N i

Jungkook spent the rest of the night thinking about you. He couldn’t believe what he saw. He couldn’t believe that you’re a werewolf.

Obviously, you’re not aware of it otherwise you wouldn’t have reacted the way you did when he revealed the existence of the werewolf word. Normally, you should have recognized him since he’s the king, but you didn’t. So, he strongly believes that you were adopted. That’s the only reason that could explain why you aren’t aware.  

Now, he needs to understand why you were adopted. A pack never gives up on their little ones. He can think of many reasons why, but he needs to figure out what happened to you. He doesn’t want to simply reveal your true nature without having any certainty.

However, what concerns him is the fact that you haven’t turned yet. Normally, around fourteen years old, under a full moon, you should have experienced your first transformation. Maybe the fact that you ignore everything about that has caused your wolf blood to be dormant.

The next morning, he started looking into every record he has access to about the Shadows. The blue eyes are a characteristic specific to the Shadow pack. Every pack has its own eye color; it’s the way to distinguish every wolf. Jungkook’s pack, the Bloods, has red eyes. However, his eyes have a darker red shade. This is a trait specific to the king; he inherits it the second he goes from heir to king.

“Jungkook,” Taehyung, his best friend makes his way inside his office.

The man looks up at his best friend before a bright smile appears on his face. It’s been a little while since they last saw each other. Taehyung has been traveling a lot lately; he said he wants to discover the world before settling with his mate. However, it looks like he doesn’t want to settle down at all.

“Hey, Tae,” he stands up to greet his best friend. “What are you doing here? I thought you were lost somewhere in France.”

“Well, I needed to come back,” he replies with a smile. “Couldn’t stay forever in France.”  

Both men start talking about what has been happening for the last month. Jungkook doesn’t go too much into detail. He only mentions he contacted a fertility clinic, and that he’s right now concerned about something happening in the Shadow pack.

Taehyung, on his side, tells his friend about all the places he went to. He was in Europe, discovering a lot of different countries. He definitely adored going around and discovering new cultures, new food, and meeting new people. For sure, his favorite place was Paris.

“Do you need any help with those Shadows research?” Taehyung asks casually although his sharp gaze indicates that he already knows the answer.

Jungkook nods, his shoulders visibly tense. He’s never been one to ask for help, but this time he definitely would need some.

“I wouldn’t refuse it,” he answers to his most trusted friend.

Taehyung crosses his arms, leaning against Jungkook’s wooden bookcase.

“What exactly are you looking for?” he frowns while grabbing a book.  

“I don’t really know,” Jungkook says. “A record, a mention, a trace of a couple that died or disappeared,” he explains.

Taehyung looks up at his friend before looking down at the book again. By pure coincidence, the book he’s holding is an old one about the different werewolf packs. It’s one of the first books he read; it details the characteristics of each pack.

“A couple who died or disappeared?” he repeats his friend’s words. “Is this by any chance related to a girl?”

Jungkook freezes for a split second, but it’s enough for Taehyung to catch. He’s been very observant, especially when it comes to Jungkook.

“No,” he lies, his voice steady and firm.

Taehyung isn’t convinced; his eyes narrow as he studies his friend. He knows Jungkook better than anyone else, and while he’s very good at hiding his emotions, there’s something in his posture, something in the way he’s looking at Taehyung, that betrays him.

 “You’re unreadable when you want it, you know that?” Taehyung finally says, walking closer to his friend who is standing behind his desk. “But something tells me this isn’t just about finding old records. If you’re diving into the Shadows' history, there’s a good reason behind it. You don’t waste your time on anything without a reason.”

Jungkook sights while running a hand through his hair. “It’s complicated, Tae.”

“You know I’m here, right? Whatever this is, whatever you’re digging into, you don’t have to do it alone.”  

The werewolf king would love to tell him everything, but he doesn’t want to involve anyone at this stage. First, he needs to make sure you’re a werewolf, and only then, he’ll reveal it.

“I know, Tae. I just need to be sure before I tell you anything,” his voice lowers. “Before I tell anyone anything.”

Taehyung nods, understanding that his best friend will share when he’s ready.

“Alright,” he says. “I’ll start digging into the Shadow Pack archives. See if I can find anything about missing couples and unexplained disappearances.”

Taehyung’s aunt is married to a Shadow alpha so it will definitely help. As a king, he for sure has access to a lot of records, but not everything. Each pack has its own secrets, and that’s the beauty of it. If Jungkook knew everything, his job would be boring. There’s always something new to unveil. Like your past.

Taehyung disappears a little while after, leaving Jungkook alone with his eyes fixed on the flames in the fireplace. The shadows dance across the stone walls, but his mind is somewhere else, on you, and on the fragile heartbeat growing inside you. He can still hear it perfectly.

He runs a hand down his face before letting out a deep breath. This was never supposed to go down like that. This mistake was never supposed to happen. But the raw and undeniable truth has already sunk its claws into him.  

How can he turn away from this? From you? From the baby?

He remembers the flicker of blue in your eyes. It’s been replaying constantly on his mind, but what is deeply engraved in him is this connection with you. He constantly feels your presence around him, something he’s never felt with anyone else.  

Even though he’s been deeply sorry to have brought you to his world, this flicker of blue made him realize that he brought you to your world. A world you didn’t know existed until he revealed it. His duty has been telling him to stay away, but he can’t.

The thought creeps in quietly, yet with unshakable certainty: This was never a mistake.  

The world may call it an accident, but Jungkook can feel something deeper, something ancient, something undeniable. Fate, destiny… whatever name it might have, it brought the two of you here. Together.

Every choice and every moment has led to this point. To you.

Now, standing quietly in his study, he feels the truth settling deep in his bones. This child growing inside you was always meant to happen. Jungkook leans against the edge of his desk.

“I can’t abandon this child, my child,” he whispers to himself. “I can’t abandon yn.”

It isn’t about duty anymore. It’s about you. It’s about the fragile life caught between two worlds, and the bond he can already feel forming. Whether he’s ready to admit it or not. Jungkook straightens up, shoulders squared, and jaw tight. The king in him knows what needs to be done, but the man knows what he wants to do.

“I’m staying,” he runs his hand over his hair.

This isn’t just a choice. It’s the acceptance of what was always meant to be. Whatever challenges await, Jungkook knows one thing with absolute certainty: This was always supposed to happen.

For the past five days, Jungkook and Taehyung have been trying to find anything about missing couples and mysterious disappearances, but it’s been in vain. There’s absolutely nothing. Thirty years ago, nothing special happened.

However, Jungkook asked Sungmin, Taehyung’s uncle to meet. Records are one thing, but Jungkook knows better than anyone that there might have been something off records that happened. Some secrets are kept hidden, locked away in the minds of those who lived them.

“Thanks for having me, Mister Song,” Jungkook says as he enters Sungmin’s house.

“I couldn’t refuse my king’s visit,” he replies with a warm smile.

Many people believe that the Alphas of every pack refuse the authority of a king, but those closest to the throne are often the first to kneel. For sure, Jungkook’s natural leadership certainly helps. However, the truth is that the werewolf hierarchy isn’t just a tradition; it’s more than that. Every werewolf deeply holds onto it.

“I could say that I’m surprised, but it’d be a lie,” he admits while he guides Jungkook towards the terrace. “I was expecting it after Tae’s request.”

“I imagine,” Jungkook responds.

The covered terrace is a serene and private space. Jungkook’s eyes quickly scan the surroundings. It’s a little but pretty space. Plates, cups, and a selection of biscuits are neatly arranged on the modest wooden table.

“Would you like some coffee or tea?” Sungmin gestures for Jungkook to sit.

“A coffee would be fine,” Jungkook answers.

The man takes one of the porcelain carafes on the table and carefully pours the drink into a cup, placing it in front of Jungkook.

“I was originally looking for a couple’s death or disappearances in your pack, but I couldn’t find anything documented,” Jungkook is straightforward.

Sungmin nods thoughtfully. “When do you believe this event happened?”

“Around thirty years ago,” he says.

Tae’s uncle freezes for a brief moment at his answers. His eyes flicker with something that Jungkook recognizes instantly: recognition mixed with hesitation. This is it. This might be the key to understanding your past.

“Something did happen thirty years ago,” Sungmin admits. “But we didn’t keep any trace of it out of respect to the family concerned.”

Jungkook is definitely very intrigued about this.

“The eldest daughter of an estimated member of our pack fell in love with a human. Despite our objections, she decided to run away with him. We all knew why,” he shakes his head as he remembers the sad story. “She was pregnant with that human child.”

The werewolf king listens patiently, absorbing every word.

“We didn’t inform your father immediately as we thought we could handle it ourselves. Involving the king into this would have drawn unwanted attention to this. For us, Shadows, discretion is everything.”

Jungkook nods, knowing perfectly the Shadow’s reputation. They are the ghosts of the werewolf world, unseen and often unheard, but fiercely loyal and deadly when necessary. The Shadows blend into their surroundings, disappearing when needed.

“We looked for them for years but couldn’t find them,” he seems really affected as he recalls what happened. “They were clever. They stayed hidden, and after nine years, we had no choice but to involve your father.”

Jungkook nods, understanding that after all that time, it’s normal to be reaching out to the king. “And he found them.”

Sungmin sighs deeply. “Yes. Your father had better resources than us. Within a year, he found them. Thankfully, this stayed between us and the king. He let us deal with this internally,” he explains.

The air feels heavier now, the weight of unspoken words pressing down on the two men.

“They were living in a totally different city. And they had indeed a child. A ten-year-old kid…”

Jungkook notices how hard it is for Sungmin to remember this terrible event.  

“It was very hard to end their lives, but we had to. The woman, her human mate, the kid, the life they had built… all of it was extinguished.”

Sungmin pauses, his throat tightening. For a moment, Jungkook sees the weight of guilt appearing on the older Alpha’s face.

“Killing a child was way too hard, but hybrids are forbidden. A child of two worlds, carrying both human and werewolf blood could destabilize everything. We told ourselves it was necessary.”  

Jungkook grips the edge of his coffee cup, his jaw clenched. The thought of such a decision sits uneasily within him. He’s not sure he would have had the strength to do that. It is one thing to terminate a pregnancy, but killing a ten-year-old child is totally another story.

“Did anyone else know about this? Anyone outside the pack?”

“No, only your father, and now you.”

“Do you think it’s possible that the child survived?” Jungkook asks, his voice steady but intense.

Sungmin looks directly into his king’s eyes. “We are certain they didn’t.”  

Jungkook leans back in the chair, his mind racing. If the child had somehow survived, if they had slipped through the cracks of fate, then everything changes. And if that child was you… He shakes his head, not sure that it’s possible.

“Thank you, Mister Song. This has been illuminating.”

Jungkook steps away, his heart beating fast. There are too many resemblances between this story and your story.

To yn: hi yn, could we meet tonight or tomorrow?

Barely a minute later he receives an answer.

From yn: hi Jungkook, tonight is fine. Same place as last time?

To yn: sure

As you’re walking towards the location you agreed with Jungkook, you try to understand the reason behind his sudden need to talk to you. This is unexpected for you, so it definitely makes you nervous. Is he going to tell you that he changed his mind about the baby? Is he going to pressure you to abort considering the hybrid situation? Or even worse, has something happened? Your mind races through every possibility.

“Calm down, yn,” you mumble to yourself.

You take a deep breath, your eyes closing for a brief moment. The beating of your heart drums in your ears, and slowly, you can hear it calming down. You can’t start overthinking before you even get to listen to what Jungkook wants to tell you. Maybe it’s nothing serious or something you have to really worry about.

When you arrive, you notice you’re the first one; Jungkook hasn’t arrived yet. So, you decide to sit on the closest bench. You look at the passersby walking around you with ‘Tití Me Perguntó’ from Bad Bunny playing in your headphones. It’s one of your favorite songs.

After a couple of minutes, you feel Jungkook’s presence. Your eyes stare at the surroundings to check if he’s indeed nearby. Your senses are right, you see a man walking in your direction. Even when he walks, he has such an imposing posture.

This presence feeling grows stronger as he gets closer to you, and you can’t seem to look away, as if your eyes are glued on him. Weird things have been happening with Jungkook since you’ve met him, and you can’t quite explain them.

Once he’s in front of you, you stand up, a smile naturally growing on your face. He’s incredibly handsome and charming. Once again, he has opted for a casual look: a white shirt layered under a leather jacket completed with loose, brown suede-like pants.

His strong presence near you soothes you in a way you never experienced before. All the nervousness you were feeling minutes ago is completely washed away. His strong and bestial scent fills the air and calms down your racing thoughts.

For a moment, you remain in silence, but it isn’t an awkward one. It’s actually quite the opposite. His gaze holds yours, and the intensity of his eyes draws you even more. It feels like none of you needs to speak. It is as if the two of you are communicating on a deeper level that doesn’t need language.

“Hi,” you break the silence.

“Hey, yn,” he takes a step closer.

By the way he approaches you, you sense he’s about to hug you or something similar. You prepare yourself for such, but he ends up not doing it. Jungkook just stands there, a shy smile appearing on his face.

“How have you been feeling?” he asks with evident concern in his voice.

As always, being around him comforts you. It makes you feel like you don’t need to hold anything back. There’s no need to hide your thoughts and feelings behind a mask. You can be entirely honest, saying what you truly feel without the fear of being judged. It’s part of the weird things you’ve been experiencing with Jungkook. It’s something you never felt with anyone else, not even an ex. This makes you wonder just how much this connection truly means.

“Very much torn apart by the decision I need to make,” you admit.

“Have you already considered one of them?” he questions.

You decide to sit down on the bench, your hands rubbing your face. Should you be telling him that you’re very much inclined to keep the baby? Isn’t it better if he doesn’t know anything? In any case, he won’t be around anymore. He said he’d walk away.

“I’ve kind of made a decision,” you try to be as vague as possible.

Jungkook takes a seat next to you. This time around, he doesn’t seem to try to look away from you. His deep dark orbs stare straight into your eyes. As usual, he’s pretty much unreadable, but he has that soft expression on his face. It almost looks like he truly cares and worries about you.

“In case you…” he seems to hesitate, but he doesn’t look away. “If you keep the baby,” he continues, and your heart starts hammering in your chest. “I think I won’t be able to step away.”

You close your eyes while taking a deep breath. You’re not sure what you’re supposed to be feeling right now.

“I thought stepping away was the right decision,” he starts explaining. “Every time I tried to pull back, I find myself being drawn to you… to our child.”

The word ‘our child’ sends shivers down your spine.   

“I can’t turn my back on this—not on you, not on them.”

As he says those words, his eyes look down at your stomach, where a precious life is growing. Even though your eyes are closed, you can feel his gaze on you. You can feel it on your baby. You can simply feel Jungkook. His entire being calls for you, and your body responds to it by being completely drawn to him.

“Why now?” your voice trembles as your eyes open to look at him. “What has changed?”

This doesn’t make any sense. Almost a month ago, he told you that he couldn’t father this child because you aren’t a werewolf, and that this child's existence is completely forbidden. Things are still the same, nothing has changed since then.

“You said you couldn’t have this child because of the whole werewolf thing,” your voice tone is slowly getting higher.

Jungkook’s face now seems to soften and it looks like he carries an emotional weight. There is definitely something going on that you can’t quite explain. And it’s scaring you.

“I think…” he runs his hand through his hair, a nervous gesture you’ve started to recognize. “You’re not just a woman carrying my child,” he seems to struggle to express what’s inside his mind. “I think you might be one of us.”

His words hand in the air, your entire body freezing. For a moment, it feels like the world completely stopped moving. You blink at him, trying to process the enormity of what he just said. At this stage it feels like, Jungkook likes to make cruel jokes. First, it’s the werewolf world, and now, it’s this. How on earth can you be a werewolf? It’s simply impossible. If that was the case, you would have already turned or something like that.

“What are you talking about?” the sharpness of your voice even surprises you.  

Anger grows inside you, but it masks the deeper emotion of fear that you can feel. Your heart starts pounding erratically in your chest as the air grows heavier. How dare he? How dare he turn your world upside down with this unbelievable claim? You stand up, trying to calm yourself down.

“That’s impossible,” you say with a trembling voice.

You rest a hand on top of your heart, trying to anchor yourself, but the panic bubbling beneath your surface is relentless. The thought of upsetting the baby crosses your mind, but it doesn’t help to calm you.

Jungkook stands as well, hands raising as if he’s about to reassure you, but as he does so, he watches you disappear before his eyes.

“It’s incredible,” he whispers to himself.

Now, he has solid proof that you’re indeed a werewolf, a member of the Shadow pack.

“Yn, listen to me.”

“No, Jungkook,” you cut him off. “I am not a werewolf. That’s ridiculous. If I were one, I would have transformed or something like that.”

“Maybe,” he says quietly. “But you didn’t know you were one so things might work differently in that case.”

“Stop!” you scream. “Just stop. Do you even hear yourself? Do you even realize what you’re saying?”

Jungkook stands there, looking somewhere, but he doesn’t even know where you are.

“Take your phone, yn,” he tells you.

“What?” you say with evident surprise, and your anger turns into confusion.

“Just take your phone,” he repeats, his tone calm but firm.

Still breathing heavily and with shaky hands, you look for your phone in your purse. You’re not sure why he’s saying that or what to expect when you look at your phone.

“Now, pretend like you’ll take a selfie.”

As you look at him, there is something in his expression that compels you to obey. Slowly you lift your phone, positioning it in front of your face. The moment your screen comes into view, your breath catches in your throat. Your reflection is completely gone.

Your mind struggles to understand what is going on. The town square is visible in the background, clear as day, but your face is missing. It’s as though you’ve been erased from existence.  

“What is happening?” you almost scream. “What kind of sorcery is this?”

Your gaze remains glued to the phone, your hand trembling so much that the image blurs. You’re gone. Completely gone. Your hand instinctively goes to your face, touching your skin as though it might bring you back into view. But when you glance at the screen again, even your hand remains invisible. This can’t be true. How can you even disappear? How is that possible?

“It’s not sorcery,” he calmly replies. “It’s you. It’s your nature. Only a werewolf can do that.”

“No! That’s not true. That’s not who I am. I’m human. I’ve always been human,” you shake your head before putting your phone back in your purse. “But I’m carrying your child so that must be it.”

Jungkook shakes his head.

“That’s not how it works, yn. I swear,” he’s trying to look for you, so it makes him look like a crazy man. “Pregnancies only bring out even more any abilities someone has,” he explains. “This pregnancy is simply revealing your true nature.”

Tears stream down your face while your heart hurts.

“Have you been experiencing some weird stuff lately?” he says. “Like heightened hearing or smell or night vision or superhuman strength or even super speed.”

Then, your body freezes once more.

“No,” you answer, and for a moment, you hesitate to reveal the truth. “But I’ve always had heightened hearing and smell, and I perfectly see in the dark.”

This all confirms what he says. You’re a werewolf.  

“I can hear your heartbeat,” you add. “I can hear everybody's heartbeats, even the baby’s.”

You close your eyes, the truth violently hitting you. All this time you’ve been a werewolf, and nobody told you anything. You’re not sure Felix knows it, but it hurts to realize that your parents hid something so big from you. It’s your nature after all. 

“You have your answer, yn,” he responds.

Now, you’re crying because the world is collapsing underneath your feet. Your life has been filled with lies, and you’re only discovering this now. It hurts even more that it’s the father of your child who’s revealing this and not your parents.

Jungkook follows the sound of your tears to come closer. You fall in his arms, holding him as tight as possible. He tries to hold you back in his arms, but he doesn’t see you at all. The only thing that can make you reappear is for you to relax. Your emotions are the keys to your powers.

“Focus on the baby’s heartbeat,” he murmurs in your ear. “Focus only on that.”

While tears keep running down your face, you try to search for your baby’s heartbeat. It’s super faint, but you quickly find it. This little sound has rocked you to sleep so many times, and it’s one of the most comforting sounds you’ve ever heard.

“Tudum, Tudum, Tudum,” Jungkook starts mimicking the sound of the baby’s beat.

You close your eyes to only focus on that sound. Slowly but surely, you reappear which reassures Jungkook, and he holds you tighter in his arms. His warm embrace and the sound of the baby’s heartbeat calm you down. He presses a gentle kiss on your head while his hands start to soothe your back. Seeing you like this is heartbreaking, and he hates the fact that he was the one delivering this news.

For a little while, you both remain like this, and his arms feel like the safest place on earth. Even if you hate this entire situation, his presence reassures you. Everything about this moment right now appeases your soul. There is absolutely no doubt that the reality you now have to face is devastating, but you feel like you’ll have Jungkook by your side. And strangely, it seems like it’s the only thing that you need.

Today was a hell of a day!

Everything was simply awful, and it felt like it was a never-ending day. Your mind was constantly thinking about the words Jungkook said. ‘I think you might be one of us.’ You swear you could hear them on repeat all day long.  

Due to how you’ve been feeling, you’ve left everybody on read—even Jungkook. Dealing with this strange reality is too heavy, and you need space. You need some time to digest the news. You need time to simply breathe.

Once you’re at home, you wrap yourself in your Harry Potter robe, lay on the couch, and play the first Harry Potter movie. Right now, all you need is to find comfort in something, and Harry Potter is your escape.

Although the movie is playing in the background, you’re not really watching it. Your thoughts are totally lost somewhere else, somewhere that includes werewolves. You can’t believe that this is your new reality. It hurts deeply that your parents never said anything to you. How could they keep something so monumental from you? Were they intending to let this part of themselves, this part of you die in silence?

Things would have been completely different if they had informed you about that side of you. Maybe you would have sought answers earlier. Maybe you would have explored what it means to carry this legacy. There is a whole culture, heritage, and part of yourself that you’ve missed out on for thirty years. And what hurts the most is that you hate your parents right now. For years, you’ve been hating your parents’ murderer, and now, the tables have turned.

You hate them for what they withheld, for what they never gave you a chance to understand.

This whole journey of becoming a mom has been a complete nightmare. This hasn’t been going as planned. This has been anything but easy. And now, it leaves you wondering if you should really keep the baby. Maybe, you should simply terminate the pregnancy and leave this all behind. But will this be so simple? Obviously, not.

Terminating the pregnancy won’t change anything. It wouldn’t change the fact that Jungkook came into your life to completely wreck your world. Cutting short the life growing inside you will probably just make you feel guilty for doing it. Jungkook won’t disappear, and neither will your wolf side.

This isn’t fair.

Fairness has never been part of your life. It feels like your life has always been robbed. Everybody has been controlling it, making you feel completely powerless all the time. This pregnancy was about gaining control again, but even like that, it wasn’t. A big part of you wants to keep this baby, and you’re very much inclined to keep them. But you don’t know. Jungkook’s revelation still needs to be processed.

“What am I going to do, baby?” you whisper as your hands naturally caress your stomach.

In the end, this baby isn’t a hybrid one. They’re fully a werewolf. You can understand why Jungkook changed his mind. He didn’t want the child because he believed it was a hybrid, something completely forbidden in his world. But now that it’s not the case, he wants to be part of his child's life, if you keep it.

It makes perfect sense, but the hurt remains. He gets what he wants, doesn’t he? The chance to raise his child. But what about you? What about what you want?

“You’re a wolfy,” you continue saying. “So, your daddy wants you now.”

However, if you keep this child, you’ll have to teach them what it means to be a werewolf. You’ll have to guide and prepare them for a life you know nothing about. You’ll have to learn everything with them; every instinct, every tradition, and every secret. You’ll develop your wolf’s abilities together. This life inside you isn’t just a new life; it’s a symbol of your own transformation. This child represents the end of your human life and the beginning of something different.

Are you ready for that?

You’re not sure. You’re not sure if you want to embark on this new journey. A journey where you figure out who and what you are. A journey where you’ll have to dig into your parents’ past. A journey where you’ll have to face your ghosts. A journey where you might find all the answers you’ve always desired to have.

