Oph3lia

"But it sucks."

A corner of his mouth tugged upward, a faint, bittersweet smile. He reached out, his large hand coming down on top of your head, affectionately rustling your hair the way he always did when he thought you were being dramatic. "You’re going to college in the spring. You’re getting out of here. You just have to hold down the fort for a few more months, okay? If you need anything, you call me. I’m cutting ties with him, not you."

It was a safe promise. 

And suddenly the suffocating reality of how much you loved him, how much you had loved him since he first showed up to drag your dad out of a bar, boiled over. 

"I’m going to marry you someday." you said.

Jack froze. His hand stayed resting on your head before he slowly lowered it, his dark eyes blinking in confusion. "What?"

"You heard me." You shoved your hands into your jacket pockets so he wouldn't see them shaking. "I'm going to marry you someday. Plan accordingly."

The confusion on his face morphed into a booming laugh that rattled right through your ribs. He shook his head.  "Jesus, kid." he chuckled, leaning his hip against the truck tailgate. "You really are losing it. I think the stress is finally liquefying your brain."

"I am entirely lucid." you insisted, your heart hammering against your sternum.

"Sure you are. Look, I know I'm a catch." he teased, his eyes glittering with amusement as he pointed a finger at you. "But I'm twelve years older than you, I have a bad knee, and my current retirement plan is hoping the lottery works out. You're nineteen. Go find some college kid who thinks a romantic evening is sharing a box of cheap pizza, and leave the old men out of it."

"You're not old."

"I'm ancient by your standards. Now get inside before you freeze." He waved a dismissive hand, turning back to his truck to close the tailgate. 

You turned and walked toward the porch, the gravel crunching beneath you. You didn't look back. 

As you reached for the doorknob of the house you hated, the lighthearted mask you’d worn slid completely away. Your chest felt tight, a wild, terrifying spark of certainty settling deep into your bones.

He thought you were joking. He thought it was a silly, dramatic crush from a teenage girl who had a bad dad and a soft spot for the guy who saved her.

But as you pulled the door open and stepped into the dim hallway, you knew with absolute clarity that you had never been more serious about anything in your entire life.

It was unfortunate then that you wouldn’t see Jack Abbot for another eleven years. 

…

Now

"I think we should go with the eggshell white for the table linens." Meg said, waving a heavy, binder in front of your face. "Standard white is too aggressive. It screams hospital cafeteria, and we want understated elegance. Thoughts?"

You blinked, pulling yourself out of the haze that had taken over your brain three months ago when wedding planning officially began. "Is there a difference between eggshell and ivory?"

Meg looked at you with the pity of a maid of honor who was single handedly dragging a reluctant bride across the finish line. "One has warm undertones, one has cool undertones. Do you want your guests to feel cozy or intellectually stimulated while they eat their prime rib?"

"I want them to be fed and silent." you muttered, resting your chin in your hand.

You were sitting in your apartment, the coffee table entirely buried under fabric swatches, floral arrangement lookbooks, and a seating chart that confused the hell out of you. 

From the bedroom, the sound of typing drifted through the cracked door. David. Your fiancé. A man who possessed a master’s degree in data analytics, an impeccably organized sock drawer, and a temperament so blindingly stable it felt like a weighted blanket for your chaotic soul. David didn't yell. David didn't forget to pay the electric bill. David didn't bring volatile drama into your life.

He was safe. He was exactly what a girl who grew up with a father like yours was supposed to want.

"You're doing that thing again." Meg observed, tapping her pen against the binder.

"What thing?"

"The thing where you look at your engagement ring like it’s a tiny handcuff instead of a three carat symbol of eternal devotion."

You instinctively dropped your hand into your lap, the platinum band suddenly feeling incredibly heavy on your finger. "I am not. I love the ring. I love David. I am just tired. Decision fatigue is a real medical phenomenon, Meg."

"Right. Well, the good news is David already approved the catering invoice." she said, flipping a page. "He made a spreadsheet comparing the price per head of four different vendors against their Yelp reviews. He’s very efficient."

"He is." you agreed, forcing a smile. "He's incredibly efficient."

When David asked you to marry him six months ago after a perfectly pleasant dinner, it had made total, logical sense. Your twenties had been a blur of trying to stabilize your life, working a steady job, and actively untangling the emotional wreckage your father had left behind. 

David was peace. He was the quiet harbor.

So why, as you looked at the eggshell fabric swatch in your hand, did you feel like you were suffocating?

"I need a drink." you announced suddenly, pushing yourself up from the couch. The walls of the apartment felt like they were closing in.

Meg raised an eyebrow. "It's a Thursday night."

"Exactly. The perfect night for a gin and tonic. Want to come?"

She looked longingly at the mountain of swatches, then at her watch. "I can't, babe. I promised my mom I’d call her by eight. But go. Escape. Command David to join you for a celebratory beverage."

You glanced back toward the bedroom door. The typing hadn't stopped. 

"No." you said quietly, grabbing your jacket from the back of the chair. "David’s working. I'll just slip down to the bar on the corner for an hour. A little solo decompression."

…

You pushed the heavy wooden door to the bar open, the overhead bell chime was immediately swallowed by the hum of a Thursday night crowd. The air inside was warm with the low murmur of conversations and clinking of pint glasses.

You threaded your way through the standing crowd toward the far end of the bar, finding a rare, empty leather stool near the service well. You sat down, sliding your purse onto the counter, your fingers instinctively finding the band on your ring finger. You began to rotate it. A nervous habit. 

The bartender wiped down the wood in front of you. "What can I get you?"

"Gin and tonic, please. Lime if you have it."

He nodded and vanished. You let out a long breath, closing your eyes for a fraction of a second to let the frantic pacing of wedding checklists drain out of your head. 

"I’m telling you, if the CT scan shows a retroperitoneal hematoma, you don't wait for the labs." a voice echoed from across the room, slicing through the noise of the bar. "You call trauma surgery immediately. If his pressure drops in the middle of the night, a spreadsheet of his blood counts isn't going to save him."

Your entire nervous system seemed to short circuited.

The sound of the bartender dropping ice into your glass faded. Your breath hitched, freezing right in the middle of your chest. You didn't move. You couldn't. Because your brain, despite eleven years of therapeutic distance and deliberate forgetting, recognized that voice with instantaneous accuracy.

Slowly, you turned your head.

You looked past the crowded center of the bar, your eyes tracking the sound toward a large, dimly lit booth in the far back corner. There was a group of four or five people sitting there but your brain entirely bypassed them.

It locked directly onto Jack Abbot.

Eleven years had done things to him. Unfair, frustrating things. 

He was sitting with his back partially against the wood paneling, one massive arm stretched out across the top of the booth’s leather cushion. The boyish edge to his jawline was entirely gone, replaced by a rugged permanence that only came with time and the unimaginable stress of running an emergency room. 

His hair was mostly silver now, but he still had those curls that you used to love so much.

You just stared. You took him in like a person dying of thirst who had unexpectedly stumbled into an ocean. You watched the way his fingers loosely gripped a lowball glass of amber liquid, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners as a resident across the table nodded rapidly, absorbing everything he said.

Then, one of the residents cracked a self deprecating joke and Jack threw his head back and laughed. It was that uninhibited sound you used to listen for through the floorboards of your childhood bedroom. The sound that meant the storm had passed and you were safe for the night.

But as the laugh faded, Jack’s head came back down. His gaze drifted casually across the crowded bar, tracking the room with a lazy, relaxed familiarity.

Until his eyes hit your face. And stopped.

The change in him was instantaneous. The easy, relaxed posture vanished. Jack was frozen, his entire frame locking up as his eyes widened, just a fraction, in shock. 

His glass stayed suspended halfway to his mouth. The lazy amusement in his face was entirely wiped clean, replaced by a stunned, piercing gaze that was pressing against your chest from across the room. 

He stared at you as if he were looking at a ghost. As if he couldn't quite determine if the alcohol or the dim lighting was playing a cruel trick on him.

Panic taking over, you abruptly tore your eyes away. You spun your stool back around to face the bar, your hands trembling so hard you had to clasp them together in your lap.

"Here you go. Gin and tonic." the bartender said, sliding the glass in front of you.

"Thank you." you breathed, your voice sounding thin and reedy even to your own ears.

You grabbed the glass, your knuckles white, and brought it to your lips. You took a long sip, the sharp bite of the gin doing absolutely nothing to calm the wildfire currently roaring through your veins. You kept your eyes glued to the rows of liquor bottles on the wall, staring intensely at a bottle of cheap vodka as if it held the secrets to the universe.

Just leave, your internal monologue screamed. Pay for the drink, stand up, and walk out the door.

But you didn't move. You sat there, sipping nervously, your ears hyper tuned to the noise behind you, waiting for the inevitable.

You didn’t hear his footsteps over the chatter of the bar, but you felt him. The pressure shifted, the light dimming as a towering shadow fell over your left shoulder. The scent of rain and something deeply, inherently Jack invaded your senses.

He stopped right beside your stool, not saying a word at first. He just stood there waiting until you finally found the courage to look up.

When you did, he was looking down at you, his jaw tight, his eyes searching your face.

"I’d know the back of that head anywhere." Jack murmured. "Even if you did finally change your hair."

…

Your vocal cords felt like they’d been sutured together. You just stared up at him, your fingers around your gin and tonic, desperately hoping the dim bar lighting didn't betray the frantic pulse at the base of your throat.

"Jack." you finally managed.

A grin broke across his face. Without asking, he slid into the empty leather stool next to yours, his shoulder brushing against your arm. The casual dominance of his presence immediately erased the rest of the crowded room. He flagged down the bartender. "Bourbon. Neat. And whatever she’s having, put it on my tab."

"I can pay for my own drink, actually," you shot back, the old defensive reflex kicking in before your brain could stop it. You anchored your heels onto the brass rung of the stool, trying to match his height as best you could. "I have a big girl job now. I’m a fully functioning member of the tax paying public."

Jack tilted his head, his face doing that infuriating amusement you remembered all too well. "A big girl job? Is that right? I know you're an adult. I just heard you order a cocktail that tastes like pine needles and regret. Nineteen year old you would have demanded something neon green and loaded with sugar."

"It’s a sophisticated palate." you sniffed, taking a defiant sip. "And I overheard your little performance back there. 'You call trauma surgery immediately.' Honestly, do you ever stop playing god, or do you just like terrifying your underlings in public so they know you're the smartest guy in the room?" You couldn’t help being a brat. The feelings of him leaving you bubbling up, making you pissed off all over again.

"They’re interns." Jack corrected smoothly, leaning an elbow on the bar, shifting his torso so he was completely facing you. The scent of him was overwhelming. "And they need to be terrified. If they lose their heads because a patient's blood pressure drops, they don't belong in my ER. It's called guidance, kid."

"It's called being bossy.”

Jack let out a chuckle, a sound that rattled right through your ribs, agonizingly familiar. He shook his head, his eyes darkening as he leaned a fraction of an inch closer. "God, I missed your mouth." he murmured.

The words hung in the air between you. The banter evaporated, leaving a silence. Jack’s gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before lifting back to your eyes, searching them.

Fuck.

By eight in the morning, your wedding was already circulating across Instagram stories before the ceremony had even begun.

Weddings in Seoul had simply become another kind of spectacle, beautifully staged proof that people in their thirties were still willing to gamble their hearts on forever.

The florist uploaded a reel with soft piano music and captions that read winter elegance meets timeless romance. Your makeup artist posted a blurry candid of you smiling in your silk robe with the caption:

“our gorgeous bride today 😭🤍”

Your cousins were filming TikToks in the hotel hallway. Somebody’s boyfriend had brought a drone. Your aunt from Busan was already asking the photographer if he could “make her look ten kilos thinner in editing.”

Everything looked beautiful online.

The bridal suite smelled like hairspray, coffee, and peonies expensive enough to cover two months of your rent. Garment bags hung from every chair. Half-open makeup palettes cluttered the vanity. Somebody had left a half-eaten egg sandwich beside a Dior lipstick worth more than your electric bill.

Outside the tall windows, snow drifted softly over Seoul.

Your mother stood behind you while the stylist adjusted your veil for the fifth time, both hands pressed over her chest as if she might faint from happiness at any second.

“My daughter is finally getting married,” she kept saying to anyone who walked into the room. “I thought this day would never come.”

You laughed every time she said it because what else were you supposed to do.

At thirty-two, marriage stopped being treated like a milestone and started feeling like a countdown people monitored publicly.

Coworkers stopped asking if you wanted kids and started asking if you still did.

Your relatives sent links to fertility clinics disguised as concern.

Friends who married younger spoke to you carefully, like you might break if they mentioned anniversaries too often.

Even your fiancé used to joke about it.

“Thank god I found you before your expiration date.”

At the time, you laughed.

Because love had a strange way of teaching women to humiliate themselves gently.

Your best friend Mina walked into the bridal suite holding two iced americanos and one look at your face made her stop mid-step.

“You okay?”

“I think I’m gonna throw up.”

“That’s normal.”

“No, I mean actually throw up.”

She handed you the coffee carefully before sitting beside you on the couch.

“You slept at all?”

“Maybe two hours.”

“You’re pale.”

“I’m getting married.”

“That sentence sounds like you’re being drafted into war.”

You laughed weakly into your cup.

Across the room, your mother was crying again while showing your wedding photoshoot pictures to the makeup artist who clearly did not care but nodded professionally anyway.

Mina lowered her voice.

“Did he text you this morning?”

You glanced at your phone.

Still nothing.

Which wasn’t unusual.

Your fiancé hated texting. Hated calls too. Hated emotional conversations in general, honestly. For three years you convinced yourself it was because he was “logical.”

Now, sitting there in silk pajamas while strangers curled your hair, you realized logical had always just meant emotionally unavailable.

“He’s probably busy,” you said.

Mina gave you a look that lasted half a second too long.

That should’ve been another sign.

But denial was easier when you already spent eighty million won on a wedding.

The venue downstairs looked unreal in the cold morning light. Tall white flowers climbed gold pillars toward the ceiling while hundreds of candles flickered across mirrored tables, reflecting soft gold across the ballroom. Near the aisle, a live string quartet rehearsed quietly as hotel staff moved through the room with flawless precision, adjusting glasses, straightening chairs, fixing details no one else would notice.

Everything was stunning.

Everything was expensive.

Everything had been planned entirely by you.

Your fiancé barely cared about the details beyond what guests would think.

He cared about the prestige hotel.

The guest list.

The photos.

The optics.

You used to mistake that for excitement.

At eleven-thirty, guests began arriving.

Your phone exploded with notifications.

Friends posting mirror selfies.

Coworkers tagging the venue.

A cousin uploaded a video captioned:

"OUR BRIDE IS HOTTER THAN THE GROOM IDC 😭”

You smiled automatically while scrolling.

Then paused.

Still nothing from him.

No good morning.

No where are you?

No nervous excitement.

Just silence.

A weird coldness crept slowly through your stomach.

You stood from the vanity too quickly.

“I’m gonna call him.”

Mina immediately followed you into the hallway.

“He’s probably downstairs already.”

“He always answers before important things.”

“You said he barely texts.”

“Yeah but this is our wedding day.”

The call rang.

Once.

Twice.

Voicemail.

You swallowed hard.

“Maybe his phone died.”

Mina said it too fast.

You called again.

Voicemail.

Again.

Voicemail.

Something ugly began crawling up your spine.

You suddenly remembered random things you ignored for years.

How he disappeared for hours after arguments.

How every conflict somehow became your fault.

How he once told you crying during fights was manipulative.

How relieved you felt whenever he acted affectionate because it happened so rarely.

Your wedding coordinator approached carefully.

“The ceremony starts in thirty minutes. We just need confirmation the groom has arrived.”

“He’s here,” you answered instantly.

Because the alternative felt impossible.

Right?

People didn’t just disappear from weddings.

That happened in movies.

In viral Reddit stories.

In humiliating TikTok confession videos narrated by robotic AI voices over Minecraft gameplay.

Not to you.

Not after three years.

Not after invitations were sent.

Not after deposits paid.

Not after your mother told every single person she knew that her daughter was finally marrying a successful man.

Your mother entered the hallway smiling brightly.

“His family is asking where he is.”

You stared at her.

“What do you mean?”

“They said they haven’t seen him since last night.”

The silence afterward felt physical.

Mina looked at you immediately.

Your stomach dropped so hard it hurt.

“What?”

Your mother’s smile faltered slightly.

“He probably went somewhere. Men are careless.”

You were already dialing again.

Voicemail.

Again.

Voicemail.

Your fingers started shaking so badly you nearly dropped the phone.

Mina took it from your hand gently.

“Hey. Hey. Don’t panic yet.”

But her face had already changed.

Because now she knew too.

Something was wrong.

Downstairs, the ceremony start time passed quietly at first.

Guests continued chatting politely while the quartet kept playing. Staff members whispered urgently into earpieces. Your father began sweating through his suit jacket while pretending everything was fine.

Then the gossip started.

A few glances.

A few phones coming out.

A few whispers behind bouquets.

“Where’s the groom?”

“Did they fight?”

“I heard he was stressed about money.”

“No, apparently his company’s struggling.”

“Imagine if he ran away.”

“Shut up.”

Someone laughed.

Your mother heard it.

That was when she started crying for real.

The kind that came from years of pressure exploding at once.

“I told her not to wait this long,” she sobbed at your aunt. “I told her men become unreliable after thirty.”

You stood frozen in the bridal suite while people searched hotel floors for your fiancé like he was a missing child.

His parents stopped answering calls.

His friends claimed they hadn’t heard from him.

One of the groomsmen looked genuinely terrified.

Another looked unsurprised.

That one hurt the most.

Mina locked the bridal room door.

Your hands felt numb.

“I don’t understand,” you whispered.

Your reflection stared back from the mirror looking absurdly beautiful for somebody being abandoned in real time.

Your makeup was flawless.

Your hair perfectly pinned.

Your dress tailored down to the centimeter.

You looked like a bride in a luxury campaign advertisement.

And somehow that made everything more pathetic.

Your phone vibrated.

Every person in the room froze.

You grabbed it so quickly your bouquet fell to the floor.

Not a call.

A message.

From him.

Your vision blurred immediately before you even opened it.

Mina whispered carefully, “What did he say?”

You stared at the screen.

Then read it again because your brain refused to process the words properly the first time.

I can’t do this anymore.

I’m sorry.

You deserve someone better than me.

Don’t contact me for now.

That was it.

Three fucking years reduced to four sentences that sounded copied from a breakup advice forum.

No explanation.

No apology worth anything.

No shame.

Just cowardice wrapped in fake kindness.

For a second, nobody spoke.

Then your mother started screaming outside the room.

Your aunt arguing with hotel staff.

Your father yelling at somebody on the phone.

Guests murmuring louder now that they knew.

Somebody downstairs had apparently already posted online.

A blurry photo from the ceremony hall with the caption:

“Ummm I think the groom ran away???”

Mina immediately grabbed your phone.

“Don’t look at social media.”

But it was too late.

Notifications flooded endlessly across the screen.

Missed calls.

Messages.

People pretending concern while hunting for gossip.

You sat down slowly in front of the mirror because your legs no longer felt stable.

The room became strangely quiet despite the chaos outside.

You looked at yourself for a long time.

At the expensive dress.

The pearl earrings.

The trembling hands resting in your lap.

Then suddenly, memories started rearranging themselves.

Every ignored instinct returned sharper now.

The way he never looked excited discussing your future.

How annoyed he seemed when you talked too long.

The way affection always felt like something you earned instead of received naturally.

The fact that he proposed right after his younger brother got married because he was afraid of looking behind.

You remembered crying once after asking if he still loved you and how exhausted he sounded when he answered:

“Why do you always need reassurance?”

Your eyes burned.

Because deep down, some awful part of you had always known.

You just kept hoping love would eventually arrive if you stayed long enough.

Outside the bridal suite, the wedding continued collapsing piece by piece.

Hotel staff began extinguishing candles.

Guests quietly started leaving.

The quartet stopped playing.

Somewhere downstairs, dishes clinked while workers dismantled the happiest day of your life before it had even begun.

And inside the bridal room, surrounded by white flowers already beginning to wilt under artificial heat, you finally understood something devastating.

You were never difficult to love.

He simply never loved you enough.

The first thing you noticed after being left at the altar was how violently quiet your apartment felt.

The kind of silence that made every tiny sound feel cruel.

Your heater clicking on.

Your refrigerator humming.

Your phone vibrating endlessly across the kitchen counter.

Outside your window, Seoul carried on normally. Cars moved through wet winter streets. Couples walked past convenience stores holding umbrellas together. Delivery scooters sped recklessly through intersections while people in oversized coats hurried home from work.

Meanwhile your wedding bouquet was rotting in your sink.

You still hadn’t taken off the dress completely.

Hours after the wedding disaster, the expensive lace hung halfway down your body while you sat barefoot on the kitchen floor eating cold convenience store kimbap Mina bought because apparently heartbreak still required calories.

You hadn’t cried in almost an hour now, which somehow felt worse.

There was mascara dried beneath your eyes. Your scalp hurt from the hundreds of pins the stylist used earlier that morning. One earring remained attached while the other sat forgotten beside an unopened bottle of champagne your wedding guests never drank.

Mina emerged from your bedroom carrying sweatpants and one of your old university hoodies.

“You need to change.”

“I live here now.”

“You smell like floral trauma.”

You let out a small laugh despite yourself.

That seemed to be the only emotion your body could still process properly.

Not devastation.

Not rage.

Just exhausted disbelief occasionally interrupted by inappropriate laughter.

Mina crouched beside you carefully.

“Can you stand?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

“You haven’t moved in like forty minutes.”

“I think my soul left my body around noon.”

“Fair.”

She helped peel the wedding dress off you slowly because the zipper got stuck halfway down your back.

The dress had been custom-made by a designer in Cheongdam. Your fiancé insisted it had to look “luxury but understated.” You remembered him criticizing another bride’s gown once because it looked “cheap on camera.”

At the time, you thought he just cared about aesthetics.

Now every memory felt infected somehow.

You stepped out of the dress carefully, staring at the fabric pooled around your feet.

Thirty million won.

Months of fittings.

Hundreds of photos saved on Pinterest.

And now it looked like evidence from a crime scene.

Mina quietly carried it toward the couch.

“You should sell it.”

You laughed again.

“Who the fuck wants haunted wedding dresses?”

Mina looked like she wanted to cry, which made you immediately look away.

People always talked about heartbreak like it arrived all at once.

Like a car crash.

But this felt different.

This felt like slowly waking up from anesthesia while realizing your entire life had been misdiagnosed.

Your phone buzzed again.

Mina grabbed it before you could.

“No.”

“What if it’s him?”

“If he suddenly grew a conscience he can wait another hour.”

She flipped the phone over anyway.

The screen lit up endlessly with notifications.

Friends asking if you were okay.

Relatives pretending not to ask for details while obviously fishing for details.

Coworkers sending awkward paragraphs full of exclamation marks and crying emojis.

And beneath all of that was the thing you were trying hardest not to think about.

Social media.

Because of course people posted about it.

Weddings in 2026 were barely private events anymore. They were content farms with floral arrangements.

Someone uploaded blurry footage of confused guests leaving the venue.

Another person posted a photo of the untouched wedding stage captioned:

“this is literally my worst fear omg”

You stared at the screen numbly.

Mina immediately locked your phone.

“That’s enough.”

You leaned your head back against the kitchen cabinet.

The ceiling above you blurred slightly.

“You know the worst part?”

“The fact that he’s a coward?”

“No.” Your voice came out quieter than expected. “The worst part is I think I knew.”

Mina didn’t answer immediately.

Because she knew too.

Not that he’d leave.

But that something had always been wrong.

The signs had been there for years.

You just kept repainting them into something prettier.

Your relationship replayed differently now, like someone adjusted the lighting in a movie and suddenly revealed all the hidden damage.

You remembered your third anniversary dinner when he spent most of the night answering work emails while you sat across from him in a restaurant too expensive for either of you to enjoy comfortably.

At one point you asked softly, “Can you put your phone away for one hour?”

And he sighed.

Like loving you properly was exhausting.

“You know how important this project is.”

“I know but we barely see each other lately.”

“We live together.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

Then he smiled afterward and bought you dessert, which somehow convinced you the conversation ended well.

God.

The bar had truly been in hell.

You stood slowly and walked toward the living room while memories kept surfacing without permission.

The time you cried after a terrible day at work and he told you:

“You’re too sensitive for corporate life.”

The time you gained weight and he joked:

“At least marriage means I already secured you before the damage.”

The time you mentioned wanting children someday and he replied:

“Well your timeline’s getting serious now.”

Always jokes.

Cruel things wrapped in humor so you felt dramatic for being hurt.

That was his specialty.

Making you feel embarrassing for having emotions.

You sat on the edge of your couch clutching a blanket around yourself while Seoul glittered outside your apartment windows.

You suddenly remembered the proposal.

It happened at a restaurant overlooking the Han River. Candlelight. Expensive wine. A hidden photographer waiting nearby.

Everyone online called it romantic.

What they didn’t know was that you’d argued in the car beforehand because he forgot your birthday dinner the previous week.

What they didn’t know was how distracted he looked during the proposal itself.

What they didn’t know was that your first emotion wasn’t happiness.

It was relief.

Relief that someone finally chose you before time ran out.

The realization made you feel physically sick.

You walked into the bathroom and stared at yourself under harsh white lighting.

Your face looked unfamiliar without bridal makeup.

Swollen eyes. Smudged mascara. Exhaustion carved into your expression.

This morning you looked like somebody starting a new life.

Tonight you looked like somebody surviving one.

You opened your skincare drawer automatically because routine felt safer than thinking.

Cleanser. Toner. Moisturizer.

Your therapist once told you trauma made people cling to rituals because predictability created temporary safety.

At the time you thought she meant childhood trauma.

Turns out she also meant failed weddings apparently.

Your phone buzzed again from the bedroom.

Then again.

Then again.

Mina groaned loudly. “If one more relative asks whether he cheated, I’m gonna start committing crimes.”

You almost smiled.

Then your body suddenly remembered another moment.

Two months ago.

You were lying in bed scrolling through wedding videos on TikTok while showing him flower arrangements you liked.

He barely looked up from his laptop before saying:

“Honestly after thirty-two weddings stop being romantic anyway. At that point it’s more logistical.”

You remembered laughing weakly because the comment hurt.

You remembered asking:

“Then why are you marrying me?”

And without even glancing away from the screen he answered:

“Because this is the stage of life we’re at.”

You slowly slid down the bathroom wall until you were sitting on the floor.

And finally, finally, anger began replacing humiliation.

Not at him.

At yourself.

How many times had you abandoned your own instincts just to keep being chosen?

How many nights did you cry quietly in bathrooms because you were scared asking for more affection would make you seem needy?

How many conversations did you rewrite in your head afterward trying to convince yourself he didn’t mean the hurtful things he clearly fucking meant?

Women called it patience.

Therapists called it emotional neglect.

The internet called it “tolerating crumbs.”

You called it love because admitting otherwise would’ve destroyed you sooner.

