked, he finds it a bit strange that even when you live on your own you still lock some doors, unless you’re keeping something inside that mustn’t be seen.
His tongue runs on the side of his cheek before he takes a tour around the rest of the house, checking out the guests rooms, the entertainment center and the wine seller slash bar, finally finishing off with the terrace, it’s freezing cold outside and it’s snowing so it’s impossible to go outside, but from what he can see is that you probably have people over occasionally, the pool that is currently closed and the barbecue grill along with the patio furniture is why he assumed that. It must have cost you a fortune!
He takes another trip back to the kitchen before opening the cabinets, his stomach is starting to growl.
You on the other hand, you want to wake up— scratch that, you need to wakeup, you’re seconds away from peeing yourself and you know your trip to bathroom will take at least 10 minutes on the way.
It feels like someone superglued your eyes shut because they weigh a ton! You have to pee and it’s urgent.
“Nat?” It hits you seconds later that Nat isn’t staying at your place tonight, once you see Jungkook walking of the kitchen with his cheek half full and a bag of flaming hot Cheetos in his hand. “Oh no, you’re up?”
You wouldn’t risk rolling your eyes because you know you’ll fall back to sleep. “I need to go to the bathroom.”
“Listen woman, i heard you vomit a couple hours ago i don’t think i can hear your stream. We’re not there yet.” He smacks chew on the cheeto in his mouth and honestly you wish your crutches were closer once again. “You know what Jeon i don’t want you here either for the record, maybe putting you in jail would’ve been easier.”
“Yeah, i’m starting to think so too.” He huffs and puts the bag of cheetos down on the coffee table, he inches closer and stretches his hand to help you but you cringe and look up at him. “Your fingers have cheetos on them—“
And before you even finish he doesn’t think twice before putting his finger into his mouth and licking it clean. What a pig.
“Just go wash your hands.” You whine and he just stands there. “I thought you wanted to pee.”
“Yeah, wash your hands first Jeon, i’m not touching you when your hand is full of spit mixed with cheeto.” Just the idea is making you about to hurl out your insides.
“But i’m not done with my chips yet.”
Your insides are boiling with anger and you’re looking for something to throw at him but you can’t find anything. “You can get back to pigging on the chips when I'm done, you even invaded my pantry for crying out loud.”
He takes one last glance at you covered up with your unreasonably over priced blanket before he heads over to the bathroom, you hear the water running and it does nothing but trigger your urgency even more. That’s it you’re not sure you can hold it in anymore, but you’re sure that washing his hands shouldn’t take that long.
“Jeon hurry.” You breathe and relax trying to distract yourself but you’re starting to get cold sweats.
A couple minutes after he walks back and finally supports you to get up. “Alright rich girl, one trip to your bathroom and I just found out that hermes now make bath towels.”
“Shut it.” You find it hard to talk when you’re focusing on your bladder and walking slowly.
“Like do you really have to buy an expensive towel for your guests to dry their hands? How rich are you?”
“It’s not that expensive.” You take one step at a time, your throbbing pain feels a little further away since you took your painkillers not long ago.
“Yeah? Like how much?”
“I don’t recall, probably 300 bucks a towel or something-“
“For a stupid towel? rich people are really dumb.” He scoffs. “What exactly do you do for a living?”
“Yeah, I don’t think we’re ever going to get to the point where you find out personal shit about me.”
“Yeah, sure. I get to hear you vomit and take a piss but I don’t get to find out what you do?” He exclaims, “Besides, I practically stay here the entire day, you haven’t mentioned work not even once.”
“Yeah, because you’re a stranger.”
“But hey really, what do you do? you have expensive slippers for your bathroom too for the love of god.”
You stop for a second, trying to make something up. “I do stock and online trading.”
“Is that lingo for drugs or money laundering?” He did sound serious when he asked the question, which made you turn your head towards him and squint your eyes. “And you called me dumb.”
“No for real, what do you do?” You finally get to the bathroom, he helps you inside and stands behind the door waiting for you to pull down your pants so he can walk back in and help you sit on the toilet.
It really makes you feel uneasy, but you have to get used to it.
He stands outside while you do your job with his arms crossed. “So is your father rich?”