Jungkook seems to hold the key to all of that. The truth, the answers, and the future. You need him, more than you want to admit. He’s the only werewolf you know, and he might as well be your guide on this.

Even if everything scares you, this is what will help you to figure out what happened to your parents twenty years ago. This is the key to finally getting to truly know them. This hasn’t been going as you planned it, but it has been going the way you need it.  

For now, you’re simply going to enjoy this comforting and reassuring movie before truly facing this new reality of yours. Tonight is your last night as a human, and tomorrow, you’ll start to understand what it means to be a werewolf.

For the millionth time, you check that your apartment is perfectly cleaned and tidied. Jungkook is coming tonight; you’ve invited him over to discuss this werewolf thing. You’re incredibly nervous as you’re very scared of how things could go. Are you going to learn some unpleasant truths about your lineage?

Also, you can’t forget to tell him you have your first ultrasound tomorrow. He’ll probably want to come as he’s expressed his change of mind concerning this child. Your child. Instinctively your hand cradles your stomach.

Before the doorbell echoes in your apartment, you sense Jungkook’s presence behind the door. This thing of sensing him is definitely extremely weird, and you’re not even sure you’ll get used to it. But you guess, it’s part of being a werewolf.

You take a deep breath while opening the door to him. As he comes into view, his beauty takes your breath away. His hair is perfectly pushed back, only a strand of hair falling on his forehead. This time around, he’s dressed in a more formal outfit. Like the first time you met him at the clinic, he’s wearing a suit. Only this time, it’s a dark blue one.

And it fits him so well.

A smile grows on his face when his eyes lay on you. It warms your heart, and you can’t help but smile back at him.  

“Hi, yn,” he says.

“Hi, Jungkook,” you reply. “Come on in,” you take a step back to let him in.

Jungkook steps into your cocoon, his gaze briefly wandering at the entrance. With practiced ease, he shrugs off his long black coat, the movement accentuating the subtle play of his muscles. Your curious eyes can’t help but follow the way his shoulders shift and his arms flex as he removes his coat and slips off his shoes.

A little grin shows up when he realizes you’ve been staring at him. However, you both pretend you didn’t notice what the other was doing. It’s like you’re pretending you don’t feel drawn to each other.

“Would you like to drink or eat something?” you politely ask.

“No, no,” he shakes his head. “I’ve already eaten and drank enough for today,” a little giggle escapes his pretty lips. “I had a long and exhausting meeting this afternoon.”

“Oh,” you simply say. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to eat a bit because I’m quite hungry.”

His eyes inevitably look down at your stomach, the sound of the child’s heartbeat resonating in his ears. It’s such a comforting sound.

“No,” he answers. “Eat as much as you want.”

You drag him to the kitchen so you can eat something while you discuss about the madness that your life has become. You open the cabinets to check what you have, but then, you remember you bought your favorite yogurt two days ago. Without no further hesitation, you move to the fridge, grab it together with a spoon, and start eating it.

While you do that, Jungkook’s eyes are glued on you. His stare carefully follows you as you move through the kitchen. Honestly, he’s glad to be here with you; he finally gets to see you in your comfort zone, and you definitely seem to be glowing in this place.

“Can I ask you what you do for a living?” you ask while bringing the spoon to your mouth.

His eyes follow your hand before looking up. He leans on the cabinets while never looking away from you. Jungkook crosses his arms on his chest and heavily considers what to tell you.

“Well…” he seems hesitant to reveal it. “I’m not sure you’re going to believe me.”

You tilt your head, wondering what it could be. Is he working with the mafia like you thought before he announced his wolfy side? Or is he some kind of criminal? Or is it the opposite, like a doctor?

“Try me,” you tease him.

Jungkook didn’t know up until now how much he needed to hear the teasing tone in your voice.

His eyes never cease to follow your hand’s movements with the spoon. It’s mesmerizing, holding him captive as if he’s unable to look away. The way your lips wrap around the spoon sends shivers down his spine. Jungkook shakes his head, pushing away those weird thoughts. It’s inappropriate.

“I’m a king,” his tone is firm, leaving no room for doubts.

You almost choke with the spoon in your mouth. Of all the jobs you considered, this one definitely wasn’t on the list. This is beyond unexpected and by the way he looks, you know that he isn’t joking. You’ve seen his serious face so many times now, so you know he’s telling the truth.

“A king?” you repeat to make sure you heard it right.

Jungkook nods, and then, you can’t unsee it. This entire outfit breathes power—and money—, his charisma is beyond magnetic, and he has a strong presence. Let’s not forget about the unreadable face he always has on. There is definitely something royal about him, and he definitely looks like a king.

“That makes the child in my belly a future king or queen then?” you ask half-jokingly.

“Yep,” he answers. “And as a king, I’m expected to give the perfect heir, so the hybrid child wasn’t really one.”

When he explained the situation a month ago, everything made sense, but now it makes even more sense. This child carries royal blood.

“I’m not carrying anyone’s kid,” you playfully say. “A king,” you whisper.

This definitely changes your view of the situation. Now that he wants this child, it makes them the heir to the werewolf throne. The baby growing inside you will one day be a king or a queen. It makes you feel important but scared as well.

“It’s crazy,” you look up at him while bringing the spoon to your mouth once more.

Right there and then, your heart skips a beat when you realize the way he’s looking at you, or should you say, the way his eyes are devouring you. You can’t remember the last time someone looked at you in that way.

“It is,” he admits.

“And what does a werewolf king do exactly?” you curiously ask.

“Many things,” he smiles at you. “I’m the supreme leader of the packs which makes me the bridge between them. If any issue arises between them, I have to resolve them and also make sure the werewolves follow the rules. I’m also their protector. I must ensure the laws are respected and nobody reveals our secrets. And do many other things, but those are the most important ones.”

You nod, wondering if these responsibilities aren’t too much of a burden for him. It mustn’t be easy to be the one making decisions, and it definitely sounds like the entire werewolf world relies on him.

“And you?” he asks. “What do you do?”

A bright smile appears on your face. “I’m an Elementary teacher.”

Thinking about the little kids you see every day simply makes you happy. Being able to give those little humans the tools they need to grow in this world is one of the most fulfilling things. This job has been healing your inner child because teaching those young children has allowed you to guide and give them a stability you never had in your childhood.

“Oh, nice,” he says.

The yogurt is now over so you suggest going to the living room. This way, you’ll be sitting comfortably on the couch while discussing the hot topic. Werewolves.

Last night, while in bed, you were mentally going through all the questions you might have for him. There is so much for you to know about this new world, this new heritage. For sure, last night, you didn’t know he was a king, but now that you do, you believe that he might help you a lot more than expected.  

Jungkook sits down next to you, and you decide to face each other.

“So,” you start saying. “I guess you can imagine why I invited you.”

The man sitting next to you nods. “Your wolf blood.”

“Indeed,” you nod as you speak. “I have a lot of questions.”

You don’t even know where to start.

“You said there are packs,” you begin. “Would you know to which pack I belong?”

“Yes,” he answers without hesitation. “The Shadow pack,” he pauses for a couple of seconds. “Each pack has a wolf eye color. Mine is red as you’ve already seen, which indicates that I’m the king and member of The Blood pack. The Shadow’s eye color is blue, and for the third and last pack, The Lunar, it’s white,” he explains. “A week ago, I saw your eyes turning blue, that’s how I discovered it.”

The Shadow, The Blood, and The Lunar. Three packs. You mentally register the information he gives you. There is so much to discover about this new reality.

“The Shadows also have unique abilities, one of them being the fact that they can blur into their surroundings.”

That’s what happened to you two days ago after he revealed your true nature. It was just the confirmation of who you are.

“As far as I can remember, I’ve only had heightened senses, but I never came to shift into a wolf. How is that possible?”

“That is something I ignore,” he admits. “You’re the first werewolf who didn’t grow up with her pack’s member. My first guess is the ignorance of your nature prevented it from fully revealing itself.”

You look down at your feet on the couch. It seems so weird that only a part of your abilities has revealed itself throughout your life.

“I’ve tried to find something about you, but I couldn’t,” he admits. “I even reached out to an Alpha of the pack, but nothing.”

“Oh,” you simply say, your eyes meeting his. “Do you think I could meet that Alpha?”

“Yes,” he smiles at you. “I’m sure he’d be happy to meet you, and he might probably help you more than me with your past and even your abilities.”

Jungkook then proceeds to explain how the werewolf world works. There is a hierarchy. Alpha, Beta, Delta, and Omega. Alpha being the highest rank, and you only achieve it once you fully master your powers. Logically, you’re an Omega as you barely know what you can do. Jungkook is an Alpha which makes sense since he’s a king.

If you keep the baby, they will automatically become an Alpha when they become king or queen. Things work a bit differently for the royal family.

Normally, a werewolf experiences their first shift on the first full moon of their fourteenth anniversary. The difference with the royal family is the fact that they experience that at ten years old. It’s quite early in life, but that allows them to master their abilities a lot earlier than any other werewolf.

Obviously, the parents and the family remain by your side throughout your first full moon. They guide you through the pain when transforming, and they stay with you while you’re a wolf. Jungkook tells you that the first transformation is very hard to handle. The pain is unbearable and once you’re a wolf, all your human senses disappear. You’re just a beast. A hunting beast. Having your family by your side prevents you from killing anyone or anything. Slowly and with a lot of work, you are able to control that primal urge.

The question left hanging is when and if you’ll transform. If this pregnancy brings out your wolf blood, there are higher chances that you’ll experience your first full moon. But Jungkook doesn’t have an answer to give.  

Then, he informs you that you can’t transform someone by biting them, that’s an absolute myth. Being a werewolf is genetic. You inherit it from your parents, and you’ll give that gene to your children. Thus, the importance of maintaining pure blood.    

 “For now, I guess that’s all,” you tell him once you’ve asked all the questions.

“Since the next full moon is in two days, I’d like to be with you in case you transform,” he says.

Well, you don’t have much of a choice. There’s this unknown about you, and you wouldn’t like to be alone during your first full moon, especially if it’s painful and bestial.

“Thanks,” you mumble while looking down.

Jungkook offers you a little smile.

“I’m by your side now, yn,” he places his fingers under your chin to slowly lift your head. “I won’t let you navigate this alone.”

His eyes shine with sincerity. You’re thankful that, in the middle of this chaos, you found Jungkook. This man brings so much comfort and seems to have one of the prettiest hearts you have encountered.

“And I’ll support you no matter what you decide with the baby,” he adds.

You remain in silence for a moment, your eyes scanning his soft face. You’ve never seen him this close. You’ve never noticed that little mole under his lips, or the little scar on his cheek, or how perfectly round his nose is. He looks even prettier this closely.  

The decision about your child has already been made, but you haven’t said it out loud yet. Jungkook will be the first one to know, and it makes sense since he’s the father.

“I’m going to keep the baby,” you reveal.  

Chapter Eight

The kitchen looked different now that you had finally finished organizing it.

The last cabinet door closed with a soft click, and the room fell into that warm evening stillness that felt like a sigh after a long day. The countertops were clean, the spices finally lined up in a neat row, and your mismatched bowls were stacked with a kind of accidental charm. It was the first time the place felt like you had pressed your fingerprints into it, like you weren’t just visiting someone else’s life.

Jungkook appeared in the doorway, hair still damp, dark strands clinging to his forehead. He wore a plain shirt and sweatpants, simple but still somehow too effortlessly handsome for someone who claimed he never tried. A faint trail of steam followed him, smelling faintly of the soap he used.

“You’re done?” he asked as he stepped inside, rubbing the towel over his hair one last time.

“Yeah,” you said, wiping your palms on your shorts. “I’ll just go and shower. You can pick whatever you want for dinner.”

He nodded. “Okay. I’ll order something. Something you’ll actually like tonight, not whatever the algorithm says you ‘might enjoy.’”

His small teasing smile warmed your chest more than you wanted to admit.

You laughed softly. “Then surprise me.”

“I will,” he said, and his voice carried that quiet certainty he always had, the kind that made even mundane moments feel grounded.

You walked past him toward the bathroom, and he didn’t touch you or say anything else, but you felt his presence lingering behind you, steady and warm.

When the bathroom door closed, the world muffled.

The water hit your skin like a soft curtain, fog beginning to rise and blur the mirror. The heat should’ve relaxed your muscles, but the knot in your chest refused to loosen.

Because Taehyung’s message was still sitting at the top of your screen.

We need to talk.

Please. I think I deserve to know the truth.

You leaned your forehead against the cool tile, the water streaming down your back as if trying to rinse away a story you never got the chance to end properly.

The memory came back with painful clarity.

It was past midnight when the phone rang that night.

You already knew, even before answering, that it was another canceled flight. You sat curled on your bed with your knees pulled close, the lamp casting a weak glow around your room.

“Y/N?” Taehyung’s voice echoed through the speaker, gentle yet tired.

You swallowed hard. “Tell me.”

He sighed, and the sound felt like it slid straight into your chest.

“I’m so sorry. They need me for another week. I tried to—”

“You promised,” you whispered, your voice cracking as you pressed a hand to your forehead. “You promised you’d be home this time.”

“I know,” he said. “I really tried, but something came up and—”

“It always comes up, Tae.” Your tears slipped silently, landing on your wrist. You hated crying, hated sounding like you were begging for something so basic. “I miss you. I feel like I’m dating a voice on the other side of the world.”

There was a long silence.

When he finally spoke, his voice was soft. “I miss you too. But I’m doing this for us.”

You shook your head even though he couldn’t see. “I don’t know what ‘us’ even means anymore.”

“You know I love you,” he said, almost pleading. “You know that.”

“I do,” you whispered. You truly did.

But love wasn’t the problem.

You loved him, but you were constantly counting time zones and waiting for messages that arrived hours late. You were always adjusting your life around his world while he barely had time to look toward yours.

“I can’t keep doing this,” you finally said, voice trembling.

Taehyung sounded stunned. “What do you mean? You’re breaking up with me? Because of distance? Because of work?”

“Because I feel like I’m the only one trying to meet halfway,” you said softly. “You don’t even take vacations anymore, Tae. You don’t try to come home unless it’s convenient.”

“That isn’t fair,” he said, hurt lacing his words. “You know I can’t just leave.”

“That’s the point. You can’t leave. Not even when you promise. And I’m left waiting every time.”

He went quiet. Then, in a quieter voice:

“Is there someone else?”

The question shattered you, because it showed how far apart you’d become.

“No,” you said, wiping your face. “There’s no one else. I’m just tired of feeling like an afterthought.”

You heard him breathe in sharply. “I don’t want to break up.”

“I know,” you whispered. “But I think it’s the only way for me to stop hurting.”

He didn’t say anything after that.

You stayed on the line for a while, two people who once shared everything, now unable to find the same rhythm.

That was the last real conversation you had.

After that, the messages faded until they disappeared entirely.

You closed your eyes under the water, letting it hit your shoulders as if it could wash away the memory.

But Taehyung standing in the grocery aisle earlier, his expression unsure but hopeful, replayed in your mind with perfect clarity.

You hadn’t expected to see him.

You hadn’t expected the past to walk back into your life with the same eyes that once made you feel chosen.

And now he wanted to talk.

He deserved closure. You knew that.

The steam thickened, curling around you like a fog of tangled thoughts. You felt your chest tighten as guilt and confusion wrestled with each other.

You stayed in the shower longer than needed, until the water began to lose its heat.

When you stepped out into the hallway, hair wrapped in a towel, the house smelled like food. Something warm and comforting. Jungkook was at the dining table, setting down two takeout containers.

“You’re done?” he asked, glancing up with that small smile that was becoming familiar.

“Yeah.” You walked toward him, trying to hide the heaviness sitting behind your ribs.

“You okay?” he asked, noticing the quietness in your movements.

You nodded too quickly. “Just tired.”

He didn’t press. He simply motioned to the chair. “Sit. Eat first.”

You sat, and he placed the food in front of you.

Simple dishes, not flashy, but warm and grounding. Things he had noticed you reaching for when you were stressed.

“Did you see the grocery bag?” you asked gently. “I put the fruits in the fridge and the vegetables in the bottom drawer. The extra rice is in the pantry.”

He nodded. “I saw. Thank you for doing all that.”

Something about the way he said it—soft, sincere—made you blink rapidly for a moment.

Jungkook ate quietly, occasionally glancing at you as if trying to understand the weight behind your silence.

He didn’t pry, but his presence felt like a steady hand on your back.

The morning sunlight had barely settled across the dining table when your phone buzzed for the fourth time. You were sharing breakfast with Jungkook, half-asleep and still warm from the soft, peaceful sleep the two of you managed to fall into the night before. The room smelled like toasted bread and the fresh coffee he had brewed for you, a simple domestic scene you never imagined having with him, and one you didn’t know how long you deserved to keep.

Jungkook was stirring his coffee slowly when your phone vibrated again, the sound sharp in the quiet kitchen.

“You’re popular today,” he said lightly, but there was curiosity behind the tease.

You glanced down.

Taehyung.

Your stomach tightened.

“It’s… Taehyung,” you said quietly.

Jungkook’s stirring spoon paused mid–circle. His shoulders tensed for just a second, barely enough to notice, but you caught it anyway.

“Oh.” His voice came out too quick, too tight, almost like he wasn’t ready to hear the name. “What… what for?”

You opened the message, your thumb hesitating above the screen.

“He wants to meet,” you said. “Talk.”

Jungkook’s jaw flexed before he caught himself. He blinked and looked away, as if realizing his reaction was too revealing. When he spoke again, his voice was gentler, almost careful.

“Are you… planning to?”

“Maybe,” you whispered.

The word felt heavier than it should’ve.

You looked at him, suddenly aware of how complicated this all must seem through his eyes. You weren’t sure what he expected, but you knew you owed him honesty, even if it stung.

“We didn’t end cleanly,” you said softly. “There were… things left unsaid. Taehyung and I dated for two years. We tried long distance when he got assigned overseas, and at first we really believed we could make it work. But the calls came less often, he cancelled flights, then he cancelled again. I didn’t feel like I mattered anymore. I waited too long for someone who couldn’t come home.”

Jungkook listened quietly, his expression soft but closed, like he was trying not to show how tight something inside him was winding.

“And when I finally said I wanted to break up,” you continued, “that was our last conversation over the phone. I hung up crying. He didn’t get to ask anything. I didn’t get to explain myself properly. I just… cut it.”

You placed your phone down, the screen dimming to black.

“I think I owe him closure,” you said. “Or at least the truth about why I did what I did.”

Jungkook’s fingers curled around his mug.

He nodded slowly, even though the movement looked like it cost him something.

“Then… you should go,” he said in a steady voice. But the steadiness cracked at the edges. “I mean, if it will help you.”

You searched his face. “Are you okay with it?”

He gave a small laugh, quiet and embarrassed. “I… don’t know what I’m supposed to feel. You don’t owe me anything. I’m not trying to stop you. It’s just—”

His words faltered for a moment.

“It’s weird,” he admitted softly. “Thinking about you with someone else. Even if it was before me. Even if… even if what we have is still new.”

There was no anger in his tone, no accusation, just an honest, tender discomfort that felt more intimate than anything else he could’ve said.

You felt warmth bloom in your chest.

“I’ll tell you before I go,” you whispered.

He nodded again but didn’t look up.

And the silence that followed—quiet, fragile, pulsing—felt like something shifting between you both.

You were cleaning up after breakfast when the doorbell rang. Jungkook frowned, glancing at the clock.

“That’s early,” he said.

He wiped his hands and walked to the door.

The moment he opened it, you heard a bright, familiar voice.

“Good morning, my beautiful children!”

Mrs. Jeon.

Jungkook’s sigh was nearly inaudible, but visible in his shoulders.

“Mom,” he said gently, “you didn’t tell me you were coming.”

“Nonsense. Do I need a schedule to see my son and daughter-in-law?”

She swept in like she owned every corner of the house.

Jungkook mumbled something about checking the fuse box.

You knew he wasn’t checking anything, he was escaping.

Which left you alone with the woman who had rewritten your life.

She sat gracefully on the couch and patted the seat beside her.

“Come sit with me, sweetheart.”

You obeyed, though nerves twisted in your stomach.

“You look tired,” she said, clasping your hands. “Is everything okay with Jungkook? Is he being attentive? He tends to bury himself in work.”

“He’s… been very good,” you said truthfully.

“Of course he has,” she smiled. “He takes after his father in the best ways.”

You swallowed quietly.

The guilt was rising again, thick and heavy.

“Mrs. Jeon,” you whispered before you lost the courage, “I… sometimes feel guilty.”

“Guilty?” Her brows lifted delicately. “Why?”

“Because I’m lying to him,” you confessed. “About my life. About who I really am. You gave me this new life, but sometimes it feels like I’m borrowing something that isn’t mine, and every day I worry the truth will ruin everything.”

She squeezed your hands warmly. “You are not lying anymore. You’re living the life we agreed on together. That makes it real.”

“But what if—”

Your voice cracked. “What if I forget who I used to be altogether?”

“Good,” she said simply. “Your old life has nothing to offer you now. This is your future. You must allow yourself to grow into it.”

The words felt like silk around your throat, soft but tightening.

She continued, delighted, “And with your honeymoon next week, everything is falling into place perfectly. Maldives is romantic, and I am expecting updates. Photos, stories. And once you both return…”

Her smile widened. “You can start thinking of giving me a grandchild.”

Your heart jumped painfully.

“M–ma’am—”

“I know, I know, you want to enjoy married life first,” she said. “But don’t wait too long. Timing is everything. And Jungkook would be such a wonderful father.”

You looked down, fingers curling into your palms.

You wanted to tell her she was pushing too far.

That you weren’t ready.

That you didn’t even know what you were to each other yet.

But you said nothing.

Because she wasn’t wrong, you signed the contract.

You stepped willingly into this life.

You agreed to the expectations she placed on you.

Even if they were starting to feel like chains disguised as blessings.

When Jungkook returned, dusting off his hands, Mrs. Jeon stood and clapped happily.

“You two look well,” she said. “I’ll leave you now. Take care of each other.”

The door clicked shut behind her, and silence expanded through the house.

Jungkook approached you cautiously.

“Did she say something?” he asked. “You look… quiet.”

You lifted your gaze. “Nothing bad.”

He looked unconvinced, but he didn’t push. Instead, he sat beside you, close enough that your legs brushed.

“You know,” he murmured, “if something is too much… you can tell me. I don’t want you to feel cornered.”

The sincerity in his voice nearly broke you.

You wished you could tell him everything.

But the past was knocking, and the present was unraveling faster than you could hold together.

The house smelled faintly of citrus after the deep cleaning you and Jungkook had been doing since late morning. Laundry hummed quietly in the background, sunlight washed through the windows like warm silk, and every corner of the living room was scattered with things you were still deciding where to place. A stack of books. A half-folded blanket. An empty photo frame that neither of you had touched yet.

You were kneeling by the bottom shelf of the TV console, organizing a row of candles you found earlier in a forgotten drawer. Jungkook was beside you, sleeves rolled up, rearranging the tangled mess of wires and small devices he kept insisting he would “deal with someday.”

It was peaceful—simple, domestic, grounding in a way you didn’t expect.

Then the topic slipped into the space between you so naturally you almost didn’t notice the shift:

Your honeymoon.

“You excited for the Maldives?” Jungkook asked, glancing over with a faint smile. He said it so casually, as if talking about paradise was just another line in the daily script of your life.

You swallowed, pushing a candle forward until it aligned with the others. “Yeah. It still doesn’t feel real. I’ve only ever seen pictures.”

“You’ll love it,” he said. “The water is so clear it looks unreal. And the air… it’s different there. Quiet. The good kind of quiet.” His voice softened, almost wistful. “I think we’ll both need that.”