Mina knocked softly before entering the bathroom.

“Hey.”

You wiped your face quickly.

“He still hasn’t called?”

“No.” She sat beside you on the floor. “And honestly? Fuck him.”

Silence settled between you.

Then quietly, carefully, Mina asked the question nobody else dared to.

“Were you actually happy?”

Your first instinct was to say yes automatically.

Defend him.

Defend the relationship.

Defend the years you invested.

But exhaustion stripped honesty out of you.

So instead, tears filled your eyes again.

And for the first time since the wedding collapsed, you answered truthfully.

“I don’t think I’ve been happy for a really long time.”

Three days after your failed wedding, Seoul already felt like a city trying to politely suffocate you.

Everywhere you went, people looked at you with the same expression.

Too careful.

Too curious.

Too fucking aware.

Even your apartment no longer felt safe.

The wedding gifts still sat unopened near the entrance like cursed artifacts. White envelopes stuffed with congratulatory money remained stacked on your dining table beside guestbooks nobody would ever read again.

The worst part was your phone.

Your phone had become public enemy number one.

Instagram suggested breakup healing reels every ten seconds. TikTok somehow knew you’d been abandoned and started showing tarot readings with captions like:

“if a man disappeared from your life recently this message is for you”

Your YouTube algorithm became aggressively depressing overnight.

“How to rebuild your life in your 30s.”

“Signs you ignored emotional neglect.”

One video literally used AI-generated wedding stock footage while a woman narrated:

“Ladies, if he says you’re too emotional, RUN.”

You threw your phone across the couch after that.

Mina walked into your apartment carrying takeout and immediately frowned.

“Was that the phone or are we under attack?”

“The internet needs to shut the fuck up.”

She placed the food down carefully.

“You checked social media again?”

“I accidentally opened TikTok and now the algorithm thinks I’m a divorced mother of three healing in Bali.”

“You do have the energy.”

You groaned loudly into your couch cushion.

The apartment smelled like jjigae and exhaustion. Outside, winter rain streaked softly against your windows while Seoul moved restlessly beneath gray skies.

You hadn’t gone outside properly in two days.

Mostly because you were terrified of seeing someone you knew.

The failed wedding had spread faster than you thought possible.

Your aunt apparently told her church group. Your mother’s friends kept calling to offer condolences like your relationship had died in a tragic boating accident. One of your old university classmates even messaged asking if the rumors were true “because people online exaggerate things.”

Mina sat beside you and handed over chopsticks.

“You need to eat actual food.”

“I had crackers earlier.”

“That’s not food. That’s depression.”

You picked at the stew quietly.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

Then Mina finally sighed.

“So.”

“So?”

“What are you gonna do about the honeymoon trip?”

Your hand paused midair.

The honeymoon.

Right.

Somehow, between public humiliation and emotional collapse, you had almost forgotten about the winter Europe trip you planned obsessively for nearly a year.

Train rides through snow-covered cities. Boutique hotels. Michelin restaurants you saved TikToks about at three in the morning.

You planned everything yourself.

Your ex barely contributed beyond saying:

“Whatever you want is fine.”

At the time, you thought it meant he trusted your choices.

Now you realized it was because he emotionally checked out months ago.

“The flights are tomorrow,” Mina continued carefully. “You should probably cancel everything.”

You stared down at your soup.

The deposits alone made you want to throw up.

The luxury train passes.

The hotels.

The non-refundable excursions.

Thousands of dollars spent on a future that no longer existed.

“You’ll get some money back,” Mina said gently.

You laughed softly.

“No I won’t. Europe apparently believes heartbreak is not a valid cancellation policy.”

Mina reached over and squeezed your hand.

“You don’t need to prove anything.”

The thing was, you understood exactly what she meant.

People your age loved dramatic reinventions after breakups.

Move cities.

Cut bangs.

Book solo trips to Europe while posting blurry film photos captioned “healing.”

Social media turned emotional collapse into an aesthetic.

But this didn’t feel aesthetic.

You weren’t healing.

You were humiliated.

There was a difference.

That night after Mina left, you wandered through your apartment unable to settle down properly.

You folded laundry without thinking. Rearranged skincare products. Opened and closed the refrigerator four separate times despite not being hungry.

At midnight, you ended up sitting on the floor beside your packed honeymoon suitcase.

Still packed exactly how you prepared it before the wedding.

Matching airport outfit folded neatly on top.

You stared at it for a very long time.

Then suddenly started laughing.

Because the absurdity finally hit you all at once.

You were supposed to be flying to Europe as somebody’s wife.

Now you were sitting alone on your apartment floor wearing old sweatpants while your ex fiancé was apparently missing from the face of the earth like a fucking criminal.

Your eyes drifted toward the itinerary folder beside the suitcase.

You remembered how excited you felt while planning everything.

Not even for the marriage honestly.

For the trip.

For seeing snow in Switzerland.

For wandering foreign bookstores.

For eating pasta in tiny restaurants nobody on TikTok discovered yet.

Your throat tightened unexpectedly.

When was the last time you felt excited about your actual relationship the way you felt excited planning the escape from your life?

The realization sat heavily inside you.

You reached for the folder slowly.

Inside were printed reservations, train schedules, restaurant bookings, tiny handwritten notes from yourself.

Try the hot chocolate place near the cathedral.

Wear the black coat in Vienna pictures.

Sunset train route!!!

You suddenly burst into tears so violently it startled you.

Because somewhere along the way, your dream stopped being love.

Your dream became leaving.

The next morning your mother arrived unannounced carrying homemade side dishes and enough anxiety to power an entire neighborhood.

“You look terrible,” she said immediately after entering.

“Good morning to you too.”

She clicked her tongue while removing her shoes.

“You lost weight already.”

“It’s been three days.”

“Stress destroys women’s bodies.”

You watched her unpack containers into your refrigerator like feeding you aggressively might reverse emotional devastation.

For a while, she avoided mentioning the wedding entirely.

Then eventually, quietly:

“People are talking.”

Of course they were.

You almost admired Seoul’s commitment to gossip honestly.

A city of ten million people somehow operated like one enormous auntie group chat.

“I know.”

“Your uncle said maybe you should stay home for a while.”

“Why?”

“So people stop asking questions.”

You stared at her.

“What exactly am I supposed to be ashamed of?”

Your mother looked startled immediately.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

She hesitated.

And in that hesitation, you heard it.

The fear.

Not for your heartbreak.

For your reputation.

Because women were still expected to survive humiliation quietly.

Especially unmarried women in their thirties.

Especially women publicly abandoned.

Your mother sat beside you carefully.

“I just don’t want people being cruel.”

Too late.

They already were.

Cruel in subtle ways.

Curious ways.

People loved tragedies they could discuss over coffee.

Later that afternoon, after your mother finally left, you opened your honeymoon itinerary again.

Then you opened your airline app.

Then your hotel bookings.

Then the weather forecast for Switzerland.

Heavy snowfall expected next week.

Beautiful.

Your stomach twisted.

You imagined canceling everything.

Staying in Seoul.

Returning to work.

Pretending this entire disaster would eventually stop hurting.

The thought made you feel like you couldn’t breathe.

Suddenly your apartment felt unbearably small.

Too many memories.

Too much embarrassment soaked into every corner.

The couch where your fiancé used to sit scrolling through stocks while ignoring your conversations.

The kitchen where you meal-prepped together in silence.

The hallway where he once kissed your forehead absentmindedly while answering work calls.

Nothing here belonged to you anymore.

Your phone rang.

Mina.

“What are you doing?”

You looked around the apartment slowly.

Then answered honestly.

“Having a mental breakdown.”

“Cute. Want wine?”

“I think I want to leave the country.”

A pause.

“What?”

The words came out before you could reconsider them.

“If I’m gonna cry anyway, I might as well cry in Europe.”

Silence.

Then:

“You’re serious.”

“I think I am.”

“You’ve never traveled alone before.”

“I know.”

“You’re emotionally unstable.”

“Also true.”

Mina laughed softly.

Then her voice gentled.

“Y/N.”

“What?”

“Are you running away or trying to find yourself?”

You looked toward the suitcase still sitting beside the couch.

Half packed.

Half abandoned.

Honestly, you didn’t know.

Maybe both.

That night you booked nothing new.

Didn’t change the reservations.

Didn’t cancel a single flight.

Instead, you slowly finished packing.

Thermal coats.

Passport.

Skincare.

The Europe guidebook you bought months ago.

At three in the morning, jet lag articles and train route videos played softly from your laptop while snow fell quietly outside your apartment windows.

And for the first time since the wedding, something unfamiliar appeared beneath all the grief.

Like your life had finally cracked open wide enough for air to enter again.

You stood inside Incheon Airport wearing an oversized black coat while dragging a suitcase originally meant for two people.

The airport buzzed with winter travelers and exhausted families. Luxury brands glowed beneath bright lights. Somewhere nearby, a child cried dramatically while his parents argued over passports.

Nobody here knew your story.

Nobody cared.

Strangely, that felt comforting.

Your mother cried before security.

Your father awkwardly handed you emergency cash even though you absolutely did not need it.

Mina hugged you longest.

“If you accidentally marry an Italian man, I’m blocking you.”

You laughed genuinely for the first time in days.

Then Mina grabbed your shoulders suddenly.

“Promise me something.”

“What?”

“Do not spend this entire trip crying over a mediocre man.”

Your eyes stung unexpectedly.

“I’ll try.”

“No.” She pointed aggressively. “I’m serious. You are too hot and too emotionally intelligent to waste Europe grieving over a man whose personality was basically Microsoft Excel.”

You burst out laughing right there in the airport.

People stared.

You didn’t care.

Minutes later, after the final goodbye, you walked alone toward immigration.

Your suitcase wheels rattled softly across polished floors.

And somewhere between security checks and departure gates, reality finally settled inside you completely.

You were thirty-two years old.

Recently abandoned.

Flying across Europe alone in winter with a non-refundable honeymoon itinerary.

And somehow, terrifyingly, your life finally belonged entirely to you again.

Airports always made you emotional.

Not in the poetic movie way where people ran dramatically toward lovers while orchestral music played in the background.

More in the deeply millennial way where standing inside an airport immediately triggered an identity crisis.

Everyone looked like they were becoming somebody else.

Businessmen flying to meetings in expensive coats. Students leaving for exchange programs. Couples documenting every second for Instagram stories with captions like catching flights not feelings.

Meanwhile you stood near Gate 22 carrying emotional damage and a seven-kilogram skincare bag.

Incheon Airport glowed beneath soft white lighting while snowfall drifted faintly outside the massive glass windows. Luxury boutiques displayed winter collections you couldn’t afford. A group of influencers in matching beige outfits filmed TikToks near a café while their exhausted boyfriend carried all their luggage silently behind them.

You sat near the charging station staring blankly at your boarding pass while trying not to spiral.

SEOUL → ROME

One-way.

Well, technically round-trip.

But suddenly the return flight felt theoretical.

Your honeymoon itinerary folder rested inside your tote bag beside emergency Xanax Mina forced you to pack “for emotional emergencies.”

Honestly, the entire trip already qualified as an emotional emergency.

Your phone buzzed again.

Mina.

boarded yet?

You typed back immediately.

not yet

Then another message arrived instantly.

remember if you accidentally meet a hot european man with generational wealth i support your healing journey

You smiled despite yourself.

Another notification appeared beneath hers.

Unknown Number.

Your stomach dropped violently before you even opened it.

For one humiliating second, hope still existed.

Maybe your ex fiancé finally regretted everything.

Maybe he’d apologize properly.

Maybe there was some explanation catastrophic enough to justify disappearing from your wedding.

You opened the message.

Your wedding looked beautiful regardless. Things happen for a reason.

You stared at the screen in disbelief.

Things happen for a reason.

What the fuck did that even mean.

People became absolutely unbearable around public heartbreak.

Everybody suddenly transformed into philosophers with access to Pinterest therapy quotes.

Delete him.

Choose yourself.

The universe removed what no longer aligned.

Meanwhile you were just trying not to cry inside an airport Pretzel shop.

You locked your phone aggressively and leaned back in your chair.

Across from you, an older couple quietly shared sandwiches while watching planes through the windows. The woman rested her head on her husband’s shoulder so naturally it looked unconscious.

Something about it hurt unexpectedly.

Because you realized how little tenderness existed in your relationship compared to ordinary people around you.

You spent years celebrating bare minimum affection like it was proof of devotion.

A text back within twenty minutes felt romantic.

Holding hands in public felt significant.

God.

The bar truly had been underground.

A sudden commotion near the boarding desk pulled your attention away.

At first, you assumed it was another influencer situation because airports in 2026 basically functioned as accidental fashion week now.

But this felt different.

More controlled.

A tall man dressed entirely in black stood near the airline counter wearing a baseball cap low over his face and a mask covering half his features. Even from a distance, something about him radiated exhaustion.

The kind of exhaustion people carried when they’d been perceived too much for too long.

One airport staff member spoke carefully while another kept glancing around nervously.

“I understand, sir,” the employee said quietly in English. “But we still need confirmation for the seat arrangement.”

You looked up instinctively.

His voice sounded familiar.

Not familiar familiar.

More like one of those voices your brain recognized from existing online too much.

The staff member lowered her voice further. “We’re trying our best, but there are limitations because of last-minute booking.”

“I specifically asked not to be seated near anyone.”

“I understand.”

“No offense but people photograph everything now.”

Honestly, fair.

Last month somebody went viral for secretly filming a man crying at an airport and turning it into an aesthetic breakup edit with Billie Eilish music.

Humanity truly lost the plot.

You glanced back toward your phone again, trying not to stare.

But something about him kept catching your attention.

Maybe it was the way he stood.

Shoulders tense beneath a black wool coat. Fingers tapping restlessly against the counter. Like he wanted to disappear from the room entirely.

Then the airline employee asked for his passport.

He reached into his coat pocket quickly.

And that was when you noticed the tattoos.

Dark ink stretched across his hand and fingers before disappearing beneath his sleeve.

Your eyes paused there for a second too long.

Because suddenly recognition brushed against your thoughts.

You’d definitely seen those tattoos before.

Online maybe.

Instagram.

TikTok edits.

Your brain immediately rejected the possibility because there was no fucking way.

Still, curiosity lingered.

The man noticed you looking accidentally.

Your eyes met for less than a second.

Even partially hidden beneath the cap and mask, his gaze felt startlingly sharp.

You looked away immediately, embarrassed.

God.

The last thing you needed was becoming one of those creepy airport people secretly identifying celebrities.

Especially when the man clearly looked miserable already.

The interaction at the counter continued quietly.

“We can move you closer to first class partition seating,” the staff member offered carefully.

He exhaled heavily and rubbed a hand over his face.

That tiny movement revealed more tattoos briefly.

Your stomach flipped strangely.

Not attraction exactly.

Recognition.

Like seeing somebody from another life unexpectedly.

A group of college girls suddenly passed nearby dragging carry-ons and immediately slowed down.

One of them gasped softly.

“Oh my god.”

Another grabbed her arm aggressively. “Don’t stare.”

Too late.

They were already staring.

The man noticed instantly.

You watched something in his posture shift immediately.

Like his body learned to brace automatically whenever people recognized him.

The girls whispered frantically among themselves while pretending not to look obvious about it.

One quietly opened her phone.

You almost physically felt the man’s irritation from across the terminal.

Honestly, airports must be hell if you’re famous.

You couldn’t even have a breakdown in peace.

The girls eventually walked away without approaching him, but tension still lingered around the boarding desk afterward.

The airline employee apologized repeatedly.

“I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”

“It’s fine.”

Except it clearly wasn’t.

He sounded exhausted down to his bones.

A few minutes later boarding announcements echoed through the terminal.

Passengers began standing slowly, collecting luggage and passports.

You grabbed your tote bag and joined the line absentmindedly while checking your seat number again.

22A.

Window seat.

At least if you cried during the flight nobody would notice immediately.

Ahead of you, the man in black adjusted his cap lower while airline staff quietly escorted him toward priority boarding.

Definitely famous then.

Or hiding from a murder investigation.

Honestly fifty-fifty these days.

As the line moved forward, your phone buzzed again.

This time from your mother.

Did you board safely?

You stared at the message.

Then another arrived seconds later.

Eat properly on the plane.

You almost smiled sadly.

Your mother still sounded worried in every text now, like heartbreak turned you fragile permanently.

You typed back:

i’m okay mom

It was a lie.

But easier than explaining the truth.

The truth was you still felt untethered from your own life.

Like none of this belonged to you yet.

The failed wedding.

The solo honeymoon.

The strange freedom.

You stepped forward slowly with the boarding line.

Then paused.

Because the man in black was suddenly right beside you.

Close enough now that you noticed details more clearly.

Broad shoulders beneath his coat. Silver rings against tattooed fingers. A faint smell of clean laundry and expensive cologne lingering in the cold airport air.

He looked taller up close.

Tired too.

Like somebody carrying too much noise inside their head.

One of the airport employees accidentally spoke louder than intended.

“Mr. Jeon, your passport.”

The name hit you instantly.

Jeon.

Your brain connected the tattoos first.

Then the voice.

Then the eyes.

And suddenly realization crashed into you so hard your breath caught.

No fucking way.

You stared before you could stop yourself.

Because standing three feet away from you at Gate 22 wearing all black and looking profoundly unhappy was none other than Jeon Jungkook.

And judging by the way he immediately pulled his cap lower after hearing his own name out loud, the last thing on earth he wanted right now was to be recognized.

The first thing you noticed about Italy was how loud everything felt.

Scooters screamed through narrow streets like they had a death wish. Church bells echoed across old buildings older than your entire bloodline. People spoke with their whole bodies here, arguing dramatically over coffee while cigarette smoke curled into cold winter air.

Even the train station in Rome felt emotional.

Meanwhile you stood in the middle of it wearing an oversized black coat and looking like somebody recently escaped a psychological thriller.

You hadn’t slept properly during the flight.

Every time you closed your eyes, memories kept replaying behind your eyelids.

Your wedding dress pooled on the hotel floor.

Your mother crying in front of relatives.

The message.

I can’t do this anymore.

At some point somewhere above Turkey, you gave up trying to sleep and watched terrible in-flight movies instead while drinking tiny cups of airplane wine like a divorced businessman.

By the time you landed in Rome, your body felt disconnected from reality entirely.

The airport smelled like espresso and expensive perfume. Tourists dragged giant suitcases over tiled floors while exhausted parents negotiated with screaming children in six different languages.

Nobody looked at you twice.

Nobody knew.

That was the first beautiful thing.

Back in Seoul, your humiliation had become public property. Here, you were just another tired woman trying not to miss a train.

Honestly?

Kind of freeing.

You pulled your suitcase through Roma Termini Station while clutching your phone with frozen fingers. Your train to Florence departed in forty minutes, which would’ve been fine if you weren’t operating on emotional collapse and two hours of sleep.

Google Maps betrayed you immediately.

“Why are European train stations built like escape rooms?” you muttered while dragging your luggage down another hallway.

An older Italian man bumped your suitcase accidentally before yelling something passionately at another commuter.

You blinked at him.

He shrugged dramatically like this interaction somehow involved destiny.

Europe was exhausting already.

By the time you finally boarded the train to Florence, your hair looked terrible and your expensive airport outfit had lost all dignity.

You collapsed into your seat beside the window and stared outside while the train slowly pulled away from Rome.

Gray skies stretched endlessly over the countryside. Tiny villages blurred past. Winter fields rolled quietly beneath soft afternoon light.

For the first time in days, nobody called you.

No relatives.

No coworkers.

No pity disguised as concern.

Just silence.

Your phone buzzed once.

Mina.

survived?

You smiled tiredly.

barely

Three dots appeared instantly.

any hot italians yet

mina i almost died in the train station

 so thats a no

You laughed softly under your breath.

The woman seated across from you glanced up from her book briefly before smiling politely.

You looked away toward the window again.

Somewhere during the train ride, exhaustion finally overpowered adrenaline.

Your thoughts slowed.

Just softened enough for breathing to stop feeling difficult.

Outside, Italy unfolded quietly beneath winter skies while your old life remained thousands of kilometers away.

And somewhere deep inside yourself, hidden beneath heartbreak and humiliation and grief, another feeling began surfacing carefully.

Relief.

You hated yourself a little for it.

But it was there.

No more pretending.

No more begging somebody to love you correctly.

No more shrinking yourself into “easy” and “understanding” and “low maintenance.”

You spent years trying to become digestible enough for somebody emotionally unavailable to keep.

Maybe that was the real exhaustion.

Florence looked unreal at sunset.

Warm golden lights glowed against ancient buildings while winter fog settled softly over narrow streets. Couples wandered hand in hand beneath hanging lights. Tiny restaurants overflowed with people drinking wine loud enough to make entire sidewalks feel alive.

Your hotel room overlooked a quiet street lined with bookstores and leather shops.

It was beautiful.

And devastating.

Because this was supposed to be your honeymoon.

There should’ve been another suitcase beside yours. Another toothbrush in the bathroom. Somebody laughing with you while struggling to unpack winter coats.

Instead, the second half of the closet remained painfully empty.

You stood in the middle of the room for several minutes before finally whispering:

“Well. Fuck.”

Then you cried again.

Just quietly while sitting on the edge of the bed still wearing your coat.

Jet lag made emotions feel unstable. Everything hurt sharper when you were tired.

After twenty minutes, your stomach growled aggressively enough to interrupt the breakdown.

Right.

Food.

An hour later, you found yourself sitting inside a tiny restaurant near Piazza della Signoria pretending not to notice literally every other table contained couples.

Actual couples.

Not emotionally distant corporate men who treated affection like a quarterly business investment.

These people touched each other absentmindedly.

Hands resting on knees.

Foreheads brushing together during conversation.

Smiling mid-sentence because they genuinely liked one another.

Your waiter approached warmly.

“One?”

The question hurt less this time.

“Yes,” you answered.

He led you toward a tiny table beside the window overlooking the street.

At first, embarrassment sat heavily inside your chest.

You felt visible.

Pathetic.

Like everybody around you somehow knew you weren’t supposed to be alone here.

You ordered wine immediately.

Then pasta.

Then tiramisu because honestly your life already collapsed so calories no longer mattered.

Around you, conversations swirled in languages you barely understood.

A couple beside you argued affectionately over dessert. A family laughed loudly near the back of the restaurant. Somebody outside played violin beneath soft yellow lights while snow drifted gently through Florence.

You took your first bite of pasta absentmindedly.

Then paused.

Holy shit.

Maybe heartbreak truly enhanced flavor because the pasta nearly made you emotional.

You actually laughed quietly to yourself.

The waiter noticed.

“Good?”

“Incredible.”

He grinned proudly before disappearing again.

And somehow, slowly, something strange happened.

The loneliness stopped feeling humiliating.

You looked around the restaurant again.

Not comparing yourself this time.

Just observing.

People were simply living.

Eating. Laughing. Existing.

And for the first time since the wedding, being alone didn’t feel like evidence that something was wrong with you.

It felt peaceful.

Temporary.

Even beautiful.

You poured yourself more wine while snow continued falling softly outside the windows.

Maybe solitude only felt pathetic when you were waiting for someone who kept failing to love you properly.

Maybe being alone wasn’t the tragedy.

Maybe staying in the wrong relationship was.

Back in Seoul, however, another disaster unfolded across every screen imaginable.

News articles exploded hourly.

Entertainment channels.

TikTok gossip accounts.

Anonymous forums.

Every headline carried the same name.

Jeon Jungkook

Videos from a nightclub in Gangnam circulated online relentlessly. Blurry footage showed Jungkook shoving a man aggressively while security intervened nearby.

Different stories spread every hour.

Some claimed he was drunk and violent.

Others claimed he attacked a businessman unprovoked.

One viral post accused him of having anger issues for years.

Nobody knew the full story yet.

The truth was much uglier.

Three nights before leaving Korea, Jungkook attended a private industry gathering he never wanted to attend in the first place. Halfway through the night, he noticed a CEO’s son cornering one of the female staff near a hallway while drunk enough to think money erased consequences.

The staff member looked terrified.

Jungkook intervened.

Words escalated.

Then the man grabbed the woman again while laughing.

After that, Jungkook stopped thinking.

The punch happened fast.

Too fast for somebody constantly watched by cameras.

Unfortunately for him, somebody filmed only the aftermath.

Not the harassment.

Not the woman crying afterward.

Just Jungkook looking furious while security restrained him.

Public opinion turned vicious instantly.

Because people loved building idols into gods almost as much as they loved destroying them afterward.

Inside a luxury hotel suite, Jungkook stared blankly at his phone while another article refreshed across the screen.

“Global Star Under Fire Following Violent Incident.”

He tossed the phone onto the couch immediately.

Silence filled the room afterward.

Heavy silence.

The kind that followed years of exhaustion finally catching up with someone.

His manager called again.

Ignored.

Another message arrived seconds later.

Please contact us. The company is panicking.

Jungkook rubbed both hands over his face before walking toward the hotel window.

Outside, the city glittered beautifully beneath winter rain.

He felt nothing.

That was the problem lately.

Not sadness.

Numbness.

His entire life had become performance management.

Smile correctly.

Apologize correctly.

Disappear correctly.

Even breathing required strategy now.

He glanced toward the television where entertainment news replayed the scandal again.

Muted footage.

Slow-motion edits.

Talking heads debating his personality like they knew him personally.

One panelist actually said:

“Perhaps fame changed him.”

Jungkook laughed bitterly under his breath.

Fame didn’t change him.

Fame just made every mistake permanent.

He grabbed the remote and turned the television off violently.

Then silence again.

The hotel room suddenly felt unbearable.

Too expensive.

Too empty.

Too lonely.

His eyes drifted toward the passport tossed carelessly across the table beside train tickets booked impulsively hours earlier.

No schedules.

No staff.

No cameras.

Just Europe in winter.

He didn’t even know where he wanted to go yet.

He only knew he needed to disappear before the noise swallowed him completely.

Meanwhile, few kilometers away, you sat alone inside a tiny Italian restaurant drinking wine while snow fell softly beyond glowing windows.

And for the first time in years, loneliness no longer felt like failure.

It felt like freedom.

Chapter 2

The night is slowly settling, the sky taking on shades of red as the blue gets darker. For a brief moment, your eyes look up, a smile stretching on your face. The sky is beautiful tonight.

Right now, you’re waiting for your best friend outside the restaurant, as you agreed with her some hours ago. While you do so, a handsome man catches your attention. His eyes meet yours for a hot second before he steps inside the restaurant.  

“Yn,” someone screams.

A bright smile grows on your face as you look to your right. Hyunri, your best friend, has finally arrived.

“Hyunri,” you say before holding her in your arms.

Tonight, you’re gathering to celebrate Yoongi’s birthday. Juhee, his wife and your best friend, has pulled out this little dinner to celebrate his 40th birthday. Anyone else would have probably asked for a big celebration, but it’s not his style. He prefers intimate dinners filled with loved ones.

“Did you wait long?” she asks when you break apart.

“No,” you reply. “Maybe a minute.”