“Nope.” You’re taking your time on the toilet seat, and Jungkook is still curious wanting to get an answer. “Are you someone’s sugar baby or something? People are doing this kind of shit now.”
“Can you shut up for a second?” You need to have your moment of peace and quiet, and Jeon fatass still itches for the answer that you’re not going to give.
-
It’s right after your second trip to the bathroom when you fall into deep sleep onto your bed, it’s still early in the evening but you called it a night. It’s really exhausting having to deal with someone like him but you can’t let him get away with things easy.
You were generous enough to offer him one of your guests' rooms considering he had to stay with you in case you needed anything, but the night is still young to him and he cannot and will not stay still if it costs him his life.
If he’s not in his room he’d be in the kitchen digging into your pantry, checking out your canned goods and stash of potato chips and chocolate bars, his jaw never stopped moving from the minute he stepped foot into your house.
If he wasn’t being a pig in your pantry he’d be doing pushups in front of your television, his music playlist playing out loud which you wouldn’t worry about because your walls can block any noise.
If he wasn’t doing pushups he’d be holding your bag of meds, emptying them all out into one of the pill organizers Natty got you, he got a little too distracted reading your vitamin leaflet, which he ended up taking a pill for his own. And he finally fell asleep right after taking one last walk around your house, making sure the lights are out and the kitchen is clean.
——
The next day you were up earlier than you thought, your painkillers altered your sleeping schedule, you would regularly sleep for eight to nine hours, but after your pills, you can stay asleep for at least twelve hours straight and you’d still wake up wanting more.
Your morning routine went well with the assistance of Jeon fatass who was kind enough to help you wash your hair and brush your teeth, your friends are visiting this afternoon so the least you can do is smell nice.
It was only Seokjin and Yoongi coming to visit and Natty followed right after with Hoseok, they were all kind enough to get you both flowers and gifts, some even got you a home cooked meal.
“I hope you get better quick, there’s this snow bombing festival happening in Austria and we have to go there, it’s right up your alley!” Seokjin rubs Coco’s back as she lays in his lap, she’s really familiar with your friends.
“I thought we were attending the cherry blossom season here this year since we missed it last year.” Hoseok was kind enough to debone the chicken thigh that’s been soaking in hot soup, giving you small bites every now and then. “Since y/n would still be fresh out of her injury, I bet she won’t be able to hike for a while.”
“Not with your allergies,” You giggle and playfully hit his arm which makes him laugh and quickly give up on his idea.
Jungkook has been sitting around, his legs crossed, listening to your conversation and feeling totally out of place, all this rich people talk didn’t make sense to him. One second you’d mention the next trip on your schedules, the minute after Yoongi talks about the insanely expensive watch he got, and how he almost lost it while sky diving in Jeju.
“What about you Jungkook? Have you traveled somewhere?” Natty can sense his discomfort and she was kind enough to be inclusive and try making him fit in since he’s going to be around for a while. But he’s pretty sure he won’t, and he honestly didn’t care if he doesn’t.
“Mhm. Yeah.” Jungkook crosses his fingers onto his own lap. “Last summer, it was extravagant.”
“Oh yeah? Where to? It has to be somewhere cold, I know people who can’t handle the summer heat here in Seoul.” Seokjin still massages Coco’s neck before looking at Jungkook, everyone’s all ears willing to find out where he went.
“Busan.”
And it feels like he cracked one of the funniest jokes ever, Hoseok almost falls onto the floor laughing, and Seokjin’s tears even roll onto his cheeks, Natty almost chokes on her own spoonful of soup, and Yoongi just cackles.
Only you’re sitting there watching him with a straight face. You had some assumptions on this man and you know they may be right. It’s been a couple of days since you met him, and you already know that he’s nothing like he claims he is.
“But hey for real, where’d you go?”
Jungkook laughs subtly before repeating his answer. “Busan. It’s my hometown.” He mentions it as a matter of fact, which leaves your friends’ mouth wide open and they listen attentively, waiting for him to say that he was joking.
“One of my favorite cities of all time. And it’s like a four hour drive.”
Once the attention is diverted off of him, you still follow him with your eyesight, seeing him scratching behind his ear and grabbing out his phone from his pocket, it was only until now you noticed he has a fully tatted sleeve. his piercings caught your attention first the day before, but the tattoos.