You nodded slowly, taking in the way he said we.

Like it was natural. Like it was inevitable.

“And…” you hesitated, almost regretting the next words before they even left your mouth, “your mom mentioned it again.”

Jungkook stilled. “Mentioned what?”

You took a breath like someone stepping onto thin ice.

“That she wants a grandchild soon.”

His expression tightened, not angry, but disappointed in a way that carried a deep sigh. He leaned back on his hands, looking at the ceiling.

“Of course she did,” he muttered. “She’s been like that ever since we signed the papers.”

“She was really excited,” you said quietly. “She said she thinks we’re settling in well and… that she can’t wait for the baby phase.”

He let out a humorless laugh. “She needs to stop treating my life like a project.”

You looked down at your hands, unsure how to respond. Because the problem wasn’t just his mother, it was the contract. The expectations. The promise you never should’ve made.

“I don’t want you to feel pressured,” Jungkook said after a moment, sitting up straighter so he could look at you properly. “Not about this. Not about anything.”

“I know,” you murmured.

“I mean it.” His tone softened as he reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear before letting his hand fall. “I’m not in a rush. I just want to enjoy things with you first. Us. Whatever… this is.”

Your chest tightened unexpectedly.

A gentle warmth spreading until it grew too big to hold.

He continued, speaking slow, honest. “It doesn’t mean I don’t want a child someday. Maybe in a few years. But right now, I just want time. I want to travel with you. Learn your habits. See the way you look at the world. I want to build something real before we add something life-changing into it.”

Something real.

The words hit harder than you expected.

You nodded, eyes trained on the floor, because looking at him felt dangerous. “You’re right.”

“So ignore whatever my mom says.” He tried to lighten the tone with a small smile. “She’ll live.”

“I can’t,” you said quickly, too quickly.

His brows furrowed slightly. “Why not?”

Because I signed a contract to be her perfect daughter-in-law.

Because she paid for everything.

Because I owe her a life I don’t know how to live.

Because none of this was supposed to be real, and now it feels too real, and I don’t know how to untangle myself without hurting you.

The truth wanted to rise inside your throat, pressing against your ribs, but you strangled it down.

You felt your pulse rush, your breath quicken, not from fear of him, but from the weight of the lie sitting between your ribs. So you shook your head lightly and forced your voice into something steadier.

“She… she may get disappointed,” you finally said. “She’s been so kind to me. I don’t want to upset her.”

Jungkook leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Why do you care more about her feelings than your own comfort?”

His words weren’t accusing, they were curious, maybe even concerned. But they sliced right through the shield you were holding up.

“I don’t know,” you whispered.

Because you couldn’t tell him the real reason.

Because if he found out, everything would break.

He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. “You don’t have to do what she wants. You’re my wife in name, but you’re still your own person. I won’t let her decide our timeline.” He paused, eyes softening. “I don’t care what she wants if it makes you unhappy.”

Your throat tightened, the guilt sharp as glass.

You wanted to say thank you.

You wanted to say I’m sorry.

But all that came out was a fragile smile you prayed looked real.

Jungkook held your gaze for a long moment, long enough to sense the shift in you, even if he couldn’t piece together why.

Then he cleared his throat, pushing himself up. “Come on,” he said gently. “Let’s finish the bedroom before we lose the entire afternoon.”

You nodded, rising slowly and following him down the hallway.

But each step felt heavier, sinking deeper into the truth you kept locked inside your chest:

He was making space for a future with you

and you were living a life built on a lie.

A lie that would eventually break the moment he found it.

And as you watched him walk ahead of you, humming quietly under his breath, warm sunlight catching the damp strands of hair at the back of his neck, a part of you wondered:

When everything comes crashing down

who will it destroy first—

him, or you?

Night settled over the city in a slow sweep of gold turning into ink. By the time you and Jungkook stepped out of the elevator into the dim corridor of an old industrial building, the sky outside had grown heavy with clouds, as if preparing to hold whatever you were about to feel.

Jungkook walked slightly ahead of you, his hand loosely wrapped around your wrist, not pulling, not guiding, just lightly holding you close enough that you felt his warmth through your skin. There was something boyish in the way he moved tonight, a quiet excitement he tried to suppress but couldn’t entirely hide. Every few seconds he glanced over his shoulder at you with a small smile, one that made your chest tighten a bit more each time.

The door swung open on creaking hinges, and the world beyond it stole the words from your mouth.

His studio was nothing like you expected.

Warm light filled the space from mismatched lamps placed in odd corners, shadows dancing softly on the exposed brick walls. Photos, hundreds of them, covered nearly every surface. Some were pinned neatly on corkboards, others taped directly to the walls, others scattered on long wooden tables. There were cameras of all shapes and ages: vintage bodies with peeling leather, modern lenses gleaming under warm bulbs, and one heavy film camera set on a tripod like a sculpture.

It felt like stepping into Jungkook’s mind.

Into a world he never let anyone see.

You took a slow breath, your eyes drifting over the closest wall. Stunning landscapes, mountain peaks kissed by dawn light, narrow alleys in foreign cities, crowded marketplaces alive with color, quiet lakes reflecting the sky. And people. Many people. Smiling, crying, looking away from the camera, caught in moments they probably never realized someone cherished.

“You… did all of this?” you whispered.

“Yeah.” His voice was soft for once, almost shy. “These are from the last couple of years. Traveling, shooting, just trying to see the world a little differently.”

You moved further into the room, turning in a slow circle as though afraid you might miss something if you blinked. “It’s beautiful, Jungkook.”

He let out a breath that sounded almost like relief. “I wanted you to see this place. I don’t bring people here. Not even my friends.”

“Why me?”

The question slipped out before you could call it back.

He shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know. I just… wanted you to see a part of me that isn’t filtered through my mom, or the company, or the house, or the version of me I’m expected to be.”

He paused. “Just me.”

Your heart pinched.

Because he didn’t know how much you were hiding from him in return.

You walked toward a long table covered with printed photographs in various sizes. As you leaned over them, Jungkook moved behind you, close enough that you felt the warmth of his chest near your back.

“That one’s from Japan,” he murmured, pointing at a picture of a neon-lit street. “And this one’s from Greece. That one is Bali. I went for a week alone and took a photo every morning before the sun came up.”

You smiled softly, tracing the edges of a photo with your fingertip. “You see things beautifully.”

“I try.” His voice softened. “Feels different showing them to someone.”

Your chest tightened again. “Feels different how?”

His eyes lingered on you, almost unguarded. “Like they finally matter.”

You swallowed, warmth curling inside you like a trembling flower trying to bloom.

But then something shifted, an almost imperceptible tug in your chest, when you noticed a small collection of polaroids pinned neatly above the rest.

Jungkook standing beside a girl.

The same girl whose face you glimpsed days ago in the other polaroid tucked in his drawer.

Only this time, there were more.

Different locations.

Different expressions.

Different moments.

Her smile was soft, warm, a little shy.

And Jungkook looked happy beside her. Effortlessly, naturally, like someone who didn’t have to hide anything.

You didn’t touch the photos, didn’t even step closer. You stayed rooted to your spot, eyes frozen on a life he once had, or maybe still had. A life he hadn’t told you anything about.

His breath shifted behind you, subtle but there, and you knew he saw exactly what you were looking at.

Before you could think, you turned away, pretending to study another collection of pictures, your voice steady even though your stomach twisted.

“You’ve been to so many places,” you said, hoping he didn’t hear the small tremor hiding in your words.

He didn’t answer right away.

Not until he stood beside you again, shoulder brushing yours lightly.

“I don’t want you to get the wrong idea,” he said quietly.

Your heart stalled. “What idea?”

He paused, eyes searching your face as if trying to find the words before choosing them.

“She was important to me,” he said. “But that was a long time ago.”

How long?

Why did it end?

Why are the pictures still here?

The questions surged through you like rapid waves, but you held them back. You didn’t have the right to ask, not when every part of this marriage was built on a lie you created.

So you nodded, offering a small, polite smile. “You don’t have to explain anything, Jungkook.”

He frowned. “Maybe not. But I don’t want you to think I’m hiding something.”

You forced your voice to stay level. “You’re allowed to have a past. Everyone does.”

Jungkook studied you, his eyes softening with something unreadable. “I don’t know what this is turning into. But I don’t want you to feel like you’re competing with ghosts.”

You looked away before he could see what flickered across your face.

“I’m not,” you whispered. “I just… don’t know where I fit.”

He exhaled slowly, running his fingers lightly across the edge of a printed photo. “You fit right here,” he said. “In this moment. With me.”

The words almost broke something inside you.

Not because they weren’t beautiful,

but because they were beautiful,

and you didn’t deserve them.

You nodded once, unable to trust your voice.

Jungkook stepped closer, his shoulder brushing yours again, this time intentionally. “Come on,” he murmured. “There’s more I want to show you.”

You followed him deeper into the studio, but part of you stayed anchored to that wall of polaroids, to the girl whose face lingered like a quiet question you were too afraid to ask.

A question whose answer might undo everything.

The drive home was peaceful at first, the kind of silence that didn’t feel like distance but like comfort. The city glowed outside the windows, streetlights streaking across the glass, storefronts humming with life, couples walking hand in hand under the soft shimmer of evening. Jungkook had one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh, fingers tapping absent-mindedly to the quiet music coming from the radio.

You were thinking about the studio.

About the polaroids.

About the way he said “You fit right here.”

You didn’t realize you’d been staring at him until he glanced your way, his lips lifting in a small smile like he’d caught you but didn’t mind.

“What?” he asked gently.

“Nothing,” you murmured, but your chest warmed anyway.

Then, as if summoned by the shift in mood, the car slowed.

Jungkook’s eyes flicked toward something outside your window, a soft flicker of hesitation crossing his face. A large neon sign glowed in the distance: a two-floor arcade buzzing with kids, young adults, and couples laughing as they walked in and out. The lights painted the street in soft pinks and blues, like a scene caught between nostalgia and warmth.

He made a small sound in his throat, almost a laugh. “Hey… have you ever been to an arcade?”

You blinked. “Of course I have.”

He turned to you, eyebrows rising in genuine surprise. “Wait, really?”

“Why do you sound so shocked?”

“I just…” He scratched the back of his neck, another soft laugh falling from him. “I thought you were the type who grew up going to piano recitals and private tutors, not arcade shooting games.”

You scoffed playfully. “Jungkook, I went to college. I had a normal life. I ate cheap street food, crammed for exams at cafés, and yes, I played in arcades.”

He leaned back slightly, as if this cracked open a door he never expected to find. “Okay. Wow. Didn’t expect that.”

“Are you judging me?”

“Never.” His eyes gleamed mischievously. “Just surprised.”

You narrowed your eyes, crossing your arms. “Well then… since you’re so surprised, let’s go inside. Unless you’re scared I’ll beat you.”

That made him laugh, the kind that softened his entire face and made him look younger.

“Challenge accepted,” he said.

Before you could tease him again, he made a sharp turn into the arcade’s parking lot. Excitement zipped through you, warm and electric, as if you both were stepping into a piece of your youth.

The moment the doors slid open, you were hit with the scent of popcorn, the chime of machines, the whirl of ticket counters, the bright neon lights blinking everywhere. The place was loud but comforting, full of life and motion.

Jungkook looked around like he had stepped into another universe.

“So this is what I missed growing up,” he murmured, hands tucked into his pockets as he surveyed the chaos.

“Tragic,” you teased. “We have to fix that.”

You grabbed his wrist and dragged him to the nearest machine, basketball hoops lit by overhead spotlights. He laughed again, letting you pull him like a kid discovering a funfair for the first time.

“Let’s see what you’ve got, Mr. Jeon,” you challenged.

He smirked. “You’re going to regret this.”

He didn’t even try to hide how competitive he was. The moment the timer started, he moved with quick, fluid motions, shots swooshing through the net one after another. You tried to keep up, but he was faster, more coordinated, and ridiculously smug about it.

When the timer beeped, he lifted both hands triumphantly. “Victory!”

You shoved him lightly. “You’re insufferable.”

He looked down at you, eyes warm and teasing. “You love it.”

Maybe you did.

Maybe the way he looked at you made something quiet open inside your chest.

Next was the claw machines.

You pointed at a stuffed bunny with bright blue ears. “I want that one.”

Jungkook cracked his knuckles dramatically. “Say no more.”

After seven failed attempts and two exasperated groans, he turned to you with a helpless expression.

“I swear these things are rigged,” he said, dropping his head in defeat.

You tapped his cheek. “Step aside.”

You positioned yourself, narrowed your eyes, focused on the angle, timed the swing, and guided the claw perfectly.

The bunny dropped into the prize chute.

Jungkook stared at you like you had performed magic. “What—how did you—”

“You just have to know where to aim,” you said smugly, holding up the bunny like a trophy.

He stared at you for a moment longer, something softer creeping into his expression. “You keep surprising me.”

The way he said it sent heat rushing to your stomach.

You moved from game to game: racing cars, dance pads, air hockey. He let out loud groans whenever you won, exaggerated huffs when he barely beat you, goofy smiles when your laughter filled the space.

Somewhere between the neon lights and the sound of children shouting, you forgot everything heavy waiting outside the arcade.

Forgot the ache that waited somewhere in your chest.

Tonight, it was just the two of you.

When you finally stepped outside, the night air felt cooler, refreshing as it kissed your cheeks. Jungkook walked beside you, hands in his pockets, his pace slow as if he didn’t want the night to end.

The street was quiet except for the hum of distant traffic. Neon reflections shimmered on the wet pavement as if the city poured color just for the two of you.

Jungkook looked ahead, then quietly said, “I liked tonight. More than I thought I would.”

You glanced sideways at him. “Because you won at basketball?”

He shook his head, smiling but shy in a way that made your heart flutter.

“No,” he whispered. “Because of you.”

Your steps faltered for half a second. He didn’t miss it.

He kept going, his voice lower now, as if admitting a secret he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had a night like this,” he said. “Where everything felt… easy. And warm. And just… good.”

You swallowed, feeling your chest tighten in a different way this time.

“Jungkook…”

He stopped walking.

You stopped too.

He turned to face you fully, and in the dim streetlight, you saw every shift of emotion in his eyes—hesitation, affection, the beginning of something he wasn’t ready to name but couldn’t hide anymore.

“I’m starting to…” He paused, searching for words. His eyes softened. “I’m starting to really like being around you.”

Your heart stilled, then began beating too quickly, too loudly.

His voice lowered even more. “More than I expected.”

The wind moved through the street, brushing your hair gently.

You looked at him and realized how close he was, how open he seemed, how careful he was being with whatever was blooming inside him.

You forced a soft smile. “I like being around you too.”

The quiet between you grew richer, almost tangible, filled with something that felt warm and trembling.

The scent of freshly washed cotton and the faint, lingering warmth of two hurried, separate showers settled over the roomn. Outside, the city sounds were muffled, insignificant. Inside, the world was reduced to the expansive comfort of the king-sized bed and the hushed glow of the bedside lamp.

You shifted, finding the exact spot where the cotton sheet, pulled tight by Jungkook's earlier restlessness, felt cool against your skin. He was propped up on one elbow beside you, his hair still damp enough that the ends curled slightly against his neck, wearing only a pair of soft grey sweatpants slung low. The easy, unburdened look on his face was a portrait of pure contentment.

“You know,” he started, his voice a low, rumbling pleasure, “I still can’t believe you let the high score get away from you on the racing game.”

You turned, resting your cheek on the pillow, watching the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. “Are you serious? You just barely edged me out, and only because I was distracted by you showing off that stupid, muscle-man carnival pose next to the prize machine.”

He chuckled, a rich, open sound that made your chest feel warm. “It wasn’t showing off. It was victory assurance. Besides, my form was perfect. The crane machine was basically begging me to take that giant plushie.”

“You did look rather powerful,” you conceded, the playful malice gone from your voice, replaced by a slow, easy fondness. “Like a ridiculously muscular baby, maybe. You kept getting the little prizes and gifting them to children.”

“That is called humanitarian aid, thank you very much,” he defended, but his smile broadened, confirming your teasing landed perfectly. “I didn’t need the tiny alien keychain. But you? You struggled with Space Invaders for twenty minutes and then tried to blame the joystick’s input delay.”

You threw a pillow half-heartedly at his head. “It absolutely was the joystick! It was stiff! I’m a professional Space Invader, I know what good hardware feels like.”

He caught the pillow, his grin a flash of bright teeth in the subdued light. Instead of throwing it back, he pinned your legs lightly with his own, leaning over you with a wicked glint in his eyes.

“A professional, huh? We’ll have to test your reflexes right now, then.”

He didn't wait for your protest, his fingers diving for your sides and waist. The surprise of the attack made a sharp, involuntary shriek of laughter escape you, echoing softly in the room. You bucked against his hold, dissolving into helpless giggles, your hands scrambling for leverage. He was impossibly strong, the solid weight of his torso pressing you into the mattress, his face close, illuminated by the lamp's amber pool.

“Surrender!” he demanded, his own chest shaking with silent laughter. “Admit I am the supreme arcade master!”

“Never!” you choked out, wiping tears of amusement from the corner of your eyes.

The struggle, however, ended abruptly. The sound of your laughter faded first, then his, replaced by the heavy, synchronised rhythm of your breathing. His hands stilled, no longer searching for weak spots but settling, firm and hot, on the soft curve of your hips.

Jungkook was no longer leaning on you; he was hovering, his body a beautiful, tense question mark of desire. His gaze dropped from your eyes, tracing the curve of your mouth, the sudden flush high on your cheeks, and the rapid pulse jumping visibly in your throat. The air between you, moments ago filled with the electricity of play, now crackled with an entirely different energy.

His eyes held an expression of such deep-seated adoration it felt like a physical pressure, melting away the last remnants of your playful resistance. There was no need for spoken intent; the silence between you communicated everything.

He lowered his head, slow and intentional, giving you all the space in the world to pull away. You didn't. You met him halfway, tilting your chin up as his lips finally met yours.

The kiss began with a reverence that belied the urgency building beneath your skin. It was soft, a quiet exploration, a gentle confirmation that, yes, this was the moment you had both been waiting for since you first shut the front door. His mouth moved with a tender persuasion, seeking depth, asking for more. You opened to him immediately, and the soft, seeking movements transformed into a slow, consuming draw, a gravity that anchored you wholly to him.

His free hand left your hip, sweeping up the length of your side, finding the hem of your loose, oversized shirt. He pulled the fabric free, tracing the bare skin of your waist, the touch making you quiver from the sheer anticipation.

He broke the kiss only to murmur your name against your lips, a sound of heavy, unvarnished yearning. Then, his mouth was moving again, travelling a heated path down your jawline, pausing to press a searing kiss beneath your ear, before continuing his descent. His lips and tongue paid careful, intoxicating attention to the vulnerable column of your neck, causing a deep, thrilling ache to bloom low in your abdomen.

You reached up, gripping the damp strands of his hair, urging him closer, the soft cotton of your shirt suddenly feeling like an intolerable barrier. He understood instantly, sitting back just enough for you to slip your arms out of the sleeves. The shirt was pulled over your head and tossed aside, and the sight of your bare chest caused him to pause, the intensity in his gaze sharpening, a silent oath passing between you.

You moved together then, a perfect, mirrored symphony of hands and desire. The minimal clothing he wore was no match for the combined effort of your searching fingers. The sweatpants were shed, and he was back, skin against skin, the heat of his body an enveloping furnace.

You shifted, rolling him onto his back in a smooth, powerful movement, and found yourself soaring above him. You braced yourself on his chest, looking down at his face, flushed and beautiful in the dim light. The power of being in control was heady, but the expression of absolute trust and fervent anticipation in his eyes was what truly thrilled you.

You lowered yourself again, kissing him deeply, lovingly, feeling the strong, vital beat of his heart against your stomach. Your kisses travelled lower, along the sculpted lines of his chest, down the ridge of his abdomen. You used your hands, your mouth, your focus entirely on the pleasure you could elicit, drawing out the tension until his strong hands grasped the sheets, his back arching slightly, a low sound escaping his throat.

When you returned to him, his hands cupped your face, pulling you close for a breathless, reverent kiss. “God, that feels so good,” he breathed against your mouth.

You moved to straddle his hips, positioning yourself carefully, drawing out the moment with an almost painful slowness. His hands, which had been resting on your thighs, moved to your waist, anchoring you, guiding you. With a sharp inhale, you connected, sinking down into the enveloping heat of him.

The feeling was electric, a solid, grounding warmth that instantly banished everything else. You leaned forward, resting your forehead against his chest, catching your breath as your body adjusted to the exquisite fullness.

You found your rhythm, slow and sensual at first, finding the pace that suited the deep emotionality of the moment. Then, driven by the urgency in his hips and the ragged sounds escaping his mouth, the pace quickened, becoming more desperate, more demanding. You looked down, breath catching at the sight of your bodies moving as one, the warm light painting you both into a single shape trembling with need.

But the strain was creeping in, slowing your movements. Jungkook noticed right away, reading you like a heartbeat, the tight set of your shoulders, the faint pause in your breathing.

In one seamless, powerful motion, he flipped you, transferring your weight effortlessly beneath his own, shifting the rhythm and the pressure instantly. He hovered above you, his silhouette framed against the lamp, his expression one of focused intensity and tenderness. He entered you again, deeper this time, finding a new angle of intense pleasure.

He took the reins, setting a powerful, relentless pace. His thrusts were deep and consuming. You cried out, clutching at his back, the world narrowing to the exquisite friction of your bodies, the heavy scent of your skin, and the gasping sounds of pleasure.

He leaned in close, his breath hot against your ear as he whispered broken, desperate things that made your pulse leap. Your bodies slid together in a pace that grew messy, needy, the heat between you climbing until the strain was too much, until the pressure finally ruptured into a trembling, overwhelming release.

The pleasure crashed over you in a blinding wave, ripping a loud, drawn-out cry from your lungs. Seconds later, you felt him unravel against you, his body seizing with release before he collapsed onto your chest, shivering through the last pulses of it.

He eased off you with care, immediately gathering you against his side and guiding your head to rest on his shoulder. His breaths came rough and uneven, carrying the warm scent of sweat and something undeniably his. You lay there, utterly spent, listening as the wild stutter of your hearts gradually softened, falling back into their steady, familiar rhythm.

You tilted your head back, pressing a kiss to the pulse point in his neck. “That was… better than a high score.”

He tightened his arm around you, burrowing his face into your hair. “It was everything. You are everything.” He kissed the top of your head, a deep, satisfied sigh vibrating in his chest. “We should definitely take up competitive Space Invaders again tomorrow.”

Sunlight warmed your cheek before you opened your eyes. At first, your body searched for him on instinct, your hand reaching across the sheets, expecting the weight of Jungkook beside you, the warmth of him, the steady rhythm of his breathing. But the space was empty, his pillow slightly dented, still faintly warm, as if he had left only a few minutes earlier.

Your heart gave a small, confused tug.

Last night felt like something you should still feel on your skin.

You sat up slowly, the sheets sliding off your legs, the soft ache in your muscles reminding you of every moment you shared with him, his warmth, the way he held you afterward, the way neither of you rushed to let go.

You reached for your phone on the nightstand.

A message.

Tae:

Y/N, please… just tell me when. I don’t want to bother you. I just need to see you. Once. That’s all.

Another message sent only minutes later.

Tae:

Please.

A knot formed quietly in your stomach.

You typed with hesitant fingers.

You:

This afternoon. Blue House Cafe. 3PM.

You stared at the screen after sending it, as if the words might vanish if you blinked too long.

When you finally pushed yourself off the bed, the faint smell of butter and something warm drifted through the hall.

You followed it.

The scene you walked into almost didn’t feel real.