She smiles at you. It’s been a while since you last saw her, which only heightened how much you missed her. She studied with you before you worked in the same company for a while, and last year she quit. Since then, you haven’t been seeing each other that much even though you speak every day.

Before she even gets the chance to do or say anything else, you grab her hand to take a proper look at her wedding ring. Her boyfriend proposed two days ago in the most romantic and beautiful way.

“Let me see the beauty,” you tell her.

Your eyes sparkle with joy. Hyunri deserves all the happiness in the world. She’s kind of crazy, but for sure, a woman with a big heart. No matter what, you can count on her. She’d even commit a crime for you if you ever asked.

“Woow,” you say. “It’s even prettier than in the pictures.”

“I know, right?” she asks while moving her hand to make the diamond sparkle.

“Must have cost a lot,” you say.

“But I deserve expensive shit,” she says.

You chuckle, but she’s right. She does deserve that.

“Right,” you shake your head while smiling even more.

Nothing has been decided just yet, but they’re planning on getting married next summer. They have more than a year to get everything settled. Honestly, you can’t wait for their big day. You know it’ll be mindblowing and extravagant like she is.

“Now, let’s get inside before Juhee kills us,” you tell her.

She giggles as the two of you head inside. The restaurant seems absolutely fancy—the type of place where the meal's presentation looks better than a painting. But it’s a once-in-a-while experience.

“Hello,” the host greets you once inside.

“Hello, we’re here for Min Yoongi’s birthday,” Hyunri says.

Your best friend is the social butterfly. The two of you are total opposites, like the moon and the sun. Nonetheless, you’re quite the duo. A lot of times, you wonder how on earth the two of you get along, but then you realize how much you complete each other, and your friendship just makes sense.

“Yes,” he offers you a bright smile. “Follow me.”

The man guides you to the huge terrace in the back, which basically looks like a garden. There is a rather long table placed on one side, and you recognize Juhee and Yoongi at the center. A bright smile grows on your face when you see them. Both you and Hyunri head to them, not paying any attention to the other people around the table.

“Happy birthday, Yoongi,” you and Hyunri tell him as you step up to him.

He stands up immediately, pulling you both into a warm hug before stepping back with an easy smile and thanking you for the warm wishes.

It’s genuinely great to see him again. He’s always been kind, and you’re glad you met him through Juhee. They definitely make a great couple; they just fit perfectly together. Sometimes, if you’re honest, you feel a tiny flicker of envy.

“Thanks, girls,” he says with a bright smile, gesturing toward the table. “Sit wherever you want.”

For the first time, you take a proper look at the table. Your eyes move across the guests, scanning the empty seats. Then, to your surprise, you see the handsome guy from outside. Now that he’s closer to you, he seems even prettier. Is it even possible?

You’re not sure if it’s destiny or a pure coincidence, but the only two remaining seats are the ones in front of him.

“Perfect,” Hyunri says casually, already moving forward.

She just sits down while talking to Yoongi, completely unbothered, which leaves you right across from the handsome guy. You pull your chair back, placing your bag down by your feet before finally looking up.

He’s already watching you.

For a brief second, you meet his eyes without flinching. There’s a flicker of recognition there, and then, slowly, the corner of his mouth lifts. His gaze is intense on you, and it’s honestly hard to simply look back at him.

You glance around the table, trying to avoid his gaze and looking for the bottle of wine. You’ll definitely need it to survive the night if you’re going to have the handsome stranger in front of you.  

When you find it, you just pick it up and fill your glass. While Hyunri is still deep in conversation with Yoongi, you fill her glass as well. It’s no secret that she adores wine. She could drown in it if she could.

“Thanks,” she murmurs when she notices it.

“No problem,” you reply.

You don’t look back right away. You let the conversation around you settle, letting yourself blend into the rhythm of the table. You need some time and courage to interact with people. It usually drains your soul, so you definitely need some time before engaging with people around you.

When you lift your gaze again, he’s still looking at you. This time, you don’t look away as quickly. You bring the glass of wine to your lips, never looking away, and this moment is long enough to notice the way his gaze doesn’t waver, and how he doesn’t seems worried about being caught. It’s like he’s even happy that you noticed it.

Then, he looks away first. You blink and let out a quiet breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

Conversation starts to settle around you—people picking up threads, asking questions, passing drinks down the table. The man next to you, Hoseok, starts to talk to you as well. He’s an absolute ray of sunshine, always throwing jokes.

But no matter what, your attention keeps slipping back to the hot stranger. It’s like your body knows you’re being watched and you need to catch it. It’s never obvious, but it’s frequent enough that you start noticing a pattern. A glance when you laugh. Another one when you speak.

“Okay,” Hyunri murmurs after a while, leaning just enough for her shoulder to brush yours.

“What?” you ask with evident curiosity, your gaze looking at the plate in front of you.

“The guy in front of you,” she continues, “he keeps looking at you.”

You let out a small and dismissive huff. “No, he doesn’t.”

“Oh, he does,” she replies.

You shake your head, reaching for your glass. The fact that she noticed how frequently he looks at you makes you feel a bit uncomfortable and shy.

“You’re imagining things,” you dismiss her once again before taking a sip of wine.

The second you glance up again, there he is, looking at you. You don’t drop your gaze immediately. You hold it for a beat before finally looking away.

“Still imagining it?” she whispers, clearly amused. “He definitely likes you.”

Her lips stretch into a smile, but you shake your head. The smug smile on her face almost makes you laugh. Any chance she gets, she tries to patch you up with someone. If she could, she’d make you date the entire world. You know it comes from a good place, but you’re just so introverted.    

“Shut up,” you say, nudging her lightly under the table.

She instantly giggles, definitely enjoying herself.

“And he’s definitely hot,” she adds.

“Hyunri,” you warn her. “Don’t.”

“I’m just saying,” she replies. “He’s into you, and you should try talking to him.”

You look away, avoiding both her and his gazes. This is so strange, and it doesn’t really make you comfortable. Of course, it feels good to have a man looking at you so intently, but you’re not used to it. It hasn’t happened a lot in the past four years.

“Please,” she literally begs.

You take a deep breath before saying, “Okay, I’ll try.”

She smiles widely with happiness, and it warms your heart. You know you’ll have to interact with him at least once; otherwise, she’ll end up annoying you for the rest of your life.

The evening stretches on, the energy softening as food and drinks are being served and conversations split into smaller groups. At some point, Hoseok turns toward you with an easy smile.

“How do you know Yoongi?” he asks.

You turn slightly toward him. “Through his wife, Juhee. We were coworkers.”

“Oh really?”

You nod. “She had started dating him when I joined the company, so I got the whole Juhee-Yoongi package straight away.”

He chuckles while shaking his head.

“Yeah, they’re quite the couple.”

“And you?”

He starts explaining how he met Yoongi years ago, together with a certain Jungkook. They were neighbors when they were younger. Their moms were close friends, and the three of them always hung out together. They still do it today. You carefully listen to him, not bothering to ask who the third guy is.

For a moment, you even forget the man in front of you. You’re so deep in the conversation with Hoseok, and you're more than glad to learn a bit more about Yoongi. You’ve only known him as an adult, and it seems so weird to discover who he was as a kid and teenager.

Hoseok then starts to explain how he ever found out about Juhee. His story is very similar to what she told you, but you’re hearing Yoongi's side, which is more than interesting. They were roommates, he was in a relationship, and she was in love with him.

“Even if he didn’t want to admit it, Yoongi was so into Juhee.”

The voice comes from across the table, cutting gently into the conversation. You look up. It’s him. He’s leaning forward just slightly now, his attention fully directed at you.  

“Yeah,” Hoseok adds. “He was always talking about her when he was still dating this Jennifer.”

Juhee always makes fun of Yoongi for having dated this Swedish girl for a while. She likes to say that he wanted to try something exotic just to poke him, and he really goes with it. He’s totally in love with his wife, which you find absolutely adorable.

“And how did he react when she confessed to him?” you ask with curiosity.

Your best friend told you that after two years of being roommates, she finally confessed to him, but he totally dismissed her as he was still with this Jennifer.

“Oh man,” Hoseok laughs.

A hint of amusement flashes in the eyes of the guy in front of you. “He panicked.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Really?”

“He came to my place, totally freacking out because he didn’t know what to do. He clearly wasn’t in love with Jennifer, but knew how down bad he was for Juhee.”

“Jungkook told him to break up with Jennifer,” Hoseok begins.

“But he clearly didn’t listen to me,” the man in front of you finishes.

So, he’s the famous Jungkook, which makes sense. He wouldn’t have randomly jumped into your conversation.

“Seems like he eventually did,” you add.

Jungkook sincerely smiles before saying, “Because I kept repeating it every day.”

You chuckle, your gaze deep into his. Hoseok glances between the two of you, smiling slightly as if he’s picked up on something.

“I’m glad he listened to you,” you reply. “I wouldn’t have met him if he didn’t.”

Everything would have been so different, but you know that eventually, Yoongi and Juhee would have found their way to each other. They were roommates and madly in love.

There’s a brief pause, but it’s not awkward at all.

You’re both looking at each other, as if the world around had completely vanished. Hoseok then continues talking, but you don’t really listen anymore, too captivated by Jungkook. Eventually, you glance away, focusing on the conversation about how everything started between your best friend and her husband.

Jungkook ends up asking if you were at their wedding, which you weren’t. Your sister was getting married a day before in Italy, and you couldn’t make it to Juhee and Yoongi’s marriage. It saddened you back then, but it’s fine. They never resented you for that, and they showed you all the wedding’s pictures, which made it feel like you were there with them.

As the night keeps going, you talk with everyone around you and keep drinking wine. At some point, you can clearly feel the effect of the alcohol in your system, but you don’t really care. You’re not driving tonight. However, you’re clearly conscious that you need to slow down. Otherwise, you’ll get wasted before the end of the party.

The huge cake with the candles arrives, and you celebrate Yoongi’s birthday. He seems genuinely happy, and it fills your heart that he wanted you to be present at this special day for him. For a brief moment, your eyes meet Jungkook’s, and an odd warmth spreads throughout your body.

Right after eating the cake, Hyunri has to leave and makes you promise that you’ll let her know once you’re home. You’re left alone, but honestly, it doesn’t worry or scare you at all. Hoseok has proven himself to be a great company, together with Jungkook. The three of you talked a lot, and you have to admit that they’re funny.

Jungkook’s constant gaze on you makes you feel more and more desirable, and you wish the night would never stop.

By the time the night starts winding down, the terrace feels different. People are slowly leaving in small groups, chair scraping softly, and goodbyes stretching longer than they need to. When almost everybody has left the restaurant, you decide to do the same. It’s already late, and you should probably go back home.

You say your goodbyes to Yoongi and Juhee, thanking them again for the invitation. She tells you that you should definitely organize something sometime. Outside work, you haven’t seen each other in a while, and you also miss their daughter, Bora, whom you consider your niece. You absolutely need to organize something.

Somehow, without really planning it, you end up outside with Jungkook.

The night air is cooler now, brushing against you as you see everybody splitting and leaving. For a second, it’s just the two of you standing there. He glances at you, hands slipping casually into his jacket, but you don’t dare to look back at him; your gaze is on the building standing in front of you.

“How are you getting home?”

The question catches you a bit off guard, making you finally look at him. With his jacket on, he looks even more like sin. This man looks way too good.

“By taxi,” you say. “Or I’ll check if there’s still any bus running.”

He nods once, like he expected that answer, and you decide to pull your phone out of your handbag. Then, after a brief pause, he tilts his head slightly.

“I can drop you off, if you want,” he proposes, his eyes still glued on you.

It takes you a couple of seconds to process what he just said. Your eyes meet his once more while you lock your phone.

“You have a car?” you ask.

He shakes his head before he gestures behind him. You follow his gaze, and under the streetlight, a bike is parked. It’s honestly a very beautiful one, but you haven’t really seen many bikes in your life. They never really caught your attention whenever you’d see one.

“Oh.”   

You look back at him, your gaze taking in the man standing next to you. Jungkook being a biker totally makes sense, and it definitely matches his aura. In fact, the opposite would have surprised you.

You should probably say no—that would be the most reasonable thing to do. This man is a total stranger to you, and on top of that, you’ve never been on a bike. It clearly sounds dangerous. And also, being on a bike clearly doesn’t sound like the best option, as you’re clearly under the influence of alcohol. You could throw up at any given moment.

But instead, you hear yourself ask, “You always offer rides to people you just met?”

His lips stretch in a smile, his little dimples appearing on his cute face.

“Only the ones I end up talking to at Yoongi’s birthday,” he simply says.

Before you can overthink it, you simply nod.

The two of you walk to the bike in pure silence, but his heavy presence next to you doesn’t go unnoticed. It feels strangely intimate to be alone with him after the way he looked at you all night.

Once you’re standing next to it, Jungkook takes two helmets out from what look like cases attached to the engine. He hands you one that you take with a certain hesitation, his fingers brushing yours for the briefest second.

“Ever been on one?” he asks. You shake your head, and it’s answer enough for him. He rests his helmet on the bike before taking yours from your hands. “Let me help you out then,” he says.

With the gentlest movements, he pushes your hair back, the touch of his fingers on you sending shivers down your spine. He’s so gentle with you right now. Once he’s happy with the result, he places the helmet over your head and pushes it down. By reflex, your hands catch the bottom.

A proud smile grows on his face, and his eyes glow with something you can’t quite name. It’s like he’s proud to see you wearing a helmet. After that, your little handbag is put in his backpack as it clearly doesn’t sound logical to keep it in hand while he drives through the city. The only request he has as for you to carry it and he reassures you that he isn’t heavy.

When he hands it to you, your fingers brush his, and he even helps you to adjust it on your back. For a second, your eyes get lost in the sight in front of you. The big ass man is helping you out with such a simple thing. He’s definitely a very thoughtful person.

Then, in a couple of seconds, his helmet is on his head. After that, he asks you to put your address on his phone. The thought of him knowing where you live thrills you somehow. The hot guy from Yoongi’s party will know your address.

“Alright,” he says. “Just hold onto me, and lean with me when we turn, okay?”

After spending the entire night sharing looks, you’ll be very close to him, like body to body. Never in your life have you ever been that close with a stranger. It’s kind of scary and exciting at the same time, but you can’t back up now. You already agreed to this.

You nod like that’s completely normal, but it’s not. He climbs first and holds out his hand to you. With a bit of hesitation, you take his hand and climb behind him. It’s a little awkward at first, and you adjust your position until you feel somewhat stable. The seat is narrower than you expected.

Jungkook never once looks away from you, making sure that you’re all set and ready. He’s so close to you, and your heart is beating way too fast with nervousness. Being in a bike with a random guy makes you a bit nervous. If anything bad happens, you could get very badly injured.

“Don’t worry, okay?” he asks you.

Somehow, you trust him enough to believe you’re safe with him. If your parents ever found out that you’ve been on a bike, they’ll kill you. They are very old-fashioned and convinced that every biker dies on the road, which you don’t believe.

For a second, you hesitate, hands hovering uncertainly, and then, you place them on him. You’re absolutely unsure of where you’re allowed to place them, so they rest against his sides. Maybe this is the right way to hold onto a biker. You don’t know.

“You can hold tighter,” he says over his shoulder.

There’s something about the way he says it that makes your hesitation fade just a little. And so you do as he says. Your arms slide around him, your hands settling against his torso, and you feel immediately the solid warmth of him under your palms. His body is definitely toned.

Your breath catches. This man seems like a surprise box, and it feels like they keep coming. You’re unsure of what could happen next, but you wouldn’t mind finding out more about him.

“Ready?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

Your heart thuds in your chest, ready to leave at any moment. As if he’s feeling it, he grabs one of your fingers and gently taps it against his torso.

“If there’s anything, you can tap like this against me, okay?” he tells you.

“Okay.”

“I’ll be careful,” he adds.

You simply nod, even though you know he’s not going to see it. The engine starts beneath you, and you feel it everywhere—through the seat, through your legs, through the way your body is now pressed against his. And then, you’re moving. At first, it’s slow and careful as the bike eases into the street. You look around, taking in the houses and the people walking around.

But as soon as he picks up speed, everything changes.

The wind hits you, rushing past your body and pulling at your clothes. Instinctively, you tighten your hold on him, your body reacting before your mind can catch up. And instead of pulling away—like you would have done under any other circumstances—you lean in closer.

Your chest is now fully pressed against his back, your arms fully wrapped around him, and your eyes are closed as if you’re too scared. You can feel the steady rhythm of his breathing, the subtle shifts of his body as he moves, while he guides the bike with an ease that makes you trust him without thinking about it.

When you wrap yourself tighter around him, his hand brushes against yours in a comforting way. He’s trying somehow to reassure you, and it’s definitely working because you’re slowly opening your eyes again. From this perspective, the city looks different. Everything moves faster, and the lights feel brighter around you.

And as it appears in movies, being on a bike makes you feel more alive. It’s an indescribable feeling, but a welcome one.

Every time he turns, your body follows his naturally. Your body mirrors everything he does, which is normal with the way you’re clinging to him. You try not to hold onto him too tight, too scared to hurt him, while he guides you both through the city.

Honestly, you could get used to this.

Between the rush of the wind, the warmth of his body, and the quiet thrill sitting low in your chest, you realize you’re smiling.

At some point, the streets start to look familiar as you recognize the corner near your place, the small café that’s always closed too early, and the building across from yours. You almost wish you weren’t reaching your place.

The bike slows down, gradually at first, then more noticeably. The rush of wind softens into something gentler, and the city comes back into focus around you.

Then, he stops right in front of your building.

For a second, neither of you moves. The engine is still running beneath you, vibrating softly like the night hasn’t fully settled yet. Your arms are still around him, and your body is still close to his. Slowly, you become aware of it, and heat rushes through your body.

You loosen your grip, your hands lingering just a fraction longer than necessary before you pull them back. Jungkook doesn’t move, letting you do as you wish. You climb off the bike, your feet finding the ground as the world feels slightly steadier.

Jungkook cuts the engine, and silence falls into place.

You take off the helmet, running a hand through your hair, trying to fix it in a way that probably doesn’t make much difference. Your heart is still beating a little faster than usual, and your body is still holding onto the echo of the ride. It’s like you can still feel your body moving.

“Thanks,” you say, as you block the helmet under your arm. “That was really nice.”

Jungkook lifts the visor of his helmet to look at you. He doesn’t seem like himself when only his eyes are visible. It makes him look innocent, which you truly believe he isn’t.

“I’m glad you agreed to this,” he replies.

You nod, a small smile forming. “Yeah, me too.”

You’re standing close. Closer than you would be with someone you just met, but you’re close enough to notice the details again. His expression shifts slightly when he looks at you, his gaze not rushing away. This right here—his intense gaze on you, and him on a bike with a helmet on—makes your mind race crazily.

You never knew you were into bikers…

You glance toward your building to escape him and calm down your thoughts before looking back at him. Neither of you moves to leave.

“So…” you start, then stop. “I guess it’s time to go home.”  

“Yeah,” he says, but he doesn’t sound like he’s in a hurry to go.

A silence stretches between you, but it’s not awkward. It’s like something is waiting to happen, but neither of you is quite ready to be the first to move.

Your fingers wrap tighter around the helmet, your heart beating way too fast in your chest. Jungkook shifts his weight just slightly, his gaze flicking briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes. It’s subtle, but not enough to notice. Your breath catches just for a second, and the air suddenly feels thicker.   

You know that if you close the gap between you, you’ll let him do whatever he wants with you, which isn’t a great idea. You’re tipsy, and he’s a total stranger—who knows what he might do if you let him. So, before you start doing something stupid and silly, you take the backpack out to retrieve your own bag.

“This is yours,” you tell him.

Jungkook nods, grabbing the bag and putting it on his back.

“Can I have your phone?” he asks, which makes you frown.

Even though his question confuses you, you still hand it out to him. He types something, and seconds later, his phone starts ringing.

“Now you have my number if you ever want to get a ride again,” he says.

“Thanks,” you say as you get your phone back.

Without truly realizing it, you’re now very close to each other, and his eyes never look away from you. It’s still unsettling, but god, if you could, you’d let him do it for the rest of your life. You love the way he looks at you, even if it is too intense sometimes.  

“Goodnight,” he says softly.

“Goodnight,” you repeat.

Neither of you moves right away, and you don’t want this night to finish just yet. It’s for sure one you’ll never forget. This simple ride was enough to make the night memorable, but Yoongi’s birthday party was just as amazing. This was definitely a good evening.

“I’ll see you around?” he asks.

It’s not quite a question, you know it. You smile, still feeling the echo of everything—the ride, the closeness.

“Yeah,” you say. “You will.”

He nods and then starts the bike again, the sound breaking the quiet, and within seconds, he’s pulling away and disappearing down the street. You stay there for a moment longer than you need to, replaying tonight’s events as if you need time to process everything that happened before getting inside.   

Your mind can’t help but think about the way he looked at you, the way you held onto him, and the way the ride felt. You exhale softly, a small and involuntary smile appearing on your face.

As the cold air raises goosebumps all over your body, you decide to get inside. It’s time to go to bed, and you know already that tomorrow you’ll be completely dead. When you get older, it becomes harder to deal with the aftermath of a late night filled with alcohol. Thankfully, tomorrow is Sunday, which means a lot of rest.

When the door closes behind you, the silence that follows feels louder than it should. For a moment, you just stand there in the hallway, keys still in your hand. There’s a lingering warmth in your chest that doesn’t quite fade.

When you’re about to unlock your phone, you notice that his helmet is still in your hands. “Shit,” you whisper to yourself. You stare at it for a second, confused at first, but then it clicks. You never gave it back, too absorbed by his beauty.

You set it down on the kitchen counter and sit on a chair, running a hand through your hair as the whole ride replays itself again—his voice, the steady way he drove, and the way he said ‘goodnight’ like it wasn’t quite final.

You quickly send a message to Hyunri, letting her know you safely made it home. Then, a notification appears. There’s a new message.

jungkook 🏍️: you stole my helmet

You stare at the screen for a second, a smile returning on your lips. You can’t help but notice that he added a little bike next to his name, and it does something to your little heart.

you: not on purpose

The typing bubble appears almost immediately.

jungkook 🏍️: yeah, sure…

For a brief second, you don’t know whether he’s mad about it or not, so you try to think about what you could eventually reply. But before you can even type anything, another message comes through.

jungkook 🏍️: you didn’t need to steal my helmet to get another free ride 😊

jungkook 🏍️: you can simply ask

That makes you smile more than expected. You settle back on the chair, the helmet resting on the counter beside you, and it’s the proof of tonight’s wild turn.

you: i’m definitely going to ask for another ride 👀

Your heart is beating super fast in your chest. Jungkook makes you feel a certain way—one that you haven’t felt in years, and honestly, you don’t ever want it to stop.

jungkook 🏍️: i can give you another free ride when i pick it up tomorrow

Your entire body freezes when you read his message. He’s literally suggesting seeing you again tomorrow, and you’ve barely just said goodbye. Maybe Hyunri was right when she said that he liked you.

jungkook 🏍️: unless you’re planning to keep it

You feel yourself getting way too bold as you type your answer.

you: maybe

At that instant, your best friend sends you a thank-you message, telling you she’s glad you made it home safely. When she discovers who drops you off, she’ll go insane. In the end, you did more than talk with him. She’ll be proud of you, you’re sure of it.

jungkook 🏍️: do you intend on asking for more rides? 🤔

Well, you definitely would love to repeat this more often, but you can’t just say it now. You met him like five hours ago.

you: if you ever propose, i wouldn’t say no 😊

jungkook 🏍️: we’ll have to check about that tomorrow if you ever give me back my helmet

The silly smile on your face doesn’t fade away. This conversation with him feels incredible.

you: okay, so see you tomorrow then 😊

jungkook 🏍️: yes

The three dots appear and remain for a while before another message drops.

jungkook 🏍️: goodnight, yn

And this right here melts your heart. Not only because it’s a sweet message, but also because you can hear him say it, as he did minutes ago.

you: goodnight, jungkook

And just like that, you go to bed with the silliest smile on your face.

“Are we in a parallel universe?” Hyunri’s voice echoes in your apartment through your phone’s speakers. “What has happened to my best friend?”

Her words make you giggle. As always, she’s exaggerating everything, which only makes you roll your eyes.  

“Why are you exaggerating like that?” you ask as you eat your breakfast.

Honestly, this morning you craved chocolate cereals, and you know it’s mostly due to the amount of alcohol you had last night. Always after getting drunk, you find yourself craving chocolate. On top of that, you’re also having a cup of coffee to help you out with the hangover. The aftermath of a night out at thirty doesn’t hit the same way as in your twenties.

“I’m not!!” she almost screams. “Wait, let me add Juhee.”

“Ri, no,” you tell her, but she doesn’t listen, of course, and adds your best friend.

“Hi guuuuuuurls,” Ju screams when she picks up the call. “How are you doing?” She seems full of energy, which makes you smile, even though you know that in a couple of minutes, you wouldn’t be smiling anymore, as they will be talking and raising too many questions related to Jungkook.

“I have to thank you from the bottom of my heart for the party,” Hyunri says.

“Why?” Juhee asks. “Did something happen?”

Is there any point in talking? No. Hyunri is going to say it anyway, and you’ll have to listen to them ranting about you as if you weren’t there.

“Our super friend here managed to get a hot babe’s number,” she teases.

“Don’t call him ‘hot babe’, it’s weird,” you tell her.  

“What?” Juhee says. “How?”

You want to chuckle because her reaction is funny, but it’s best not to react at all.

“I’m still trying to figure it out, but as you can imagine, yn hasn’t said much.”

You roll your eyes for the millionth time since she called you. “Let me eat in peace,” you simply reply.

“We don’t care about that,” Juhee says. “We want details!”

Now you giggle before your eyes flutter shut for a moment. Souvenirs from last night flow through your mind. Jungkook seems to be the only thing your mind can even focus on at this moment.

“You actually know him,” you reveal. “It’s one of Yoongi’s closest friends. It’s Jungkook.”

“You should have seen the way he was always looking at her,” Hyunri continues without even letting you or Juhee speak. “He’s really into her.”

Your best friend seems very into what happened yesterday.

“Now, the best part was after the party…” she continues.

Thank god that it’s not a video call, otherwise she’d see the way you constantly roll your eyes. She’s definitely exaggerating everything. It’s like it’s the event of the year when there’s not really much to say.

“Wait…” Juhee then cuts Hyunri off. “Jungkook?”

Juhee must know tons of things about him, and most probably, she knows him well since he’s a close friend of Yoongi with Hoseok—based on what you found out yesterday.

“Yeah,” you simply reply.

Her reaction kind of surprises you. Is there something wrong with him?

“Is there anything we should know about him?”

Your heart is now beating super fast, too scared to hear something you wouldn’t like. For sure, whatever she says will impact the way you’ll see him, and in a couple of hours, you’ll be spending some time with him. Hopefully, she doesn’t have anything bad to say.  

“Well…” she begins before pausing for a second. “Not sure if I’m supposed to be the one saying it, but he divorced like a year ago, and apparently, it’s been rough for him since then.”