You had one yourself on your upper thigh, but his arm seemed a little too much to you, you were never the person to judge people, but Jungkook? What was there to not judge?
Summary: revenge never tasted that good when you decide to get back at the man - who ran you over - with the worst punishment he could ever get, and despite all the grudge, maybe some time after, the grudge will gradually turn into something else..?
Genre: e2l, biker jk, series ( a long one.), smut, fluff, angst.
Warnings: mentions of car accidents, mentions of fractured bone and hospitals, mentions of insecurities, cranky oc, mentions of drugs and money laundering.
Taglist open ‼️
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Mood board 1 | Mood board 2
It’s a Tuesday night in October and it’s one of your usual work nights where your beloved routine takes place. It's nothing out of the ordinary really, it’s evening time and you had just finished creating your content and filming it.
You're standing in front of your vanity mirror massaging your face after your skincare routine, your phone buzzing a notification that your food order is ready for pickup so you rush to slip something warm on.
You weren’t someone born with a certain passion or ambitious enough to get a big degree, but you did manage to get a bachelor’s degree in accounting about seven years ago and you did get a job at a local company as a junior accountant, but it just wasn’t enough.
You’d get your paycheck and spend it only on necessities, it was enough money for you to survive, but never enough to get you the life you wanted.
You ran into a couple acquaintances a couple years ago and only three hangouts later, and you’d kill to be in their shoes.
Not only were they living the life you wanted, they owned the house you imagined having in your dreams, owned luxurious cars and hell even traveled places you’ve never even heard of before.
You thought you’d find a part time job and juggle with the one you had back then but it was impossible, and when you did the math, you’ll basically still be in debt.
Instead of taking a step forward you decided to take two steps back and just quit your job, you hated waking up early and hated the fact that you worked under someone, and the money wasn’t even worth it.
One of your friends suggested content creating, and you thought it through, you have nothing to film that people would be interested in seeing, nor that life that’s worth documenting.
“No idiot, I meant onlyfans.”
And it made you feel uneasy at first, but you remember your first night filming your very first video vividly.
You invested your last couple of hundreds of bucks and got a video camera, the shop even handed you a tripod as a “thank you for buying one of our worst cameras” and you ran back home to set it up.
And honestly the whole video was you faking an orgasm and attempting to make sounds that are supposed to get you an audience. And you proceeded to edit it into a short ten minute video and post it.
The app gave you an option on how much you could charge your audience and you chose to charge only five bucks for a subscription, you’re just testing waters.
Gotta say you weren’t really hopeful about it.
You showered that night thinking, what if this was actually it? You might have just changed your life with the stupid few minutes you just filmed of you putting on an act.
Not even 20 minutes later you head out and run back to your phone to find a SMS message from your local bank, oh my god this has to be it.
You hurriedly unlock your phone to read the message, but it was only a confirmation text that you had connected your account to this sketchy website, which made you sulk a little, but really what were you expecting.
Even when this was a little over two years ago you still remember the second you got your first subscription, and it was basically the day after your first video, and it was only 4 subscriptions ( basically twenty bucks. ) but you knew that this was just the beginning, and you knew you had to invest more into it if you were going to live the luxurious life.
And there you are, two years later, you did buy a penthouse in a luxurious neighborhood, you managed to make your first investment and bought a couple apartments that you rent out for college students, you also bought not one, but two freaking cars that are freakishly expensive.
Not to mention you now invite your friends to go hiking or traveling together.
And last but not least, your cat Coco who you adopted right away, every time you came home you look at her with heart eyes when she waits for you by your door, she curls up right by your feet and sometimes she would make failed attempts of jumping right onto you and you find it unbelievably adorable, sometimes she’d even fall asleep right by your keyboard when you’re uploading your content and she is irreplaceable.
Fuck the degree, this is the best decision you’ve ever made.
Back to now, you’re throwing on your pair of sneakers and grabbing your car keys ready to go pick up your fried chicken. “I’ll be right back Coco okay?”
Your stomach was growling you can hear it resonate through the elevator walls, you head out the security and they greet you warmly.