Jungkook stood at the stove shirtless except for a low-slung pair of gray sweatpants, his hair a mess of soft curls, still damp from sleep or maybe a second shower. His back flexed gently as he moved the pan, humming quietly to himself, some soft melody, unfamiliar but soothing. Morning light spilled across his shoulder blades, giving his skin a soft glow, like he was painted into the moment.

You didn’t say anything.

You simply watched him, a strange mixture of tenderness and worry twisting inside you. He looked peaceful, content… not at all like someone who should be tangled in a lie you created.

It took him a moment to sense you there.

He turned, spatula still in hand, and when he saw you standing barefoot in the doorway in one of his oversized shirts, something warm flickered in his eyes.

“You’re awake,” he said, a smile touching the corner of his lips. “I made breakfast. Nothing fancy. Eggs and toast. I, uh… don’t know if you like tomatoes in the morning, but I tried.”

You couldn’t help your smile. “I like everything right now.”

He looked at you for a second too long, as if replaying pieces of last night in his mind, before he cleared his throat and set the pan down.

“Well… good. Because everything kind of came out accidentally,” he said, laughing under his breath.

You slipped into the kitchen, leaning on the counter as he plated the food, two simple servings, but the care he put into it made it feel like the most thoughtful thing in the world.

“Sleep well?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “You?”

He hesitated for a heartbeat.

“Yeah. Better than usual.”

The “because you were there” hung quietly in the space between you, even if he didn’t say it.

When you sat at the table together, the morning felt almost too gentle, like the universe was giving you a brief moment to breathe before everything tilted again.

He only broke the silence once he finished half of his food.

“So…” he began, tapping his fork lightly against the plate. “I’m heading to the office for a bit today. I know I’m supposed to be resting, but Namjoon called, and there’s paperwork I forgot to sign before taking leave. It’ll be quick, maybe an hour.”

You nodded. “Okay.”

“What about you?” he asked, looking up, genuinely wanting to hear your answer. “Any plans?”

You should’ve lied.

Said something about going to the bookstore or organizing the guest room or doing chores.

But guilt had already been gnawing at you since the moment you opened Taehyung’s message.

So you said quietly, eyes not quite meeting his—

“I’m… meeting someone.”

A pause.

You felt it rather than heard it.

Jungkook’s fork stilled on his plate. “Someone?”

You nodded, exhaling slowly. “Taehyung. He… asked to talk. I think I should. For closure. To end things properly.”

His jaw tightened, so small a movement you almost missed it.

He lowered his gaze, staring at a spot on the table as if it suddenly became very interesting.

“Right,” he murmured. “Yeah. That makes sense.”

“Jungkook—”

“It’s okay,” he said too quickly, but his voice held a quiet strain beneath it. “Really. It’s fine. I’m not… I don’t want to make you feel like you can’t meet him.”

The silence stretched, soft but tense, like the room was holding its breath for both of you.

“You’re sure?” you asked.

He nodded. But the nod came a second too late, slow, thoughtful, revealing more than he intended.

“I’m sure,” he said again, softer this time. “You should go. If it helps you.”

You watched him, studying him, searching for what he wouldn’t admit.

He didn’t look threatened.

He didn’t look jealous.

He looked… unsettled.

As if he wasn’t sure what last night meant to you.

As if he wasn’t sure if he had the right to want anything from you.

You reached across the table, fingers brushing his wrist.

“Jungkook,” you whispered, “I’m not going because I miss him.”

His eyes lifted to you—slow, cautious, but yearning for something he didn’t dare voice.

“Then why?” he asked.

“Because I don’t want any shadows following us,” you said softly. “I don’t want anything unfinished lingering between us.”

Something shifted in him then. A tiny exhale left his chest, as if he’d been unknowingly holding it.

He didn’t smile.

But his shoulders softened.

His eyes warmed.

His voice steadied.

“Okay,” he murmured. “Okay. I trust you.”

You wished those words didn’t burn your chest.

You wished you deserved them.

After breakfast, he washed the dishes while you stood beside him drying them. Your arms bumped occasionally, small touches that felt too tender for what the day was supposed to hold. Every time he reached across you for a towel or leaned closer to grab a plate, your heartbeat flickered with the memory of his hands on your waist, his lips on your neck.

When you finally finished cleaning, he grabbed his keys and slipped on a simple black hoodie.

He paused in front of you.

“Text me… when you’re done meeting him,” he said, voice steady but eyes searching.

“I will.”

“And…” he hesitated, shifting a little, cheeks faintly pink. “Just be safe.”

You nodded, a painful warmth spreading in your chest.

“I will, Jungkook.”

He took a step closer, raised a hand, almost cupped your cheek, then stopped himself, letting his fingers graze your hair instead.

“I’ll see you later,” he whispered.

You watched him leave.

The door clicked shut…

and the apartment felt too quiet.

You stood there in the silence, the echo of his trust lingering in the room like a weight on your ribs.

The café smelled of freshly ground coffee and warm pastries, a comforting cocoon from the early autumn chill outside. You arrived, careful not to hurry, and found Taehyung already there. He was seated near the window, a steaming cup in his hands, the soft light catching the sharp angles of his face, making him look older somehow, weighed with experience, yet gentle in a way that tugged at your chest. His eyes lifted as you approached, and for a moment, the years melted. Two years together, countless memories, all unspooling in that single look.

“This will be the last time we meet,” you said immediately, a tightness in your chest that made your words almost falter. “I— I need to end this properly.”

He nodded slowly, setting his cup down, not leaning forward, not pressing, just waiting. There was patience in him, the kind of patience that always had you feeling like even in anger or pain, he understood. His voice, calm and measured, broke the silence. “I don’t understand. How did you… how did you suddenly get married? We broke up a year ago—” He stopped himself, blinking, and took a slow breath, “not actually broke up, because… you made the decision alone.”

You swallowed, wishing you could explain without sounding like a coward. “I… I just couldn’t keep waiting, Tae. It hurt too much, and I couldn’t—” Your voice broke, just slightly. “It doesn’t matter now. I’m married.”

He stayed quiet, his fingers lightly tapping the edge of the table, the sound almost imperceptible. Then he asked softly, as if testing the waters, “Are you happy?”

The weight of the question hung in the air, and you hesitated. Your lips parted, but the answer took effort, a deliberate choice. “Yes,” you said, finally, though your chest tightened, betraying the conflict beneath your words.

Taehyung’s eyes softened, but there was a glimmer of something deeper, something achingly sad. “I know the truth,” he said quietly, his voice almost a whisper. “I saw your wedding in an article when I arrived in Seoul. I… I didn’t expect it. Not you, not like this.”

You looked away, your fingers twisting the strap of your bag. He continued, his words deliberate, careful, like he was choosing them to soothe rather than wound. “You were never born into this world of wealth. I remember helping your father in his workshop, carrying boxes, fixing cars. I remember when we used to go to your mother’s stationery store, and you and I would organize the shelves together, laughing because we were messy. And now… now you’re an heiress? Suddenly, living a life I never could have imagined for you.”

The kindness in his voice made it worse, the way he said it wasn’t angry, it wasn’t accusatory, it was… tender. It made you feel both guilty and protective of him at once. He wasn’t bitter; he was careful, holding back his own hurt for your sake.

“What happened to you?” he asked, the question soft, not demanding. But you felt the walls of your carefully constructed life pressing in. “That… that’s none of your business,” you murmured, almost ashamed of how curt it sounded.

He looked at you with a kind of softness that made the truth heavier.

“You don’t need a life of luxury to matter. You never did. You were always enough without any of this.”

A sad smile touched his lips.

“But the person standing in front of me now… isn’t the one I remember. Isn’t the one who didn’t need lies to feel safe.”

He stepped back just a little.

“You deserve a life that’s honest. Even if it’s messy. Because when all of this comes crashing down, and it will, you’ll have to face yourself. And I hope, when that day comes, you haven’t lost the real you entirely.”

There it was again, the quiet care, the weight of his concern that didn’t shame or scold, but made your chest ache because he deserved nothing less than the truth. And worse, your husband, Jungkook, was waiting, unaware of the half-truths, the layers of pretense that were slowly tightening around your heart.

Taehyung reached out, briefly, just touching your hand. “I hope… that your life… your choices… they don’t suffocate the person you really are inside. That you can breathe, even with everything around you so complicated.”

Your throat constricted, and you had to look away, blinking rapidly to keep the tears from spilling. “Thank you,” you whispered, barely audible, because there was nothing else to say.

“I guess… goodbye, then,” he said softly, not letting go of your hand just yet, letting the last threads of your shared past linger in that touch. He gave a small, sad smile, the kind that cut deeper than anger ever could. “Take care of yourself. And… live your truth, even if it’s hard.”

The hug you shared was gentle, long, weighted with all the history between you—laughs, arguments, nights spent lying awake talking about nothing and everything, the first time you held hands. When you finally stepped back, your chest was heavy, your heart a tangle of grief and fear, excitement and guilt.

You walked slowly into the park, your hands brushing against the wrought-iron fence as if grounding yourself against the sudden vertigo of emotions threatening to pull you under. The late afternoon sun was soft, gilding the edges of every leaf with gold, spilling light across the benches and the winding pathways. It should have been calming, soothing even, but your chest felt impossibly heavy, weighed down by the lingering concern in Taehyung’s eyes, and by the quiet, insistent echo of his words in your mind. Be true to yourself. Be honest with your husband.

The tears came without warning, a silent, unbidden release, trailing down your cheeks before you even realized they were falling. You pressed the heels of your hands to your eyes, trying to stop them, but the salt stung, and you could not stop the ache rising from deep within your chest. It wasn’t just sadness, it was a mixture of grief and fear, relief and guilt. Relief that at least Taehyung’s kindness had offered you some closure, some understanding that didn’t hurt you further, and yet grief because his gentle concern had cut straight to the core of the lie you were living.

You hadn’t realized until that moment how much the weight of your life, this curated, imagined life, had begun to suffocate you. On paper, everything looked perfect. You had finally stepped into the life you had dreamed of, married to a man who was impossibly kind, impossibly patient, and who, against all odds, had begun to claim your heart in quiet, steady ways. And yet, for every glance Jungkook had sent your way, for every small smile, every touch, every laugh you shared, your chest had tightened with the knowledge of what you were hiding.

It was unbearable to imagine the moment he would learn the truth. The thought of his eyes widening, of that quiet, painful shift in his expression as he realized the life you had shown him was built on lies, made you shiver. And yet, at the same time, there was a simmering, almost desperate determination that had begun to take root. You couldn’t continue like this, not with him, not with yourself. You owed it to him to be honest, to allow him the choice to stay or leave, to trust in the bond you were building rather than hiding behind convenience and fear.

Meanwhile, across the city, Jungkook stared at his phone like it was the only thing anchoring him, the soft glow of the screen reflecting the worry he tried so hard to hide. Namjoon was talking, papers shifting, the usual rhythm of the office humming around them, but none of it reached him, not when his mind kept replaying the image of you sitting across from someone who once mattered so much to you. A quiet, unexpected ache pressed into his chest, not sharp but deep, the kind that made him realize just how much space you had taken inside him without warning. He missed you with a tenderness that startled him, missed your voice, your little smiles, the comfort of you simply being near. And in that still moment, with his thumb hovering over the silent, empty chat, he finally understood there was no going back. He had fallen for you in ways he couldn’t untangle, and tonight, when you came home, he wanted to tell you, not to claim you, not to question you, but because keeping it inside hurt more than admitting the truth.

The park around you seemed to blur, the golden sunlight streaking lazily through the branches, reflecting off the water in the fountain. You walked past couples holding hands, parents chasing children with laughter ringing through the air, and you felt the distance between the simplicity of their lives and the tangled web of your own. You thought of the way Jungkook had been looking at you lately, the subtle softness in his eyes when you laughed, the way his hand lingered on yours when he passed by, the small, intimate gestures that made you ache with longing and fear all at once.

And yet, even amidst the guilt and the terror of exposure, there was something undeniable, something raw and real: the love that had quietly grown for him, that had blossomed in stolen moments and gentle, everyday intimacies. You realized that love could not survive in the shadow of lies, that every day you allowed deception to persist was a day you were betraying him, and worse, betraying yourself.

You pressed a hand to your chest, feeling the rapid, uneven beat of your heart, and for the first time, you allowed yourself to truly acknowledge the depth of what had grown between you. It wasn’t merely attraction. It wasn’t convenience or necessity. It was something fierce, something patient, something that had quietly rooted itself in the quietest, most intimate corners of your life. And you knew, with a clarity that made your knees weaken, that it was worth every tremor of fear, every ounce of vulnerability, to protect it, but only if you were brave enough to speak the truth.

The park felt impossibly vast, yet every sound, the rustle of leaves, the distant bark of a dog, the low hum of traffic, echoed in your chest. You thought of the moment you would return home, the way Jungkook would look at you, and the way your own words would have to be steady, honest, and unwavering. You imagined his reaction, the questions he might ask, the hurt that might flash across his face, and your stomach twisted, but alongside that fear, there was also an unexpected calm. This was the path to freedom, to honesty, to the kind of love that could survive the truth, even if it hurt to reveal it.

The sun dipped lower, the golden light now bleeding into soft amber, and you realized that time could not be paused, that moments would not wait for hesitation. You would have to go home. You would have to meet him, face the quiet, patient questions in his gaze, and speak the truths you had hidden so carefully. And yet, amidst the terror, there was also hope. Hope that he could understand, hope that he could forgive, and hope that the bond you had formed could weather even the revelation of your mistakes.

You let out a slow, shuddering breath, your tears finally slipping freely, and you allowed yourself to feel the enormity of what lay ahead. You realized that the only way to honor the love that had taken root in your life was to strip away the lies, to trust in his heart as fiercely as you trusted your own, and to step forward with courage, even if the path was uncertain and the outcome unknown.

For the first time in a long time, you allowed yourself to feel whole, not because the past had been erased, not because the lies no longer existed, but because you had chosen to confront them, to take ownership of your life, and to embrace the love that was waiting for you, patient and steady, at home. And with that thought, you lifted your head, the wind brushing across your cheeks, the golden light spilling over you, and you walked forward, each step echoing with fear and hope in equal measure.

He might forgive you.

He might not.

But standing still wasn’t an option anymore.

So you kept walking, heart unshielded, toward a future that could break open or close shut with his next breath.

Chapter Nine

Chapter Four

The night of your engagement began like a fever dream, equal parts chaos, luxury, and dread. The kind of night where your reflection in the mirror doesn’t even look like you anymore.

You stood in your apartment, hair pinned, makeup airbrushed to flawlessness, wearing a silk robe Mrs. Jeon’s assistant had laid out hours ago. Her parting words from that morning echoed in your head:

“This is not merely an engagement, Y/N. This is a presentation. You are no longer an individual, you are a reflection of the Jeon family brand. And my brand doesn’t sweat, panic, or mispronounce luxury names.”

At that moment, your phone buzzed.

Mom: What time is that car picking us up again?

You exhaled. The chaos had officially begun.

At five sharp, the Jeon chauffeur arrived at your family’s small, cluttered house. He stepped out of a black Genesis limousine, polished so clean the neighbors’ faces reflected on its surface. The entire neighborhood seemed to gather outside, pretending to sweep their driveways while gawking at the sleek vehicle.

Your father’s jaw dropped so far it could’ve hit the ground. “Look at that! You said it was just a van, not a spaceship!”

Your mother clutched her bag, still in disbelief. “Don’t embarrass us, okay? This isn’t your car show. Act decent.”

Your younger sister, was already halfway down the path, squealing as the uniformed driver opened the car door. “Oh my God, there’s a TV! Mom, there’s champagne!”

“Champagne?!” your mom shouted, yanking her back. “We don’t drink in front of strangers!”

The driver cleared his throat politely. “Mrs. Jeon wanted your family to arrive comfortably. Everything has been prepared for you.”

Your dad’s eyes glimmered. “Prepared? As in dinner too? You know, I could bring some gimbap—”

“Please don’t,” your mom cut him off, forcing a smile. “Let’s go before you hand out your business card.”

“I just want people to know I fix engines, not ruin reputations,” he muttered, sliding into the seat anyway.

The Jeon estate looked like something out of a magazine. A sea of lights shimmered across the gardens, fountains glowed under rose petals, and violins played in the distance. Every corner screamed money and control, the two things Mrs. Jeon wore like perfume.

When your family stepped into the marble foyer, they froze.

Your sister gasped. “This isn’t a house, it’s a palace!”

Your dad whistled low. “Look at that chandelier. If I had that, I’d never turn it off. I’d just sleep under it every night.”

Your mom elbowed him. “Behave. And don’t touch anything that looks expensive.”

Mrs. Jeon appeared at the top of the staircase like she was gliding on air, wearing a floor-length gown the color of champagne and power. Her diamonds caught the light, her posture sharper than a blade.

“Ah,” she said smoothly, voice echoing through the hall. “The family has arrived.”

You held your breath.

Your mom stepped forward, trying to hide her awe. “Thank you for inviting us, Mrs. Jeon. It’s… quite a place you have.”

Mrs. Jeon’s lips curved faintly. “I do try.”

Her gaze swept across your family, assessing everything—their clothes, posture, even the way your dad fidgeted with his watch. She tilted her head slightly. “Before we begin, I’d like to set a few expectations.”

The room went still.

“Tonight, there will be media present. Photographers, journalists, possibly even a live broadcast. I have already arranged outfits for all of you. Please wear them before the event starts.”

“Outfits?” your mom asked, confused.

“Yes,” Mrs. Jeon replied crisply. “For public image consistency.”

Your father blinked. “Image consistency?”

“It means,” Mrs. Jeon said, smiling thinly, “you will appear as successful business owners. Perhaps a family-run enterprise. I think an auto company fits your background nicely.”

Your dad brightened immediately. “Oh! Like a car repair shop? I already have business cards printed! Should I—”

“No.” Mrs. Jeon’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “You will not hand out cards. You will not mention repair. You will simply smile and say you run a family automobile company.”

Your mom’s mouth fell open. “Are you asking us to pretend we’re rich?”

“I’m asking you,” Mrs. Jeon said sweetly, “to blend in. There is a difference.”

Then she turned to her assistant. “And please tell the waiters to stop breathing near the hors d’oeuvres. It’s ruining the aroma.”

The assistant nodded and rushed off.

You wanted to sink into the marble floor.

Meanwhile, across the grand ballroom, Jungkook stood near the window, staring at his reflection in the glass. His bowtie hung loose, his expression unreadable.

Namjoon joined him, nursing a drink. “You’re really doing this, huh?”

“Seems like it,” Jungkook said quietly.

“She must be something special.”

Jungkook let out a soft laugh, one without joy. “It’s not about her, hyung. It’s about my mom.”

Namjoon frowned. “You’re marrying someone because of your mom’s health?”

“She raised me alone after my dad died. She built this empire from nothing. I can’t stand seeing her weak. If this makes her happy, then I’ll do it.”

“You don’t love her?”

He didn’t answer for a long time. Then, softly: “I don’t even know her. But maybe pretending is easier than fighting.”

Namjoon sighed. “You’ve always been good at pretending.”

Back in the dressing room, you stared at your reflection in the mirror, gown fitted perfectly, hair shimmering like starlight, heart pounding against your ribs. Mrs. Jeon entered behind you, inspecting your look with surgical precision.

“Much better,” she said. “You’re finally starting to look like you belong here.”

You swallowed. “Mrs. Jeon, what if my family—”

“Embarrasses you?” she finished. “They won’t. I’ve already briefed them.”

You turned to face her. “Briefed?”

She waved a hand. “I told them to avoid interviews, smile politely, and not to eat too much dessert in public. Nothing ruins an image faster than enthusiasm.”

You almost laughed, but her expression was too serious.

Mrs. Jeon’s gaze softened, just a fraction. “I know this isn’t easy for you. But my son… he doesn’t let people in easily. His father’s death changed him. He thinks control is the only way to survive. So don’t take his coldness personally.”

You blinked, surprised at her honesty. “He really doesn’t want this, does he?”

Her eyes glistened faintly before she masked it. “He will learn. We all learn to play the parts life gives us.”

When the music started and the host announced your names, Jungkook appeared at the base of the staircase, offering his arm. You took it, your hand trembling. For a fleeting second, his thumb brushed yours—gentle, grounding.

“Ready?” he murmured.

“No,” you admitted.

He almost smiled. “Good. Neither am I.”

As you descended the stairs, camera flashes painted the room in gold and white. Your family stood at the front, smiling nervously under the spotlight. Your dad looked proud, your mom tight-lipped, Soojin practically vibrating with excitement.

Mrs. Jeon watched from her table, expression unreadable, the queen who’d orchestrated every move on this perfect chessboard.

You reached the stage, turned toward Jungkook, and for the first time that night, you saw past the tuxedo and the headlines. You saw the boy who was just trying to make his mother happy.

And somehow, in that dizzy blur of applause and lights, you realized, you were both pretending for someone else.

Maybe, just maybe, that made you the same.

The ballroom shimmered like a painting dipped in gold. Crystal chandeliers spilled light across the marble floors, where every conversation hummed in careful tones of wealth and gossip. Cameras flashed like fireflies. String music floated through the air—soft, elegant, suffocating.

You stood beside Jungkook, his hand placed lightly at your back as Mrs. Jeon ushered you through the crowd. Her perfume, sharp jasmine and authority, clung to the air.

“Smile, darling,” she whispered without moving her lips. “Everyone here already loves the idea of you. Don’t ruin it by looking nervous.”

You smiled. Or tried to.

Jungkook leaned closer, his tone low and clipped. “You’re doing fine.”

“Am I?” you asked, voice quiet.

His eyes flicked toward a group of photographers. “You’re convincing enough.”

Then his hand brushed yours, almost like reassurance, but it lingered for the cameras longer than it needed to. You knew it wasn’t real, but the warmth of it felt real enough to hurt.

Mrs. Jeon’s voice carried above the chatter. “Mr. and Mrs. Han! Have you met my soon-to-be daughter-in-law?”

You bowed politely as two well-dressed socialites approached, their smiles polished. “Ah, you’re even prettier in person,” Mrs. Han said, eyes sweeping your gown. “Mrs. Jeon must be thrilled.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Jeon replied before you could. “We all are.”

Jungkook stood straight, smiling for them, perfect and distant. He answered questions, posed for photos, poured champagne when expected. Every tilt of his head, every practiced chuckle, it was all theater, and he played his part flawlessly.

You were still catching your breath when he turned to talk to an investor, and Mrs. Jeon drifted away toward another cluster of elites. That was your chance.

You slipped through the maze of gowns and tuxedos until you spotted your family huddled at a round table near the edge of the room. The sight almost made you laugh.

Your dad was holding a shrimp cocktail like it was an alien artifact. Soojin was filming everything on her phone. Your mom was whispering something furiously, eyes darting around the crowd.

“Mom! Dad!” You ran to them, pulling them into a hug before your mother could scold you.

“Look at you,” your dad said, beaming. “My daughter looks like a princess! You sure you didn’t steal that dress from someone?”

“Dad,” you whispered, fighting a grin. “Please don’t embarrass me.”

Your sister clasped your hands. “Unnie, this place is insane! Do you think they’ll let us take leftovers? I saw a chocolate fountain—”

“Soojin!” your mom snapped. Then she looked at you with narrowed eyes. “Now tell me again. What is all this?”

You shushed her. “Not here, Mom. Someone might hear us. I told you already, it’s real.”

She folded her arms. “Real? You barely know him!”

You smiled tightly, pretending to sip your champagne. “Please. Just enjoy tonight. We’ll talk later.”

Before she could argue, you spotted Jungkook scanning the room and waved him over. “Jungkook! Over here!”

He approached with that same camera-ready smile. When he stood beside you, your dad immediately reached out his hand. “So this is the man of the hour! Congratulations, son!”