Somehow, it’s not surprising that he was married, especially considering how thoughtful he was. And on top of that, he’s good-looking, so it mustn’t be difficult for him to find someone.

“What happened?” Hyunri asks with curiosity.

“Yoongi doesn’t speak much about it, nor does Jungkook, but from what I understood, they simply grew apart,” she explains. “But now, back to what happened yesterday, I want to know everything. Yoongi will be happy when I tell him about this.”

A smile spread across your face as you imagine your best friend telling her husband about this. “After the party, he dropped me off with his bike,” you summarize yesterday’s events.

“Annnnnd?” Hyunri tries to push you to reveal more.

“It was cool,” you say. “I’ve never been on a bike, so it was cool to live the experience.”

“You’re annoying, yn,” Juhee says. “We want to know more than that.”

“Fine,” you take a very deep breath. “He gave me his number, and I’m seeing him again today.”

Both girls scream with happiness on the other side of the phone, clearly trying to make you deaf. They really are unbelievable. However, their reaction definitely makes you happy because you know they’ve always been supportive of you. And now, they’ll definitely do everything they can to encourage you to see Jungkook as often as possible.

“I should have introduced you to him years ago!” Juhee says with enthusiasm.

“Well, if he was married, it wouldn’t have changed anything,” you reply.

“Yeah, right… He was indeed already taken,” she seems kind of defeated. “Still, now, you’ve got to meet him, and you can’t do anything stupid to ruin this.”

“He’s definitely into you, yn,” Hyunri continues. “You need to seize the opportunity.”

Honestly, you’re not really sure you’re ready for anything related to relationships. You’ve been on your own for four years, and the simple thought of dating someone scares the hell out of you. Jungkook seems like a nice guy and looks good, but what if he realizes that he doesn’t like you? What if he realizes you simply look good?

“I don’t know…” you admit.

Being single all these years wasn’t in your plans, but life happened. In between sickness, grief, and heartbreak, you gave yourself some time to breathe. Dating was the last thing on your mind, but that doesn’t mean you didn’t try to give it a shot.

Two years ago, you tried tinder, but it was a total mess. It overwhelmed you after two days, and you deleted your profile. You gave it a second chance three months ago, but it ended up with the same result.

The conclusion was that dating apps aren’t for you.

Being on your own never scared you, but sometimes, loneliness can be suffocating—like really suffocating. Those nights, tears get the best of you. Being alone isn’t easy all the time; however, you have to admit that it brings you peace, and you actually love it.

Juhee and Hyunri are worried you’d spend the rest of your life alone. You’re thirty and very much single. For a while, you totally ignored them because you didn’t give a shit about it all. But now, with this Jungkook, it feels a bit different.

“Look, I know you’re scared, but just go with the flow with Jungkook. Don’t overthink, just enjoy yourself. If it doesn’t work, then that’s it, but don’t try to push him away if he keeps coming back, okay?”

It seems easy for her to say. She isn’t the one struggling with relationships. She’s been with Yoongi for seven years, married for two years, and had a baby girl one year ago. She found her soulmate while you’re still trying to figure things out in your life.

“Okay,” you say.

For now, you just have to focus on when he shows up at your door in a couple of hours to retrieve his helmet. Probably nothing will happen, and maybe he’ll leave in two minutes. Maybe he’s not into you, as Hyunri likes to repeat.

“Now, have you planned something for when you see each other again?” Hyunri asks.

“No,” you reply instantly. “He’s just going to pick up his helmet.”

“His helmet?” Juhee asks.

“Yeah, I accidentally stole it yesterday.”

“Ooooh, our girl was so charmed that she stole something…” Hyunri teases you.

She’s not wrong, but you’re absolutely not going to admit it just yet.

“This is awkward, Ri,” you tell her.  

“Okay,” Juhee intervenes. “It’s a good thing, though. You get to see him again.”

For sure, you’re going to see him, but you’re not sure how it’ll go. Probably nothing will happen.

“I might have said that I’d like to get on his bike again,” you confess.

“Girl, please beg for that ride today,” Hyunri literally begs you.

“We’ll see,” you reply. “He’s probably just going to take the helmet and leave straight after.”

“Yn…” Juhee exhales. “Don’t let him leave right after. Speak a bit with him and absolutely ask for that ride.”

You take a deep breath. You’d like to go for another ride, but would it even be appropriate if he’s coming to pick up the helmet? He said yesterday that he’ll see when he comes today, but what if he changed his mind?

Suddenly, you receive a notification from him. Your heartbeat increases drastically, and you remain silent as your friends keep talking.

jungkook 🏍️: hi yn ✨ is it okay if i come in one hour?

For a minute, you look at the message without knowing what to say or even to think.

“Yn?” Juhee says, bringing you back down on earth.

“Sorry,” you reply. “He just texted me.”

It feels like you’re in a parallel universe. Everything that has been happening since last night feels absolutely unreal.

“What did he say?” Hyunri asks with curiosity.

“He’s asking if he can come in an hour.”

“And you’re going to say yes,” Juhee tells you.

It’s not even a question. She’s saying it, and you don’t have much of a choice.

“Yes,” you confirm.

you: hi jungkook, yes it’s fine ✨

His reply comes seconds later, as if he was waiting for your answer.

jungkook 🏍️: perfect! see you  

“Girls, I’ll have to leave then,” you tell them. “I need to clean my place, it’s a complete mess!”

“Okay, but you keep us updated,” Hyunri makes you promise.

“Yes, I will.”

An hour later, the doorbell rings in your apartment, and your heart starts racing. Your eyes quickly dart around, checking if your place looks presentable. In the mirror of the entrance, you quickly check your reflection to make sure you look presentable.  

Following your friends’ advice, you’ve chosen a simple but not too casual outfit. So, you’ve opted for a fitted black top that hugs your frame, the neckline dipping just enough to soften the look without trying too hard. You paired your top with jeans sitting high on your waist, perfectly fitted at the hips before falling straight down your legs. And on top of that, you put on a thin belt that pulls everything together.

You’re kind of satisfied with the outfit, but somehow, it feels like your top is a bit too much. However, now that Jungkook rings at your door, you can’t back out and change.

When you look at the videophone, his strong figure captivates your full attention, and you can’t help but smile. He’s opted for a full black outfit that suits him incredibly well. He’s wearing a tight shirt under a large jacket and tucked into his jeans. In his left hand, he holds his helmet.

“Hi, Jungkook,” you speak through the interphone. “It’s the fifth floor.”

“Thanks,” he says as you open the entrance door through a button on the interphone.

You take a very deep breath, trying to calm your beating heart and your racing thoughts. “He’s just here to pick up the helmet, nothing more,” you try to convince yourself. Deep down, you wish he’s not here just for that. Deep down, you hope he’ll propose to do something. Deep down, you simply want to be around him.

A loud knock against your door brings you back to reality, and without much hesitation, you open the door. Your breath is completely taken away when he stands tall in front of you. He looks even better than yesterday, if it was even possible.

His lips stretch into a bright smile before he says, “Hi, yn.”

“Hi, Jungkook,” you say, smiling as well. “Come inside.”

You step back to let him in, and he doesn’t waste a second before getting inside your place. Jungkook looks around, discovering every corner of the apartment’s entrance. You don’t own a big place because you can’t afford anything bigger, but one thing you’re proud of is the fact that this is yours. You bought this with your own money.

He turns around, his intense gaze now on you. That part hasn’t changed since last night. He still looks at you in a way that makes your tummy twist. You really want to hold his gaze, but you just can’t.

So you look around, searching for the helmet. “Let me just grab the helmet.”

Jungkook frowns. “If you didn’t want my presence here, you could have just said it,” he begins. “I could have waited at the entrance.”

You tilt your head, trying to understand what he’s saying, and when you do, you feel guilty. You’re so awkward that you want to slap your face so badly.

“It’s not that,” you say, shaking your head.

You pause, trying to think of the right way to express yourself, even though you know you’ve already made a mess in like a second.  

“I just…”

It feels like you can’t even express yourself, while he’s just waiting for an answer. For sure, after this, he’ll run away and never come back. This is more than over. You don’t even dare to look at him, too scared of what you might see in his eyes.

“I just thought you were here for it,” you finally say, slowly looking back at him.

To your surprise, you see a sly smile on his face, and even if his stare is still intense, it doesn’t feel threatening.

“I wouldn’t be here if it were just for the helmet,” he replies.

“Oh.”

Well, his reply leaves you speechless. He’s implying that he’s here for you, not to retrieve the helmet, and that does things to you. You’re not sure you can remember the last time a man said he wanted to spend time with you, except for the brief times you were on tinder. So, that doesn’t count at all.

“Do you want to drink or eat something, then?” you proceed to ask.

His smile grows bigger as he nods. “Where can I put this?” he shows his helmet.

“Follow me,” you tell him.

Jungkook does as you say, and you guide him to the living room. When he sees the stolen helmet, he instantly understands he needs to place his right next to it.

“You can sit on the couch while I bring some things,” you say with a little smile.

The man nods as you disappear into the kitchen, take some juice from the fridge, and pick up a few biscuits. You come back with all of that and take two glasses from the sideboard.

“This is all I have,” you show him.

“It’s enough,” he smiles. “I really like this orange juice. My favourite.”

His words reassure you.

“I can do coffee if you want,” you propose as well.

“No, no, this is fine,” he replies.

You nod, and the two of you start eating some of the biscuits you have. Those are lactose-free because, unfortunately, your body decided it was damn time you stopped tolerating lactose. In all honesty, this is horrible. The only positive side is that you now know what you're eating, since you always have to read the ingredients.

“Your place is cute,” he finally breaks the silence.

“Thanks,” you reply. “I bought it two years ago, and it’s slowly starting to look like something.”

He chuckles, his fingers placing a chocolate biscuit in his mouth, and you can’t help but drool over this simple action. Fuck, he looks way too hot without even trying.

“So you live alone?” he asks, as if he’s making sure nobody will show up unexpectedly.

“Yes.”

You’re not sure if it’s a good idea to let a stranger know you live by yourself—we never know what might happen. But, somehow, with him, you feel like you’re safe.

“No man is going to show up?”

Your cheeks instantly heat as you realize he’s trying to check if you’re single or not. “Are you trying to ask if I’m single?” you ask without thinking.

“Maybe,” he says, a cheeky smirk appearing on his face.

He’s going to be the death of you. There’s no way you’re going to survive him if he starts acting like that around you.

“Well, if you don’t ask it clearly, I can’t give you an answer,” you decide to tease him back.

If he wants to know, he’ll have to say it loud and clear. Jungkook chuckles before you hear him say, “Are you single?”

Heath instantly spreads through your body as you hear him say it.

“Maybe,” you keep teasing him.

He shakes his head, picking up another biscuit. Why did you even agree to meet him today? He looks way too good, and you don’t even know how to deal with him. Somehow, teasing him is the only way to do it.

“Mmm,” he says. “Is it a yes?”

You decide to nod, “I have been for a while.”

You don’t really know where you found the courage to say it, but maybe the fact that you feel comfortable enough with him can explain it. Suddenly, his face gets dangerously close, his gaze glued on yours. The strong scent of his cologne wraps around you, and you swear that you can feel your soul leaving your body.  

“It’s hard to believe it,” he then says.

His words take you off guard.

“Why?” you frown.

“Someone like you can’t possibly be single for long,” he replies.

Your body heat keeps increasing while your heart simply decides to abandon you. Jungkook can’t possibly say things like that. You chuckle, not believing a word. “Is that what you say to all women?”

“No,” he says simply.

The way he says it—calm and without hesitation—makes you shiver. His answer actually surprises you because you weren’t expecting him to reply with ‘no’ so simply.

“I’m sure a guy like you doesn’t have trouble meeting women,” you say.

Even if your friend told you it was hard for him after his divorce, you’re absolutely convinced he managed to flirt—and maybe do even more—with stunning women. You’re not saying you’re ugly; it’s far from that, but you’re sure that he has seen tons of pretty women.

“A guy like me?” he raises an eyebrow.

You’re not even sure what you’re supposed to reply, but you know he understands what you mean. He’s just trying to push you to say it out loud.

“You know what I mean,” you then reply.

Jungkook watches you for a second, his face still too close to yours. A sly smile grows on his face, and your heart just drops right there and then.

“Yeah,” he says. “But it doesn’t mean I’m interested in all of them.”

His answer flusters you. Jungkook is quite straightforward, and you haven’t met a man like him before. It’s unsettling, but at the same time, impressive. As you don’t know what to reply to that, you change the topic of the conversation completely: “I believe you promised me another ride on your bike.”

As you say it out loud, it absolutely sounds dirty. You’re so fucking awkward… He’s going to think you want to go wild with him when it’s absolutely not the case. You press your lips together, trying to suppress the urge to cringe.

Jungkook doesn’t react right away, but for the first time, he looks away. It is as if he needs some time to process what you just said.  

“I did,” he then replies calmly. “And we can go whenever you want.”

His eyes meet yours again, and you bite the corner of your lower lip as you think of the place you’d like to go. You’re not sure it’d be right to suggest it because it’s tied to heavy and strong emotions.

“There’s a place I used to go to,” you admit.

You don’t look at him when you continue. Honestly, it’s been a while since you’ve wanted to go there, but you were too scared to go alone. Using this bike ride seems like the perfect excuse.

“I haven’t been there in a while.”

You can feel Jungkook’s eyes on you. Somehow, it feels like you have forgotten how he spent last night constantly looking at you. It’s like he can’t look away, and it’s sometimes unsettling.

“I’d like to go back there,” you say, finally looking at him to see his reaction.

Nothing has changed; it’s like he’s a statue. He’s simply looking at you with that unreadable expression. Jungkook doesn’t ask questions, just nods, “Okay,” he ends up saying. “Let me know when you want to go, then.”

“Can we go now?” you dare to ask.

Again, he simply nods. The two of you stand up at the same time, and you notice a little smile on his face. He looks cute when there’s no smirk or sly smile on his face.

Back on his bike, your arms wrap around him while he drives, and you feel alive all over again. A stupid smile stretches across your face as he guides you both through the city. You didn’t think you’d be back on the bike this soon, but god, you’re definitely not going to complain.

At a red light, he looks back, his hand falling on top of yours. “You’re doing okay?”

“Yes,” you try to scream, making sure he can hear you.

“Good,” he says, his head looking back at the road.

His fingers stroking your hands warm your body in an unexplainable way, and you can’t help but wrap yourself tighter around him. Right now, you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. He’s made you feel a lot in less than a day, and even if you don’t ever see him again, you’d cherish those moments forever.   

When the light turns green, he starts the engine. You look around, enjoying how the city becomes a blur all over again. The bike zigzags between the cars at a fast speed, giving the impression that they are barely moving. Your body moves with his as he drives you around. It’s honestly impressive.

At some point, you rest your head against his back and close your eyes, enjoying the feeling of the wind running through your body. This is so unique. This time around, having your body pressed against his doesn’t scare you. It’s actually the opposite.

Jungkook slows down as you reach the destination, your eyes opening when he speaks. “Can I park here?”

“Yeah, should be fine,” you reply.

He completely stops the engine on a little spot, and you climb off the bike. The street is almost empty, as it was the case when you used to come years ago. The two of you remove the helmets once you put your feet on the floor. 

Jungkook’s gaze lands on you, and you don’t look away. His fingers quickly run through his hair to arrange it. This man is so effortlessly good-looking. 

“We just need to walk a bit,” you tell him.

He nods as you guide him through the houses and down the street to your secret spot. Four years ago, when you were walking around with an aching heart, you discovered this spot with the prettiest view of the city. You’ve come here tons of times, but over time, you stopped coming.

When you reach it, you halt, and he stands next to you. The view is still breathtaking. A smile forms on your lips. Before you can realize it, your eyes meet the man next to you. For the first time, he isn’t looking at you, but at the city.

“This is a pretty spot,” he admits before looking at you.

“It is,” you say while holding his gaze.

Your hand grabs his gloved one, guiding him to the railing placed a bit further. His hand wraps around you, which honestly creates goosebumps on your body, but you simply ignore it. Once there, you don’t let go of his hand just yet.

“How did you discover this?” he asks, his eyes moving between you and the city. “This is really hidden.”

“The story behind it isn’t the most joyful,” you admit.

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t feel like it,” he tells you.

You let go of his hand, put your elbows on the railing, and place your head in your hands. The helmet hangs on your arm while your eyes simply take in the sight before you. Somehow, being here doesn’t overwhelm you as you thought it’d be. It actually eases your mind.

“I lost my best friend to cancer around the time my ex-boyfriend broke up with me,” you confess, not looking once at him.

Revealing the truth feels easy when the person next to you is a complete stranger. He can’t judge you, and even if he does, you can simply walk away.

“The pain was suffocating,” you explain. “And I’d walk around the city for hours to empty my mind. Spoiler alert: it didn’t work,” you try to chuckle, but only a weird noise escapes your mouth. “One day, I stumbled upon this spot and kept coming because the noise in my head and the lump in my throat would calm down for a minute in here.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he tells you.

“Thanks,” you reply. “It’s been four years, but it feels like it was yesterday.”

You can tell that his eyes are on you, not in the city, but you don’t care. It feels good to say this to someone who isn’t Juhee or Hyunri.

“I understand,” he confesses. “Losing someone isn’t easy.”

It isn’t. Grief never leaves you; you simply learn how to live with it, but there are times when everything comes back with more intensity. In those moments, you’re brought back in time, and everything becomes unbearable all over again.

“I hadn’t come here in years, but it’s good to be back,” you admit.

“Thanks for telling me all of this,” he tells you. “And I’m happy you brought us here. It’s very beautiful.”

A small silence settles between you after his words, but it’s not heavy nor awkward. It’s just there as if you both need to proceed with everything you just shared with him. You nod slightly, your gaze still fixed on the city.

The wind brushes lightly against your skin, and without thinking, you pull your jacket a little closer around you. Jungkook steps just slightly closer, not enough to invade your space, but enough to shield you from the breeze. It’s subtle, but you notice it.

“You don’t talk about it much, do you?” he asks quietly behind you.

You shake your head. “Not really.”

The pain that comes with revealing this is always too much, but with Jungkook, it seems easy. It’s not overwhelming, nor painful. It’s just peaceful, especially with the view in front of you.

You finally turn your head to look at him. There’s something different in his expression. It’s softer—as if he can totally understand you and your feelings. It leaves you wondering if he also lost someone.

You hesitate, but then ask, “Have you lost someone too?”

He exhales quietly, his gaze drifting to the city behind you. “Yeah,” he says after a beat.

Jungkook doesn’t elaborate, and you don’t push. He has the right not to tell you everything right away. As he said, losing someone isn’t easy, and most probably, he doesn’t feel like sharing with you what he went through. Nevertheless, you’re here if he ever wants to speak.

He moves to stand next to you again, his shoulder brushing against yours. You don’t move away, nor does he. This feels right.

“I used to come here alone,” you say. “I never thought I’d ever bring someone.”

Jungkook glances at you, and you do the same. Your heart misses a beat when you notice the way he looks at you. It isn’t intense, it’s just soft and filled with feelings. Nobody ever looked at you like that.

“I’ll take this as a good sign,” he says.

You huff a quiet laugh. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

His lips curve faintly. “Too late.”

You shake your head before looking back at the city. Another silence stretches between you, and neither of you tries to break it. It just feels good. Being here after all this time feels refreshing because things are different now.

You’ve overcome the heartbreak your ex-boyfriend caused, and the grief isn’t as suffocating as it was. You now know how to live with it, even though you still cry over the loss of your first friend. Lucas would be proud of you; he wouldn’t have wanted you to cry for years.  

“Whenever you want to leave, let me know,” he says.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to stay a little longer,” you tell him.

Jungkook simply nods, and you remain here for a couple more minutes. When the wind becomes too cold, he places his jacket around your shoulders. You mumble a simple ‘thanks’ as you let his warm wrap around you.

No matter what the future holds for you, the simple fact that a man came with you here and showed nothing but support will forever be engraved in your heart. There aren’t many men left like him. He doesn’t question or push you to open up to him. He’s just there, and you only met him last night. What will it be like in a couple of weeks or even months if he stays around?

When you tell him you feel ready to leave, he just brings the two of you back to his bike. No one really speaks, but there’s no need to. You give him back his jacket so he doesn’t get cold while he drives—you’d feel really bad about it.

Like he did yesterday, he stops in front of your building complex. This time around, he climbs off his bike as well. When you open the case on the back to put the helmet back inside, he places his hand on top of yours.

“Keep it,” he says.

His fingers tug a strand of hair behind your ear, as if he’s trying to rearrange it. You let him do as he wishes, your eyes glued on his. Your heart is beating way too fast in your chest, ready to burst at any moment.   

“You might need it again,” he whispers.

Clearly, he wants to see you again, and you’re not really sure if you’re ready for that. However, the voices of Hyunri and Juhee echo in your head. You should try not to let him go just yet.

“You’re sure?” you ask.

Your question isn’t about keeping the helmet. It’s about checking if he truly wants to stay around.

“I am,” he replies with the softest voice. “But if you don’t want—”

“I want to,” you cut him off.

Not pushing him away isn’t going to be easy, but there’s one thing you’re sure of. You love being around him. And you don’t want to let him go.

For the past two weeks, you’ve been speaking nonstop with Jungkook. Everything seems easy with him. You don’t struggle to open up; he actually silently encourages you. He doesn’t say it, but always mentions that you don’t have to if you don’t feel like it.

Juhee and Hyunri have been excited about this whole thing with Jungkook. Juhee even speaks about it with Yoongi—you found out that Jungkook has been talking about you with Yoongi, but she refuses to let you know what they’ve been talking about. However, with the way she’s been encouraging you, you can deduce that it’s been positive.

Tonight, he’s picking you up for an outing. The only thing you know is that you’re going to a restaurant for dinner. Honestly, that doesn’t say much, because you don’t know how you’re supposed to dress.

If you follow your friends’ advice, you’d be dressing like a whore, and it’s not necessarily the impression you want to give him. You’ve been enjoying what’s been going on between you without the need to go freaky.

What you’ve discovered is that Jungkook is the type of man you introduce to your parents. Not the type to have one-night stands. For sure, he’s hot as hell, but beyond his looks, there’s a heart made of gold.

You’re not going to lie and say you haven’t thought of sleeping with him, but it was just a fantasy. When you’re around him, it’s the last thing on your mind. You simply enjoy his presence and every little thing that he does for you.

When you reach the main entrance of the building, Jungkook is waiting for you against the wall. For a second, you let your eyes roam over his body. Tonight, he looks different. The biker version of him is gone. Instead, he’s dressed in a full brown suit, the fabric slightly loose on his frame, like everything he wears. This man only seems to love extra-large clothes, but on him, it just works.

It makes him look attractive.

“Hi,” you say finally, once you’ve taken him in properly.

At the sound of your voice, his head turns, and his gaze instantly finds you, his eyes moving slowly over you.

The outfit you’ve opted for is different from what you’re used to. You stepped out of your comfort zone tonight, for him, even if you don’t want to admit it. So, you’ve put on a black skirt—that has been in your wardrobe for years—with a red top that adds just enough contrast. Your black oversized jacket falls naturally over your shoulders, and the boots give you a bit more confidence than usual.

It’s simple, but feels different.  

“Hi,” he says, his eyes meeting yours. “You look great.”

“Thanks,” you smile at him. “The suit looks good on you.”

You’ve never seen him in a suit, which somehow makes tonight feel special. You step closer, closing the distance between you, and lean in to press a gentle kiss on his cheek. His hand naturally finds your lower back.

When you pull away, his hand doesn’t leave. His thumb gently strokes your lower back. The simple gesture comforts you in ways you can’t even express. In fact, being around him always brings peace to your soul. You love being with him. It’s just easy. You can simply be yourself, and he’ll never judge you.

“We should get going,” he says after a moment. “Don’t want us to arrive late.”

You nod. Before you can step away, he leans in just slightly and presses a soft kiss on top of your head. The gesture catches you off guard. Then, his hand guides you forward, still resting at your lower back as you walk together toward his car.

It’s the first time you've seen it. You’re so used to the full biker Jungkook, and this feels different. The car is pretty and most probably expensive. You can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips. This man definitely has good taste.

But then again, you already knew that.  

His hand never leaves you as you reach the passenger side, guiding and protecting you. Feeling his warmth next to you is like having a blanket wrapped around you; it’s comforting and reassuring.

He opens the door for you without a word, and when you move to sit, he adjusts slightly to make sure you’re comfortable before closing the door behind you. The outside world fades as you settle into the seat, the soft leather adjusting beneath you. The inside smells just like him, which makes you smile.

Over the past two weeks, you’ve found yourself looking for his clean and strong perfume. It’s like your body and soul are already addicted to him, and you’ll die if you can’t have it for a day. And when you don’t, it’s compensated for by the sweet melody of his voice whenever he calls or drops voice notes.  

A few seconds later, the driver’s door opens, and Jungkook slides in. You glance at him as he adjusts his jacket slightly before starting the car. The movement is simple and controlled, like everything he does. Even here, nothing about him seems out of place. If anything, it fits him too well.

The engine hums to life, and he rests his hand on the steering wheel before glancing at you.

“You’re good?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you nod.

Your eyes drift around the interior before settling on the world outside through the window. The car slowly starts to glide into the street with ease.

Neither of you speaks for a moment, but the silence isn’t awkward—it never is with him. The city stretches around you as he drives. You rest your elbow lightly against the door, your fingers brushing your lips as you watch the passing streets.

“You don’t use this car much, do you?” you ask after a while.

He glances at you briefly, then back at the road. “Not really,” he replies.

“That’s what I thought,” you murmur, a small smile growing on your face. “I’ve only ever seen you on the bike.”

He chuckles a bit, which makes you turn your head toward him. “On a day-to-day basis, it’s easier with the bike,” he begins to explain. “I avoid the traffic when I go to work, and honestly, I prefer the bike to the car by far.” 

He glances at you again, and you hold his gaze.

“It makes sense,” you reply as he focuses back on the road. “But honestly, I didn’t expect you to have a car like this.”

“What did you expect?” he asks with curiosity.

“I don’t know…” you shrug lightly. “Just the bike, I guess.”

A faint smile pulls at his lips. “I do have other sides,” he replies. “I’m not just a biker.”

“I’m starting to notice that.”

Jungkook slows down at a light, the red glow reflecting across his face. You watch him without really meaning to, and his gaze lands on you, neither of you looking away. At first, having him look at you was sometimes unsettling, but it isn’t anymore.

Suddenly, the red glow turns into green, but he doesn’t notice it, or at least, he pretends he doesn’t. Honestly, you could stay like this forever, but I’m sure the cars behind wouldn’t agree.

“You should focus on the road,” you whisper.

He just nods and starts the car, gliding it through the city. Your eyes look out the window once more, watching silently as the world moves around you. In the past few years, you’ve always been the driver, never the passenger, so you have to admit that it’s a bit odd to be in this position tonight.

Nevertheless, it doesn’t mean that it isn’t good.  

After a while, you reach your destination, and your mouth drops as one of the fanciest restaurants in town stands before your eyes.