Not only because you’re the most humble out of all the residents, also because you’re the most generous out of them all, treating them for dinners and lunches and sometimes buying gifts for the cleaners, they adore you. Not to mention you were a generous tipper!
You head out the building to watch a young man feeling up your car, a helmet in his hand and his motor bike parked right beside yours, now you usually didn’t mind, until you see him checking out your license plate and taking pictures of your car, his hand is about to touch the door handle before you voice out. “Hey!”
As if his body was prepared, a surge of adrenaline rushes through his system and his heartbeat becomes rapid, he’s fully alert that you’re after him now and as a response for his sense of urgency or fear, he throws on his helmet and right when he’s about to get onto his bike, he bumps into your car accidentally making the alarm go on.
“Get back here.” You are seconds away from running after him but you know you won’t be able to catch up. He manages to gain his balance back onto his motor bike right away and drives it fast enough to disappear out of your sight in seconds. “Idiot.”
You take a quick spin around your car just to check on it before unlocking it and getting in and buckling up, the stupid guy is long forgotten when you hear your stomach growling again, you haven’t had a bite after breakfast this morning, so you rush to pick up your food order and go back home.
-
Being your own boss made a bit careless about weekends, every day was a weekend to you practically, you only waited for the weekends occasionally if you were hanging out with some of your friends.
It’s Friday and the neighborhood you live in gets quite busy on the weekend nights, people who live in this areas usually host cocktail parties and reunions on fridays, some times newlyweds rent out the near by mansions for their honeymoon and it does get a little noisy.
You were never a fan of traffic and you hated having to stay long in the car so you avoided leaving your place unless it was really urgent.
“So are you coming or not?” Your best friend Natty is on the phone, you can hardly hear her when music around her is so loud.
Your friends have decided on hitting the club to celebrate someone’s promotion but with the traffic outside it was impossible for you to leave your place.
Plus you have a schedule you have to follow and you have to post something tomorrow and you haven’t filmed the content yet, so basically you had to work tonight so you’re not going anywhere, or at least that’s what you thought.
“No Nat i’m afraid not, i have some work left to do and i’m waiting for the gate keeper to come over and wash my car.”
You can easily imagine her rolling her eyes when she speaks. “Ugh, i’ll pick you up, work can wait, you’re your own boss.”
“Enjoy your night Natty, i’ll chat about it with you tomorrow.” You hang up right away and open the app on your phone to figure out what’s the meal you’ll devour on once you’re finished.
And honestly Sushi sounds good right now, so with no second thoughts you choose the items you want and add them to your cart, before you get up onto your feet and head to your room.
The room you specifically had designed for this type of content, not like it’s that type of rooms, but accent dark walls and a large bed, with the camera set up prepared all the time on standby along with the lighting ready, and a storage compartment for your “tools” and outfits.
You’ve grown to adore this job, not only do you do it to make money, but you’ve made a great amount of online subscribers that make you love doing it just so you can have a chat with them.
You get changed and right before you hit record you made sure to hit the order button for your sushi, so by the time you’re done you’ll have your food delivered by your door.
It doesn’t take you over 30 minutes to make a clip that you know you’ll have a hard time editing ( which was basically the worst part ever. ) so you get up and make it to your shower to clean up and get into a comfy pair of pants and a sweater, it was freezing cold outside and even with your fireplace on you were still freezing.
A small pop up banner on the top of your phone screen showed notifying you that the order was ready for pickup, which you recall you asked for it to be delivered.
A few clicks and failed attempts to get it delivered it was practically impossible, so you slid on your pair of sneakers and grabbed your car keys. “I’ll be home soon Coco.” You pet her and smother her with kisses before heading out.
Looks like no matter how hard you tried avoiding leaving your house you were eventually coerced to.
The traffic was unbearable, not only was it a friday night, the holiday season was coming up in a month or even less and people couldn’t stay home even when there’s a blizzard outside.
You rush to get into your car and quickly shuffle your fingers over the buttons to heat up the seats and the steering wheel. The sushi place wasn’t that far away but why walk there when you can drive? Specially when snow was expected on the weather forecast tonight. Although walking there would’ve probably been faster.
On regular basis it would’ve been a 15 to 20 minute drive to the place but on maps it was clear enough that this ride will take at least 35 to 40 minutes.