Jungkook shook his hand politely. “Thank you, sir.”

You swallowed, nerves kicking in. “Um—these are my parents. They, uh… run a small auto company together. Family business.”

Your dad blinked, then looked at your mom, who froze mid-smile. “Right,” he said finally. “Auto… company. That’s us.”

Soojin bit her lip to stop from laughing.

Jungkook nodded, impressed. “That’s admirable. I respect family businesses. My parents started theirs the same way.”

Your mom smiled weakly, clearly unsure if she was supposed to bow or curtsy. “Yes. We’re very… hands-on.”

“Mom handles the clients,” your dad added proudly. “I handle the—”

You pinched his arm. “—finances,” you finished for him. “He handles the finances.”

Jungkook smiled faintly. “Sounds like a good partnership.”

Then, thankfully, one of his business partners called him away. He excused himself, leaving your family snickering once he was gone.

“Auto company?” your mom hissed. “Y/N, we fix cars in a garage!”

You groaned. “Please, Mom. Just for tonight, we’re upgraded. You can downgrade tomorrow.”

Your dad chuckled. “I always knew I’d be the CEO someday.”

“More like CEO of embarrassment,” your mom muttered, rolling her eyes.

Later that evening, the lights dimmed. The host took the stage, announcing the start of the formal engagement ceremony. Guests clapped. Photographers leaned forward. You felt your pulse race.

Mrs. Jeon glided to the microphone like she’d been waiting her whole life for this moment.

“Good evening, everyone. Thank you for joining us to celebrate this very special day,” she began, voice smooth as silk. “As many of you know, my son Jungkook is not easily impressed. So imagine my joy when he finally found someone who not only matches his heart, but challenges it.”

The crowd laughed warmly. You could feel your face burning.

“I have dreamed of this day for years,” Mrs. Jeon continued. “A wedding that brings two remarkable families together. And, if the universe is kind, perhaps soon a grandchild as well.”

The room erupted in laughter and applause. Jungkook’s jaw tightened beside you, but he forced a smile.

“Now,” Mrs. Jeon said, turning to you both, “let’s hear from the couple themselves.”

Your heart dropped.

Jungkook took the mic first. He glanced at you for half a second, something unreadable flickered in his eyes—then turned to the crowd.

“Thank you all for being here,” he began, his tone perfectly warm. “This is… a night I’ll never forget. When I met Y/N, I didn’t expect to find someone who could make me laugh even when she’s driving me insane.”

A ripple of laughter moved through the room. He smiled, looking at you as though you were the reason for his happiness. It was almost believable. Almost.

“She reminds me that there’s more to life than work,” he continued. “That even when things feel complicated, love has a funny way of showing up anyway. I’m lucky to have her. And I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life proving it.”

Applause thundered. Cameras flashed. You felt your chest ache because he said it so convincingly, it almost sounded true.

Then the microphone was handed to you.

You froze. A thousand eyes stared back. Jungkook’s gaze lingered, as though daring you to match his performance.

You inhaled slowly. “I… never imagined myself standing here,” you began, voice trembling just enough to sound sincere. “But then, I never imagined meeting someone like Jungkook either.”

The crowd leaned closer.

“He’s patient in ways I’m not, strong in ways I wish I could be. And even when we don’t always understand each other, I know that together, we’ll find our rhythm. Because sometimes the best things in life happen when you stop planning, and start trusting.”

You turned to look at him then. The world blurred behind him, and for a fleeting moment, it felt real. His gaze softened, just for a second, like he forgot this was all an act.

Then the applause broke the spell. You stepped off the stage, and the noise faded into a muffled hum.

The night shimmered like a secret.

Crystal chandeliers cast a thousand specks of light that drifted across the marble floors. Waiters moved gracefully between tables, balancing champagne flutes that gleamed like liquid stars. The music swelled softly, the kind that made everything feel a little slower, a little dreamlike.

You were standing near the corner of the ballroom, the weight of your gown heavy against your skin, when Mrs. Jeon appeared beside you. Her smile was poised, warm, but there was purpose behind her tone.

“Darling,” she said, touching your arm. “You and Jungkook should dance. It’s your engagement party. Everyone’s watching, waiting.”

You blinked, startled. “Right now?”

“Yes, right now,” she said gently, eyes glinting with amusement.

And then she was gone, leaving a soft cloud of perfume and expectation in her wake.

You turned, and there he was.

Jungkook, in a black tailored suit that fit him too perfectly, hair falling slightly into his eyes, looking at you like he was calculating how to survive this moment.

Mrs. Jeon’s words lingered between you, unspoken but clear.

You forced a small smile. “Apparently, we’re supposed to dance.”

He hesitated, jaw tightening. But then, as if something in him softened, he offered his hand. “Then we should.”

Your fingers brushed his. His hand was warm — grounding — and for a moment, it made you forget that all this was pretend.

When he led you onto the center of the dance floor, the chatter around you dimmed. Someone adjusted the lighting, the chandeliers dimmed to a golden glow, and the string quartet shifted seamlessly into At Last by Etta James.

The first note melted into the air, and your heart fluttered helplessly.

At last, my love has come along…

Jungkook’s arm slipped around your waist, drawing you close. His other hand held yours with the kind of care that didn’t feel rehearsed. The heat of his palm bled through the silk of your glove.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The world around you blurred, voices turned into hums, faces faded into soft color and motion. It was just you, him, and the slow rhythm that tied your steps together.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured finally, his voice quiet enough that only you could hear.

You smiled faintly, staring at his tie to avoid his eyes. “Maybe because I haven’t danced in front of hundreds of people before.”

He tilted his head, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “You’re doing fine.”

“Only because you’re leading.”

“I thought you’d say you’re used to pretending.”

Your eyes met his then. “I could say the same about you.”

He huffed a soft laugh — barely there, but real. “Touché.”

The music swelled, the violins lifting the moment into something almost dangerous. His hand tightened on your waist just slightly, and you wondered if he noticed how your pulse quickened.

“Do you do this often?” you asked, to keep your voice from betraying you.

“Dance?”

“Charm people.”

His mouth curved into something between a smirk and a sigh. “It used to come easily. Until it stopped meaning anything.”

You blinked at him, startled by the honesty in his tone. “And now?”

“Now,” he said, meeting your eyes again, “I’m just trying not to mess up my mother’s dream.”

The way he said it—quiet, steady—made your chest ache. You suddenly saw beyond the cold exterior: a boy who had learned to wear composure like armor.

“She loves you,” you whispered. “It shows.”

He nodded, eyes drifting away. “And I’d do anything for her.”

The words hung in the air like the last note of a song. Something inside you softened, and before you could stop yourself, you said, “Then I’m glad I could make her happy, even just for tonight.”

His gaze snapped back to yours. You expected him to smile, but instead, his eyes lingered, studying your face, the sincerity in your expression, as if you had just said something he didn’t expect to matter.

“Why are you being so kind to me?” he asked quietly.

You hesitated. “Maybe because you don’t deserve to look as lonely as you do.”

A faint laugh escaped him, shaky at the edges. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because…” He exhaled slowly, eyes flicking down to your lips for half a second before returning to your gaze. “You make it sound real.”

The music curled around you both, slow and honey-smooth. He twirled you gently, his hand guiding you with surprising ease, and when you returned to his chest, his arm rested just a little tighter around your waist.

For a few moments, it didn’t feel like an act. You looked at him, and he looked at you, and everything else—the cameras, the guests, the deal—disappeared. It felt like the night had decided to stop breathing just to watch the two of you.

“Maybe pretending isn’t so hard,” you said softly.

He tilted his head closer, his voice low. “That’s dangerous to say.”

“Why?”

“Because you might start believing it.”

You smiled faintly, though it didn’t reach your eyes. “Maybe I already do.”

He froze, the smallest flicker crossing his face—something caught between surprise and regret. Then, as if remembering the script, he looked away, breaking the invisible thread between you.

“Don’t,” he said quietly.

“Don’t what?”

His voice was low, almost lost in the music. “Don’t fall in love with me.”

Your heart thudded once, hard. The warmth that had bloomed between you turned sharp, aching.

You forced a laugh, light but trembling. “Of course not. I wouldn’t dream of it.”

He didn’t respond. His hand lingered on your waist for a second longer before he stepped back as the song ended, applause rising from the guests.

You smiled for the crowd, waved at the cameras, and tried not to look at him. But when you did, just briefly, you caught the faintest flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.

Regret, maybe. Or fear.

Whatever it was, it made your chest ache all over again.

By the time the last champagne glass had been emptied and the chandeliers dimmed, the ballroom felt like the aftermath of a dream — glittering, beautiful, and strangely hollow.

You stood near the exit with your family, your gown still heavy with the scent of roses and candle wax. Your dad was taking photos of the table centerpiece, muttering something about how the “flowers alone could feed a family of five.” Your sister twirled in her borrowed dress, giggling about meeting “a real-life chaebol,” while your mom kept adjusting her pearl necklace, muttering that the night had been “too much” and “too fake.”

You hugged them tightly, breathing in the comforting scent of home — detergent, warm bread, and the kind of affection that didn’t care about social classes.

“Please don’t do anything crazy next week,” you whispered to your mother as you pulled away. “Just… let me handle this, okay?”

She gave you a long, skeptical look, the kind only mothers could master. “Handle it? You’re marrying a billionaire, not baking cookies.”

Your father chuckled beside her. “Still can’t believe my little girl is marrying into the Jeon family. I might need a new suit. Maybe they’ll let me park their cars for extra income.”

“Dad,” you laughed, swatting his arm, but your chest felt warm.

“Just saying!” he grinned. “They’ve got nice cars.”

Your sister smirked. “Nice? The valet line outside looked like an auto museum.”

“Alright, alright,” you said, smiling despite the chaos. “Go home before you embarrass me further.”

“Too late,” your mom muttered, then sighed and touched your cheek gently. “Just… be careful, okay? Sometimes all that glitter burns your eyes.”

You nodded, blinking fast. “I will.”

Jungkook appeared then, tall and sharp in the soft lighting, expression unreadable. His suit jacket was unbuttoned now, his tie slightly loose, the only sign that he’d survived the night too.

“Ready?” he asked.

You turned back to your family. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Your dad gave Jungkook a friendly pat on the back that made you wince. “Take care of my daughter, son!”

Jungkook stiffened but managed a polite nod. “Of course.”

Your mom muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “We’ll see,” but you pretended not to hear.

By the time you and Jungkook stepped out into the cool night, the air was thick with the scent of rain and perfume. The grand hotel entrance gleamed beneath the streetlights, the last of the paparazzi snapping photos before the bodyguards ushered them away.

The black car waited by the curb, sleek and silent. His driver opened the door for you both, and you slipped inside, careful not to wrinkle the gown that Mrs. Jeon had probably paid more for than your parents’ house.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The city lights blurred outside the tinted windows — gold, white, red — melting together like spilled paint. You could still hear faint echoes of the music from the ballroom in your head, that song, that moment, that almost-something between you.

Jungkook leaned his head against the seat, eyes half-lidded, the fatigue in his posture more honest than anything he’d said all night. His cufflinks glinted faintly when he ran a hand through his hair.

The silence stretched. You were almost grateful for it.

Then, finally, he said, “Glad that went well.”

His voice was low, smooth, tired.

You turned to look at him. “You mean the part where your mother announced our engagement like it was a political victory or the part where we had to fake a love story for three hours?”

The corner of his mouth twitched, almost a smile. “Both, I guess.”

You sighed, letting your head rest against the cool glass window. “I thought pretending would be easier. You make it look easy.”

He glanced at you. “It’s not.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“I’ve had practice,” he said simply, gaze returning to the window. “Pretending is part of my job. Part of my life, actually.”

You wanted to ask what he meant, but his tone told you he wouldn’t elaborate. So you just stared out at the city, watching the neon signs flicker and the people crossing the streets below, all of them living lives untouched by deals or cameras or expectations.

“Your parents seemed nice,” Jungkook said after a pause.

You laughed softly. “That’s one word for them.”

He looked at you, genuinely curious. “Your dad really owns an auto company?”

You froze. “Oh, uh… yeah. Small one. Very… manual.”

He nodded, not pressing. “I liked him. He seems honest.”

You smiled faintly. “That’s his only flaw.”

He didn’t respond, but his expression softened slightly, like he was remembering his own father.

The car slowed as it turned into your street, the quiet hum of the engine filling the space between words.

“I didn’t thank you,” you said suddenly.

“For what?”

“For tonight. For not… making it worse.”

He let out a soft laugh, barely there. “You did fine on your own. Everyone believed you.”

“That’s the point, isn’t it?” you murmured. “To make everyone believe it’s real.”

He looked at you then, his gaze unreadable. “Even you?”

You blinked. “What?”

“Do you believe it?” he asked. “Us.”

You hesitated, the question catching you off guard. “I don’t know.”

He nodded slowly, like that answer made sense. “Good.”

The car rolled to a gentle stop in front of your apartment building. The street was quiet now, the city’s chaos softened by distance.

The driver opened your door, and you stepped out, gathering your gown carefully. The night air was cool against your skin, the faintest trace of jasmine perfume still clinging to you.

Jungkook didn’t move at first. He sat in the car, staring out at the road ahead, before finally unbuckling and stepping out too.

You turned to him, unsure what to say. Everything felt too formal, too scripted again.

“Well,” you said, forcing a smile. “Good night, fiancé.”

He gave a faint, tired smile back. “Good night.”

He started to turn away, then paused, just for a heartbeat, as if he wanted to say something else. But he didn’t.

Instead, he got back into the car. The door closed with a quiet thud, and you stood there watching as the black vehicle disappeared down the road, tail lights fading like the last trace of something you weren’t supposed to feel.

You sighed, tilting your head back toward the night sky. The stars were faint against the city glow, but you found one, small and stubbornly shining.

“Don’t fall in love,” you whispered under your breath. “Easy for you to say.”

Then you turned, heels clicking softly against the pavement, and went inside, carrying with you the ache of a dance that had felt far too real.

It was barely ten in the morning when Mrs. Jeon called.

Her voice, though gentle, carried the kind of authority that didn’t allow refusal.

“He’s been locked in that office since dawn,” she said. “Take him something home-cooked. Surprise him. My son forgets to eat when he’s working. You’ll learn that soon enough.”

You wanted to say you barely knew her son, that it wasn’t your place to be the kind of woman who showed up at his office with lunch boxes and warm smiles. But instead, you found yourself saying, “Okay, I’ll bring something nice.”

So you cooked.

Your apartment filled with the soft crackle of frying oil, the smell of soy glaze and ginger. You moved quietly, almost reverently, tasting, adjusting, packing each dish into neat glass containers — rice, marinated chicken, steamed vegetables, a few pieces of kimchi, and a small dessert you didn’t even realize you were making until it was done.

You stared at the food for a long time before sealing the lids. You weren’t sure why your chest felt so tight — maybe it was guilt, or nerves, or both.

Jeon Corp’s headquarters looked like the kind of building that swallowed people whole.

Tall, cold, beautiful.

The kind of place that looked like it didn’t have time for warmth.

You clutched the lunch bag a little tighter as you stepped into the marble lobby.

The air smelled faintly of coffee and expensive perfume.

People moved with purpose — sharp suits, hurried footsteps, clipped greetings.

The receptionist gave you a polite, measured smile.

“Good morning, Miss ___. Mr. Jeon is currently in a meeting, but I’ll inform his secretary that you’re here. Would you like to wait?”

You nodded, trying not to look as out of place as you felt.

The leather couch was cool beneath your hands. You sat with your legs neatly crossed, eyes drifting over the sleek modern art hanging on the walls. Everything here was designed to impress, even the silence.

Then a voice broke through it.

“Miss ___?”

You looked up to find a tall man with soft eyes and dimples walking toward you. He had an easy confidence about him, the kind that made you feel instantly at ease.

“I’m Kim Namjoon,” he said, offering a handshake. “COO. And I suppose… Jungkook’s oldest surviving friend.”

“Surviving?” you echoed, shaking his hand, a small laugh escaping.

“Oh, you’ll understand soon,” he said lightly. “He’s brilliant, but working with him is like signing up for emotional warfare.”

You smiled, nerves fading for a moment. “I didn’t mean to show up unannounced. His mother suggested it.”

“Ah.” Namjoon nodded knowingly. “That explains it. She’s probably trying to make him eat something that isn’t black coffee or protein bars.”

You laughed. “I brought him food. Homemade.”

His brows lifted. “Now I’m impressed. Most people don’t survive long enough to attempt that.”

Before you could reply, Jungkook’s secretary appeared. “Mr. Jeon will see you now,” she said politely.

Namjoon gave you a small, reassuring nod. “Good luck in there. And… welcome to the madness.”

The elevator ride felt too fast.

When the doors opened, you were met with a corridor lined with tall glass panels and city light. You could see Seoul stretching endlessly beyond the windows — skyscrapers, rivers, traffic inching through the morning. Somewhere in that chaos, your reflection stared back at you: nervous, careful, pretending this was normal.

The secretary led you to a large oak door and knocked once before opening it.

“Mr. Jeon, your fiancée is here.”

There was a pause. Then a low, familiar voice: “Let her in.”

You stepped inside.

His office was bigger than most apartments. Minimal, sleek, flooded with daylight. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the skyline behind him. He was standing near his desk, jacket off, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie slightly loosened, the picture of precision and exhaustion.

You lifted the bag slightly. “Your mom told me to bring you lunch.”

He blinked. “She did what?”

“She said you’ve been working since morning and probably skipped breakfast.”

He set his pen down, exhaling through his nose. “Of course she did.”

You smiled awkwardly. “I can leave it here if you’re busy.”

He studied you for a moment before sighing and gesturing toward the small round table near the window. “You’re already here. Sit.”

You hesitated, then obeyed, unpacking the food while he watched — arms folded, an unreadable look on his face.

“You cooked all this?”

“Yes.”

“By yourself?”

“Do I look like I hired a chef?”

That earned a quiet laugh, low and short but real. “I didn’t think you’d have time. You always look… put together.”

You shrugged. “I lived alone in New York for years. Either I learned to cook or I starved.”

That made him smile faintly. “Fair point.”

You pushed one of the containers toward him. “Try this.”

He took a bite, cautiously at first — then another, and another. “Not bad.”

“Not bad?” you repeated with mock offense. “You sound like you expected it to taste like cardboard.”

He leaned back slightly, smirking. “You don’t strike me as the domestic type.”

“Neither do you,” you said, looking pointedly at his untouched pile of documents. “But I’m sure you’ve mastered making instant noodles at 2 a.m.”

He chuckled — quietly, but there it was again, that soft crack in his armor. “You’re not wrong.”

For a while, the two of you ate in companionable silence. The city hummed faintly outside. Somewhere below, car horns blended with the wind. In the sunlight, his hair looked softer, a hint of warmth you rarely saw under the flashing lights of parties and cameras.

He looked at you then, eyes tracing your face like he was seeing something he hadn’t noticed before.

“You didn’t have to do this,” he said finally.

“I wanted to,” you replied. “You’re working too hard.”

“I always work too hard.”

“That’s not something to be proud of.”

He smiled faintly. “Tell that to the shareholders.”

You laughed under your breath, shaking your head. “I’m serious. You can’t live like this forever.”

“Maybe not forever,” he said quietly. “But long enough to make it matter.”

Something about the way he said it made your heart tighten.

You looked out the window to avoid his gaze. “Do you ever wonder what’s next? After all this?”

He didn’t answer right away. “No. I don’t think that far. The moment I start planning the future, it stops feeling real.”

You turned back to him. “That’s sad.”

“It’s practical.”

You sighed, the smallest smile on your lips. “You sound like someone who’s afraid of what happens if you stop running.”

His eyes met yours then — calm, unreadable, but not cold. “Maybe I am.”

The air between you shifted. It wasn’t heavy, just full — quiet and fragile in a way that felt dangerously close to something you couldn’t name.

You looked down at your hands. “About the wedding…”

He groaned lightly, leaning back. “Don’t tell me my mother sent you to talk about that too.”

“She’s very… thorough,” you said diplomatically.

“She’s planning something ridiculous, isn’t she?”

“Gold, orchids, champagne fountain.”

He made a face. “Perfect. Just what I wanted — a circus.”

You smiled. “You can tell her if you don’t like it.”

He snorted. “You tell her.”

“She terrifies me,” you said truthfully.

“Good. Now you know what it’s like growing up in that house.”

You both laughed quietly again. But after a moment, his tone shifted — softer now. “Honestly? I don’t care about any of it. I could sign the papers today and be done. The wedding, the press, the photos — they’re for her, not me.”

You looked at him carefully. “You mean that?”

He nodded. “I’ve never needed grand things. Just peace. But peace doesn’t sell magazines.”

Your chest tightened again. Because beneath all the sharpness, he sounded… tired.

And you knew the truth — the contract, the money, the lies — none of it was peace either.

You smiled faintly to hide the guilt. “At least she’s happy. Maybe that’s worth something.”

He looked at you then,“Maybe.”

When lunch was over, you packed up the containers quietly, and Jungkook stood to walk you out. The silence between you wasn’t awkward anymore, just full of things neither of you could say.

At the door, he hesitated. “Thanks… for this.”

You smiled. “Don’t mention it. Or your mother will make me bring you lunch every day.”

He laughed softly, eyes lowering to the bag in your hands. “You really shouldn’t come here often. It’ll cause chaos.”

“Why?”

He leaned closer just slightly, enough that you could smell his cologne, something faint and clean. “Because people will start thinking I’m actually lucky.”

For a heartbeat, you forgot how to breathe.

Then he stepped back, his expression neutral again. “Take care getting home.”

And just like that, the moment dissolved, like sunlight fading behind clouds.

You walked away, clutching the empty lunch bag, not sure if you’d just crossed a line or built another wall between you.

The venue Mrs. Jeon had chosen to tour was breathtaking, a lakeside hotel wrapped in glass and ivy, with soft classical music drifting from the terrace where the planner waited. Everything looked like it had been designed for a movie wedding: the arched floral gates, the gazebo surrounded by hydrangeas, and the wide stone path leading to the water’s edge.

Mrs. Jeon, dressed immaculately in beige and pearls, greeted you with a bright smile. “I told you, didn’t I? This place has hosted royal weddings.”

You laughed softly, the sound feeling almost shy against the quiet hum of the place. “It’s beautiful, Mrs. Jeon. I don’t even know how anyone could top this.”

The planner began the tour, explaining where the ceremony would take place, how the sunset would hit the lake just right during vows, how the ballroom could be transformed into a candlelit dinner. You nodded through most of it, trying to imagine the day. You and Jungkook standing here. Smiling. Laughing. Pretending.

Halfway through the tour, a commotion stirred near the entrance. Mrs. Jeon turned, her face lighting up. “Oh, finally. My son decided to grace us with his presence.”

You followed her gaze, and there he was. Jungkook, in a white button-down, sleeves rolled up, dark hair a little messy as if he had run his hands through it too many times. He looked wildly out of place in the world of planners and flower samples, yet somehow he drew every eye effortlessly.

He walked toward the group, his tone calm but his gaze finding yours first. “You dragged me out of a meeting for this, Mom?”

Mrs. Jeon waved a hand, unimpressed. “Meetings can wait. Weddings can’t.”

You bit back a laugh, watching as he sighed but stayed anyway. There was a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes when he finally turned fully toward you. “You came too?”

“I did.” You smiled. “Apparently, we’re choosing our backdrop today.”

That earned a quiet chuckle from him — rare, unguarded. The planner resumed her presentation, but Mrs. Jeon soon got distracted by a call, and within minutes, you and Jungkook found yourselves wandering away from the group, drawn by the scent of pastries from the tasting table.