“We’re going to eat here?” you ask, your head turning to look at him.

Jungkook nods, and your entire body freezes. It’s barely possible to get a reservation, unless you want to wait months. And then, this is expensive as hell.  

“How did you…?”

He chuckles lightly as a little smile appears on his face.

“Well, I’ve some friends who helped me out,” he replies.

“No,” you shake your head. “We can’t.”

“Why so?” he frowns. “I thought you’d love to come, you mentioned it a couple of times.”

The simple fact that he remembered you speaking about it warms your heart. He listened and remembered, which to you means more than you’ll ever be able to express.

“It’s not about that,” you say. “This is expensive.”

“And?” he replies as if money was the least of his concerns.

For the past two weeks, whenever you’d be out, Jungkook would pay for everything. Since you’ve met him, you haven’t paid a single thing, even if you begged. He always hides behind the excuse that he was the one inviting you, which wasn’t true all the time. 

“I already know you,” you tell him. “You won’t let me pay.”

“I invited you, so I should be the one paying for it.”

“Not this time,” you clap back. “And if you don’t let me, I’ll never speak to you ever again.”

He raises an eyebrow while his eyes try to read yours.

“I dare you to,” he replies.

You’re almost offended by his words. “You don’t believe I can?”

“You’ll for sure do it at first to prove me wrong,” he begins explaining. “But you wouldn’t resist too long.”

Now you’re offended that he already knows you. This sounds totally like you. As you’re stubborn as hell, you’ll try to prove him wrong by ignoring him for as long as you can, but then, you’ll stop. And you both know the reason. You’ll miss him.

As you don’t know and don’t want to reply, you beg, “Just let me pay, please.”

“If it’s expensive for me, it is for you too,” he replies instantly, crossing his arms against his chest.

As you’ve also noticed, there’s no arguing with him. If he has decided something, you can do, say, or ask whatever you want; he’ll just do as he planned and won’t flinch at all.

“At least, let me pay for my part?”

Your words sound more like a question than intended.

“Give me a solid reason, then,” he flatly says.

“The expensive part isn’t reason enough?” you ask, and he shakes his head.

You sigh in defeat, knowing damn well, you’ve already lost this fight. He’s going to pay whether you want it or not. It’s honestly very chivalrous, but he shouldn’t have to pay for everything. It’s like his wallet knows no limit.

“I just feel bad, okay?” you then confess. “You always pay for everything, and I don’t want you to throw your money like that.”

At that moment, something entirely soft appears in his eyes, and his shoulders slightly drop down. His hand finds its way to your cheek before his thumb slowly and gently strokes it. His face gets closer, his hot breath caressing your face.

“I throw my money where I want to,” he gently whispers. “And it’s worth it with you.”

Your eyes inevitably stare down at his lips for a hot moment before shifting up to his eyes. Jungkook can’t throw things like that, especially when it makes you feel so special.

“It’s not fair,” you admit out loud. “I should be able to do it too.”

He chuckles, his eyes still glued to your face.

“Keep your money and make good use of it,” he answers.

You shake your head, looking away and pushing his eyes off your face. He makes everything harder. It’s impossible to resist him.  

“Why can’t you let me pay?” he sincerely asks.

His question catches you off guard, which makes you stare back at him instantly. You tilt your head, and you can tell by the look on his face that he isn’t used to this. So, it leaves you wondering if people just let him pay without even questioning it.

“We both work our asses off to earn it,” you start explaining. “It feels like I’m exploiting you when I also have the means to pay for everything we do.”

You don’t know much about his job; he’s always so vague about it, as if he wants to avoid speaking about it. All you know is that he works in finance and he’s gotten promoted several times. With those few pieces of information, you deduced that he must be comfortable in life. Now, to what extent, you don’t really know.

“Please don’t feel like that,” he mumbles. “It’s never been my intention.”

Of course, you know it, and you also don’t want him to feel bad about it. You’re simply not used to all of this. Even your ex would let you pay, but things were different back then. He was struggling financially, and it wouldn’t be right to let him pay for everything. But still, it just feels wrong to let Jungkook do it.

“This is my way of expressing my gratitude for spending time with you,” he whispers with the biggest doe eyes.

Damn, how are you supposed to resist him? Those doe eyes always get the best out of you. He gets whatever he wants with that.  

“That’s nice of you,” you tell him. “But just let me sometimes pay, okay?”

He nods, and you can’t help but press a soft kiss on his cheek, even though his lips are the spot you’d like to kiss.

“But it’ll start after this dinner,” he replies.

Well, there’s no more arguing left now. You’ve found a middle ground for now, but you’ll for sure remind him of it next time he doesn’t let you pay.

“Okay,” you agree.

The rest of the night just goes well. The conversation flows perfectly between the two of you, and you absolutely enjoy the dinner. The restaurant looks even better than in all the pictures you’ve seen online, and you’re definitely grateful that Jungkook managed to find a table.

Obviously, you let him pay for you, but you had to bite your tongue when you saw the price. Even if you carefully chose a not-too-expensive plate, it was still a lot. Nonetheless, everything was super good, and let’s not even talk about the wine. It was so good that you swore you had an orgasm just with it.

When he drops you off, it feels like the night was too short. You wish you could spend more time with him, but you don’t want to scare him off just yet.

“Thanks for the night,” you tell him once you’re in front of the building’s entrance.

“I should thank you too,” he replies. “It was great.”

You nod, agreeing completely with him. It was really good, and you’d love to do this again.

“We should repeat it,” you say.

“As long as you keep my helmet, we’ll repeat this as much as you want.”

The helmet has become the guarantee that you’ll keep seeing each other, as if it’s an excuse. Somehow, you know that as long as you have it, you have him as well. It’s proof that he trusts you and wants to spend time with you.

A smile grows on your lips, and you swear that at that moment, your body melts. The more you spend time with him, the more you love every single word falling from his pretty lips. It’s like he’s a romantic man without even trying.

“I’ll keep it forever then,” you admit.

Jungkook gets closer, his hand delicately placing a strand of hair behind your ear. This simple gesture sends shivers down your spine. Your eyes get lost in his, and the world seems to disappear around you as his thumb lightly brushes against your cheek, leaving a warmth that spreads through your entire body.  

“I’d love nothing more than that,” he whispers, his face moving way too close to yours until you feel his hot breath on your skin.

Your heart hammers faster and faster in your chest, and for a brief moment, nothing else matters. He’s about to kiss you, there’s absolutely no doubt about it, and truthfully, there’s nothing else you want more right now.

“I’ll keep it safe,” you reply, your eyes moving from his eyes to his lips.

His nose brushes against yours, the bare touch making you shiver. When his eyes search yours, you know he’s silently asking for permission. And when you don’t pull away, he simply knows.

Then, he closes the distance.

His lips press against yours with hesitation at first. His hand finds its way to the back of your neck, holding you while he deepens the kiss. The world entirely disappears as his lips move against yours, consuming you completely.

Your body leans into his instinctively, your hands finding his chest to bunch the fabric of his suit jacket beneath your fingers. When his tongue brushes your lower lip, your stomach flips, and you let him in. The sensation is overwhelming and beautiful.

When you break the kiss, you’re both breathless, foreheads resting against each other as your eyes meet once again. Jungkook’s fingers softly caress your face, and his touch is so soft. You close your eyes to savor this moment. 

None of you speaks, too lost in the moment to even express what you feel. Jungkook has made you feel so loved in such a short time, and it’s in all the little things he does, like making you keep his helmet. And above all, he’s shown you that he’s there, by your side. That’s worth way more than any word he could ever say.

His lips meet yours once more as if he needs to repeat it to make sure it’s real. And you let him consume you as much as he wants. He can even take your soul if he desires, because you know that he holds your heart in the palm of his hand.

“Miss yn,” Juhee says when you pick up her call.

“Hi to you too, Ju,” you reply.

Last night you slept like a baby, your dreams filled with Jungkook and his sweet lips.

“How on earth am I finding out through my husband that you kissed Jungkook?” she says, trying to sound angry, but she fails miserably.

Her words catch you by absolute surprise. It’s been a couple of hours since it happened, and Yoongi is already aware of it? You haven’t imagined Jungkook being the type to share everything so fast with Yoongi, his best friend.

“Woow, he already knows?” you ask.

“Of course he does. He has like a group chat with Jungkook and Hobi, and they share everything,” she explains. “Like absolutely everything.”

“Oh.”

“BUT I’M SO HAPPY FOR YOU!!!” she screams on the other side. “Gosh, I’ve been dying to hear that since Yoongi’s birthday!”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the smile appearing on your face. You’re also happy that you finally kissed. You’ve been giggling all morning, thinking about it.

“Don’t get too excited,” you reply. “It’s just a kiss.”

“Stop,” she instantly says. “It wasn’t just a kiss, and we all know it.”

She isn’t wrong, but you don’t want to get ahead of yourself. The last time that it happened was with a man who broke your hearts months later. You really don’t want to get hurt. However, it’s clear that you’re letting Jungkook in and giving him all the powers to hurt you.

“Look, you never heard this from me, but Jungkook gets as excited as you about whatever is going on between you. Yoongi even told me that he hasn’t seen him this happy in years.”

A little silence falls between you—one that simply allows you to process for a moment what she just told you.

“I know I promised Yoongi I’d never say anything, but I want you to realize that he’s really into you,” she breaks the silence. “I know you’re scared because of what Elliott did to you. But you can’t be scared for the rest of your life. If you want to find someone who loves you, you have to let them in,” she pauses for a hot second. “You have to let Jungkook in.”

It’s easier said than done. You know you’ll always overthink everything, which probably isn’t the right move.

“And if he ever dares to do something wrong, we’ll kick him in the ass!” she adds. “Now, seriously, we’re rooting for you because you both deserve this.”

“Thanks, Juhee,” you tell her.

“Now, tell me everything!” she urges you.

You chuckle before saying, “He told me that as long as I have his helmet, we’ll keep having dates.”

“Oh god, he’s soooo cheesy,” she says. “But damn, that’s so sweet.”

You then explain everything in detail—from when he picked you up to when you kissed. She keeps giggling through it all, and somehow, it fulfills you that your best friend is so invested in your love life. You know that she’ll support you no matter what.

After that, your sister shows up at your place with your favorite niece in the world—well, it’s your only niece—because she has an important appointment with her husband. They’ve been trying for a second baby through IVF. They followed the same route with your niece, as they were aware of their fertility issues.

Your parents are out of town; they went on a trip to Thailand to enjoy some time alone. With your sister, you’ve encouraged them to do it because they’ve spoken about that trip for years. They decided to go there for three weeks and visit as much as they could.

“Don’t be too silly, okay?” your sister tells your niece, Ivy.  

“I promise, mommy,” she replies with the sweetest voice.

“Don’t worry, sissy,” you add while you grab your niece in your arms. “She’s always been good with me.”

Ivy wraps her tiny legs around your waist and her arms around your neck. She’s so tiny for a 5-year-old, but so clingy. You absolutely adore this kid with all your soul.

“Yeah, but I just want to make sure she doesn’t drive you crazy,” she retorts.

“If anything, I’m the one who will drive her crazy,” you chuckle.

Your sister smiles, knowing damn right that it’s the truth. Before your niece existed, you were driving your sister crazy since the day you were born.  

“Now, go before you arrive late at your appointment,” you urge her to leave.

She presses a kiss on her daughter’s cheek before doing the same to you.

“Have fun!” she says as she disappears into the hallway.

You close the door, put down your niece, and look at her. She brought her coloring book with her, and it might keep her busy for a moment. You’re not sure how long the appointment will take, but if it lasts long, you’re not sure the coloring will be enough to keep her entertained.

“Let’s get to the living room,” you say, grabbing her little backpack. “Want your favorite juice?”

Since you never know when she might show up at your place, you always have her favorite orange juice, which you recently found out is also Jungkook’s.

“Not yet,” she replies.

Once in the living room, she sits down on the floor in front of the coffee table, takes his book and the coloring pencils, and chooses which coloring she’ll do. On your end, you decide to sit on the couch, which is more comfortable than the floor.

“Do you want to watch something in particular?” you ask.  

“Can we watch The Little Mermaid?”

You nod and put it on. She’s obsessed with it; luckily for her, you adore it too. Otherwise, you would have grown tired of watching it every time she comes. At some point, your phone buzzes next to you, and your eyes quickly take a glance.

The second you notice it’s a message from Jungkook, the silliest smile stretches on your lips. For a moment, your eyes run over his message. He’s asking if you’re doing something today. Since your niece is sitting between you and the tv, you take a picture to show him what you’re currently doing.

you: taking care of my niece

The three dots instantly appear on your screen.

jungkook 🏍️: lucky her

Your smile grows bigger, you’re sure it’s reaching your ears.

you: you could come after, if you want 😊

Your heart is beating way too fast in your chest. You’d love nothing more than to spend time with him, especially after how last night went. You’d love to kiss him all over again.

jungkook 🏍️: of course

Your face gets hotter because he didn’t even hesitate.

you: and could we go on a ride? i miss it 🫣  

jungkook 🏍️: we do whatever you want

There is a little pause before he sends you a second message.

jungkook 🏍️: everything is fine for me

He’s way too nice. You’re scared you’ll tire him of going on rides, which you don’t want because you enjoy it too much.

you: aren’t you tired of me asking that?

“Aunty?” your niece suddenly turns around.

“Yes, princess,” you say while putting your phone aside.

“Which color you think is better for the dress?” she asks.

She shows you all her pencils, and you look between them and the coloring, trying to figure out which will suit best. The green seems instantly like the perfect color. In the background, your phone buzzes, letting you know Jungkook has replied.

“This one,” you show her the green pencil.

She takes the pen without thinking much and starts coloring. You decide to remain on the floor, next to her, so you grab your phone from the couch. When you unlock it, you notice three messages from Jungkook.

jungkook 🏍️: no, i love my bike

jungkook 🏍️: and i like the rides with company

jungkook 🏍️: you can keep asking as much as you want

A smile grows again on your face. You feel like a teenager falling in love with her crush, and damn, you don’t want that feeling to ever disappear.

you: don’t say that, i’ll ask every single day for a ride

Your heart beats crazily as you type your second message.

you: might even ask you to drop me off at work at some point

“Who are you talking to?” Ivy suddenly asks without hesitation.

Your eyes move from the phone to her tiny figure.

“A friend,” you tell her.  

“Is your friend cool?” she asks.

“Absolutely,” you reply instantly.

Without even looking, you notice his answer, but you don’t look just yet as you speak with your niece.

“How cool?”

She’s way too curious, but you don’t mind. She’s still young and cute too, so she can ask or say whatever she wants with you.

“Like he has a bike,” you reply.

“Woow,” her little mouth takes the ‘O’ shape as she speaks. “Can I see a picture?”

Well, you don’t have a picture of his bike.

“Wait, let me ask him.”

She nods, and your eyes fall on your chat with Jungkook.

jungkook 🏍️: i’ll do it gladly

Your heart melts right there and then. What have you done to find someone like him? He’s just so nice and sweet with you. You feel like you can ask for the moon, and he’ll hand it to you without even blinking.

you: you’re too nice!

you: my niece is asking for a picture of your bike

you: can you send one?

It takes a couple of minutes before you receive the requested picture. It doesn’t do it justice at all, but it still looks good.

“Here you go, little monster,” you tell her as you show it to her. 

“It’s beautiful,” she says with the biggest doe eyes.

She takes her time to look at the picture as if the bike will suddenly come to your living room if she keeps looking. She looks cute, though. Then, a message from Jungkook pops up.

“You have a message, aunty,” she points out.

jungkook 🏍️: i can come if she wants to see it irl

You almost giggle in front of her. Seems like Jungkook would find any excuse to come see you, even using your niece.

“Would you like to see it?” you then ask to Ivy. “Like really see it?”  

“I can?” she says as her eyes widen, and a bright smile grows on her face.

“Yes, my friend can show it to you,” you tell her.

“Yes, yes,” she says, completely excited.

She stands up and starts jumping with happiness. It really fills your heart to see her like that, and you’d do anything to make her happy until she becomes old. Even though she’s your sister’s daughter, she’s kind of your baby too.

you: she would absolutely love that

jungkook 🏍️: okay, i’ll be there in 10 minutes

“We can keep watching the movie until he arrives, okay?” you tell her.

She nods before sitting down on the floor next to you. She presses her tiny body against yours, and you wrap your arm around her. This little girl definitely owns your heart.

Exactly ten minutes later, you receive a notification from Jungkook, letting you know that he’s arrived. Somehow, knowing that your niece is going to meet him makes you nervous. Why? Because it’s like letting him in your family. Ivy is definitely going to tell her parents about this, which will lead to your sister asking about this, and then, she’ll definitely want to meet him.

“So, little monster,” you tell her. “My friend’s here, but before going, I have something to give you.”

She nods, and you disappear into your room to pick up the helmet. When you come back, you hand it to her.

“To make it even cooler, I’ll let you borrow my helmet,” you smile at her.

“Thanks, aunty,” she says.

“Now, let’s put that jacket on because it’s too cold outside.”

The two of you get ready. You look like an absolute mess. You weren’t exactly planning on seeing Jungkook, so it’s just you, your large Sabrina Carpenter shirt, your oversized jacket, and your grey sweatpants.

When you’re finally outside, she sees the bike right in front of her. She gets super excited, which is somehow super funny. As he notices you, Jungkook climbs off his bike and takes his helmet off.

“Hi, mister,” Ivy says while extending her hand to him. “I’m Ivy, her niece.”

“Hi Ivy, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says, taking her hand and gently shaking it. “I’m Jungkook.”

His eyes briefly shift to you, a bright smile appearing on his face.  

“Heard you wanted to see a bike for real,” he says with a gentle voice as he lowers himself to her level.

“Yes, my aunty even brought her helmet,” she tells him.

“Well, we will only put it when you’re on the bike,” he explains to her.

“I can go on it?” she asks with evident excitement.

“We’re not going to drive, but you can sit on it,” he tells her.

She gets even more excited, and he takes her in his arms before placing her on the bike. She looks so so tiny on it, but it’s honestly one of the cutest things you’ve ever seen. She’s ridiculously adorable like that.

“Now, Ivy’s aunty,” he says to you, “can you please give me your helmet?”

You nod as you give it to him. With all the care in the world, he places it on top of her head. Obviously, it is way too big for her, but she’s absolutely living her biker dream. As you watch them interact, your heart melts completely. You never knew you needed this in your life.

Jungkook climbs behind her at some point and starts the engine. You obviously take the helmet back as it is too heavy and big for her little head. Let’s avoid hurting her while she’s under your watch. Your sister would kill you if something happened.

He leans in slightly, making sure that he doesn’t squish your niece, and one hand settles on the handlebar.

“Watch this,” he says.

He twists the throttle, and the engine roars to life beneath them, the sound low and powerful as it vibrates. Ivy’s eyes widen instantly. With a small smile, Jungkook gently takes her hand and places it on the handlebar.

“Feel that?” he says.

Ivy nods, almost bouncing in place as the vibrations hums under her fingers. This moment unfolding before your eyes is honestly marvelous. Ivy is clearly so happy to be on a bike for the first time in her life, and Jungkook is more than happy to share this moment with her. He clearly loves his bike. No wonder he doesn’t mind going around with you.

“Aunty,” Ivy calls you, “can you take a picture, please?”

You take your phone out of your pocket, placing yourself in front of them. Jungkook holds her tightly in his arms while she still has her hand on the handlebar. They both give you their brightest smiles. You take several pictures, and then they go back to discuss the bike as if you don’t even exist.

Jungkook tells her many things about it, like how and when he bought it, how he started driving bikes, and how much he loves being on it. She begs for a ride, but he categorically refuses, as it is too dangerous, which you emphasize as well. Obviously, she’s a bit disappointed.

Honestly, you don’t know how long you stayed outside, but you know that it’s enough to have your sister back from her appointment.

“What are you—” she freezes the second she sees her daughter on a bike with a stranger.

“Wait,” you tell her before she joins them. “He’s a friend of mine, and she’s completely safe with him. They’ve been at it for god knows how long.”

Your sister stands next to you, looking at Jungkook and Ivy on the bike, who are animatedly talking.

“A friend of yours?” she raises an eyebrow. “Is it the sexy kind of friend?”

Your eyes move from Jungkook and your niece to her. You really can’t believe her. One second ago, she was concerned to see her daughter with a stranger, and now she’s asking if you’re being freaky in bed with that stranger. Unbelievable!

“Don’t!” you tell her. “It’s not like that between us.”

“Well, with a friend like that, I would have already opened my legs,” she chuckles.

You tap her arm, which only makes her laugh even more. “You’re married.”

“But that doesn’t stop me from appreciating a good-looking man when I see one.”

You roll your eyes, annoyed by what she’s saying. If you didn’t know, you’d believe that she doesn’t care about her husband, but that woman is like desperately in love with your brother-in-law. However, you still decide to tell her what’s going on between you and Jungkook. She’ll find it out anyway.

“If you want to know, this is a friend I’ve been seeing for like two weeks and whom I kissed last night,” you tell her.

She gasps at your words. “You’re telling me that my baby sis is finally giving a chance to a guy?”

“Exactly,” you reply.    

“Well, this day couldn’t be going any better!” she says with a big smile on her face.

“You got good news from this appointment?” you ask.

“We’ll start next week our first round,” she explains, and you instantly hug her.

You’re so excited for her. You know how much it means to her to have a baby, and knowing that the whole process will start next week makes you incredibly happy for her. You can’t wait to have another niece or nephew.

Your sister then decides to join her daughter and Jungkook to check up on them. Ivy couldn’t be happier than she is right now.

“Little lady,” she says when she’s next to them. “I leave you with your aunt, and you decide to trick a young man into showing you his bike?”

She laughs with her entire soul, which is an absolutely adorable sound, by the way.

“He’s aunty’s friend,” she explains to her mom. “He agreed to show it to me.”

For the first time since he showed up, his gaze lands on you, and damn, your heart stops beating instantly. The softness in his eyes and the way they glow get the best out of you. He doesn’t need to say it out loud, but you know that this moment fills him with joy. And man, you’re so glad your niece asked for this.

Your sister introduces herself to him, and for a little moment, they discuss. She’s completely charmed by him, just like her daughter. You look at everything from the outside and simply let them discuss. You wouldn’t want to influence the opinions they’ll have of each other.

Somehow, it scares you that he got to meet your sister while you’re still figuring things out between you. But at the same time, it reassures you, because if she believes he’s an asshole, you’ll know where you stand.

He and Ivy end up leaving the bike, and you join them so you can say goodbye to your sister and your niece. When your sister hugs you, she says, “He’s definitely a keeper, so don’t mess things up.”

You hold her even tighter and close your eyes for a second. Knowing that she appreciates him fills your heart.

“Now, let’s go home, Ivy,” your sister says to her daughter.

The little girl waves at you as they disappear into the street. Her car must be parked somewhere, hopefully not too far, so they don’t have to walk too much. 

“So, where do you want to go?” Jungkook asks when you’re alone.

“Like now?” you ask with surprise, and he simply nods. “Well, I don’t have the most appropriate clothes.”

“We can stay at your place if you want,” he suggests.

Honestly, you don’t really know what you want to do right now. Staying at your place isn’t what you want to do at this precise moment, but you also look like an absolute mess, so you don’t really know if it’s a good idea to even go somewhere.

“Maybe we can go to the little coffee shop you talked about the other day,” you suggest. “But I’ll just need to change before.”

His hand takes yours, pushing you closer to him. His breath instantly falls on your face as you both get lost in each other’s gaze.

“No need to change,” he whispers. “You look good.”

“But—”

Before you can even add something, his lips find yours for a soft and gentle kiss. It catches you a bit off guard at first, but you reciprocate quite quickly. Your hands find their way to his neck, pulling him closer while his hands rest on your back. If this is how it’s going to be every time you see him, well, you already can’t wait for next time.

When you break the kiss, you look at him with the silliest smile on your face. These moments with him bring so much peace and happiness to your heart. You definitely don’t ever want to let him go, especially since there’s still much more to discover about him.

“You can’t do that to shut me up,” you gently hit his chest.

“I wanted to do it the second you appeared with your niece,” he confesses.

“Still, it’s not an excuse,” you tell him.

“I—”

And you do as he did to you: you kiss him to shut him up. He instantly kisses you back with a passion that could be overwhelming if it wasn’t welcomed. Your fingers play with his hair at the nape of his neck, as his fingers stroke your back with such gentleness.

“Let’s go to the coffee shop,” he whispers when you break apart. “Before we keep kissing over and over.” And just like that, you climb on his bike and disappear into the street.

As time goes on, you’ve been spending more and more time with him. You’re basically inseparable; he’s always showing up at your doorstep and texting you constantly. Going around on his bike has kind of been your love language.

Even though you’ve been having a lot of fun, it’s obvious that it’s becoming very serious between you. You find yourself waiting for his messages and craving to see him constantly. You absolutely love being with him.

So far, you haven’t put a label on whatever is going on, and except for little kisses here and there, nothing physical has happened, which, being honest, makes you happy. You don’t want to turn this relationship into something sexual.

Why?

It’s simple. You want Jungkook to appreciate you for who you are and not for the sex. On top of that, you haven’t been intimate with any men since your last breakup four years ago, so it kind of frightens you to get freaky with him.

He hasn’t initiated or pushed you to do anything like that, and honestly, you couldn’t be more thankful for that. You’re not sure how you would have reacted if he ever did something.

Jungkook has also been nothing but a gentleman. He sometimes accepts letting you pay, even though you can tell it’s hard for him, which always makes you laugh in some way. However, he’ll compensate in another way, like for example, he’ll buy a bouquet of flowers, or he’ll show up at your place with ramen or your favourite chocolates.

Juhee, Hyunri, and your sister have been encouraging you a lot and giving you tons of advice. It’s been helpful whenever you’d feel like it’s too much, because you’re not used to this anymore.

There are some moments where you question everything. You know you shouldn’t because he’s been nothing but a gentleman, giving you the space you need while still being around. A lot of times, you find yourself doubting it all.

“Should you give him a chance? Should you keep doing this? Should you let him fully in?” Those are some of the questions that sometimes cross your mind.

Also, you’ve been used to being on your own and dealing with everything by yourself. And now, you have someone ready to help you whenever you need it. It’s new, and sometimes, you feel like you’re sharing too much. You feel like he might run away, but he never does. He just helps you.

Even compared to your ex, Jungkook is way more present and supportive. Your ex was definitely there and trying to help you out, but it wasn’t the same. You know you can count on Jungkook no matter what, whereas with your ex, you’d sometimes hesitate to share things with him.

And honestly, back then, you would have preferred having Jungkook because you were dealing with a best friend who was dying. Your ex was there even though he wasn't, and you found out later that he was getting closer to the girl he had always had a crush on, which, honestly, is a jerky move.

This weekend, Jungkook invited you to spend it together in a little house out of the city. Obviously, you hesitated at first, but following many conversations with Juhee, Hyunri, and your sister, you agreed to it.