Luckily you didn’t have to worry about the temperature of your food-
Although you tried to be positive about it but you most certainly have driver’s rage and it’s starting to piss you off that the lights turned green and people aren’t driving yet.
You would’ve flashed your lights at the cars if you were patient enough but you’re not, so you honk the horn repeatedly and you couldn’t care less if people judged you for honking this late at night.
It bothers you even more that bikers just manage to slip between the vehicles and just cross the lights that are turning orange by now and soon come to red.
“Will you come on.” You whine before unbuckling your seat belt and turning off your car, and right after you leave your car and close your door, you were seconds away to scolding the driver in front of you when suddenly a searing pain is felt on your lower half, you could quite literally hear something breaking as if your bone is tearing apart, it’s jolting inside your body and it’s hard to ignore.
As if your nervous system was on alert your hand subconsciously moves to your leg, your eyesight even wonders there wondering if you even still have your leg attached to your body, and you immediately feel nauseous and breathless, you’re pretty sure you’re about to pass out.
“Maam are you okay?”
Scratch that. You already did.
The engines of the cars and bikes ( specifically the one that ran over you ) suddenly feel far away and you no longer hear them, your eyelids feel heavy and you immediately lose consciousness.
-
Okay maybe it’s not that reckless of a life, on the verge of being 30 yet feeling like he hadn’t still lived his entire dreams, he insists on doing everything he wanted even if it costed him a fortune.
Of course, he wants to go explore somewhere new? He’d do it, even if he’s in debt, he knows he’d end up starving for the rest of the month, living his best life was a priority and frankly his priorities are severely off.
He wants to drive a boat? He’d do it, even when he’s positive that he’ll never own one but hey, it’ll be a fun experience. He’ll have to give up on a couple of things this month as well
Of course his friends are joining a bikers club, why not join it too? It would be great to own a bike. It took him nights to figure out what to give up next and the only option he has was his car and in his defense it made sense. With the money he can learn how to drive a motor bike and even own the newest yet coolest bike in town.
So? Of course he sells his car and gets the lessons and even owns one of the best remodeled motor bikes ever.
This bike was a legit babe magnet, his good looks helped too but the bike played a bigger role than he did, wherever he went he would get the attention, even when he washed his bike in the nearby gas station he would have girls drooling over him.
Actually one of his latest encounters progressed into having the lady as his backpack on his bike when he drove across the city to show her how fast he can go, of course he ended up in her bed
He’s a little more financially stable now after he settled for his bike, he would end up being in debt because his job doesn’t pay that well, he does photography for fun and it was initially his hobby, he doesn’t have that many costumers but when he does he gets paid well.
His obsession for luxurious expensive cars was endless, he enjoyed visiting luxurious neighborhoods just to check out the cars there, one of the recent cars he saw was the black mercedes suv that was parked in front of a skyscraper in the middle of city and it drew all his attention, and to his shock it was driven by a young lady like you, he panicked that night and quickly rushed to get onto his bike and drove away to avoid getting into trouble.
Your car was custom made to your desire with the options you wanted, so basically it is one of a kind and there are no other cars like yours.
And tonight was one of the numerous friday nights where him and his friends would go bike outside the city and to his luck he was really late, and traffic tonight was insane, so he put his helmet on and drove really fast to catch up with his people, he started gliding through traffic and slicing through the lanes, he can hear people cursing which he was used to at this point but he needed to get there like right now!
He was focused on the narrow gaps being sure to dodge the mirrors and people who were on foot, he was a really excellent driver even when there was barely a breath of space left between his bike and other cars.
His phone let out a familiar chime signaling a new message and it had caught his attention, he was aware that his phone shouldn’t make a distraction while he’s driving but when it’s his friend Taehyung sending him a different location stating that they changed their gathering point, he had to check it out.
“Fuck-“ he muttered and tried hard to focus both on the road and on his phone, when maps loaded and showed him the new spot he pinched the screen to figure out the where the alley was when suddenly he bumped onto something- or someone he wasn’t sure, his phone fell to the floor and he was close enough to fall off his bike, hearing people panicking around him he was pretty positive that he ran over a person.