“You think anyone will notice if we steal one?” he asked, eyeing a plate of petit fours with the suspicion of a man who’d never been to a tasting before.

“I think the worst that could happen is we ruin the display,” you replied, already picking up a fork.

He stared for a second, then joined you, taking a bite from the same plate. “This one tastes… weird. What’s it called?”

You checked the little card beside it. “Lemon verbena chiffon with white tea mousse.”

He blinked. “Why not just call it lemon cake?”

You laughed, leaning over the table. “Because if they call it lemon cake, it’s not worth a thousand dollars a tier.”

He grinned at that. It lit up his whole face, softening his sharp edges.

Before you knew it, you were trying every flavor, comparing notes like two critics on a mission. When he smeared a little frosting on your wrist to make a point about “texture,” you gasped, retaliating by swiping your fork at him.

“That’s an act of war,” he said, voice low with mock seriousness.

“You started it,” you countered, laughing so hard you nearly dropped your fork.

For a few perfect minutes, the world shrank to this — sunlight on the water, frosting on your fingers, the sound of your laughter blending with his. It didn’t feel like a performance or a contract. It felt like two people accidentally falling into the same rhythm.

You took a photo of the cakes for Mrs. Jeon, and he leaned in unexpectedly. “Send one to her with this. She’ll think we’re finally cooperating.”

You held up the phone, and he tilted his head close. The camera clicked. You looked at the picture — the two of you mid-laugh, shoulders almost touching, a smudge of frosting on his cheek. You didn’t know whether to laugh again or… stare.

He caught you looking. “What?”

“Nothing,” you said too quickly, pocketing the phone. “You just—”

“Just what?” His voice was teasing now, but his eyes were gentle.

You hesitated, then said softly, “You look happy.”

He went quiet. For a long moment, he didn’t look away, his thumb absently brushing the rim of the paper cup he held. Then he said, quietly, “I haven’t laughed like this in years.”

The way he said it made your chest ache, not with pity, but with something tender and uncertain. The breeze shifted, carrying the faint scent of vanilla and summer grass. You didn’t speak for a moment, afraid anything you said might ruin the fragile peace between you.

Finally, you broke the silence with a smile. “Then maybe we should schedule cake tastings more often.”

He let out a quiet laugh. “Careful. That almost sounded like an invitation.”

“Maybe it was.”

He looked at you again. Something unspoken passed between you, something that hovered on the edge of more than friendship but not yet love. A promise disguised as a joke.

When Mrs. Jeon finally returned and found the two of you sitting side by side on the edge of the terrace, half the pastries gone, she didn’t scold. She only smiled knowingly, her son’s laughter echoing softly behind her.

The tailor shop smelled faintly of cedar and pressed linen — clean, quiet, and timeless. Racks of suits lined the walls like soldiers in perfect formation, their dark fabrics catching the light that streamed through tall windows. A record played softly in the background, something jazzy and old, the kind of song that fills silence without intruding on it.

You followed Mrs. Jeon inside, notebook in hand, but it wasn’t long before her phone started buzzing again. She sighed, mouthing a quick I’ll be right back, and slipped outside to take the call, leaving you alone in the room as Jungkook stepped out from behind a curtain.

For a second, you forgot to move.

He was wearing a perfectly cut black suit, the kind that seemed to belong in magazine spreads and movie montages. The crisp shirt framed his collarbone, the jacket hugged his shoulders just right, and even the tailor stood back, quietly pleased with his own craftsmanship. Jungkook adjusted his cuff, eyes briefly meeting yours through the mirror.

“What?” he asked, his tone casual, but his mouth curved like he already knew the answer.

You tried to sound composed. “Nothing. I just didn’t think you’d look this… formal.”

He raised a brow. “Formal?”

“I mean—” you laughed, flustered, “you always wear suits in public, but this one’s different. You look…”

“Like I’m about to get married?” he finished for you, lips twitching.

Your laugh came softer this time. “Something like that.”

The tailor motioned for him to lift his arms. You stood by the mirror, pretending to jot down notes about fabric choices, but your eyes kept finding their way back to him, the subtle way his fingers flexed as he moved, the way his reflection caught yours in fleeting glances.

He was talking with the tailor about lapels when one of the cufflinks slipped from his wrist, clinking softly onto the floor. You bent down to pick it up before he could.

“I’ve got it,” you said, holding it up.

“Thanks,” he murmured, extending his hand. But when you noticed he hadn’t put the other cufflink on properly, you hesitated.

“Here,” you said. “You’re doing it wrong.”

He smirked, leaning closer. “Oh? And you know how to do it better?”

You rolled your eyes, stepping closer. “I used to help my dad get ready for work. Same concept, smaller cuff.”

You reached for his wrist. The moment your fingers brushed his skin, something in the air changed, not loud or sudden, but quiet and electric. The kind of stillness that makes time stretch. You focused on fastening the silver cufflink, pretending not to notice the warmth beneath your fingertips, but his gaze was heavy, following every small movement.

When you finished one sleeve, he said softly, “You’re good at this.”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” you said, keeping your tone light. “I can cook, too. Remember?”

He chuckled quietly. “Right. You’re full of surprises.”

You met his eyes in the mirror. “So are you.”

He looked away first — a small, almost imperceptible shift, as if he wasn’t used to being seen like this.

The tailor excused himself to prepare the next suit, leaving you both alone. The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, just… close.

You moved around him, straightening the edge of his tie. “This one’s a bit uneven.”

He tilted his chin slightly so you could reach. His voice was low, almost teasing. “Are you always this meticulous, or is it just with me?”

“Only with people who represent my brand,” you replied, smiling despite yourself.

“And what brand is that?”

You met his gaze again, this time through the mirror. “The future Mrs. Jeon brand, apparently.”

His laughter was quiet but genuine — soft, unguarded, the kind of sound that made the corners of your heart ache. “You make it sound like a product launch.”

You shrugged. “In some ways, it is.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. You were still close, close enough to notice the faint scent of his cologne, subtle and warm, like bergamot and something you couldn’t name. The tie sat perfectly now, your hand lingering longer than necessary. He looked down at you, his expression gentling.

“Thank you,” he said, voice quieter now.

“For what?”

“For making this feel… less like an obligation.”

You blinked, unsure how to respond. There was a sincerity in his tone that didn’t sound rehearsed or safe. “You mean the wedding?”

He nodded slowly. “All of it. The planning. The pretending. Somehow, when you’re there, it doesn’t feel like I’m acting.”

Your chest tightened. You smiled faintly, eyes dropping to your hands. “Maybe we’re just good at pretending together.”

He studied you through the mirror, a small smile playing on his lips. “Or maybe we’re just bad at keeping things pretend.”

You looked up then, and your eyes met his reflection — steady, lingering. The room seemed to still, the record in the background fading into silence. You didn’t speak. You didn’t move. For one unguarded second, the two of you simply looked at each other, like you’d both stumbled into a truth you weren’t ready to name.

Then, as if he remembered himself, Jungkook stepped back. The spell broke.

“Guess I should try the next suit,” he said, his voice a little too brisk.

You nodded, turning away, pretending to check your notes even as your pulse refused to settle.

He disappeared behind the curtain, and you exhaled slowly. You could still hear his quiet voice echoing in your head.

When he came back out, the new jacket fit even better, but neither of you mentioned it. You smiled, complimented the cut, and he nodded, avoiding your eyes.

It wasn’t awkward. It was worse than that. It was tender. Unspoken.

And for the first time, you realized this arrangement, this contract, was no longer something you could keep perfectly under control.

The Jeon family estate looked like a painting, all candlelight, music, and the faint perfume of jasmine drifting in through the open French doors. Rows of lanterns hung from the trees, reflecting in the small pond near the veranda. Somewhere inside, Mrs. Jeon’s laughter echoed, sharp and confident, like she was already the queen of her own movie.

By the time you arrived, the staff was moving like clockwork, waiters gliding across marble floors, soft piano playing from the corner, glasses being refilled the moment they were half empty.

“Smile,” Mrs. Jeon whispered as she ushered you toward the table, her manicured hand firm on your back. “You’re about to meet my sisters and Jungkook’s cousins. They bite sometimes, but only when nervous.”

You forced a polite grin. “I’ll keep my hands away then.”

Her red lips curved, half amusement, half command. “Good girl.”

The long dining table gleamed beneath the chandelier. Every seat was occupied — cousins, uncles, aunts, and a few family friends who looked like they’d come straight from the cover of a business magazine. You’d never felt smaller or more out of place, even though your dress fit perfectly and your hair was styled just the way Mrs. Jeon wanted.

And then, Jungkook he walked in.

White shirt rolled up at the sleeves, hair still damp from a rushed shower, tie loose around his neck. He looked almost casual compared to the luxury around him, like he belonged and didn’t care that he did.

“Finally,” Mrs. Jeon announced, standing. “My son graces us with his presence. Everyone, this is my future daughter-in-law.”

All eyes turned toward you. Jungkook’s mouth twitched — a small, polite smile — as he pulled out the chair beside you.

“Hi,” he said quietly.

“Hi,” you murmured back.

“You okay?”

“I think I’m being interviewed without questions,” you whispered.

He hid his smirk behind his wineglass. “Welcome to the family.”

Dinner began with chatter and too many forks. His aunt leaned forward, eyes bright. “You must tell us everything! How did you two meet?”

Before you could panic, Mrs. Jeon interjected smoothly, “Oh, it was fate. Pure fate.”

You nodded, playing along. “Yes. Fate. Very… sudden fate.”

Jungkook nearly choked on his wine. You kicked him lightly under the table.

His younger cousin leaned in. “Hyung never brings anyone home. I thought he was secretly married to his job.”

Jungkook muttered, “That’s still true.”

Everyone laughed, and for a moment, it felt almost real, like you belonged there, like you weren’t lying through your teeth for a future you didn’t fully understand.

Then came the toasts. One of the uncles raised his glass. “To new beginnings, and to Mrs. Jeon, for always knowing what’s best for this family.”

Mrs. Jeon accepted the compliment with a practiced smile, but when her gaze softened on her son, there was something more behind it — a quiet pride, a longing.

Mrs. Jeon caught your glance and gave a small, sad smile. “He always liked to sit there, my husband” she whispered, so only you could hear. “Said it gave him the best view of the garden.”

You didn’t know what to say, so you just nodded. “It’s a beautiful spot.”

Across the table, Jungkook was quiet, eyes down, fork untouched. For the first time that evening, he didn’t look like the composed, detached man you’d grown used to. He looked… human.

Later, while dessert was being served, a lavish pyramid of fruit and cream, the conversation shifted to memories of Mr. Jeon. His sisters told stories about how he’d dance badly at weddings, how he’d embarrass Jungkook by showing his baby pictures at board meetings.

You glanced at Jungkook again. He was smiling faintly now, that kind of bittersweet smile people wear when they miss something too much to hide it.

When you leaned closer and whispered, “You miss him,” he didn’t pretend otherwise.

“Every day,” he said softly. “He built all of this, you know? Every brick, every wall. I grew up here but it doesn’t feel the same anymore.”

You hesitated before asking, “Was it hard? Taking over?”

He gave a humorless chuckle. “It wasn’t a choice. Mom said he’d be proud. So I did it.”

There it was, the truth behind all the quiet resentment, the coldness that wasn’t cruelty but exhaustion. He was living someone else’s dream because he didn’t know how not to.

“I think he would be,” you said finally.

He looked at you then. Something unspoken passed between you, heavy and fragile, before Mrs. Jeon’s voice cut through the silence.

“Jungkook!” she called, waving him over to introduce him to another guest. “Come, darling! Show them that charming smile I raised you with!”

He exhaled and stood, muttering under his breath, “The things I do for her.”

You smiled. “She loves you, you know.”

“I know,” he said, glancing at his mother from afar. “That’s the problem.”

When the dinner finally ended, the guests began to leave, and Mrs. Jeon hugged you tightly. “You were perfect,” she whispered. “You handled them like a true Jeon. Keep that grace for the wedding, hm?”

Jungkook appeared behind her, hands in pockets, expression unreadable. “We should go,” he said.

Mrs. Jeon patted your cheek. “Drive safe, lovebirds. And don’t forget, cake tasting on Thursday!”

You laughed nervously. “We won’t.”

The car ride back was quiet, city lights streaking across the window, a soft jazz tune playing faintly on the radio.

When you reached your apartment, you hesitated before getting out. “Do you want to come up? Just for a drink?”

He looked at you, uncertain, then nodded. “Yeah. One drink.”

Inside, you poured him wine, and for a while, you just talked. Not about contracts or fake love stories, but about simple things, books you liked, how city lights looked better from high floors, how quiet felt safer when shared.

He told you about his father’s old piano, how it still sat untouched in the study. You told him about your grandmother, who used to hum while cooking, saying it made the food taste like home.

By the time the clock ticked past midnight, the silence between you wasn’t empty anymore. It was full of something unnamed.

When he stood to leave, he lingered by the door, gaze flickering between your eyes and lips before he looked away. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Jungkook.”

The door clicked shut behind him, and you leaned against it, heart too loud, guilt too heavy. You were supposed to be pretending, but somewhere between lies and shared laughter, it was starting to feel too real.

Chapter 5

A/N: Hi lovelies! Thank you so much for patiently waiting for the update. I’ve been a bit busy lately, so I couldn’t post as often as I wanted, but I’m really happy to finally share this one with you.

To my Filo readers, please be safe and take care this weekend with the incoming typhoon. Make sure to pack your essentials and stay updated. During the typhoon Kristine, I lost all of my merch to the flood, so this time I made sure to pack everything safely.

Thank you so much for reading and supporting this story. I’d love to hear your thoughts, so feel free to leave a comment. You can also buy me a Ko-fi to keep me company while I work on Chapter 5.💜

-Charm

Your phone vibrated on the nightstand, buzzing its way toward the edge like it was possessed. You groaned, dragging yourself from the warm cocoon of your duvet. The sunlight spilled through the curtains of your new apartment—no, your luxury apartment—glittering off the marble floor like a spotlight made just for you.

You squinted at the screen. Mom.

You sighed, already bracing for impact. “Good morning, Mom.”

“Morning? It’s almost ten! Have you eaten?” Her voice came sharp, the same scolding tone that once woke you up for school every day. “Don’t tell me you skipped breakfast again. You’ll end up fainting, and who’s going to help you then? Huh?”

You rolled onto your back, staring at the high ceiling. “I was going to eat,” you said, even though the only thing near your bed was a half-empty macaron box from last night’s panic snacking.

“Eat what? Air?” she shot back. “Listen, Y/N, you can’t keep skipping meals just because you’re saving for those useless branded things. That bag doesn’t feed you, that lipstick doesn’t pay bills. You studied nursing, remember? Why are you wasting it working at some—some fashion store?”

“It’s a boutique, Mom,” you corrected automatically.

“I don’t care what French word they use, it’s still selling clothes! You have a degree. You could be saving lives.”

You rubbed your temple, staring at your polished nails, your freshly manicured, designer-nude, luxury-looking nails. “Saving lives is overrated. Saving my wardrobe is my current mission.”

“Y/N!”

“Okay, fine,” you sighed dramatically. “Since you’re so worried, let me tell you something.”

A pause. “What now?”

You grinned at the ceiling, feeling the kind of satisfaction that only came from revealing gossip worthy of a drama show. “I’m dating a billionaire.”

Silence. A dangerous one.

Then: “You’re what?”

“Dating. A. Billionaire.” You sat up and started gesturing wildly even though she couldn’t see you. “I met him through his mom—Mrs. Jeon! She shops where I worked. Well, worked, because I resigned yesterday.”

“You quit your job?!”

“Yes, because I’m rich now. I moved into this gorgeous apartment in Gangnam. There’s a bathtub big enough to drown in luxury. Literally gold handles on the doors. You should visit, Mom. Bring sunglasses—it’s that shiny.”

Your mother’s voice rose an octave. “Y/N, are you out of your mind? What kind of billionaire just—just gives you an apartment?”

You twirled a strand of hair around your finger, pretending to think. “The handsome kind. His name’s Jeon Jungkook. He’s charming, a little cold, and—well—his mom adores me.”

“Y/N, you’ve gone insane. This sounds like a scam. Or a drama plot!”

“Oh, it’s definitely a drama plot.” You kicked off the blanket and padded toward the giant floor-to-ceiling window, Seoul’s skyline shimmering below. “You’ll see, Mom. Just trust me, okay? My life is finally changing. I’m going to be someone.”

“You are someone! You don’t need—wait, what do you mean by ‘finally changing’? What are you planning now?”

You smiled at your reflection in the glass, the kind of smile that made you look like you already knew the ending of your story. “Let’s just say… you’ll be a grandmother soon.”

Dead silence.

“What?”

“I mean, not right now,” you said quickly, waving your hand as if she could see your panic. “Just soon. Eventually. It’s complicated. Anyway, you should rest! Stress isn’t good for your health, and I can’t have that. Bye, Mom!”

“Y/N, don’t hang up! Are you crazy? Who is this man? Do you even know him—”

You pressed the red button and tossed the phone onto the couch, grinning.

“That went… fine,” you told your reflection.

You turned toward the enormous mirror by the closet and studied yourself—messy hair, expensive pajamas, a view worth millions behind you. You placed your hands on your hips, straightened your posture, and gave yourself a wickedly satisfied smile.

“This is it,” you whispered. “Goodbye, bakery apartment. Goodbye budget skincare. Goodbye discount heels.”

You did a little twirl, your silk pajama pants brushing against your legs, the hem catching the golden morning light.

“Hello, Riverlane girl.”

The room seemed to sparkle with you, boxes of designer clothes piled like trophies, the faint scent of Chanel lingering in the air, a sparkling city waiting to witness your transformation.

You spun once more, laughing to yourself. “Jeon Jungkook, you have no idea what’s coming.”

And somewhere in another corner of Seoul, Jungkook was buttoning his cufflinks, still thinking about the woman his mother had introduced him to. The one who smiled like she had a secret.

He didn’t know yet what kind of storm was about to walk back into his world.

The doorbell rang at precisely eleven a.m.—not a minute earlier, not a second late.

You leapt up from your velvet sofa, nearly spilling your orange juice. The sound wasn’t just a doorbell; it was the arrival of destiny. You smoothed your robe, cleared your throat, and opened the door with your most graceful smile.

There she was.

Mrs. Jeon.

In all her terrifying, glamorous glory.

She stood in your doorway wearing oversized black sunglasses, a silk scarf tied neatly around her neck, and heels sharp enough to kill a man’s ego. Behind her marched an army of stylists, makeup artists, and assistants dragging racks of glittering gowns, suitcases of cosmetics, and boxes labeled Chanel, Givenchy, Dior.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Mrs. Jeon said in a tone that sounded more like you better be ready. “Please tell me you had coffee. I refuse to work with anyone who hasn’t caffeinated.”

“Uh, yes, Mrs. Jeon. Two cups,” you stammered.

“Good. Then you’re almost qualified to breathe the same air as my son.” She removed her sunglasses, revealing sharp, assessing eyes that seemed to dissect your soul and your skincare routine in one glance. “Now move aside. The miracle workers are here.”

Her team swept in like a royal entourage storming Versailles. Within seconds, your apartment transformed into a makeshift beauty studio—mirrors, hairdryers, curling wands, and makeup palettes everywhere.

Mrs. Jeon finally took a seat on your couch, crossing her legs elegantly. “I told them you’re a blank canvas,” she said, examining you. “They love that. It means they can fix you.”

You blinked. “Fix me?”

She smiled faintly. “Darling, no one is born perfect. Except Jungkook, of course.”

The chaos began.

One stylist held up a diamond-encrusted gown. “Too loud,” Mrs. Jeon said before even glancing at it.

Another offered a sleek black number. “Too funeral.”

A third lifted a blush silk gown that glimmered softly under the light. Mrs. Jeon’s brow finally arched in approval. “Ah. That’s romance. That’s temptation disguised as innocence. Try that.”

You slipped into the gown. The silk hugged your figure like it had been waiting for you. When you stepped out, the room fell quiet.

Mrs. Jeon tilted her head, studying you. “Not bad,” she said after a long pause. “You might actually pull this off. Don’t make me regret investing in you.”

You laughed nervously. “I’ll do my best.”

“I don’t believe in best,” she replied dryly. “I believe in results.”

She waved her hand, and the team moved in again. Curlers, brushes, powders—your world blurred into scents of roses, designer hairspray, and nervous excitement. Every now and then, Mrs. Jeon’s voice sliced through the air with casual authority.

“More volume. She’s not auditioning for a library card.”

“Fix her posture. She looks like she’s apologizing for existing.”

You straightened your shoulders immediately. “Better?”

Mrs. Jeon smiled thinly. “Almost. Pretend you’re expensive.”

Hours passed. When the final hairpin clicked into place, Mrs. Jeon rose from the couch and approached you like a critic about to review a masterpiece.

She circled you once. Twice. Her heels clicked against the marble floor like punctuation marks in a symphony of silence.

Finally, she stopped in front of you. “Well,” she said softly. “You’re not hideous.”

You laughed, unsure if that was a compliment.

“Don’t look so emotional,” she added. “We’re not at a soap opera. Confidence, dear. That’s what separates the rich from the pathetic.”

You straightened again. “Right. Confidence.”

“Good. Because tonight, you’re not that salesgirl from the boutique.” She leaned closer, lowering her voice to a near whisper. “You are elegance. You are scandal wrapped in silk. You are the woman who will make my son forget every bad headline he’s ever caused.”

You froze. “Headlines?”

Mrs. Jeon sighed dramatically and sat back down, fanning herself with a folded magazine. “He’s been in the tabloids all year. Photos with models, actresses, one unfortunate singer who couldn’t spell privacy. The board is restless. Investors hate drama. So, I need a story that calms the noise.”

You frowned. “And I’m… the story?”

“You’re not just the story,” she said, smiling knowingly. “You’re the miracle ending.”

You tried not to let the pressure crush you. Instead, you took a deep breath and nodded. “Then I’ll play the part.”

“That’s my girl.” Mrs. Jeon’s smile softened—just slightly. “Now, remember: be demure. Say little. Laugh softly. Pretend you’re thinking profound thoughts even when you’re not. Men like women who seem philosophical but never challenge them.”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing. “Got it. Mysterious and deep, but not too deep.”

“Precisely.” She rose, fixing your hair with a practiced hand. “And if Jungkook gives you attitude, just smile. He hates it when people smile at him, it makes him suspicious.”

“That’s… comforting.”

Mrs. Jeon’s phone buzzed. She glanced at it, her diamond bracelet catching the light. “He’ll be here soon,” she said, looking pleased. “We’ll leave before he arrives.”

She walked toward the door, pausing just long enough to give you one last critical once-over. “You clean up well, darling. If I squint, I could almost believe you were born into money.”

You smirked. “Maybe I was, in another life.”

Mrs. Jeon chuckled softly. “Well, in this one, let’s make sure you marry it.”

And with that, she swept out of the apartment, her entourage trailing behind like the tail of a comet.

For a long moment, the silence lingered. You turned toward the mirror.

The woman staring back at you didn’t look like someone who used to count tips for instant ramen nights. She looked breathtaking, almost dangerous—like a dream dressed in couture. You smiled at your reflection, a mix of disbelief and triumph bubbling inside.

“This is it,” you whispered. “This is really happening.”

The city outside gleamed in the late afternoon light, skyscrapers glinting like promises waiting to be fulfilled. Somewhere out there, Jeon Jungkook was getting ready too.

You twirled once, your gown sweeping across the marble floor like liquid gold.

“Goodbye, old life,” you said softly. “Hello, new me.”

Just then, your phone buzzed. A message from Jungkook.

I’ll pick you up at seven. Don’t make me wait.

You stared at the text, a slow, delighted grin spreading across your face.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you whispered.