Honestly, it’s such a beautiful place. It’s surrounded by nature, with other small cabins nearby. You don’t know how he found this place, but you’re happy he brought you with him.

“I heard this is the perfect spot to watch the stars,” he tells you Friday night, right after you arrive.

You inevitably look up at the sky, and the stars shine so bright. The sky is absolutely clear, which is hard to see when you live in a city. A smile stretches across your face.

“We could lie down and watch them together, if you want,” he suggests.

“Absolutely!” you enthusiastically reply.

Jungkook grabs a blanket from the inside before placing it on the floor. You both stand next to each other, your eyes focused on the bright sky. You can’t remember the last time you properly looked up there; it feels like you never have the time to slow down and enjoy life.

The two of you remain in silence for a little while, simply enjoying each other's company. Silences with him are never heavy or awkward. They actually are peaceful, as if they’re mending something inside both your hearts.

“I was married once,” he breaks the silence, his eyes still fixed on the sky.

You also don’t look at him, but deep down, you’re happy that he’s mentioning it to you. Never once have you said or commented on anything about it, preferring to wait for him to speak about it.

“Was it a long time ago?” you ask, even though you already know the answer.

“The divorce was settled a year ago,” he replies. “We were together for eight years at the time of the divorce, and we had celebrated our fifth wedding anniversary a couple of months before.”

They were together for a long time, and it’s saddening to know that his marriage didn’t work out. It must be painful to realize that the person you wanted to spend your life with isn’t the one.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” you gently say. “What happened?”

“Time happened,” he replies before pausing for a while. “After a while, we started to grow apart. We were barely spending time together, and whenever we were, it just didn’t feel right. We would always find excuses to avoid each other.”

Picturing a Jungkook avoiding someone he cares for seems absolutely strange. Since you’ve known him, he’s been finding every possible excuse to spend time with you. However, you know that the version of him that you know isn’t the one that he was back then. If anything, the past version of him created this new one.

“My world also changed a lot at some point, and I guess that over time, she stopped accepting it,” he adds. The way his voice breaks at the end makes your heart ache, so your fingers find his to intertwine them, trying to reassure him in some way.

“On top of that, my family never appreciated her. My dad always told me that she was too superficial, so in the end, it didn’t help.”

Jungkook has barely ever talked about his family. You’ve noticed that he never speaks about his mom, which leaves you wondering whether she was ever a part of his life. His father is mentioned here and there, and you can tell he truly loves him. You also know that he has a younger brother.

“Love wasn’t there anymore, and even if it was the right thing to do, it still hurt,” he confesses.

Your eyes drift from the stars to his face. It’s plainly evident that it still affects him, but you guess it’s the aftermath of a divorce. If you get married in the first place, it’s because you loved the person so deeply. A divorce can feel like a failure.

“I really thought she was the one,” he says, his eyes meeting yours now.

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out,” you tell him.

Even though you wouldn’t be here with him today if he was still with her, it’s still sad.

“I’m too,” he confesses. “But I don’t regret it.” Your eyebrows furrow, not sure what he means. “A divorce isn’t easy, don’t get me wrong, but when it’s not working, there’s no point in staying. We weren’t happy, and I don’t regret choosing to end things.” Jungkook pauses for a moment, his gaze lost on yours. “And I wouldn’t have met you.” 

Your heart is seconds away from bursting with joy, and your hand squeezes his. For sure, if his marriage had worked, you wouldn’t have met him, or maybe you would have met him with his ex-wife.

“And believe me, getting to know you has been the best thing to ever happen in my life,” he adds.

The confession hits you harder than expected. Heat instantly rushes to your face, and for a second, you genuinely don’t know what to do with yourself. How are you even supposed to respond to something like that? Nothing you could possibly say would ever sound as meaningful as his words.

“You can’t say things like that,” you shily say.

“I’m just stating the truth,” he says. “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.”

Inevitably, you hide yourself in the crook of his neck, which makes him giggle, and his arms wrap around your body, holding you as tightly as possible. His strong scent invades your nostrils, and god, he smells so good. Jungkook chuckles, his chest vibrating against your body.

“Why are you hiding?” he asks as his hand runs through your hair.

“Because when you say things like that,” you mumble against his neck, “I don’t know what to do with them.”

“You don’t have to do anything with them,” he adds softly as his fingers keep running through your hair. Jungkook shifts just enough to press a gentle kiss on the top of your head. “I’m not saying it so you’ll give me something back,” he continues. “I just want you to know.”

Your arms wrap around him, and you simply hold him tight against you. What have you done to deserve someone like him? He’s just so patient with you; it’s simply unbelievable.

“I’m also happy I got to meet you,” you mumble against his neck. “Everything seems easier with you.” Revealing your feelings isn’t something you’re comfortable with, but since he’s been nothing but adorable with you, it just feels right to let him know what you think, too.

“Things don’t have to be complicated,” he says quietly. “At least, not with me.” He pauses for a second. “I really like you, and that’s enough for me.” His thumb brushes lightly against your side. “And if you let me, I’ll keep being there,” he adds.

This simple moment fills your heart in so many ways. A little silence settles between you, and you close your eyes, focusing on the way his heart beats against his chest. As expected, he sounds very calm and relaxed, which also appeases you.

“I really want to be there for you,” he continues after a while.

“You already are,” you mindabsentedly reply.

“Not like that,” he says, his head shaking lightly. “More like being part of your life for as long as you allow me to be.”

Suddenly, the thought of him implying he wants to date you makes your heart rate increase crazily. Are you truly ready to have a boyfriend? You’re not really sure, but the answer almost feels evident. You want him to be your boyfriend—more than anything else in the world.

Jungkook chuckles before saying, “I might sound old school, but what I’m trying to say is that I’d love nothing more than to have you as my girlfriend.”

The biggest smile appears on your face as you squeeze him in your embrace. Even if he probably didn’t plan it, having him say those words under a sky full of stars and in such a cute setting makes this all incredibly romantic.

You push back a bit to be able to see him, your smile never fading away, and the second he sees you, the most glowy smile stretches on his lips. He’s very handsome.

“Do I get to call you my boyfriend?” you sillily ask.

“Absolutely! It’s even a requirement,” he replies.

“Then, you can have me as your girlfriend.”

Jungkook doesn’t wait even a second more before crashing his lips against yours. Tonight is by far the best night of your life.

The days went by with Jungkook by your side, as your boyfriend. It has been the most exciting and nervous thing you’ve ever experienced. The patience he has with you never seems to stop surprising you.

However, today isn’t honestly one of the greatest days. The day was rather long, work was too intense, and you worked overtime. You barely took a lunch break, but you didn’t have much choice if you wanted to finish your tasks for the day. To say you’re tired is an understatement. You haven’t told Jungkook anything yet, but sincerely, you don’t think you need to. It will just bother him, you’re sure of it. What’s the point of even telling him everything went wrong today? It’s best if you just rest and stay by yourself tonight.

The doorbell echoes in your apartment, and you take a deep breath. Who could it be? Who’s about to ruin your night?

When you see him on the interphone, your heart squeezes instantly. You directly regret thinking or being even mad about him bothering you tonight. Without hesitation, you let him in, and seconds later, he’s standing in front of you. A small smile crosses his face when he sees you, but you don’t really smile back at him.

“I wasn’t expecting you,” you tell him.

His expression shifts slightly. “I was nearby and thought I’d come to see you.”

It’s like he understands something is off because he doesn’t even try to kiss you. Blaming him about it doesn’t sound like the right move at this precise moment, especially since you don’t know if you should or not.

“Is it okay?” he then asks. “I could leave if you want me to.”

“No, it’s fine,” you answer quickly.

You step aside to let him in, your shoulder brushing lightly against his as he passes. Usually, he would head directly to the living room, but he doesn’t tonight. He just waits behind you, his helmet in his hand, as you close the door. His eyes don’t ever leave your body, and you can tell that he knows something’s off, but he won’t ask if you don’t say it.

“I just arrived from work,” you tell him.

A small silence settles between you. For the first time, you can see hesitation in his eyes, like he doesn’t know what to do. This surprises you as he’s always confident and knows what to do.

“Long day?” he breaks the silence.

You shrug, moving past him to move to the kitchen and putting some space between you. “It was just work,” you say as you open the fridge without really looking inside.

Behind you, you hear his footsteps as he tries to close the distance between you.

“I could’ve picked you up,” he says as he reaches the kitchen.

“I didn’t need that,” you reply.

Your words come out sharper than you meant. Behind you, you hear the faint shift of his weight, but he doesn’t move closer. Not once do you look around to see him. It’s like you need to avoid seeing his gaze on you, as if you’ll completely break down if you do.

“I didn’t say you did,” he replies calmly.

You close the fridge door before exhaling and running a hand through your hair. Then, you turn around to face him. The sight in front of you almost breaks your heart. He’s standing there, looking almost defeated and absolutely powerless.

“I know, I just…” You stop, frustrated with yourself. “You don’t have to show up all the time.”

His brows pull together slightly. “I just wanted to see you,” he says with a shaky and weak voice.

And that just breaks you. You just hurt him, not on purpose, but you still did it. Now, you feel stupid and selfish.

“I’m not used to that,” you admit, quieter now.  

“To what?”

Jungkook doesn’t attempt to get closer. He stays where he is and simply looks at you, quietly studying you from afar.

“This,” you gesture vaguely between you. “I’m not used to having someone just be there,” you pause for a second. “All the time.”

Jungkook nods slowly, but doesn’t react straight away to your words. Knowing him, you’d say that his silence allows him to carefully think about his next words. And that comforts you. Right now, you don’t need someone blaming you for how you feel.

“I’m not trying to be everywhere,” he finally says. “I just don’t want to be absent either.”

You look at him, your chest tightening slightly. “I’ve been fine on my own,” you then say.

“I know,” he answers.

Over the past four months, you haven’t hidden how you’ve been by yourself for the past four years. And having him by your side isn’t always easy. Your peace has been thrown upside down since Yoongi’s birthday. Obviously, you’re grateful to have met him, but that doesn’t mean that it doesn’t destabilize you. You need time to adjust to all of this.

“I’m not trying to take that away from you.”

“Then, why does it feel like you are?” you ask, before you can even stop yourself.

If you hadn’t hurt him so far, you’re sure you did now. And you wouldn’t blame him if he leaves you right now. He has all the rights to. You’re not being fair to him, but it’s just how you feel. It makes you feel like you’re doomed to remain single for the rest of your life.

After a moment, he takes a hesitant step toward you. He still keeps his distance, and you just watch him move. A part of you wishes he’d get closer, but another part would like him to remain right where he is.

“I think,” he says slowly. “You’re just not used to someone staying.”

Your throat tightens, the tears seconds away to run down your face, and you look away—too coward to face him.

“That’s not—”

You can’t finish the sentence, because he’s not entirely wrong. Jungkook takes another step in your direction, but you still don’t look at him. You can now feel his presence right in front of you, and you really want to look at him, but you’re internally struggling.

“I don’t need you to need me,” he says quietly. “That’s not why I’m here.”

Jungkook doesn’t try to touch you. He just stays in front of you, reminding you for the millionth time that he’s here. He’s here for you, even when you struggle with it.

“I just want to be part of your life,” he adds. “At your pace.”

Something in your chest shifts, and you finally glance back at him. He’s really close, but you don’t do anything to push him away.

“I don’t know how to do that,” you admit.

“I know,” he says. “And it’s okay.”

There’s no judgment or pressure. There’s just understanding, as if whatever you just said makes sense to him. Then, slowly, you close the small distance between the two of you and nestle your face against his chest. He doesn’t hesitate a second before wrapping his strong arms around you, holding you as tight as possible. You close your eyes, hearing the melody of his heartbeat.  

You don’t know how to deal with all of this; it’s frightening at times, but knowing that he’ll never pressure you is enough comfort for you. He’s not forcing you to embrace this all. He’s letting you do things at your own pace, which, let’s be honest, is a completely new concept to you. Even with your ex, it was totally different.

And that’s how you fall more in love with Jungkook.

You don’t fall for his sweet and beautiful words. You fall for the way he shows you over and over again that he isn’t going anywhere.  

Being intimate physically with Jungkook is something you know will happen eventually. You’ve been officially together for two months now, and god, he’s hot as hell. There are moments when you just want to jump on him and let him ruin you in every way he wants. However, it also scares you.

You haven’t been intimate with a man for over four years; you’re not even sure you know how to have sex anymore. Sometimes, you still touch yourself, but it’s not the same. You’re on your own when you do it. Here, it’ll be with Jungkook. When you ovulate, all those frightening thoughts are thrown out of the window. And you know he has picked it up, but he holds back as the perfect gentleman that he is. Knowing him, you’d say that he’s waiting for it to happen naturally.

Tonight, you’re staying at his place. He prepared a fantastic dinner, as usual—he has turned into your own personal chef by now—and now, you’re both in his bed, simply discussing. You’re nuzzled together, your head on his chest, while he holds you close.  

“In two weeks, it’s my little brother’s birthday,” he tells you, as his fingers trace circles on your back.

A smile spreads across your face as he mentions his brother. Lately, he has started to speak more about his sibling, mentioning how it has been to grow up with him and how much he cares about him. But other than that, he doesn’t speak much about his family, and honestly, if it’s a matter that triggers him, pressuring him to open up to you seems absolutely wrong, especially considering how he treats you.

“He’s planning a party?” you ask with curiosity.

“Yeah, dad planned something,” he tells you. “He always does for our birthdays.”

“That’s nice,” you tell him.

His fingers stop on your back, and you instantly understand that it might not sound ‘nice’ to him. “I wouldn’t say nice, but yeah, he does it…”

He pauses for a moment, his hand wrapping against your side as if he’s trying to hold onto something.

“He’s mostly trying to compensate for his absence,” he confesses after a while. Again, you don’t say anything, so he can reveal what feels comfortable for him.

“My dad was never there for us,” he continues. “Wasn’t there for any achievement, not even for our graduations. It was actually a miracle that he made it to my wedding.” Your heart clutches at the thought of a small Jungkook abandoned by his dad. “I know he went through tough things; it wasn’t easy for him as well.” he pauses for a bit. “The good side was that my mom compensated for him. She was present, taking care of my brother and me, and loving us equally.”

You push your body a bit back to look at him properly. Jungkook’s eyes are glued to the ceiling, but you can tell that sadness fills them. He swallows thickly, and your hand softly caresses his arms, trying to give him enough comfort to keep going. When his eyes finally meet yours, it just shatters you.

“Hyejo wasn’t my mom,” he confesses. “My mom died when I was two, and my dad remarried two years later. She loved me from the moment she saw me and treated me as hers since the very beginning,” a small smile appears on his face. “I don’t remember anything from before her, but to me, she’s always been there. And nothing changed after my brother’s birth.”

Jungkook places a strand of hair behind your ear, as if he needs to distract himself for a second.

“She was my mom even if she hadn’t given birth to me,” he tells you. “And there were moments in my life when I felt like I was betraying my birth mom.”

Imagining a young Jungkook blaming himself for loving another woman other than his mom is heart-crushing.

“Hyejo was my dad and my mom altogether, and I always held her dearly in my heart,” he continues. “She even walked me down the aisle for my wedding.”

A sincere smile appears on his face, and you can tell the memory is very special to him.

“Unfortunately, five years ago, she passed away,” he reveals.

So, she’s the person he lost. Losing his mother must have destroyed him on so many levels. If you barely managed to get yourself together after Lucas’s death, you can’t even imagine how he felt.

“I’m so sorry,” you mumble.

Jungkook simply nods and runs a finger down your face. It mustn’t be easy for him to reveal all of this, and you feel beyond grateful that he felt comfortable enough to share it with you.

“After that, my dad stopped being absent.”

Now that you know this, you understand why Jungkook is the way he is. Growing up with a dad who’s never there impacts the person you grow into. It’s like he promised himself that he’d never be absent. With you, he makes his presence known under any circumstances.

“It’s good to have him now, but it’ll never erase the past,” he admits. “My brother is still struggling with that and always throws it at this face.”

“And you?” you ask with concern.

“I forgave him years ago,” he replies. “I grew up as an angry teenager and hated him with all my soul, but it was destroying me more than anything else. So, I made my peace with it.”

That totally sounds like him. The opposite would have surprised you.

“My brother is trying to change,” he continues. “The death of our mother changed his perception of our dad, but there’s still a lot of anger inside him.”  

“It takes a lot of courage to forgive someone who hurt us deeply,” you tell him.

“I know,” he says. “It’s a lot of work.”

Out of all the people, he’s the one who knows that best.

“I hope he’ll find the same strength to do it,” you reply.

“I hope so, too,” he says.

A little silence settles between you. You simply look at each other, body against body, his fingers touching your face with a tenderness that can mend any soul.  

“I truly admire you for that,” you break the silence.

“Thanks, love,” he replies.

Jungkook leans down and presses the softest kiss on your lips. Your hands wrap around his neck, pushing him even closer. The confession makes you feel so many things for him right now—pride, admiration, and even more love.

His past could have turned him into an awful man, but it did the opposite. It made him a man with a beautiful soul. It gave him the strength to be different from his dad. It gave him the strength to give love back despite everything.

And man, that does something to your heart.

You feel even more grateful to have met him. Life has been blessing you with the gentlest of souls, and you definitely don’t intend on letting him go, even if it might be hard for you at times. This is all new to you, but he stays despite it all.

His arm slides around your waist, pulling you closer, just enough to close the space left between you. Your legs tangle slightly under the sheets, your body naturally settling against his. Not once do you stop kissing. It actually deepens more and more.

There’s no doubt where this is going.

Your hands find his shirt to push it off his head and run through his firm body. A little moan escapes his lips, but you swallow it with your mouth. Your top follows the same path when he strips it off your body. The moment the cold air brushes against your bare chest, shivers run down your body.

Those shivers suddenly bring you down, and you realize what is about to happen.

“Wait,” you say against his lips, pushing him away.

“Something’s wrong?” he asks.

You swallow hard, thoughts flying through your mind. Jungkook’s gaze is full of concern, and for a brief moment, you look away.

“It’s just—”

The words seem stuck in your throat.

“Sorry,” you shake your head.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice low and gentle. “Talk to me.”

The way he looks at you and the way his fingers brush against your skin encourage you to open up to him.

“I’m scared,” you admit. “I haven’t done anything in over four years.”

“It’s okay,” he whispers. “We don’t have to do anything tonight if you don’t want to.”

Right now, your entire body craves him with a desperation you can’t quite name. You want this more than anything else, but your mind keeps reminding you that you haven’t done anything in ages.

“I want to,” your voice is barely audible. “I really do.” You pause for a bit, trying to gather all your thoughts and express out loud what is going on inside your head. “Nobody has seen me naked, and…” you’re not even sure you’ll be able to continue, but you have to. “I’m scared you find me ugly.”

Jungkook exhales shakily and presses his forehead against yours. “There is nothing ugly about you, love,” he softly says. His hand finds yours, intertwining your fingers together. “You’re absolutely drop-dead gorgeous,” he continues. “There’s not a single part of you that's ugly.”

“How can you know that?” you whisper. “You’ve never seen me bare.”

He takes a deep breath, his free hand running through your cheeks.

“When you told me about losing your friend, that felt more intimate to me than seeing you naked,” he tells you. “Being vulnerable with someone means more to me than anything physical could ever.”

How does he always find the right words? It’s like he holds some sort of superpower. That must be it. Jungkook brings your intertwined fingers to his lips, kissing your knuckles, your wrist, and your forearm. The wet kisses ease you a bit, but nothing can ever compare to what he just said.

“Okay,” you say after a while.

“Okay?” he repeats, trying to be sure that you really and fully agree.

You nod before saying, “I really want this.”

“I’ll be slow and careful, but let me know if I overstep,” he tells you.

At first, he moves as if he might break you. His hands run over your body slowly and carefully, as if he’s trying to map your body with his palms. They never linger too long in one place. Your gaze follows his every movement, while his is completely focused on your body.

The remaining clothes slowly disappear from both your bodies, and seeing him naked as well helps you feel at ease. It still isn’t easy, and every time your body tenses, he stops and kisses you gently. There’s nothing but love in every single movement of his body.

Slowly, but surely, his fingers find your wet core, which makes you arch and moan at the same time. The feeling of his cold fingers running through your folds sends shivers down your spine and ignites a fire from within you.

When he slips a finger inside you, pleasure instantly takes over your body. This is new, and it feels so so good. Jungkook takes it easy, giving you all the time to adjust before he adds a second finger.

Your eyes flutter shut to enjoy this moment, but you can feel his gaze on you. The mere thought that this was scaring you minutes ago seems unbelievable. Jungkook leans down to press a kiss on your lips.

“Let me know if it’s too much,” he mumbles against your lips when he slips a third finger.

After so many years without experiencing this kind of exquisite torture, you come as soon as his third finger is inside you. It seems too quick, but god, nobody fingered you in years. And Jungkook does it really well.

However, he doesn’t stop; he keeps fingering you through your orgasm. Your moans get louder and louder, and you’re not sure you’ll be able to keep up with this if he keeps going. The stretch of his fingers feels marvelous. It’s like you’re transported into another dimension. When the second orgasm rips through you seconds later, he takes his fingers out and licks them. That sight alone could make you come because he looks like pure sin.

“Are you okay?” he asks as he takes his fingers off his mouth. As you’re unable to speak, you simply nod. “Good,” he smiles. “Do you want to keep going?”

His concern melts your heart. This is actually so sweet.

“I do,” you reply.

Jungkook stands up, disappears into his bathroom, and comes back with a box of condoms. As he walks toward the bed, he takes one and tears it from the foil. He kneels before you, settling between your opened legs.

“I haven’t done this in years,” he chuckles as he struggles to put the condom on.

“Do you need help?” you ask.

“No,” he shakes his head as he focuses on the task.

After a couple of seconds, he succeeds in placing it and presses his body against yours. His hand grabs his cock to rub it against your folds.

“If it’s too much, you stop me, okay?” he asks. “At any moment.”

You nod. He clearly gives a lot of importance to consent, which is great. Having sex for the first time with your boyfriend is kind of an intense and special moment. It’s better to turn it into a good memory, filled with respect for each other.

When he finally slides inside you, the stretch almost feels too overwhelming. You’ve read and heard that after going several years without sex, your hole goes back to how it was when you were a virgin. You wouldn’t believe any of it, but now that you’re back at it, you couldn’t agree more. It’s like you’re losing your virginity all over again.

Jungkook halts once he’s fully inside, giving you all the time in the world to adjust. Honestly, you’re grateful he does it because you really need it. Your body needs to learn all over again to have a cock inside. His body leans over yours, his lips pressing a gentle kiss on your cheek. Your arms wrap around his back, and you can’t help but hide your face in his neck. Jungkook holds you like you’re the most precious thing in the world.

“Let me know when I can move,” he whispers against your ear.

“Just give me a bit more time,” you tell him.

Your boyfriend remains still for as long as you need him to, and after a couple of seconds, you give him the green light. When his hips start rocking slowly, you’re instantly brought to heaven. His body brings pleasure to you like never before.

Everything feels so intense and consuming. You’re not sure if it’s due to the fact that you haven’t had sex in years, but it’s so so good. Jungkook is nothing but a sweetheart. His movements are slow, careful, and full of love. His lips kiss every part of your face and neck, bringing you to your orgasm through love. This is so intimate; you’ve never experienced sex like this.

The act itself is kind of dirty with all the body fluids leaking everywhere, the sweat all over your body, and the moans, but the way he does it turns it into a vulnerable moment. It’s not about sex. It’s about the love and attraction you both feel for each other.

When you cum, your entire body spasms violently while his name falls from your lips. The pleasure overwhelms you in a wonderful way, and you wish this would never stop. Your walls squeeze him so strongly that it pushes him to his release, coming inside the condom.

His body falls on top of yours while you both try to catch your breaths. When he pulls out to remove the condom and throw it, you feel empty and cold. Seconds later, he comes back to bed, wrapping your body against yours after he pushes the sheets on your bodies. One of his hands strokes your back in slow circles while the other remains in your lower back, pushing you as close as possible.

With all the emotions running through you, you fall asleep in the comfort of his warmth around you.

Two weeks later, it is rumored that the CEO of the company you work for is selling it to a worldwide group. People around you have been talking about it nonstop. Honestly, you haven’t paid much attention to them. As long as you keep your job, you don’t care, and it’s also just rumors; it doesn’t mean it’s true.

Jungkook told you yesterday he’ll have an important meeting today, and you promised him you’d spend the night together, eating junk food and watching some silly romcom to decompress. You’re planning to meet at your place, because it’ll be closer for him.

Your eyes look down at the phone in your hands before you send a quick message to your boyfriend, suggesting to order pizzas for tonight. Before he arrives at your place, you want to have everything ready, so he just has to come and sit down. You really want to take care of him, just like he does with you. He deserves it all.

A reply comes quite quickly, where he tells you that it sounds good. You’re already planning to order from his favourite place right before you leave, so you can pick it up on your way home. Hopefully, the pizzas will still be warm when he joins you.

jungkook 🏍️: can’t wait to be with you ❤️

This makes you smile, and it just warms your heart. Why does he always have to be so cute? Instantly, you let him know that you miss him so much. If you could, you’d bring him to your work, so you never have to be apart.

“Have you heard the news?” your coworker Ana asks as she appears next to you.

Instantly, you put your phone down to look at her. Her desk is right next to yours, and she’s always so into all the gossip going around. She’s the one who told you about those rumors concerning the sale.   

“What news?” you frown.

“Well, the head of that worldwide group is coming today to meet the CEO,” she explains.

Honestly, you want to tell her that you don’t care, but that would be rude. And you also don’t want her to stop to tell you all the juicy gossip from the office.

“It’s official then?” you ask her.

“It doesn’t confirm if he’s selling, but looks like he is,” she adds.

“Hopefully, we won’t lose our jobs,” you reply, which makes her chuckle.

“Yeah, I hope so too,” she says.

If that guy is money-oriented, for sure, a lot of restructuring plans and other bullshit like that will happen. You truly hope it won’t happen because you love this job, and it’d be a shame to lose it, but this goes beyond yourself.

“But I heard that he’s kind of hot,” she adds. “If you weren’t so enamored with your Gukkie, you could have tried to seduce him and convince him not to fire us.”

You can’t help but laugh while shaking your head. This woman always pulls things like that, as if it was absolutely normal. “You really think I would have managed to?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

“You’re hot and sexy too,” she replies.

“But he’s like the head of a group,” you tell her. “Those kinds of guys are unapproachable.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” she mumbles in defeat. “It’s best you keep your man.”

By far, you’d prefer Jungkook to some guy who probably thinks the world belongs to him. Usually, those men believe they’re better than anyone else, which is the total opposite of your boyfriend. She goes back to her desk, and you look down again at your phone. There’s a notification—a message from Jungkook where he says that you’ll be together soon.  

The only thought of being with him after work thrills you more than anything else. For sure, you’ll mention this whole story to him, because there’s no way you’ll be hiding that Ana tried to convince you to seduce some random wealthy stranger. You can’t wait to see his face.