He cursed on the inside and debated on whether to stop or just run, but he did eventually hit his brakes, the screech of his tires making a deafening sound, his heart sank when he saw an actual person dragged onto the floor, a lady actually.
A look of sheer panic on his face when he realizes that this is an actual accident and it’s making a really big scene amongst this entire traffic. “Ma’am are you okay? Someone call an ambulance!” Someone yells from behind and rushes past Jungkook to offer help.
People were pretty sure they heard the sound of your bones breaking even when the engines were loud but it was unmistakable, Jungkook kneels down to the ground mortified that you could probably be dead!
“Ma’am are you okay?” And to his luck at this point you completely passed out, going totally unaware of your surroundings. Which makes him panic even more.
-
Is it nausea hitting you or what? You’re pretty sure you’re awoken by that, you’re swallowing repeatedly when your eyes flutter open, your pupils stirred, scanning your surroundings abruptly.
Unfamiliar place, unfamiliar faces, the smell is horrific and it’s really noisy and bright around here
Your eyes feel heavy again, you blink several times unsteadily, your mind finding it hard to catch up with your body, are you paralyzed?
Your breath slowly becomes shallow when you start to panic, and you’re pretty sure you’re conscious now but you’re totally disoriented to everything.
“Ma’am, it’s okay you’re safe now, can you tell me your name?”
Your name? It takes you a few moments to piece together what your name was, this was the silliest question yet you are unable to answer.
You can talk, but you can’t remember.
Tears fogged your eyes and right when you’re about to shake your head you realize that you can’t, your neck is stabilized with a brace and something hurts when you try to move. “I don’t remember.”
Someone on the opposite corner of the room who was watching from a far almost passes out when he think he might’ve actually caused permanent damage to you.
Your tears roll down to the corner of your eyes eventually falling to your ears, you hate the fact that you’re unable to wipe your own tears.
You blink repeatedly and your heart drops when you actually see police officers above your head waiting to interrogate you.
You hear the team around you blabbering some medical terms that you find yourself totally ignorant of before you speak again. “What happened?”
“You got hit by a bike, the x ray shows that your leg is fractured and your knee was disloacted, we already put your leg in a cast and you’re likely to be given crutches, but you don’t have to worry at all, everything is going to heal with time and the right treatment, we’ll hand your folder to orthopedics when you’re out of here so you can follow up with them. As for now we need to get an MRI to help us get a clearer look of what’s going on.” He elaborated that it rarely happens when people temporarily experience memory loss but it was just a check up and you wanted to make sure you were fine too, and find out why on earth you can’t remember your own name.
Once the doctors disappear you see a familiar face hovering over your head, long dark hair covering his forehead and eyes that you cannot comprehend the feelings behind, is he someone you know?
“I’m truly sorry, i didn’t see you.” So is he the one that hit you?
“How long have i been unconscious?” You ask, your pupils still scanning his face and your surroundings, he grabs out his phone and takes a glimpse at his screen. “It’s been about four hours.”
A bunch of nurses come by to take you back down to do the scan and you know that the guy with the dark hair is still hovering around because he keeps asking if you’re going to be okay.
Once you’re prepped for the machine with a pair of earplugs the entire team leaves the room and you’re left on your own.
You know the image will take a while so you need to calm yourself down and try and relax, loud rhythmic banging is hear once the machine operates and you shut yours eyes tightly, even when you were never claustrophobic it feels like you are, it’s a little too small for your liking and it feels like you’re suffocating.
Focus on your thoughts, try and think of anything else!
Y/n, that’s right, this was your name. You slowly recall your bedroom and try and imagine what your surroundings were.
What happened and how did you end up here? Your phone, oh no your car, you were driving, something involved sushi of some sort.
Your body relaxes a little and even with the loud thumping that is loud enough to deafen anyone, you’re a little relieved to be finally able to remember something.
The scan took about an hour and it felt a lot longer than it is, you were rolled back on the bed to the emergency room and again you spot the guy with the dark hair.
You’ve seen him once, just dig a little deeper.
“Are you okay?” He asks a little hesitant, his doe eyes monitoring you from head to toe, “the doctors said the scan was perfectly fine.”