Because tonight, for the first time in your life, you were no longer pretending.

You were becoming the fantasy.

The first thing you heard that evening was the quiet purr of an engine downstairs — low, smooth, expensive. The kind of sound that felt like money.

You peeked from your window and there it was: a sleek black car parked by the curb, headlights gleaming like eyes that already knew your secret.

You pressed your palms against your knees, willing yourself to stay calm. Tonight wasn’t just another fancy party, it was your chance to prove you belonged in the world Mrs. Jeon had built for you with her perfectly manicured hands and endless confidence.

The world of silk gowns, diamond smiles, and calculated lies.

When the doorbell rang, you almost tripped on the hem of your gown trying to answer it.

And there he was.

Jeon Jungkook.

Tall, composed, with a presence that filled the doorway effortlessly. His tuxedo fit like it was sewn directly onto his skin — black, classic, cruelly handsome. His hair was styled back, revealing sharp eyes that carried the kind of quiet power that made people either stare or look away.

You froze for a second, your heart skipping.

Then he spoke, his voice low and calm. “You ready?”

You nodded a little too quickly. “Yes. I’ve been ready since… forever.”

He arched a brow, clearly amused. “Forever’s a long time.”

“Well, I like being prepared,” you said, clutching your clutch like it might save your life.

Jungkook gave a faint smile, then stepped aside to let you lock your door. “You actually live in Riverlane.” He said casually, glancing over his shoulder as you followed him down the hall.

You almost missed a step. “Uh—yes. Of course. Why?”

He tilted his head slightly. “Just wondering. Last time I dropped you off, the guards didn’t recognize you. And you couldn’t remember your unit number.”

You nearly tripped again but forced out a light laugh. “Oh, that. I just moved in, remember? I was still getting used to the system. And I’d just arrived from New York that week — jet lag, new codes, new everything.”

Jungkook nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. “Makes sense.”

You exhaled discreetly. “Yeah,” you said with an easy smile. “Riverlane is home now.”

He held the car door open for you, and you climbed in, pretending like you’d done this a thousand times — sitting inside a luxury car that probably cost as much as a small island. You crossed your legs elegantly, even though your knees were trembling like jelly.

The ride was quiet at first. Seoul’s skyline shimmered outside, its lights glittering across the river like spilled gold. Jungkook sat beside you, his focus half on his phone, half on the passing city. You sneaked glances when you thought he wouldn’t notice.

He looked impossibly calm, the kind of calm that came with control. He wasn’t a man who needed to fill silence, he owned it.

Trying to sound casual, you asked, “Do you go to these galas often?”

He looked up from his phone. “Too often. They’re all the same — champagne, investors, fake smiles.”

“Sounds exciting,” you said with exaggerated enthusiasm.

He gave you a side glance, lips curving faintly. “You sound like someone who’s never been bored to death by rich people.”

You grinned. “Maybe because I am rich people.”

His smile deepened, barely there but visible. “Right. The Riverlane resident, the fashion executive from New York.”

You nodded confidently, even though your throat felt dry. “Exactly.”

“Must’ve been an interesting job,” he said, a trace of curiosity in his tone.

“Oh, absolutely. I’ve seen things you wouldn’t believe,” you bluffed smoothly. “Runway disasters, diva designers, a model once threw a shoe at me in Milan.”

He actually chuckled — the quiet, genuine kind that made your stomach twist. “You survived Milan. Impressive.”

“Barely,” you said dramatically. “But it builds character.”

The way he looked at you after that, a faint mix of amusement and curiosity, almost made you forget that every word you said was a lie.

When the car pulled up in front of the Grand Marcellus, you felt like you’d stepped into another world. Cameras flashed at the entrance, the red carpet gleaming under the lights. The hotel itself looked like a palace, all marble and gold, the kind of place where secrets sparkled brighter than diamonds.

Jungkook got out first and extended a hand toward you. “Don’t trip,” he murmured.

You took his hand, the warmth of his palm grounding you just enough to fake your calm. “I’ll try my best,” you said, your voice soft.

The moment you stepped out, flashes exploded like fireworks. Reporters called Jungkook’s name, shouting questions. You followed his lead, smiling gracefully, nodding when they pointed cameras at you. Every inch of you screamed poise — while inside, you were mentally screaming, don’t fall, don’t blink, don’t mess this up.

“Who’s the lady, Jungkook?” one reporter called.

He didn’t flinch. “A friend,” he said coolly, guiding you forward.

You wanted to look at him, to see if he meant it, a friend, but his expression remained calm, practiced. A man who’d done this many times before.

Inside, the ballroom was a blur of luxury, crystal chandeliers, champagne towers, a live string quartet playing something elegant enough to make you sit straighter. Mrs. Jeon spotted you almost immediately and swept toward you like royalty arriving at court.

“Oh, there you are,” she said, eyeing the both of you with pride. “My favorite couple.”

Jungkook sighed. “Mom—”

“I mean, pair,” she corrected sweetly, then took your hand in hers. “Darling, you look exquisite. That dress is Dior, yes?”

You smiled, pretending you didn’t almost faint when you first saw the price tag earlier. “Yes. You have a very good eye.”

“I always do,” she replied with a wink.

The night passed in waves — polite conversations, clinking glasses, and the ever-present hum of people pretending to care about charity while gossiping about everyone else. Jungkook stayed mostly quiet beside you, occasionally leaning in to murmur a comment that made you hide a laugh.

“You’re enjoying this more than I expected,” he said at one point.

“Maybe I like expensive food and beautiful chaos,” you replied.

He studied you for a second too long. “You’re not what I expected either.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“Still deciding,” he said simply, then turned back to his champagne.

Something about him made you want to push, to see how far you could go before that calm exterior cracked. But before you could reply, a voice cut through the chatter, a reporter’s voice, loud and eager:

“Miss Y/N, is it true you’re Jeon Jungkook’s fiancée?”

You froze, your mind blank.

Before you could even open your mouth, Mrs. Jeon smiled graciously and said, “No comment.”

The entire ballroom erupted into whispers.

Fiancée?

Did she just say fiancée?

You turned to Jungkook, horrified. He looked furious, ready to say something, but his mother gave him a subtle look, a quiet signal to stay silent.

You leaned toward Mrs. Jeon and hissed, “Why would you say that?”

Mrs. Jeon only sipped her champagne. “Free publicity. Don’t waste it.”

When the reporters finally left, Mrs. Jeon looked pleased, almost triumphant, as if everything had gone exactly the way she wanted. Jungkook, on the other hand, stood frozen beside her, his expression dark with anger. The moment the door closed behind the last camera, he turned to his mother, voice low but sharp, unable to hide how furious he was about what she’d just done.

Later, in the car, the chaos of the night still buzzed in your veins. You stared out the window, the city glowing like a fever dream.

Jungkook finally broke the silence. “You’re a mystery.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” you said softly.

He looked at you for a moment longer, then turned back to the city lights. “It was,” he said quietly.

And for the first time, you wondered if maybe, just maybe, the lie you were living had started to feel dangerously real.

The world woke up before you did.

By the time sunlight crept across your bedroom wall, the internet had already exploded. Your phone buzzed endlessly on the nightstand, buried under a mess of makeup brushes, nail polish bottles, and the remnants of last night’s chaos.

When you finally reached for it, still half-asleep, the first thing you saw made you sit upright so fast your blanket tumbled to the floor.

JEON JUNGKOOK SECRETLY ENGAGED TO UNKNOWN HEIRESS.

INSIDE THE LOVE STORY NO ONE SAW COMING.

WHO IS THE WOMAN THAT STOLE THE BILLIONAIRE’S HEART?

You blinked once. Twice.

Then, slowly, a grin started to spread across your face.

“Wait… that’s me,” you whispered, staring at the photo of you and Jungkook at the gala, his hand at the small of your back, your smile shining like you’d just stepped out of a fairy tale. The caption beneath it read: ‘The mysterious woman by his side has finally been identified as Y/N, rumored to have recently returned from New York.’

For a full minute, you just sat there, phone in hand, heart racing. You’d been in the background all your life — blending in, working, surviving. Now the entire city was talking about you.

When the doorbell rang, you scrambled up and ran to open it, still barefoot, still smiling.

“Good morning, darling,” Mrs. Jeon said, stepping in with her usual effortless grace, a cup of iced coffee in one hand and her phone in the other. Her face glowed with satisfaction. “I assume you’ve seen the news?”

“I—yes!” You lifted your phone like a trophy. “It’s everywhere. People think I’m—oh my God, Mrs. Jeon, they think I’m engaged to your son!”

Mrs. Jeon laughed, the kind of delighted, rich laugh that filled the whole apartment. “Exactly as planned. Isn’t it wonderful?”

You blinked at her. “Wonderful? I almost dropped dead when I saw it!”

She waved a manicured hand. “Relax. It’s just the press doing what they do best, turning rumors into gold. Trust me, dear, this is a good thing. A strong start.”

You followed her into the living room, where sunlight poured through the wide windows, painting the white furniture in gold. Your apartment still smelled faintly of the roses she’d sent you two days ago, a reminder that this entire illusion was built with her hands.

Mrs. Jeon sat down elegantly on the sofa and began scrolling through her phone again. “Look, even The Seoul Herald picked it up. They called you ‘the mysterious Riverlane heiress.’ Mysterious! Isn’t that flattering?”

You sat beside her, still overwhelmed. “I… I’ve never been on the news before. I still can’t believe it’s real.”

“Believe it,” she said with a proud smile. “You’re a star now.”

You leaned back against the cushions, letting the reality sink in. For the first time, you weren’t invisible. The whole city knew your name, even if it wasn’t for something true.

Still, something about it thrilled you. A small, guilty part of you enjoyed the fantasy.

Across the city, Jeon Jungkook wasn’t thrilled at all.

In his office, high above the skyline, he tossed the morning paper onto his desk. His jaw tightened as the headline glared back at him in bold letters.

Namjoon sat across from him, sipping coffee with the calm of someone who had seen this happen before. “You’re trending,” he said lightly. “Congratulations on your engagement.”

Jungkook shot him a look. “Don’t start.”

Namjoon raised an eyebrow. “I’m not starting anything. I’m just saying, the pictures look convincing. You look happy. Almost domestic.”

Jungkook leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. “Domestic? I barely know her.”

“You danced with her. Smiled at her. Let the press think you’re in love,” Namjoon pointed out.

“I didn’t let them do anything,” Jungkook said, his tone clipped. “My mother did.”

Namjoon nodded slowly. “Ah. Mrs. Jeon strikes again.”

“She planned this,” Jungkook muttered. “I know she did. The timing, the photos, everything. She’s been trying to set me up for months.”

Namjoon smiled faintly. “Maybe it’s working.”

Jungkook glared. “You think this is funny?”

“Maybe a little,” Namjoon admitted. “Look, it’s not the end of the world. Let the story fade. In a week, they’ll find someone else to talk about.”

Jungkook leaned forward, elbows on the desk, staring at the photo again — you beside him, smiling up like you belonged there. He couldn’t quite explain why the image unsettled him.

He exhaled slowly. “I don’t know what to do with my mom anymore.”

Namjoon chuckled. “Good luck with that.”

Back at your apartment, Mrs. Jeon was in her element, scrolling through article after article, humming cheerfully as you painted your nails a soft pink at the dining table.

“You’re handling this well,” she said, glancing up.

You smiled without looking away from your nails. “Should I not be?”

“I expected panic,” she said. “But you’re glowing.”

You blew lightly on your nails. “It’s my first scandal. I’m just trying to enjoy it.”

Mrs. Jeon laughed, delighted. “That’s the spirit. Scandal with style, I like that.”

“I just can’t believe it,” you murmured. “Me. On every headline. I used to spend my mornings scrolling through news about other people, and now… people are scrolling about me.”

She reached out and patted your hand affectionately. “You see, dear? You were meant for this. Fame, attention, glamour, it suits you.”

You smiled shyly. “Do you think Jungkook saw it?”

“Oh, he saw it,” Mrs. Jeon said with certainty. “And he’s probably furious. Which is good.”

“Good?” You frowned. “How is that good?”

“Because it means he’s paying attention.” She leaned back, her eyes glinting. “Jungkook’s not easy. He’s distant, guarded, stubborn, but underneath that, he’s a boy who just needs to be shaken awake. You’ll see.”

You gave her a doubtful look. “He doesn’t seem the type to… be shaken awake.”

Mrs. Jeon smiled knowingly. “He’s a puzzle, darling. But once you start fitting the pieces, you’ll see how simple it all is.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “You really think he’ll ever look at me that way?”

“I wouldn’t have chosen you if I didn’t,” she said gently. “You’re warm. Sincere. You don’t play games — and that’s exactly what he needs.”

Her confidence made you blush, though you weren’t sure if it was hope or guilt heating your cheeks.

“Anyway,” she said, standing up and adjusting her pearl earrings. “I have to run to the spa. My back’s been screaming since yesterday, and if I don’t get a massage soon, I might start complaining like an old woman.”

“You’re glowing. No one would believe you’re a day over thirty,” you teased.

She laughed, picking up her Birkin bag. “Flatterer. Oh, and before I forget—” her tone softened with that familiar mix of affection and authority, “you should go shopping. Spoil yourself a little, buy something fabulous. Use the credit card I gave you. You’ll need new clothes now that the world knows who you are.”

Before you could find a reply, she was already at the door, waving cheerfully. “Spend the day doing something fun. Try not to read the comments — unless they’re flattering.”

When the door clicked shut, the apartment fell quiet again, except for the faint hum of the city outside.

You sat there, staring at the door, then at your reflection in the window. Somewhere out there, people thought you were engaged to Jeon Jungkook — Seoul’s golden son. The idea made you laugh, softly at first, then louder until tears pricked at your eyes.

Because as impossible as it all was… it also felt oddly beautiful.

The Jeon estate sat beneath the city skyline like a palace built from pride itself — marble gates, silent fountains, and lights that never seemed to dim even when the world outside went dark. The staff whispered that they could tell her mood from the sound of her heels alone. Tonight, they knew to keep their heads down.

Jeon Jungkook had arrived without a call. No chauffeur, no warning. Just the growl of his car against the cobblestone and the slam of the front door that made even the chandeliers tremble. He strode in wearing his frustration like a perfectly tailored suit, one hand gripping the crumpled tabloid that had exploded across every newsstand that morning.

His mother, the formidable Mrs. Jeon, was lounging in her favorite room, a space that looked more like an art museum than a living area. Every piece was curated, expensive, deliberate, just like her. She sat on a chaise upholstered in powder-blue silk, a single pearl necklace gleaming against her throat, flipping through a book of French architecture as if her son’s world wasn’t currently on fire.

Jungkook stopped at the doorway, his voice low but sharp.

“Mom.”

Without looking up, she said, “You sound tense, darling. Tea?”

He dropped the newspaper on the marble coffee table between them. The headline screamed JEON JUNGKOOK ENGAGED TO RIVERLANE HEIRESS — SECRET LOVE STORY REVEALED. His jaw tightened.

“Explain this.”

Mrs. Jeon glanced at the paper, unfazed. “Oh, that? Isn’t it romantic?”

“Romantic?” Jungkook laughed under his breath, incredulous. “You’ve done some ridiculous things before, but this—” He pointed to the photo of him standing beside you, taken outside Riverlane last week. “This is insane.”

“I don’t see what’s so insane about two attractive young people in love,” she replied, taking a measured sip of tea. “The public adores a good story. You should be thanking me. Do you know how much your company’s stock rose this morning?”

Jungkook’s fingers curled into his palm. “You said no comment when a journalist asked you if it was true.”

Her brows lifted, faintly amused. “And what exactly was wrong with my answer?”

“Everything!” He paced, running a hand through his hair. “You can’t just decide who I’m dating, throw her name in the press, and expect me to play along like some obedient child.”

“Oh, Jungkook,” she sighed, setting her cup down, “you act as if I announced you were marrying a goat. I simply nudged the narrative in the right direction.”

He stopped pacing, turning to her with a glare. “You paid her, didn’t you?”

Her expression didn’t falter, but the smallest twitch of her lip gave her away. “Don’t be absurd.”

“Don’t lie to me.” His voice dropped, quieter now, the kind of quiet that hurt. “You did it before. How many more, Mom? How many times are you going to manipulate my life because you think I don’t know how to live it?”

Her reply came cool and steady. “Manipulate? Is that what you call trying to protect you from yourself?”

“From myself?” He scoffed. “You don’t protect me. You control me. There’s a difference.”

For the first time, her mask cracked — only slightly — then reassembled. She rose slowly from her seat, every movement graceful, like a queen descending her throne. “I have spent my entire life making sure this family doesn’t crumble, Jungkook. That you don’t destroy everything your father built with one careless decision. Forgive me if I’d like to see you with a woman who doesn’t show up in tabloid scandals or corporate exposés.”

He clenched his jaw. “You don’t even know her. You don’t know if she’s real.”

“I know enough,” she said softly. “I know she’s better than the others. And I know that for once, you didn’t look bored when you were with her.”

He froze for a moment, thrown off by the unexpected truth in her tone. Then, shaking his head, he replied, “You don’t get to make this about love. You don’t get to decide what’s real.”

Mrs. Jeon’s gaze softened with practiced melancholy. “Darling… I just want you to have someone. Before I’m gone.”

That made him stop. “What?”

She pressed a hand to her chest, closing her eyes. “It’s nothing. Just… lately I’ve been feeling—” She stumbled slightly, catching the edge of the table. The cup clattered, spilling tea over her silk robe.

“Mom!” Jungkook was beside her instantly, his hand steadying her arm. “What’s wrong?”

She let out a trembling breath, eyes fluttering closed. “Just a little dizzy… it’s been happening more often. The doctors said my heart isn’t what it used to be.” Her voice cracked perfectly on cue. “I don’t have much time, Jungkook.”

His expression shifted — panic, disbelief, guilt flooding his face. “Don’t say that.”

She gave a watery laugh, dabbing at her eyes with a monogrammed handkerchief. “Oh, you men. Always pretending you’re strong until your mothers remind you we’re not immortal.”

He crouched beside her. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I didn’t want pity,” she whispered, turning her face away. “I wanted… peace. To know my son will be loved when I’m gone. To hold my grandchild before I leave this world.”

Her tears sparkled beneath the chandelier — perfect, precise, worthy of an Oscar.

Jungkook swallowed hard, torn between suspicion and fear. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

She nodded weakly. “Just promise me something.”

He hesitated. “What?”

“Promise me you’ll give her a chance. That you’ll try, Jungkook. Even if you think I’m wrong.”

He stared at her, heart pounding, the weight of her plea pressing against every part of him that still remembered being a little boy holding her hand at his father’s funeral.

Finally, he sighed, looking away. “Fine. I’ll… I’ll get to know her. For you.”

Her face softened instantly, though she quickly hid the satisfaction curling at the corners of her mouth. “That’s all I ever wanted.”

He helped her stand, still worried, still fooled. “You should rest.”

“Yes, yes,” she said, waving a delicate hand. “I’ll be fine. You should go. Busy men have empires to run.”

When he finally left, the heavy front doors closed behind him with a dull thud. The house fell silent again.

Then, Mrs. Jeon straightened, walked to the mirror, and inspected herself — no sign of tears, no trace of weakness. She dabbed a little powder beneath her eyes, smoothed her hair, and smiled at her reflection.

“Flawless,” she murmured.

Her phone buzzed. She picked it up, her tone shifting to casual amusement.

“Yes. He believed me,” she said softly into the receiver. “We’ll move on to the next step. Make sure she’s ready.”

She ended the call, poured herself a fresh cup of tea, and settled back into her seat as if nothing had happened. Outside, the night deepened — calm, beautiful, deceptive.

In her mind, she could already see it: the headlines, the wedding, the photographs of her son with a woman she could mold into perfection. Mrs. Jeon smiled to herself, the kind of smile that came only from women who always got what they wanted.

The rooftop restaurant looked like a dream sculpted from glass and candlelight — every inch polished, every detail perfectly in place. Seoul stretched far below in glittering rivers of light, and the air carried the scent of rain and roses from the terrace garden. You’d seen places like this in magazines, maybe passed by them once or twice on your way home from work, but standing here tonight, you felt like an accidental extra who’d wandered onto the wrong movie set.

The hostess led you across the marble floor, your heels tapping nervously, your palms cold around your small clutch. You’d spent an hour debating your dress, something soft and simple, ivory with little pearl buttons down the back. You looked elegant enough, but the moment you stepped inside and saw the sea of diamonds, designer gowns, and tuxedos, you could already hear your inner voice whispering: You’re way out of your league.

And then you saw him.

Jeon Jungkook — perfectly composed, impossibly sharp in a black tuxedo that looked like it had been made just to annoy other men. He stood by the balcony, city lights painting gold along the edge of his jaw. He looked calm, but his eyes — dark, steady, curious — shifted toward you the second you arrived.

You inhaled softly, pushing your shoulders back as the hostess announced your name.

“Mr. Jeon,” you greeted, smiling as if your knees weren’t seconds from giving out.

He turned fully, his gaze sweeping over you once — not the kind of stare that stripped you bare, but the kind that assessed. Measured.

“You’re early,” he said. His voice was smooth, lower than you expected.

“I thought it would be polite,” you answered, trying to sound effortless.

He gave a small nod and gestured toward the table. “Then let’s not waste the effort.”

A waiter appeared to pull out your chair, and as you sat, you caught a faint reflection of the two of you in the glass wall behind — you, nervously fixing your napkin; him, composed, indifferent, like he’d done this a thousand times.

Jungkook cleared his throat, trying to sound casual. “So… what keeps you busy in New York?” he asked, his gaze flicking toward you with a hint of curiosity.

“Ah—well, I did a lot of international work. Managing, designing… styling.” You laughed, too loudly. “But mostly managing.”

He chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “That’s quite a range.”

“I’m versatile,” you said, half proud, half panicking.

The waiter reappeared to pour champagne, and Jungkook’s gaze followed the bubbles rising in his glass before shifting back to you. “My mother talks a lot about you.”

“Oh?” you asked, carefully stabbing a piece of bread.

“She says you’re perfect.”

“That’s… kind of her.”

He tilted his head. “I don’t think she’s ever said that about anyone else.”

You tried to smile, but your throat tightened. “Well, I suppose your mom just has good taste.”

He let out a quiet laugh. “You’re probably her fourth ‘perfect match’ this year.”

You gasped dramatically. “Fourth? Should I be offended or honored?”

“Depends,” he said, mouth twitching. “Do you actually like being part of one of my mother’s projects?”

“I don’t mind,” you said truthfully, then quickly added, “I mean — she’s very persuasive. I just thought, you know, it couldn’t hurt to have dinner.”

“Couldn’t hurt,” he repeated, smirking faintly. “You sound more confident than the others.”

You met his gaze and smiled. “Maybe because I know what I’m doing.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Do you?”

No. Not at all. But you nodded anyway. “Absolutely.”

The corner of his mouth lifted, a quiet laugh leaving him. It was the first time you’d heard it — soft, unguarded.

Dinner arrived soon after: steak for him, pasta for you. The smell alone could’ve made you emotional. You’d never eaten anything plated like art before. You tried not to shovel it down in three bites.

“So,” Jungkook said, setting down his knife. “You worked in New York. Why come back?”

“I missed home,” you said automatically, then added, “and, well, New York can be exhausting. Too many people pretending to be something they’re not.”

He gave you a look that lingered a second too long. “Funny. Seoul’s not that different.”

You smiled faintly, ignoring the irony burning in your chest. “Maybe. But at least the food’s better.”

He laughed quietly, shaking his head. “You really are something.”

You blinked. “Something good?”

“Something unexpected.”

The warmth in his tone startled you. It wasn’t flirtation — not yet. More like reluctant curiosity. Like he couldn’t figure out how you didn’t fit the mold of the women who usually appeared at his side.