A couple of minutes later, there’s a lot of agitation around you, and your coworkers whisper things. Inevitably, you look behind you, trying to understand what’s going on. You try to find Ana, but she’s nowhere to be seen, which is annoying because you’re sure she’d know what is going on.

Then, you look to your right. For a moment, it feels like you’re hallucinating. A man is walking in the hallways who strikingly looks like Jungkook. Your heartbeat instantly increases, your eyes follow him, and your mind goes completely blank. It’s him. There’s no doubt.

He’s wearing his lucky suit—the one he only uses for important meetings. You’ve seen him wearing it a couple of times. His hair is pushed the exact same way as in the picture he sent you an hour ago. What is he doing here? And why is everyone looking at him?

“Who is he?” you ask another coworker.

“It’s Jeon Jungkook,” John tells you.

Your heart drops instantly. Yeah, now, you’re a hundred percent sure that it’s him—your boyfriend.

“He’s the head of the Jeon Group and CEO of Jeon Pharmaceuticals,” he continues. “Apparently, he wants to buy the company.”

Your eyes move back to the man walking in the hallway. Never once does he look around; he’s just focused on following the man in front of him. Honestly, you don’t know how to react to the bomb that John just dropped on you.

How on earth are you finding out only now that Jungkook is the son of Jeon Minju, one of the most influential and wealthiest men on earth?

You shove the duvet off, hair sticking to your cheek, and swing your legs out of bed with the grace of a woman dragged out of sleep against her will. The floor is cold. Your eyes burn. Your throat feels dry because you’ve slept too little and lived too loudly the day before.

The blender keeps going. You stomp to your door and yank it open. The kitchen lights are on, bright and rude. He’s there, exactly where he always is at this hour.

Jeon Jungkook stands at the counter in his nurse uniform—scrubs that fit him offensively well, sleeves pushed up far enough that you catch the dark ink creeping along his forearm. A glimpse of metal at his mouth when he turns his head. He doesn’t look tired. The blender is under one of his hands. The other hand holds the bottle.

You stare at him for half a second too long. It’s annoying—genuinely irritating—how good he looks. A man who knows exactly what he’s doing with his hands. A man anyone would happily ruin their life over if he wasn’t also the kind of person who wipes down the counter after pouring a glass of water.

He glances up, clocking your presence. “You’re up,” he says, flat. “Your laundry is still in the dryer.”

“Am I up?” you reply, voice hoarse, purposely ignoring the last part. “I thought I was hallucinating the sound of a blender trying to break through the wall.”

His eyes flick to the doorway, then to your face. He gives you that look—the one people give to badly behaved children. It annoys you because you’re a grown woman who pays rent and buys her own groceries.

“It’s been there since yesterday,” he says, again.

“Aaand?” You drag the word out. “It’s also a weekday. People are asleep. Some of us have jobs that don’t involve terrorising innocent kitchen appliances.”

He looks down at the blender and he turns it off. Silence drops—unfortunately, the smell remains.

You walk into the kitchen with purpose, which is mostly to stop yourself from walking into the wall. The tiled floor is cold under your feet. Your eyes flick to the blender jug without permission—it’s pale, dense and horrifying.

“Ew,” you say, disgusted.

He lifts one shoulder. “Protein.”

You reach past him for the bread because you’re already up and you’re already suffering, so you might as well suffer with toast. You shove a slice in the toaster, wait for it to pop, and take a bite.

His gaze snaps to your mouth. “Can you not chew like that?” he says, already reaching for a cloth.

You pause mid-chew, stare at him, then chew louder, with your mouth open.

Jungkook wipes the counter in front of you like you’re shedding crumbs by breathing. He catches a few that fall and wipes again immediately, as if the crumbs have personally offended him.

“It’s disgusting,” he adds. “And you’re eating before you’ve even brushed your teeth.”

“Oh my God,” you say, still chewing.

He doesn’t stop—Jungkook never stops once he starts. “All that bacteria just goes straight into your stomach.”

You swallow. “Fuck off.”

His jaw shifts. “Brush your teeth.”

You take another bite. “You’re such a heter,” you mutter, passing him for the bathroom. You make sure your shoulder bumps his on the way through, just to be petty.

He doesn’t move, not even flinch. But his gaze drops to where your shoulder touches his chest for a fraction of a second, like you’ve burnt him. “Don’t touch me,” he says.

You stop in the doorway of the bathroom and look back at him. “Oh, sorry. I forgot you only let Dettol touch you.”

His jaw shifts. “You’re not funny.”

“Yeah? Tell that to my class. They think I’m a stand-up comedian. Mostly because they’re laughing at me, but still.”

He picks up his bottle and starts rinsing the blender jug. “You left a bowl in the sink last night,” he says again without looking at you.

It’s way too early for his nagging. You stare at the back of his head. “I left a bowl in the sink because I ate dinner like a normal person and then I fell asleep. At night. Like someone who doesn’t work the hours of a vampire.”

Jungkook turns around and looks you up and down once—a quick assessment that manages to make your skin tighten. “Make sure you leave the bathroom window open and turn the fan on.”

You pause. “Why?”

“Steam,” he says, clipped. “Mould.”

You laugh once, without humour, and shut the bathroom door hard enough that the frame rattles.

When you’re finally ready for the day and tugging your shoes on by the front door—bag slung over your shoulder, keys in hand— his bedroom door opens.

Jungkook steps out shirtless, towel looped around his neck and another in his hands. His hair falls in wet waves on his forehead. Water glistens on his chest. His tattoos are more visible like this—dark lines disappearing over his ribs, into places you don’t get to see. 

You hate your body for noticing. For scanning. For imagining.

He looks at you and his gaze lands on your shoes first, then your bag, then your face.  “Bins,” he says.

You blink. “What?”

He nods towards the door with his chin. “It’s bin day. Take them down when you get back.”

“You love bossing me around,” you say.

“You love needing it.”

You swallow your comeback because you don’t have time for a full-scale war before work. You also don’t have time to stare at his chest, so you don’t—making sure your eyes behave.

“Fine,” you say. “I’ll do it.”

“Good.” One beat. Then, almost as an afterthought: “Don’t forget.”

You grab your keys tighter. “I won’t.” You step out into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind you.

Today has been miserable. You get home with your keys already digging into your palm, jaw tight from clenching it all day.

The flat greets you the way it always does when Jungkook’s been through it—offensively spotless. No shoes by the door unless they’re lined up. No mug in the sink. Not even crumbs. The air even smells clean—the scent of the very specific disinfectant he likes.

You toe your heels off and kick the door shut behind you.

Your eyes land on the hallway mirror. You look like you’ve been chewed up by fifteen-year-olds and spat back out again. Hair escaping your clip, mascara smudged at the edges, shoulders slumped. Your throat hurts from talking over classroom noise. Your head is full of the headmaster’s voice—targets, targets, targets—like you can single-handedly bully kids into better grades with worksheets and hope.

Your phone vibrates in your pocket. Another email. Another deadline. You don’t even check it. You exhale and drop your bag to the floor.

The bins.

He told you this morning. Bin day. Don’t forget. 

You glance at the kitchen corner where the bin lives. “I won’t forget,” you mutter out loud.

You walk past it anyway, telling yourself you’ll do it in a minute—after you’ve had a shower; after your shoulders stop feeling like they’re made of stone; after you remember the feeling of being in your own skin.

You strip your clothes off in the bathroom, step under the water, and let it hit you hot. It loosens something in you—not the stress, not really, but the surface of it. The day washes down the drain in pieces: students arguing over calculators, the constant low anxiety of exams, the headmaster’s tight smile that never reaches his eyes.

You press your forehead to the tiles and breathe.

When you step out, towel around your hair, your body feels lighter and your mind feels emptier. Better. Not fixed—just quieter.

You don’t even bother with dinner. The thought of standing in the kitchen, choosing food, chewing, washing up—it all feels like too much effort for a Friday night you’ve earned through sheer survival.

So you go for the only thing that doesn’t ask questions. Wine.

You pull the red from the cupboard and pour yourself a glass that’s a little too generous. No one’s here to comment on the amount. No one’s here to tell you to use a coaster. No one’s here to wipe the counter behind you the second you turn away.

Jungkook’s meant to be on nights. He’ll come in at stupid o’clock, make his disgusting smoothie, glare at the state of the world, and go to sleep. That’s the arrangement. Your lives brushing past each other like strangers.

You take the wine to the sofa, drop down, and turn on Netflix. Something mindless with attractive people and predictable problems. You let it play while you drink and let your body unclench.

Halfway through the film, two characters start kissing. Hungry kissing—hands in hair, mouth open, bodies grinding against one another.

You swallow a mouthful of wine and stare at the screen for a second longer than you mean to. It’s been—what? Eight months since you got laid? Maybe longer. You can’t even remember the last time someone else’s hands were on you with intent. 

You shift on the sofa. Your damp hair sticks to the back of your neck. Your skin feels too awake all of a sudden. That restless, irritated ache that sits low in your belly and refuses to be ignored.

“Tired, stressed, horny,” you mutter. “Amazing.”

You take another sip, bigger this time, as if you can drown the feeling. It doesn’t work.

Your gaze flicks to the hallway. To your bedroom. To the drawer you keep things in—the drawer you pretend isn’t important until nights like this, when your body starts demanding attention.

You stand up.

The film keeps playing behind you, the actors going at each other. You walk to your room, open the drawer, and pull out your vibrator. You pause with it in your hand, considering your bed. The problem is the wine. The glass you left on the coffee table—also the fact that you don’t want to get up again once you start and you’re already too keyed up to be patient with yourself.

You go back to the living room.

You stand there for a moment, looking at the sofa, then at the glass, then at the corridor again. As if Jungkook might suddenly appear and scold you for existing.

He won’t. He’s at work.

You sit.

Leather under your thighs. Cool at first, then warming. You set the vibrator on the cushion beside you and take a gulp of wine that burns a little on the way down. 

“Who cares,” you whisper, more to yourself than anyone. “It’s my sofa too.”

Your fingers hook into the waistband of your panties. You slide them down, step out, and kick them away without thinking. They land near the coffee table, a soft pile of fabric that would make Jungkook visibly twitch if he saw it.

You sink back into the sofa, the leather sticking slightly to your bare thighs, and grab the vibrator. The wine's buzzing in your veins, making everything feel a little sharper and dirtier. 

You flick the toy on—the low hum is too loud in the flat’s quiet—and spread your legs to press it against your clit. The first vibration jolts through you, and you bite your lip to stifle the gasp that wants to escape.

Fuck, it's been too long. 

You don’t have patience for slow. Your hips shift instinctively as you circle the tip over your folds. You close your eyes, letting your head fall back. That's when your mind betrays you.

Jeon Jungkook. That asshole with that metal at his mouth and his infuriating control. 

You imagine him in the kitchen, not blending his stupid chicken breast shake, but pinning you against the counter instead. His hands—those dry-knuckled, impatient hands that scrub everything spotless—digging hard enough to bruise. Him yanking your panties down your hips. 

"You can’t do anything clean, can you?" he'd growl, voice annoyed as usual. 

But he'd be hard against you, pressing between your arse cheeks as he bends you forward. Your face pushed against the cold countertop.

You slide the vibrator lower, pushing it inside yourself with an easy glide. Your breath hitches. Fuck, it feels good, but it's not enough—not like how it would feel to have him shoving your thighs apart with his knee. 

One of his hands fisting your hair to keep you arched, the other undoing his pants. You can almost feel the length of his cock before he thrusts in with no warning—stretching you open until you're gasping, gripping around him like you'd never let go.

"Fuck, Jungkook," you whisper, the name slipping out desperate as you pump the vibrator faster. 

The buzz is sending shocks up your spine. Your free hand claws at the throw blanket, bunching it up, while your hips buck against the toy. 

Jungkook’s relentless. His balls are slapping against your clit with every snap of his hips. His tattooed arm wraps around your waist, fingers finding your clit and rubbing circles that make your legs shake. 

"Take it," he’d mutter, breath hot against your neck, his ring scraping your shoulder as he bites. "You want this, don't you? Acting like a brat all day just to get fucked like one."

The image burns behind your eyelids—his sweat-slick chest pressed to your back. The wet sounds of skin on skin. The way your pussy would grip him until he's groaning your name—losing that perfect composure. 

Your toes curl into the carpet, thighs trembling as the pressure builds in your core. The sofa is pooling with your juices. You're so close, chasing the edge where everything explodes.

“Jungkook—” you moan, louder. 

One more thrust in your mind—him slamming home, grinding deep—and you're there, body arching as the orgasm rushes up—

A throat clears.

Your eyes snap open. The vibrator is still buried inside you, still buzzing as your hand freezes. Your heart slams against your ribs; your breath caught in a choke.

He's there. In the doorway. Jungkook, in his scrubs, staring like he's walked into a nightmare. His jaw is clenched. His grip tightens on the strap of his bag. 

You yank the toy out with a gasp, thighs snapping shut. You scramble for the blanket, face burning. "Oh my God," you stammer, voice wrecked. "It's not what it looks—fuck. Okay. It is exactly what it looks like."

He doesn't say a word. Just swallows hard, gaze dropping for a split second to your discarded panties on the floor, then away. He turns on his heel, and you can then hear his door slamming.

You want to die. 

You’ve pulled on a fresh pair of panties. The cotton is soft against your still-sensitive skin. Your shirt is tugged down over your hips—trying to erase the last fifteen minutes. 

You have cleaned up the living room's crime scene. The vibrator is safely stashed back in your drawer. You’ve wiped down the sofa and the throw blanket has been haphazardly folded. Your abandoned wine glass is rinsed and set in the drainer. 

But none of it helps settle the pulse under your collarbone. 

You stare at his closed door from the hallway, chewing the inside of your cheek until it stings.

This is stupid. You should let it blow over, pretend it never happened. You’re adults who share a flat and nothing else. 

But the silence from his room feels heavier than usual—and you know that if you don't deal with it now, it'll turn worse. Awkward glances in the kitchen, him wiping surfaces longer than necessary, you slamming cabinets louder than needed.

Your bare feet pad across the cool floorboards. You knock twice and immediately regret it. There are shuffling sounds from inside, muffled footsteps, and then the door cracks open. 

He's changed out of his scrubs into loose sweatpants and a plain black t-shirt that clings to his chest. His hair's pushed off his forehead, and his eyes are narrowed at you with that familiar edge.

"What?" he says, voice clipped.

You shift your weight, arms crossing over your chest—as if that might shield you from the humiliation crawling up your back. "Can I come in?"

He doesn't move at first, just stares. Then he steps aside with a sigh, letting the door swing wider. 

You slip past him, careful not to brush against his arm, and the room envelops you. It’s clean, almost sterile, with the faint scent of his body wash hanging in the air. It’s crisp and minty and it makes your stomach twist. 

It's the first time you've been in here, and it's exactly what you'd expect—bed made with military precision, sheets tucked tight, no stray clothes on the floor. His desk is against the far wall, a sleek gaming setup taking up most of it—dual monitors, a keyboard with RGB lights turned off, headset draped over the back of the chair. There is a framed anatomical diagram on the wall that screams nurse vibes. 

No clutter, no personality spilling out—just freakishly controlled, like him.

You head straight for the swivel chair at the desk. You spin it around to face him and drop into it, knees pressed together because the bed feels too intimate. He closes the door behind you with a soft click, leaning against it—arms folded, waiting. 

The room feels smaller with both of you in it, the air thicker.

"Look," you start, forcing your voice steady even though your throat's dry, "about what you walked in on—it's not what you think. I mean, it is, but—I didn't know you'd be home early. You’re always on nights and never early—and—and yeah."

“They moved my shift,” he says. “Roster change. I got sent home.”

“And you didn’t think to text?”

“I didn’t think it mattered.” He pushes off the door and takes a step closer. His expression remains unchanged—brows furrowed, mouth a flat line. "I also didn't ask for an explanation."

"Yeah, well, I'm giving one anyway," you snap back, heat rising in your cheeks. "Because now it's awkward as hell—and I don't want you thinking I'm some kind of exhibitionist or whatever. It was private—you— you weren't even supposed to see that."

"Private in the living room?" He scoffs, voice low. He moves to stand by the bed, hands shoved in his pockets, posture rigid.

You roll your eyes, swiveling the chair a little to face him fully. "Oh, come on. Like you've never done anything in a common area. The flat was empty—or I thought it was—annd don't act like you're scandalised—we're adults, okay?"

"I'm not scandalised," he mutters, gaze flicking to the floor, then back to you. "Just—didn't expect it."

That’s when your eyes drop, unintentionally, to his sweatpants. 

The fabric's loose, but not loose enough to hide the outline straining against it. The unmistakable bulge that's impossible to ignore now that you've seen it. Your breath catches, a fresh wave of heat, mixing with the embarrassment.

"Are you horny?" you ask, voice quieter than you mean it to be—your gaze lifting to his face.

He goes still and doesn't answer. But you see it—the flush creeping up his neck, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. His hands flex in his pockets, and he shifts his stance, trying to adjust without admitting it.

You lean forward in the chair, heart hammering. "Is it because of me?"

Silence stretches, until you can't take it. 

"If it's my fault—I can take care of it. For you."

His eyes snap to yours, but he doesn't move nor speak. 

You push the chair forward with your feet, wheels rolling silently across the floor until you're right in front of him. You slide off the seat, knees hitting the rug with a soft thud, and look up at him.

You wait for the rejection, the bickering—the get out or you're annoying or any of the usual barbs that fly between you.

He doesn't say a word. Just stares down—breath coming a little faster, chest rising and falling under his shirt.

Your hands tremble slightly as you reach for him, palms pressing against the bulge. He’s hard under your touch. Jungkook hisses—a sharp intake of breath that sounds more like pain than anything, but his hips twitch forward, betraying him.

Still no words. 

You hook your fingers into the waistband, tugging it down slowly. His sweatpants part, and you slide your hand inside. You palm him through the thin layer of his boxers. The fabric's damp at the tip, and he groans low in his throat. 

His head tips back against the wall with a thunk, eyes squeezing shut. His cock is throbbing, veins pulsing as you stroke him firmly. 

"Jungkook," you murmur, your own arousal building again.

You’re slick between your thighs despite the fresh panties. You tug his boxers down, and he springs out—thick, flushed, the head glistening with precum beading at the slit. 

You lean in, wrapping your lips around the tip, tongue swirling to taste the salt of him.

He gasps. One of his hands comes to grip the edge of the desk beside him, knuckles whitening. 

You take him deeper, hollowing your cheeks. You bob slowly at first, then faster. His free hand tangles in your hair—fingers flexing as you suck him harder, your hand stroking what doesn't fit. His thighs tense under your other palm, and you feel his cock swell on your tongue—twitching with every flick against the underside.

His breathing turns ragged, hips starting to buck into your mouth. Sweat beads on his neck, trickling under his shirt. His face is flushed, lips parted as soft curses slip out—too low to catch fully.

You pull back when you feel him throb harder, close to the edge. Your lips are shiny and swollen as you look up at him, meeting his gaze. 

"Jungkook, do you have any condoms?"

For a beat, he just stares—pupils are blown wide, chest heaving.: “I really can’t stand you,” he says eventually.

“Then don’t,” you whisper.

“You’re a mess,” he spits. “You make everything worse.”

“And you still want me,” you say, breathing hard. 

That’s all it takes for his hand to shoot out, fingers wrapping around your throat as he hauls you up, crashing his mouth against yours. The kiss is all teeth and tongue. His piercing is cool against your lip as he devours you, tasting himself on your tongue. 

His other arm bands around your waist, pulling you flush against him. His cock is still hard and pressing into your stomach, smearing saliva and precum on your shirt. The grip on your throat sends sparks down your spine. Your nipples harden against his chest through the fabric. 

You taste the faint mint from his toothpaste mixed with the salt of his skin. Your fingers dig into his shirt, bunching the fabric as you kiss him back.

He breaks the kiss first, pulling back to look at you. His breath comes out in hot puffs against your lips. "You sure about this?" he asks, like he's forcing the words out past whatever restraint he's clinging to. 

His grip on your throat loosens, fingers trailing down to your collarbone instead.

You nod, swallowing hard, your own voice shaky but certain. "Yeah. I want this. Do you?"

"Fuck yes," he mutters.

“This doesn’t mean I like you,” you murmur back.

“Good,” he says, mouth on your neck, “I don’t need you to.”

His hands slide under your shirt, draggin up your sides and tugging the fabric. You lift your arms without thinking and let him peel your shirt over your head. The cool air hits your bare skin and makes your nipples pebble instantly. He tosses the shirt aside, gaze dropping to your chest.

“Try not to sanitise me,” you say, with a giggle.

“Try not to ruin my sheets,” he grins back.

You grab the hem of his t-shirt and he helps, shrugging it off in one fluid motion. His chest is right there, inked skin glistening faintly from earlier sweat. You run your palms over his pecs, down to his abs. He's built solid, every ridge and dip warm and firm. 

"What are you even made out of?" you breathe—half-laughing, half-awed, as your fingers trace the lines of his tattoos.

He smirks, but it's strained, like he's barely holding back. "Condoms," he says, nodding towards the nightstand. "In the drawer."

“You plan for everything, huh?” you say, glancing over. 

But he beats you to it and leans across the bed to pull one out. “I didn’t plan you,” he says, foil packet crinkling in his hand. 

While he's distracted, you slip out of your panties again, kicking them off. You then tug at his sweatpants and boxers, shoving them down to his thighs.

He kicks his pants the rest of the way off, tears the packet open with his teeth, and rolls the condom on with quick movements. 

You watch, thighs pressing together, your clit throbbing. "Come here," he says, grabbing your hips and guiding you onto the bed.

“You’re always telling me what to do,” you say, already crawling back.

“And you always do the apposite,” he answers, not letting you get far. He flips you onto your stomach with surprising ease, his hands strong on your waist.  "Like this.”.

You’re positioned on all fours, knees sinking into the mattress. You arch your back instinctively, ass up, and feel the bed dip as he kneels behind you. 

"Ready?" he asks. His hand slides between your thighs to check, fingers slipping through your folds. He finds you soaked. He groans at the feel, circling your clit once. It makes you jolt. "Shit, you're so wet."

"Yeah, well, you interrupted me earlier," you shoot back, voice muffled against the sheets. 

He chuckles, then lines the blunt head of his cock to your entrance. "I won’t let it happen again." 

He pushes in—inch by inch, stretching you open with a burn that's equal parts pain and pleasure. You gasp and he stills for a second, letting you adjust. 

His breath is ragged behind you. "Fuck, you feel so fucking good—so tight," he grits out, like he's fighting not to move yet. 

You feel him throbbing inside you, every twitch sending sparks up your spine. "Move," you beg, pushing against him. "Please."

He does—pulls out almost all the way, then thrusts back in hard; the slap of skin on skin echoing in the room. 

You moan as he sets a rhythm, his cock dragging against that spot inside you with every stroke. You’re flooded by the stretch, the friction, the way your walls clench around him. 

His hands roam. One slides up your back to press between your shoulder blades, keeping you arched. The other gripps your ass. Then his palm comes down—spanking you once. 

Heat blooms across your skin, and you yelp. But it's good, the pain twists into pleasure. 

"Is this okay?" he asks. 

You don’t get the chance to answer before he does it again, harder this time.

"Yes—fuck, yes," you gasp, rocking back to meet his thrusts. 

He's pounding into you and you feel him filling you up. His sweat drips onto your back as he leans over you slightly, breath hot on your neck.

"I’m so close—to cumming," your voice breaks. 

The edge is right there, building with each drag of his cock.

"Not yet," he growls, and suddenly stops.

He pulls out completely, leaving you empty and whining at the loss. “I hate you,” you say. 

“No, you don’t,” he says.

Before you can respond, his hands are on you, flipping you onto your back. The mattress bounces as he hooks your legs over his shoulders, folding you nearly in half, and slides back in—deeper this time, the angle hitting new places that make stars burst behind your eyelids.

"Oh fuck," you cry out, hands scrabbling at his arms, nails digging into his biceps. 

He's looming over you, face inches from yours. His eyes are locked on your face as he starts thrusting again, each one punching the air from your lungs. His cock is buried to the hilt, grinding against your cervix.

"I want to see you while I fuck you," he says, one hand bracing beside your head, the other holding your thighs in place. "I want to watch you when you cum on my cock."

Tears prick your eyes—from the pleasure crashing over you in waves. 

He notices, thumb brushing under your eye. He flicks a tear away gently, his expression softening for a split second amid the heat. "Is this too much?" he checks, slowing his pace for a fraction.

"No—don't stop," you plead, shaking your head, hips lifting to urge him on. "I feel so good, Jungkook."

He nods and picks up speed again. His face twists with effort—brows furrowed, lips parted as soft grunts escape him. Sweat slicks his forehead, dripping down his temple. You feel the tension in his thighs, the way his abs clench with every movement. 

"I’m close," he warns. "Fuck, you're squeezing me so hard."

You cum first—vision blurring as it rips through you. Your whole body shakes, walls fluttering around him in pulses that make you sob his name. "Jungkook—yes, fuck—"

He follows right after, burying himself with a groan. He spills into the condom, cock twitching inside you. His arms tremble, holding himself up—but then he collapses forward, weight pressing you into the mattress. 

The both of you are panting, slick with sweat.

He pulls out carefully, tying off the condom and tossing it towards the trash. He then flops back on top of you, face buried in your neck. His heart hammers against your chest in time with yours. 

For a moment, it's just that—exhausted quiet, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on his back, feeling the muscles relax under your touch.

Then sis hand slides down your body, fingers finding your clit—still sensitive and swollen—and he starts circling it slowly. 

You jolt, a whimper escaping as fresh sparks ignite. "Jungkook—what—"

"I’m not done yet," he mumbles against your skin.

He lifts his head to capture one of your nipples in his mouth, tongue flicking over the peak. His other hand squeezes your breast, thumb rolling the nipple until it's hard and aching. He takes turns switching sides, mouth latching onto each bud.

Pleasure builds again, faster this time, your body oversensitive from the first orgasm. 

His fingers on your clit speed up, pressing firmer. He leaves marks—sucking hickeys across your breasts, red blooms that sting under his lips. His hand knead the soft flesh like he can't get enough.

"Jungkook, I—oh fuck," you gasp, hips bucking into his hand, tears threatening again from the overload. 

It's too much, too good, every nerve ending lit up.

"Come on," he urges, voice muffled against your skin, lifting his head to watch your face again. "Come one more time for me."

You shatter—body convulsing, a cry tearing from your throat as the second orgasm hits. It’s harder than the first, leaving you trembling. 

It's the best you've ever had, waves crashing endlessly, your mind blanking out.

He slows his hand, easing you down. Jungkook then pulls you close as you both catch your breath. 

"Holy shit," you whisper finally.

He laughs softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Yeah."

“Don’t get smug,” you mumble, leaning into to him. 

“Don’t get sentimental,” he answers immediately, wrapping around you.

You lie there for what feels like hours, bodies slick and spent. The room smells of sex and sweat and that faint body wash scent from his skin. Your limbs feel heavy, every muscle humming from the aftershocks of what has to be the best fucking of your life.