“Are you experiencing any pain?” The nurse walks closer with some meds on hand, she injects something into your catheter and moves even closer to take the brace off of your neck. “The scan went well, your neck is okay it’s just that your ribs and ankle are a little bruised, bed rest should help you heal right away.” She flashes a smile before asking. “Any pain?”
“A little, yeah.”
It seems like she injected something to reduce your pain because once you answer her you suddenly feel like you’re floating, your pain feels a little less intense and a little more distant, your breath feels a lot slower and your limbs feel extremely heavy. “I’m fine.”
You haven’t heard yourself talking but it was clear enough that you’re drugged and your thoughts were completely fogged and muddled.
“Ma’am this officer Choi and i’m officer Lee , we’re just here to ask you a couple of questions.”
“Sure.” You’re finally able to move your neck and turn towards the two officers who you believe were four or probably eight, you’re ready to pass out any second now.
They start asking basic questions, your name and how old you were, and what you did for living, and you outdone yourself when you said that you do your job online from home, not mentioning and giving any further details.
“Did you notice the bike approaching you?” He asks, the officer behind him writing his notes down.
“No, i didn’t see him at all.” You look at the guy with the dark hair, your eyebrows pulling together when you try and brainstorm where you saw this guy. And honestly it feels like a workout!
“Mr. Jeon ran you over with his bike and we’re still interrogating him once we hear from you, do you know him?” The officer asks. “A nearby station towed your car and Mr. Jeon gave them your address.”
Of course he did.
He’s the biker you saw checking out your car earlier this week. As if Jungkook can see how you’re processing your thoughts his eyes widen when you speak. “Yes, he’s totally after me, i saw him outside my building the other day.”
“Am not, officer she’s heavily medicated just ignore that.” Jungkook defends himself. “I’ve seen the car she drives a week ago and after i ran her over i realized that it was the same woman and the same car.”
“Mr. Jeon i’m afraid we have to take you down to the police station for further interrogation.” The second police officer puts his notes in his pockets and takes out a pair of handcuffs. “Sir please listen to me, i promise i’m telling the truth, i don’t— I have no idea who she is.”
“Miss do you have anyone you can call? Like family or a friend? Mr. Jeon is the only one around and we need to take him over to the center, we just want to make sure you’ll be doing okay and safe with someone.”
“Do you have my stuff? I can’t see my keys and phone.”
“I have them with me,” Jungkook fishes out your stuff from his pockets and you scoff.
“Of course you do, now he’s stolen my phone and my keys.” You whine. “You broke my leg what else do you want?”
“For the record i was driving on the street like a normal person and you were walking, if you wanted to walk you’d do that at the sidewalk.” He arrogantly speaks while putting down your phone and keys on the stand next to you.
“And for the record, i saw the lights clearly turning red, you should’ve stopped, so not only you ran me over and broke my leg, you also crossed a red light.” You’re drowsy but you still have the power to argue, side eying the officer waiting for him to take note that this “Mr. Jeon” is double as guilty.
“We’ll run over the CCTV and check if what you’re saying is true.” The officer grabs your phone to hand it to you, “Can you call someone to be here with you?”
“Yeah, my friend Natty, she’s the first one on my contact list” you unlock your phone and lazily open the contact list to call her, the officer proceeds to take the phone and talk to your best friend while you lay in bed and struggle to keep your eyes open. Once the officers are a little distracted and their attention is averted away from you, Mr. Jeon takes a step closer with his arms crossed. “Can you please tell them i’m innocent, i’ll do anything you want, i’ll give you money.”
“How exactly are you innocent? I’m here because of you.” Your mouth automatically moves as if it’s the only body part disconnected from your brain,
“How much do you want? I’ll give it to you cash.”
“Hmm, can’t say i’m not intrigued.” You feign thinking before he blurts out. “You’ll take the money and just leave me alone.”
“Will your money fix my leg?”
He pauses for a second trying to think of an answer but you were faster. “Then no.”
“Please, i can’t go to prison, i was never there you can’t be serious.”
“Your friend is on her way here—” the officer walks back and hands you back your phone, an alert look on his face once he realizes that Jungkook was talking to you, a little paranoid thinking he might be offended you. “In the mean time Mr. Jeon we need to have a talk with you.”