You tried to hide your smile by sipping water. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It could be one,” he said, smirking slightly.

The conversation flowed more easily after that, you talked about travel, about your favorite coffee (you panicked and said caviar latte, which you invented on the spot), and he told you about his company’s latest project. He didn’t talk much, but when he did, it was with quiet certainty, like every word had a weight to it.

At one point, the city lights flickered in his eyes as he asked, “Do you actually like this world?”

You hesitated. “What world?”

“This,” he said, gesturing around. “The money. The cameras.”

Your fork froze mid-air. “Do you?”

He looked away, out to the skyline. “Not really.”

Something in his voice softened you. You wanted to ask why, why he stayed in it, why he seemed so lonely even surrounded by everything people dream of — but you didn’t.

The night stretched long, easy, tangled in laughter that neither of you expected. When the waiter brought dessert, molten chocolate cake with gold flakes, you caught him stealing a glance at you when you closed your eyes in delight.

“That good?” he asked, a hint of a smile breaking through.

“You have no idea,” you said, eyes still closed. “This is worth all the lies in the world.”

“What lies?” he teased.

You opened your eyes, heart jumping. “Figure of speech!”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re terrible at lying, you know.”

You swallowed. “Then it’s a good thing I don’t have to.”

When dinner ended, the night had grown cooler. He stood and offered his hand. You took it, and your pulse stuttered as he guided you to his car.

The car purred softly through the streets of Seoul, city lights spilling across the tinted windows in fractured streaks of gold and white. You sat beside Jungkook, hands folded neatly on your lap, pretending to be fascinated by the skyline instead of your own reflection trembling faintly in the glass.

Neither of you spoke for a while. The silence wasn’t awkward anymore, just heavy, full of things you both didn’t know how to say.

Finally, Jungkook cleared his throat, his voice low but sincere. “It was nice to have dinner with you.”

You turned slightly, caught off guard by the softness in his tone. “Yeah. It was..”

He nodded, fingers tapping the steering wheel once before he glanced at you again. “And… I owe you an apology.”

“For what?” you asked, even though part of you already knew.

“For judging you the first time we met,” he said simply. “I thought my mom paid you to show up.”

The words stung more than you expected, even though they were true. You forced a small smile, one that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “It’s okay. I get it.”

But inside, something twisted. Because he wasn’t wrong. His mother had paid you. And hearing him apologize for the very thing you were hiding, made the guilt taste sharp on your tongue.

He seemed to study your face for a moment, maybe searching for something you couldn’t give him. Then he looked away, hands tightening around the wheel.

“I shouldn’t have assumed,” he said after a beat. “You’re… different from the others.”

That last word hung in the air, uncertain and fragile. You didn’t ask what others meant, you didn’t want to know.

“Thank you,” you said quietly, turning your gaze back to the passing lights.

The car slowed as you reached your apartment building. The doorman bowed, and Jungkook put the car in park, the faint hum of the engine filling the space between you.

“Well,” he said, leaning back slightly, “see you next time.”

You nodded, offering a small, polite smile. “Goodnight, Mr. Jeon.”

He held your gaze for a moment longer than necessary, something thoughtful flickering there — curiosity, maybe, then he gave a small nod. “Goodnight.”

You stepped out of the car, feeling the cool air rush against your skin as the door shut behind you. You didn’t look back, even though part of you wanted to.

As Jungkook’s car disappeared down the street, you exhaled a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. The guilt crept back in like fog — quiet, persistent, and impossible to ignore.

Inside the car, Jungkook drove in silence. The night pressed close around him, the city a blur of motion and neon. He wasn’t sure what to make of you. You weren’t loud or desperate for attention, not like the women his mother usually paraded before him. There was something unpolished, almost disarmingly genuine about you.

Different. Yes, that was the word.

Still, he reminded himself, none of this mattered. He wasn’t looking for anything real. He was just doing what he always did, keeping his mother happy, playing along until it all faded away.

And yet, when he reached his penthouse and caught his reflection in the dark window, he realized he was still thinking about you, the way you smiled like it cost you something, the way you said it’s okay even when it clearly wasn’t.

He told himself it was just curiosity. Nothing more.

He sighed, unbuttoning his cufflinks, trying to shake off the thought of you. But it stayed — quiet, persistent, and impossibly warm.

Down in Riverlane, you stood by your window too, the city humming outside. You told yourself it was just dinner. Just an act.

Still, when you closed your eyes, you could almost feel the weight of his gaze, and for a second, the lie you were living didn’t feel like one at all.

The night ended not with closure, but with a question neither of you could name.

Chapter Two

A/N: Hi lovelies! Thank you so much for reading chapter 2. I was supposed to post this earlier, but Jungkook went live and, well… I was emotionally held hostage 😂 Anyway, I’d love to hear your thoughts on this chapter, let me know what you think in the comments! Thank you again for reading and supporting.💜

outside, the gardens remain hidden beneath a veil of mist, trees and stone lanterns only faint outlines in the gray light.

still, you stay in bed, cocooned in the only comfort that is truly yours. your clothes are rumpled, your hair falling loose across your shoulders, the blanket tangled around your legs.

pale fabric embroidered with faint pink blossoms — gifted by a dear friend’s mother — rests over you, soft and warm. it is a reminder of a kindness that feels distant now, something fragile in a world that demands perfection.

you slowly push yourself upright, blinking sluggishly as your mind begins to clear. soon you will have to rise and let yourself be molded into what everyone wants: the perfect, neat, well-kept princess.

every strand of hair pinned, every fold of silk lying in its place, every gesture measured. but here, just before dawn, you are allowed this small rebellion. messy hair. wrinkled clothes. a blanket twisted around you like a child’s.

it is the only time you are permitted to be unguarded.

and right now, you feel sick.

not just the light kind of sickness that passes after a moment, but a sickness that has clung to you these past weeks. it lives in your stomach, in your chest, in the weight of your thoughts. stress from the rituals, endless meetings, the constant eyes of your parents, and most of all, the king.

your father.

you feel worse than sick. you feel hollow.

a soft knock stirs you, and then the familiar creak of the door. your maid, an-hui, steps inside with her head lowered, her posture practiced and respectful. she is the only one you allow in your chamber without protest.

others stare at you like you are a calculation, a role to be weighed and measured. but an-hui only looks at you as you are. over the years, her place as your maid has shifted into something gentler, something closer to a friend. in this entire palace, she is perhaps the second person you trust.

she moves across the room toward the tall windows, her hands already reaching for the wooden frames to pull them open, to let in the morning light.

“don’t open them,” you murmur, your voice muffled as you bury your face in your palms.

her hands pause mid-air, and then she turns back toward you. “princess, it is past the hour of jin…” she hesitates, lowering her voice. “the king requested your presence as soon as your morning routine is complete. he says he has found the perfect suitor for you.”

her tone is polite, neutral, but you see the flicker in her eyes, the faint smile she wears because she has no choice. because she knows. she knows how much you loathe the traditions of arranged marriage, how every mention of it grates against your spirit. but she also knows she cannot change it for you. all she can do is deliver the words.

a groan escapes your throat, low and frustrated. you drag your hands down your face and shove the blanket aside, sliding out of bed with little grace. your hair falls messily around your face, strands catching in the corners of your lips as you mutter under your breath.

“fucking marriage.”

an-hi gasps sharply, her eyes widening as her hand darts to cover her mouth. “___!” she hisses, her voice urgent.

you shake your head, still scowling, feet pressing against the cool floor. “what? it is the truth.”

she only sighs, lowering her hand, her expression troubled but tender. she cannot scold you as others would. she cannot remind you of etiquette or warn you of punishment. instead, she watches silently, her gaze filled with sympathy, as you begin your day already with a storm cloud hovering over you.

the morning has only just begun and you already feel like running away.

from this vantage, you can see the rooftops of the hanok stretching across the courtyard, dark tiles glinting where the first light catches them. the palace is quiet now, but it will not remain so for long. whispers of officials, servants, and eunuchs will soon fill the corridors.

annoying.

today, like every day lately, your life feels measured, observed and contained.

you are twenty one now, newly come of age, and yet the world treats you as if you were still a child. for years, your father, the king, has nudged and prodded you toward marriage, each suggestion heavier than the last.

you have pushed him off, delaying, pretending illness, feigning disinterest — but now, there is no more room for delay. he has made it clear: he will find you a husband, regardless of your wishes. and the thought tightens something in your chest.

a husband.

someone you must bow to, smile at, and obey. it is not love you fear, but submission. the idea of being someone’s possession, traded for political gain.

the palace gardens outside your window are still cloaked in mist, their outlines blurred and unreachable. you look at them and feel the same blur within yourself, caught between duty and your own will, both sides pulling until you feel sick.

so sick that, each time the word marriage echoes in your mind, you almost want to retch.

you dress slowly, with an-hui’s quiet hands guiding each fold into place. the silk of your hanbok slips across your skin, which almost feels cool and light. the pale fabric clings to you like a reminder:

even beauty is a kind of restraint. even freedom is measured here.

an-hui moves with care, fastening ties, smoothing wrinkles, stepping back to check the lines of the garment before adjusting again. her silence is practiced, but you feel the way her presence steadies you. without her, mornings would feel unbearable.

you lift your arms when she prompts you, bow your head when needed, every motion one you’ve repeated a thousand times. and this has been your life — learning to move like water, soft and graceful, never betraying the turbulence inside.

each morning, you put on not just robes but composure. the polite smile, the lowered gaze, the serene movements that make you appear untouchable. to the court, you are flawless. to your father, obedient.

yet inside, something coils tighter with every passing day. frustration, sharp and restless, winding through you like a snake.

every decision made for you. every word weighed before you speak it. every glance judged.

you are never truly alone. even here, in your own chamber, you feel the invisible eyes pressing in, expectation clinging to you like a second skin.

you breathe, slow and careful, but the air still feels thick and heavy.

once the last tie of your hanbok is fastened, an-hui steps back and smooths the front of your robes with her palms, checking one final time that everything rests as it should.

satisfied, she glances toward the low table by the window, where trays of rice porridge, pickled roots, and steamed greens wait untouched.

“shall i bring your breakfast here, princess?” her voice comes out soft, almost careful.

you shake your head immediately. “no. i’m not hungry.”

her brows knit together as she hesitates. “you haven’t eaten well these past days… are you feeling unwell?”

you lower your gaze, adjusting the sleeve of your hanbok as if that small motion could hide the heaviness in your chest. “i am fine.”

“princess…” her tone carries quiet worry, but she stops herself, bowing her head slightly instead of pressing further.

silence lingers for a moment. you can hear faint sounds beyond the chamber doors now ; servants moving dowm the hall, the distant thud of footsteps against polished wood. the palace seems... busy.

an-hui finally speaks again, gently. “his majesty will be expecting you soon. he asked that you come without delay.”

you let out a breath, long and heavy. “to speak of the same situation, over and over again.”

she doesn’t deny it. her eyes soften, but her lips remain pressed together, as if even voicing her sympathy might be dangerous.

“he has chosen someone this time,” you say bitterly, though your voice wavers. “and he will not ask what i want. he never does.”

an-hui lowers her gaze. “princess, i know it is difficult, but… perhaps it would ease your heart if you tried to hear him, just for today.”

you laugh, short and humorless. “ease my heart? marrying a stranger to strengthen his power will not ease anything.”

her silence answers you better than words could.

you turn towards the window, looking at the pale morning mist still clinging to the garden. your stomach remains tight, the untouched food on the table only deepening the sourness that has been living there for days.

“i’ll go,” you say finally, voice flat. “but don’t ask me to be gentle with men i do not choose.”

an-hui bows her head again, the corner of her mouth tugging in a faint, helpless smile. “as you wish, princess.”

. . .

the suitor ; perfect, they had called him, rose stiffly, bowing only once before storming from the chamber, silk robes stained dark where the tea had spilled. whispers swirled instantly through the court, like insects buzzing around a wound.

the tea had splashed hotter than you intended, but the gasp of the suitor and the silence that followed felt almost satisfying. the hall froze, every eye turning to you, the king’s only daughter, sitting with her back straight and her jaw set.

you hadn’t meant to create a scene — at least not this big — but after days of men being paraded before you, each one sizing you up like a prize, this man looked no different, and the rage in your chest finally boiled over.

your father’s voice cut through them all.

“enough.”

that one word struck like a blade.

he dismissed the courtiers with a wave of his hand, though their curious eyes lingered until the guards pushed them out. the doors closed heavily behind them, and the hall fell into an uneasy quiet.

your father stood tall infront of you, hands clasped behind his back, the vein at his temple pulsing. his gaze burned into you.

“you shame this house. you shame me.”

you clenched your fists against your skirt, nails pressing into your palms. “i told you i don’t want this.”

“you are not a child to throw tantrums!” he snapped, loud enough to make you flinch. “you are twenty one. you are a woman. it is time you fulfill your duty to this kingdom.”

your throat tightened, but you forced the words out. “marrying me off is not duty. it is convenience. would you really trade me for power as if i were.. nothing?”

his hand slammed against the table, the sharp crack echoing. “watch your tongue, daughter.”

you flinched again, but your chin lifted stubbornly. “i will not bow to a stranger. i will not smile and pretend to be grateful.”

for a long moment, there was only the sound of your own breathing, ragged against the heavy silence.

your mother sat nearby, robes folded neatly around her, lips pressed into a thin line. she did not speak. her eyes remained lowered, fixed on the floor. she had been silent through all of it — your rebellion, the suitor, your father’s fury.

that silence from her stung more than your father’s words.

finally, he turned away, his voice low with restrained rage. “you will not have another chance to humiliate me. the next suitor i present will be your husband. whether you spill tea or spit fire, it will not matter. do you understand?”

your chest ached, but you said nothing.

he faced you again, and his eyes were cold, sharp and left no room for refusal. “do. you. understand?”

“…yes, father.” the words scraped out of your throat like ash.

the hall emptied soon after, but the weight of it stayed with you. anger burned in your stomach, hot and sour, until even the thought of food made you ill.

. . .

you slam the door shut behind you and refuse to open it again. the palace feels too wide, too loud, too filled with whispers that crawl under your skin, but here, in your chamber, you can breathe. or at least you try to.

you sit at the edge of your bed, the silk of your hanbok pooling around you, your fists tangled in the fabric as if clutching it could anchor you. your chest heaves, each breath sharp and shaky, and before you know it the anger melts into something hotter, wetter.

tears sting your eyes. not delicate tears, not the kind you’ve been taught to let fall silently, but angry ones. angry sobs that shake your shoulders and leave your throat raw.

you press your palms against your eyes, furious at yourself for crying at all. you don’t want them to have this power over you — not your father, not the court, not the strangers lined up like hunters circling their prey.

you whisper into your hands, voice trembling, “i hate this.” the silence that follows feels heavy, heavy enough to drown you.

and then, you hear three soft knocks against the wooden door.

you freeze, your breath catching.

you don’t need to ask who it is. you already know. the one person who has always known how to find you, even when you tried to disappear.

“princess,” his voice comes low, respectful.

you exhale, softening just at the sound.

the door slides open and jungkook enters, bowing his head before stepping carefully into the room. even here, with no other eyes on him, he moves with formality, every step measured. the dark layers of his servant’s attire make his frame look sharp against the pale colors of your chamber.

you study him as he approaches, his posture, the way he keeps his gaze lowered at first, the way his hands are folded neatly in front of him. anyone else would only see a servant’s deference. but you see more. you always have.

he has been by your side since childhood, when he was first assigned to serve in your household. over the years, he became not just a shadow at your shoulder but the one person you could speak to without fear of judgment. the court is full of ears that twist and mouths that betray, but jungkook has never once failed you. if anything, his silence has been your greatest refuge.

he stops a few steps away from where you sit, his head still slightly bowed. “i heard you did not eat,” he says softly. the words are gentle, but the worry beneath them is clear.

you don’t answer his concern. your throat is still raw from the sobs you tried to swallow earlier, and your heart feels too swollen with anger to let more spill out. instead, the only thing that escapes is quieter and fragile.

“you’re back.”

his eyes lift, just enough to meet yours, dark and steady. he nods once. “yes. my parents requested my presence for two days. they wished me to help them with new fabrics for the spring merchants. and i.. i needed to have a talk with them. i sought permission before i left.”

you know his parents well enough, though you have never spoken to them directly.

cloth-makers of humble but steady skill, their hands weave patterns that find their way into the palace — robes, sashes, ceremonial silks. it has always struck you, how different his world is from yours, and yet how close he has remained.

“you left without a word.”

he bows his head again. “forgive me for leaving you, princess. i had hoped my absence would not trouble you.”

you stare at him for a long moment, lips parting but no words coming. you want to say you hated that he was gone, that his absence made the palace feel emptier, heavier, colder. but all you manage is a soft shake of your head, your fingers curling against the fabric of your skirt.

“you’re back,” you repeat, as though that is all that matters.

and in truth, for you, it is.

you break into sobs again, your hands flying back to your face, trying to bury yourself, to hide the mess you’ve become.

but it’s useless. you can’t hold it in. everything hurts ; your chest, your throat, your heart. it feels like there’s a mountain pressing on your shoulders, every second heavier, every breath tighter, until you can barely breathe at all.

and then... warmth.

arms wrap around you, firm but gentle, pulling you in,.

you gasp softly, startled, and your hands fall away from your face. instinctively, desperately, you cling back, your arms winding around him as if you might fall without them.

“you’re okay, princess. you’re okay.” his voice is a low murmur above your head, soft, calm, soothing. words that press into your skin like balm.

you melt against him, forehead pressing into his stomach as he stands before you. your tears spill freely into his clothes, hot and unrelenting, but you don’t care if you stain them. you clutch at him tighter, your sobs breaking into little whines.

“shh…” he coos, one hand sliding over your hair, smoothing it back with patient care. “i am sorry, my love.”

the words slip out so naturally from him, you don’t even flinch at them. they soothe you, even as they sting

“i didn’t tell you,” he continues quietly, “because we both know you would have refused to let me go.”

your voice comes out muffled, pressed against his chest, your throat raw from crying. “so you leave me, w-without a word? do you know how miserable i’ve been? even if it was only two days, and three nights, it f-felt.. endless.” your grip on his clothes tightens, shaking slightly with every word.

his lips curve in the faintest smile as he looks down at you, still stroking your hair. “i know, my love. i know. i am sorry.” he pauses, his hand drifting to the curve of your back, steadying you. “but i had to. for us. for our life together.”

your sobs falter, confusion creeping in between the tears. you sniffle, and finally tilt your face upward, though your eyes remain wet and red. your fingers tug weakly at his robe, clinging.

“what… what do you mean?”

he studies you with that steady gaze, then lifts his hand to cup your cheek. his thumb brushes over your damp skin, slow and careful, as if to anchor you in this moment.

“i spoke with my parents,” he says softly.

you blink at him, breath caught in your throat.

“they will help us,” he continues, his voice quiet, steady, certain. “they will arrange everything we need. a carriage. coin. supplies. a way beyond the palace gates without anyone suspecting. we can runaway, my love. far from here. across the sea, if we must. to a place where no one will chain you to a man you do not love.”

your lips part, but no sound comes. the room feels suspended in silence, save for the fading echo of your own sobs.

he leans down, closer to you, his forehead almost touching yours, his voice barely above a whisper now.

“all you have to do.. is say yes.”

your lips part, but your voice trembles. “leave… the palace?”

he nods once. “leave everything. your father’s court. these walls. their plans for you. we can start again, far away. my parents have friends across the border. merchants. people who will not ask questions.”

the words fall heavy and bright all at once, like sparks in the dark. a chance. a choice.

you look down, your hands trembling as they clutch at his robe. “if we’re caught…”

“we won’t be,” he cuts in softly, but his tone holds steel beneath it. “i will not allow it. i would rather die than see you bound to a man who does not deserve you.”

your chest tightens, your tears fresh, but this time for another reason. no one else has ever spoken for you like this. no one else has ever looked at you as though your freedom mattered more than tradition, more than bloodlines, more than power.

he bends lower, his forehead nearly touching yours. “say yes, princess,” he whispers. “say you will choose me. choose us.”

the room is silent but for the sound of your uneven breaths. the weight of the palace presses at the walls, but here, in his arms, you feel a door cracking open.

“y-you don’t understand. if my father ever found out…” you shake your head, clinging tighter. “he wouldn’t just punish me. he would never spare you.”

the thought alone makes your chest ache, sharper than any fear for yourself. the king has always been merciless when it comes to loyalty and betrayal. you’ve seen men whipped for smaller offenses, seen families cast out for less.

your gaze finally lifts, eyes searching his face with desperation. “jungkook… he would kill you.”

for a moment, silence hangs heavy. but jungkook doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look away. instead, his hand cups your face more firmly, his thumb brushing over the dampness of your skin as though wiping away the fear itself.

“then let me risk death,” he says quietly.

your voice breaks as you look up at him, eyes shimmering. “you would risk your life for me?”

his lips curve faintly, not in amusement, but in something heavier, something that knows no fear. “my love,” he says softly, “i’ve already given my life to you.”

you blink, startled, and he continues, his tone low, steady, the way he speaks when the truth cannot be shaken.

“since i was a boy, i was brought here with nothing but the clothes my parents stitched for me. i had no name of my own, only the one they called when they needed a hand, a shadow, a servant.” his gaze softens, though his words hold weight. “but you… you spoke to me. you saw me. when the others treated me like air, you looked at me as though i existed. do you know what that meant to a child like me?”

your chest twists, your hands clutching at him.

he goes on, voice gentler now. “every moment since then, i’ve belonged to you. when you laughed, when you cried, when you cursed the walls of this palace — i was there. i’ve walked every step behind you, not because i was told to, but because i wanted to. because there is nowhere else i’d rather be.”

his thumb strokes your cheek, wiping at the tears that keep falling. “so if you ask me if i’d risk my life for you… princess, i already have. every day. and i will continue to, until the end.”

and that does it for you.

his words settle into the cracks of your heart like water, filling every ache, every wound. because you believe him. and why wouldn’t you?

he has always been there. through every tantrum, every sleepless night, every time you collapsed , buried in duty — you remember his presence. no one else has given you that. no one else has listened without judgment, seen you without calculation.

you can’t imagine a life without him anymore.

your breath hitches, and your body softens against his hold. your arms slip tighter around his waist, your cheek pressing into the warmth of his body, letting yourself sink into him fully this time. not as a princess clinging to her servant, but as a woman clinging to the only person she has ever truly trusted.

“jungkook…” you whisper, your voice slightly breaking, but there’s no resistance in it anymore. no fight left, only truth.

he bends closer, lips brushing the crown of your head, and his embrace tightens around you as if he knows. as if he feels your surrender in the way you breathe against him.

for a moment, every worry falls away. and it feels like, there is only this. you and him. the choice you’ve already made, even if you haven’t said it aloud yet.

then you nod, barely daring to breathe, and he leans closer. your lips meet softly, a gentle brush that lingers longer than it should, as if the world has shrunk to just this moment.

your hands rest against his chest, feeling the steady beat of him beneath your palms.

“i’ll always be with you,” he murmurs against your hair, voice low and sure, “through every storm, every dark hour. you will never be alone.”

you let out a small, trembling laugh. “and don't you dare leave,” you whisper.

he smiles, a soft, almost reverent curve of lips, and presses his cheek to yours. “never. not now, not ever. you… you carry my heart with you.”

a pause stretches between you, until he slowly lowers himself to one knee before you. the movement is careful, reverent, full of awe. your hand instinctively moves to your stomach, and he bows his head, pressing a tender, reverent kiss against it.

“my little one,” he breathes, fingers tracing your belly lightly, “i promise to protect you both. always.”

a/n: i worked hard , this made me cry.