-
You’re not sure whether is was a nap or some sort of coma, but your mouth feels dry and you’re a little groggy, you’re entire body feels lethargic and heavy and you’re pretty sure it’s the meds they’ve been pumping inside your veins for this entire night.
You take a glance at your surroundings and you’re still in the hospital this time in a private room, you feel extremely lost since you have no idea what time it is or if it’s day time or night time, once you turn your head to the right you spot a tall man wearing a dark leather jacket and holding a helmet in his right hand and a bouquet of flower in his left hand, his hair covering his eyes and a boxy smile on his smile that widens when you acknowledge his existence finally. “I’m sorry for bothering you- how are you feeling now? Any better?”
You start muttering words that don’t form a sentence before you clear your throat and decide to switch on your brain for once. “I think you’re in the wrong room—“
He flashes you a smile before tilting his head. “Y/n, right? I was told you’re in room 613.” He puts the flowers onto your lap, adjusting them once before picking them back up. “I should probably put those in some water.”
“Do i know you?” You can’t lose your memory again, it didn’t feel very pleasant the last time.
“Actually, i’m here hoping you’d do something awfully generous for me— i know we just met, and you cannot believe how extremely shocking the news were to me, i was really worried over you, but i’m worried more over my friend Jungkook who’s detained in the police station, they think he ran you over intentionally which believe me he wouldn’t hurt a fly, he’s an incredible man who was really worried for your well being the whole time you were knocked out— i mean passed out. However i really wish that you.. uhm..”
“Of course he sent you, listen sir, whatever your name is—“
“Taehyung.” He anxiously bites on his nails when he can sense rejection coming up from the way you’re speaking.
“You seem just as reckless as he is,” you glance at his helmet. “So if your entire biking cult begs me to let him out, i won’t.” You sternly speak, before blinking a couple of times. “Aren’t you guys a little too old for riding bikes?”
“Y/n, please, he’s willing to do anything for you right now.” He begs again, putting his helmet onto the chair behind him and putting the flowers back onto your lap. “He promised he’ll pay your entire hospital bill and even take care of you if he needed to.”
You’re a little intrigued, not the bill’s wise, you could easily afford that. But the idea of having him to serve you and do whatever you needed does sound tempting.
“Let me think about it, i’ll call the police station if i change my mind, but for the mean time i want you to leave please.”
“I appreciate it really, thank you so much, you’re so kind and generous—“
“Just leave Taehyung.”
-
“You did not.” Jungkook runs his tongue against his cheek before clenching his jaw. “I will not do that if it costs me my life!”
“Do you wanna get out of here or not?” Taehyung glares at the younger one before taking a look around them. “You don’t belong here, besides it’s just a couple of months and you’ll be over with.”
Jungkook’s face falls into his palms before he sighs. “i can’t believe you suggested that.”
“I can’t believe you broke the woman’s leg and ran her over.” Taehyung shrugs.
“If it weren’t for your message i wouldn’t be here.”
-
“You owe me.” Concealed anger filling your voice and you’re fighting every cell in your body to just not punch him and break both his legs in return.
He shifts in his spot and scratches the back of his head, trying hard to avoid rolling his eyes. “Look i didn’t mean to—“
“Oh i know.” You feign a smile. “Of course you didn’t, but it doesn’t change the fact that you did.”
You turn to look at the crutches sitting in the corner of the room waiting to be used. “So here’s how things are going to go, you’re going to make this up to me for breaking my leg. Every. Single. Day. Groceries, cleaning, fetching my meds, cooking, you’re going to stay up the night on standby in case i need something. And Who knows, maybe you’ll learn how to be a decent human being along the way.”
“Listen woman—“
“What he meant to say.” Taehyung laughs awkwardly taming his best friend, “he’ll do it.”
Jungkook’s eyebrows shoot up. “You want me to babysit her?”
“Yes.” You answer instead. “Consider this as your punishment, it’s either this or jail, maybe you’ll have your license taken away for life then.”
A defeated sigh escapes Jungkook’s lips before he shuts his eyes, fully surrendered. “Alright i’ll do it.”
“Good.” You smirk, already plotting his next task, the taste of revenge was intoxicatingly good.