His arm is draped over your waist, chest rising and falling against your side—and for the first time since you met him, the silence between you isn't loaded with tension. It's comfortable, almost.

"Did you take the bins down?" he asks suddenly, still panting a little. His voice muffled against your shoulder.

You blink, brain sluggish, then it hits you—the morning reminder, the one you'd blown off in your post-work haze. "Oh, shit, I forgot."

Jungkook scoffs. The familiar edge creeps back in, but there's a playful glint in his eyes as he shifts. He rolls on top of you again, pinning you with his weight. His elbows bracket your head.

"Now, what shall I do to get rid of those bad habits of yours?"

ᥫ᭡ main masterlist

It’s not that Jungkook necessarily despises his birthday—although it is tough to celebrate happily when your family is as strict and prim as his— but more that he doesn’t see the point in it. He would much rather spend money on himself, perhaps buying the new car he had his eye on. Not squeezed in the back of his car with his best friends.

They often lived a different lifestyle than he did. His friends worked hard as most people did in his circle, but they played harder. Weekends were swallowed up by clubs and bottle service and girls whose names they’d forgotten by Monday morning.

Jungkook had never quite understood the appeal. He had a company to inherit, a father who tracked his every move like a hawk and exactly zero interest in giving the man more ammunition. Jeon Wooshik had made it abundantly clear that the CEO seat came with conditions, and Jungkook had spent the better part of his twenties checking every box that his father had almost run out of things to criticize.

So, really, this whole thing is juvenile. Immature and foolish. But considering he’s blindfolded and handcuffed, he doesn’t really have a say in the matter. 

“Kook! We’re hereeee,” He recognizes Kim Seokjin’s voice, his hyung. Jin was four years his senior and had the emotional maturity to show for it exactly none of the time. He was Namjoon’s best friend first, then Jungkook’s by proximity, and somewhere along the way had appointed himself a permanent fixture in Jungkook’s life whether he wanted him there or not.

Kim Namjoon, though, he trusted unconditionally despite his laidback lifestyle. If Namjoon had signed off on this, there was a reason. Jungkook just wished the reason didn’t involve handcuffs.

“Alright, jokes fucking over. Can you take off this shit?” Jungkook asks flatly. 

He hears the car door open, and warm hands are guiding him out of the vehicle, little giggles and snickers filling the cool night air. 

“He speaks!” Taehyung cackles, arguably the most immature of them all. (Well, between him and Park Jimin.)

“What a grump,” Jimin adds, and he sounds closer, so Jungkook assumes it’s his soft hands leading him somewhere. “Look at his cutie little face.” 

“Feels kinda unfair I can’t see any of your faces.”

“Jungkookie,” Someone squeezes his cheek, and he has to fight the urge to punch the air. 

“Ugh, his pout is so cute, Jin-hyung,” Taehyung giggles again, and Jungkook sighs. He can already tell Taehyung is drunk, since he only laughs in such a way when Jimin is shamelessly flirting with him or he’s drunk too much soju. 

“I’m going to kill all of you—“

A hand finally yanks the blindfold off his face, as another undoes the handcuffs digging into his wrists. Jungkook blinks into the dark, vision swimming. When his eyes finally do adjust, six faces grin back at him, varying degrees of giddiness painted across their expressions. 

Jungkook surveys his surroundings as quickly as he can. He’s in a parking lot… it’s packed to the brim with all kinds of cars, none that are as expensive as his. Bass pounds in his eardrum from the nearby entrance, but when he cranes his neck to peer inside, he sees nothingness. A void that leaves everything up to the imagination. 

The front door is musty, worn down and guarded by one man who’s watching something on his phone. “Paradise” in flashing letters hangs off the top, flickering as though someone had forgotten to pay the bill. And underneath it, “Adult Club.”

Fucking hell. 

“What,” he says slowly, “is that.”

“Birthday surprise,” Jin jokes, and the boys giggle like schoolgirls. 

Jungkook looks over at Namjoon. Namjoon, to his credit, has the decency to look sheepish. His friends know him better than anyone. People don’t gain access to Jeon Jungkook easily—and yet they failed him so astonishingly he can’t even believe it. This goes against everything he stands for. Clubs of any kind are forbidden. Especially strip clubs, where any lone person can recognize him and report back to his father. 

As if Namjoon can smell the rebuttal on his lips, he rushes to argue, “It’s fun in there.”

Jungkook snorts, “I doubt that. If my dad finds out, I’m fucking toast.”

“Your dad’s not gonna find out,” Jimin rolls his eyes. “We’ve been here like once a month and you’re not allowed to take pictures. Out of respect for the girls or some shit.”

A shiver rolls down Jungkook’s back at the word girls. The thought of them annoys him already. “This is stupid, you know? I’m not even into this kind of shit.”

“Yeah, we know,” Taehyung slaps his shoulder, trying to steer him toward the entrance, but Jungkook is fortunately bulkier than him. “You’re the king of the land, Jeon Jungkook, refuses to touch a woman because he’s better than all of them.”

“Fuck off, Tae.”

“Dude, come on. Live a little. It’s your birthday and your boys want to treat you to a night of fun. How could you say no to that?” Jin begs, and Jungkook comes up with a plethora of ways he could say no to this.

Jungkook sighs, staring at the door. On the other side of it are things he cannot get involved in. He has a board meeting Monday morning he hasn’t prepped for yet. A pristine reputation that took the better part of a decade to build. He has a father who has Google alerts set for his name. 

He really, really should not be here. 

Jungkook turns to face the six faces staring back at him expectantly. 

“It’s your birthday,” Namjoon tries feebly one more time. 

“That is not the argument you think it is—”

“Jungkook-ah.” Jin steps forward and puts both hands on his shoulders. “We love you. We have always loved you. And it is because we love you that we are telling you, as a united front, that you are going inside that door if we have to carry you.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Jungkook retorts, and all Jin does is raise his brows back at him. Well played. 

The silence that follows is not reassuring.

Jungkook realizes this is one negotiation he is not going to win. Sighing, he shakes his head. “I fucking hate you guys. One hour tops, and I’m out of there.”

“That’s a good boy,” Jin pats his shoulder like he’s a dog and pushes him in the direction of the entrance. “Let’s get on in there.” 

The bouncer at the front seems to finally recognize he has a job when the seven men walk up, beady eyes scanning their faces before they land on Namjoon in the back. “Joon!” he calls out, reaching over to give him a firm handshake, nearly knocking Jungkook flat on the floor. Of course Namjoon knows the fucking bouncer—he’s probably reached some kind of reward status at this club. He doesn’t bother checking anyone’s IDs, just lets all of them sidle in.

Jungkook steps through the door and immediately wishes he hadn’t. Goddamnit.

Red lights flash over the club floor, speakers blasting some RnB song he doesn’t recognize. The place is enormous, larger than he thought, with a main stage dominating the room. Two strippers dance on the two poles adjacent to each other, men perched on chairs with wads of cash stuffed in their hands. Booths line the walls, packed with men in varying states of losing their minds. All decked in suits, loosened collars and flushed faces and eyes tracking the room with an attention they probably never give their actual jobs. Private tables closer to the stage are worse. Bottles everywhere, dollar bills everywhere. 

The worst part of it all, is how many girls there are. Girls in lingerie, silk and lace that barely constitute fabric, moving through the room in what feels like slow motion. Every single one of them moves like she knows exactly where she’s going and exactly what’s going to happen when she gets there.

“Kim Namjoon?” A hostess approaches in normal clothes—thank god—and he steps forward to speak to her, all hushed whispers and suspicious glances back at Jungkook. Enough for him to know that this night will be anything but casual. Jungkook expects he’ll have an ass in his face in twenty minutes tops. 

She smiles at all of them, clapping her hands to get their attention. “Hi boys! Welcome to Paradise. I know some of you have been here before, so I’ll keep it brief. No pictures or videos allowed. If we catch you, you’re banned for life. ATMs are lined up against the wall, so make sure you take out cash beforehand so you don’t have to get up.”

She pauses to ensure everyone understands, eyes lingering on Jungkook, and he fights the urge to roll his eyes. It’s not rocket science. It’s a strip club. “I heard we’re celebrating a birthday tonight, so Joon has booked a private table for you all. Dancers will rotate by your table and you better make them feel like the shit, because they are. Got it?”

All boys nod in unison. Jungkook side-eyes Jimin and Tae, and already, they have heart eyes forming. It’s despicable. The hostess leads them through the room, weaving between tables without looking, heels silent on the floor, not once glancing back to check if they’re following. The private table is tucked a few feet off the main floor, with curved booth seating, a pole attached from the ceiling hanging right in front of them, and a clear sightline to the stage. Bottles are already sweating on ice in the center like they’d been expecting them (which Jungkook is certain is the work of his hyungs).

The boys pile in with zero decorum. Hoseok immediately reaches for a bottle, passing out glasses to pour up shots of soju and whiskey. Jungkook allows him to be overserved, because there’s no other scenario in which he gets through this night without being wasted. He doesn’t know where to look, which means he keeps looking everywhere. He’s not stupid — he knows objectively that women are attractive. He’s always known that. It’s just that knowing it theoretically and sitting in a room saturated with it are two very different things. 

Jeon Jungkook’s disinterest in women never stemmed from anything other than the fear of being mediocre. His high school life, which should’ve been filled with bad decision making and girlfriends, was instead taken over by shadowing his father at the office or learning how to use Microsoft Excel to make financial reports. College was a repeat, and he adapted easily to the hermit lifestyle he had been living. Even once he graduated, he made no attempt to date anyone. His mother, a frivolous woman who lived off the family money with ease, had once asked him if he was gay or asexual. Unfortunately for her, he is neither. 

He is just, quite literally, indifferent to what women can offer. 

That’s not to say Jungkook doesn’t get horny (hence dispelling the asexual rumors). Jungkook masturbates as often as most normal guys do, mostly when he’s frustrated by work. But instead of seeking respite in another woman’s vagina, he uses his own hand, which has worked perfectly well for him. 

And, well, there is this other… thing he’s kept locked with a key within him. Deep in his unconscious, something not even a therapist could uncover. The fear that he might be bad at it.

It sounds ridiculous when it crosses his mind for even a second. He does not do things badly. He does not do things at all until he’s certain he can do them well. That’s just how he's wired, has always been wired, the same compulsion that made him practice his father’s presentations in the mirror at fifteen until they were perfect.

It is exceedingly unfortunate that this is not something one can research into oblivion or competence. You learn by experience. And the idea of being in front of someone, exposed and vulnerable, makes him want to die. 

“Jungkook-ah, look at the girl in the pink,” Namjoon whispers into his ear, fighting to be heard over the bass. “She’s so fucking hot.”

His eyes wander over to where Namjoon is trying to subtly point. A girl in pink lingerie roams the stage, lashes batting flirtatiously as she lets the pole sit between her ass cheeks. Jungkook doesn’t have time to respond to his hyung before he’s being (rudely) interrupted by a girl in light blue lingerie, standing over their table with a smile. “Hi boys, how are we doing tonight?”

The boys, minus Jungkook, whoop and yell, and he wants to crawl into the booth and hide. They’re acting like wild vultures, and his brain is reeling trying to comprehend what’s unfolding in front of him. 

Before his mind can catch up, he feels a wad of cash slithering into his palm. 

“Just go with it,” Namjoon murmurs from beside him, already clapping.

He gulps as he peers down at the bills in his hand. The girl in blue has climbed onto the small raised platform in the center of their table, one hand wrapping around the pole. Up close she’s gorgeous—warm tanned skin, black curly hair spilling over one shoulder, a devious twinkle in her eye. 

Her hips roll in a figure eight, one hand trailing the length of the pole as the other moves down her waist. She turns, spine arching back, and the boys lose their collective minds. Bills flutter onto the platform like confetti, and a small smile contorts onto her plush lips. 

With both hands, she drops into a low squat, thighs spread, and comes back up in a languid motion. Hoseok physically slaps the table, tossing twenties to no avail. 

Okay, calm down, he thinks distantly. His heartbeat is picking up in his chest. 

She spins, one leg extending wide, the momentum carrying her around the pole in a slow arc before she hooks her knee and drops back in a hang that makes the fabric of her lingerie ride up her thighs. The light catches her and Jungkook forgets, very briefly, that he came here against his will.

Taehyung’s on his feet as fast as he can move. Jungkook can only watch in horror as Taehyung peels a bill from his stack and stuffs it right into the waistband of her panties. She giggles and turns toward him. Tae grins up at her and she leans down, curly hair falling forward, and shakes her chest right in his face.

Taehyung tips his head back and says something Jungkook cannot hear over the music, but it evokes another laugh from her. Jungkook’s mind is blank, save for the images of ass and tits flying across his vision. 

Jungkook sits very still and feels something he hasn’t felt in a long, long time shift somewhere low in his stomach.

He is not indifferent, it turns out.

He is just very, very in over his head.

The girl turns back to the rest of them, eyeing them up as though to decide her next victim. Her eyes linger on Jungkook for a few seconds, and his heart thumps out of its cage. 

He’s aware of what he looks like. He’s not a fool, after all. Tattooed arm, a body sculpted by Greek gods, multiple facial and ear piercings. The irony of it is not lost on him—all that packaging, none of the experience to back it up. 

He’s had girls lining up to talk to him, but not a single one that could hold his interest. Jungkook could care less.

But it seems she recognizes he’s not eager to talk to her, and so she focuses her attention on Jimin, who’s practically panting like a puppy left out in the sun for too long. She does a few tricks for him on the pole, all of which are rewarded with bills and yells. 

“Candy, you don’t plan on keeping these boys all to yourself, do you?”

A melodic voice, almost like a siren’s, floats into Jungkook’s ear. His body stiffens, muscles taut as his eyes avert over the table to spot a woman.

Jungkook’s not gay by any means. He’s also not fucking blind. The woman that stands before him is an angel, a goddess, a temptation for him sent from hell. Adorned in red lacy lingerie and white knee socks with red bows on them… utterly fucking delicious. 

He’s drooling. 

“They’re all yours, Angel,” the stripper, apparently named Candy, says with a grin, sliding off the platform, and just like that she relinquishes the pole like a crown being passed. In one smooth motion, you climb up, nimble fingers wrapping around the pole. Immediately, his friends turn into wild animals, even more explicit than before. Taehyung stands from his seat, eyes blanking as he observes how your thong hugs your hips and ass. 

You alternate through a series of movements—slow spin, then fast, one leg extended in a line. You hook your knee around the pole and lean back, hair falling away from your face, and the red lace catches the light. Jungkook’s higher brain functions vacate the premises. Money rains onto the platform, more than he expected. 

He realizes he’s also holding money, and it’s as though a lightbulb flashes above his head. Oh shit, he thinks. He wants to spend his entire wallet on you. 

You climb down and drop straight into Namjoon’s lap like you’ve known him for years. Kim Namjoon, the most composed man Jungkook has ever met, grins like an idiot. You lean in close to say something to him, pink, lush lips brushing his ear, and Namjoon laughs low before responding with a hushed whisper. 

Slowly, you pull away from his ear, eyes twinkling. 

And then you glance over at Jungkook. 

It’s a half-second, a flicker, the most minor redirection of your attention imaginable. A slide of your eyes that lands on him and then lifts away. 

His cock twitches in his pants. It is, quite literally, the sexiest thing he’s ever seen. In that moment, he realizes he wants nothing more than your attention, your time, you. But he just doesn’t know what he has to do to get such a thing. To be able to deserve a woman as delectable as you. 

A flutter of giggles escapes your mouth, cheeks ruddy as you get up from Namjoon’s lap.drifting around the curve of the table, all seven pairs of eyes track you like flowers following light. Taehyung fans himself with a hundred dollar bill, and you immediately gravitate towards him. 

Jungkook watches you kiss his cheek. Watches Taehyung’s hands find your waist. Watches him stuff a fistful of bills into the back of your lingerie, give your ass a playful smack that you welcome with a laugh. He wants to blow his brains out.

He deadpans at the ice bucket instead.

“Fucking hottest girl I’ve ever seen," Namjoon mutters beside him, just loud enough for him to catch, "Don’t you think, Jungkook-ah?”

Jungkook’s tongue is tied into knots. 

“She’s a sin,” Namjoon continues.

Across the table, you laugh at something Taehyung says, head tipping back, throat exposed, and the red lace shifts. Jungkook moves with it, recrossing his legs under the table and tugging his shirt down to hide the growing tent in his pants. 

Namjoon notices the movement, looking down for a millisecond before peering at Jungkook smugly. 

He claps Jungkook on the back, “Welcome,” he says, “to being a fucking man.”

“I hate you so fucking much right now.” 

“Your dick doesn’t hate me.”

He’s not technically wrong, per se. Jungkook just refuses to admit he’s right. 

Taehyung leans up to murmur something in your ear, and you pull back with a slow smile spreading across your face. 

Oh no. Oh no, no, no—your body turns to look directly at Jungkook.

Jungkook has closed deals worth nine figures, has sat across from men who built empires from nothing and held their gaze at the age of 20 without a care in the world. He has endured his father’s silent disappointment across a dinner table for 30 consecutive years.

Like a cartoon character with a fork stuck in his throat, he gulps audibly. 

You start walking toward him, your eyes piercing into it. They don’t leave his face not once, not even to check where you’re stepping or acknowledge the table erupting in cheers around you. 

Namjoon slides over calmly to make room, and Jungkook watches the space beside him open up and thinks what the fuck are you doing and means it directed at every single person in this room, including himself. 

You stop in front of him, and he peers up at you. In those heels, you tower over him, and he notices the smirk that’s curved upon your lips. Evil. You’re fucking evil. 

Trepidly, you sink down onto your knees, maintaining eye contact. 

Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god —

His cock twitches so hard he has to lock every muscle in his body to keep from visibly reacting. 

“Hi,” you smile.

“Hi,” he replies with bated breath. 

You already know. He can tell you already know exactly what you’re doing to him and precisely how badly he’s losing. Somehow that makes it so much worse and so much better. 

Your hand comes to land up on his thigh, snaking up and up until he swears you’re going to stick your hand in his pants. You stop right on his inner thigh, feeling the muscle. He swears he sees a twinkle in your eyes at the realization. He sucks in a deep breath, trying to calm every nerve ending in his body. 

“What’s your name, pretty boy?” you whisper, trying not to be heard by the group of animals that he unfortunately calls his friends. 

“J-Jungkook. Jeon Jungkook.”

“Jungkook.” You repeat the name with so much seduction it almost doesn’t even sound recognizable to him. 

You stand up, and he exhales the deepest breath. God fucking damnit. Of course you’re done with him—he stuttered his own name like he’d never used it before. He watches you straighten up and thinks okay. okay, that’s fine. that was a normal amount of humiliation for one evening.

But instead of leaving, your knee lands on the cushion beside his thigh, followed by the other one, and then you’re in his lap. The air leaves his lungs in one swift, silent evacuation. Your lace panties settle directly over the front of his pants and you shift forward, eyes panning down between you. 

With a lift of your brows, you move again. Shit. He knows what you found. He can feel exactly what you found and there is absolutely nothing he can do about it.

Shit shit shit—

“Look at little Kookie!” Taehyung’s voice echoes across the table, ringing in Jungkook’s ear. “He’s pink!”

Jungkook turns to look at his alleged friends with the dead eyes of a man considering his options.

And then he feels your warm hand, two fingers catching his jaw, turning his face back to yours.

“Don’t look at them, baby.” Your voice is low, meant only for him. “Look at me.”

God help him, he does.

Your eyes hold his for a moment that stretches longer than it should, and then—your hips gyrate forward in a slow circle. The warm drag of your hips moves against his, and nothing, not a single thing, has ever felt like this in his years of living. 

“You’re really pretty,” you giggle, looping your arms around his neck, rolling your hips in a figure eight that makes his vision white out at the edges.

Behind you, the boys are losing their minds. Money’s flying, and Jungkook cannot process any of it because you’re shifting again, turning so that your back is pressing into his broad chest. You lean back into him, head dropping to his shoulder, and the slide of red lace against his cock is making him see actual stars. He can’t hide the groan that escapes him. 

Leaning your head back to face him, you’re close enough that your breath fans across his jaw. “You’re so tense, pretty boy. These hands doing anything useful or just decorating the couch?”

He really can’t argue, because his hands are pressed flat against the cushions on either side of him, white-knuckled and rigid like he’s bracing for a car crash. “I—” he begins. 

“Need help?”

Helplessly, he nods. 

You reach down, take his hands and settle them on your hips. The lace is soft under his palms, plush skin warm to the touch. 

“Hold on right there,” you whisper. “Don’t let go.”

An actual, audible, involuntary whimper crawls up his throat and escapes before he can catch it. With his hands on your hips he can feel every single movement now, every roll and dip and shift of your weight, and it is so much better than anything he has ever done alone in the dark of his penthouse that it almost feels like a personal insult to every year that came before this one.

“F-fuck,” he exhales. "You’re so—you’re so g-good—”

“Yeah?” You straddle him once more, knees digging into the couch, your eyes pausing to glance at his lips before meeting his eyes. Your finger comes up, tracing slowly along his lower lip, catching on the small metal ring of his lip piercing and playing with it before releasing. “What a pretty piercing for a pretty boy.”

“You like it?” Jungkook feebly asks, even though he knows you do. Every girl likes it, but none have caught his eye the way you do. 

Silently, you reach past him then, fingers closing around the forgotten wad of cash still sitting on the cushion where Namjoon pressed it into his palm a lifetime ago. He watches as you lean back in his lap and drag the bills languidly across your chest, the red lace, down over the curve of your waist.

You peer up at him from under your lashes. “You were just going to let all this go to waste?” you ask, clicking your tongue.

“I—” he swallows. "I didn't know—like the protocol—”

The dopey smile that breaks across your face sends vibrations to his cock. “You’re doing so well for me already.”

You lean forward again, closing the distance, your lips brushing the shell of his ear as your hips keep moving. Without a second thought, he grips your hips tighter. 

Somewhere behind you, he distantly registers that the boys are no longer watching. Other girls have materialized at the table, except for Namjoon and Hoseok, who are deep in a drunk conversation. It’s just you and him. 

Your teeth graze his earlobe. “You know, when I saw you, I thought you’d be trouble.” A soft giggle leaves your lips. “Turns out you’re harmless.”

“I—” he starts, some distant fragment of pride assembling itself. “I’m not—”

“Harmless,” you repeat, pulling back to look at him. “The sweetest thing in this whole place.”

For an irrational moment, Jungkook forgets every reason why he can’t be caught here. 

And then it’s his father’s disapproving tone, thinks about the words you represent this family everywhere you go, Jungkook, everywhere, and the Google alerts and the face his father makes when he’s upset  and how Jungkook has spent his entire life trying to prevent that specific expression. 

He could call his driver, go home, pretend this whole evening was a fever dream. After all, this is exactly the kind of situation that becomes a headline. Jeon heir spotted at—

Suddenly, your hands leave his shoulders. The warmth of your weight lifts off his lap all at once and the absence of it is so sudden that his body mourns it, an embarrassing physiological grief response he didn’t know he was capable of. Left behind with a raging boner that is apparent to the naked eye. 

You smooth down your lingerie. Roll your shoulders back. And just like that the curtain comes back up, a polished version of you, like the last twenty minutes happened only to him. “Bye boys," you say to the table and the ones paying attention halfheartedly wave. 

Then you turn to him. “Bye, Jungkook. It was nice to meet you.” With a wink, you disappear off to the next table, and all he can do is stare at the space where you were once sitting, his cock standing tall and proud in his pants. 

He becomes aware, slowly, that Namjoon is looking at him. “Don’t start.”

“Wasn’t going to.” 

“Ah Jungkook-ah, you just need to fuck a girl and get it over with!” 

Kim Seokjin, for all his years of knowledge and wisdom, is a bit of a menace when liquor enters his bloodstream. 

Jungkook has become overtly aware of two things: 1) he’s the drunkest he’s ever been and 2) the boner in his pants has yet to go down. 

He had briefly considered going into the bathroom to jerk off, but that would be too obvious and embarrassing to admit, even to himself. Instead, he would much rather subject himself to the torture of his best friends and let three other women dance on him to erase the taste of you from his mouth. 

Each woman was attractive, but they didn’t entice him the way you had. Even after an hour of sitting at this couch, throwing bills upon bills, nothing felt as ethereal as the feeling of your weight upon him, as though he had claimed you. 

“I’m not just going to fuck any girl,” Jungkook rolls his eyes, tipping his head back to take another shot of whiskey. 

“Why not?!” Jin motions wildly with his glass, sloshing amber liquid alarmingly close to the rim. “You’re 30! You’re rich! You look like… that!” He waves his hand at Jungkook’s being. “What are you saving your best years for? Soon we’ll all be pumping ashes out of our cock—”

“Jin—”

“Dust will leak from our tips!-”

“I’m going to fucking murder you.”

“He’s waiting for love,” Jimin notes, words slurred from the effects of alcohol. A black-haired girl is draped across his lap, lips peppering kisses on his supple skin. “It’s actually very romantic if you think about it.”

“I am not waiting for love.”

“He’s waiting for her,” Taehyung whispers, pointing across the room. Without even turning to look, Jungkook knows they’re talking about you. Mostly because he hasn’t been able to stop looking at you for the past hour, heat rising to his cheeks when he watches you dance on other men. 

“The red lingerie girl has him in a chokehold,” Tae continues to nobody, nodding as though Jungkook is suffering from a grave disease. “I’ve seen this before. This is a chokehold situation.”

“No one except my dad has me in anything, Taehyung,” he argues. 

“Your cock has suggested otherwise,” Yoongi snorts, not even looking up from his drink.

Jungkook tips his head back and stares at the ceiling, thinks about how peaceful his penthouse is right now. How peaceful. How completely devoid of these people.

From his peripheral, he watches as Hoseok leans over and cups his hand around Namjoon’s ear. He has known Kim Namjoon for ten years and he knows exactly what Namjoon’s listening face looks like versus Namjoon's scheming face. This is the second one. Very much the second one.

Namjoon’s eyes light up, and Jungkook’s body has a visceral reaction. Namjoon turns to Jin. Whispers something. Jin’s face splits into a grin so enormous it looks like his lips will crack in two. 

Flatly, Jungkook asks, “What is happening right now?”

Not a single one of his friends answers. They’re doing the hive thing—buzzing between each other, passing from person to person, grins multiplying like a virus. 

Jungkook clears his throat. “Excuse me.”

Namjoon ignores his words and stands up. “Where are you going,” Jungkook blurts, panic bursting in his chest. “Namjoon. Kim Namjoon. Where are you—”

But he’s already gone, sliding through the crowd, and Jungkook watches him disappear toward the back of the club where a woman in all black is standing with a clipboard. The bottom of his stomach drops out completely. He turns to the remaining members of his betrayal circle. “Whatever he’s doing, stop it now—”

“Shh,” Jin serenely says, patting his knee.

“I don’t care that I’m younger, don’t shh me.”

“Shhh.” Jungkook shrugs him off and cranes his neck toward where Namjoon is now deep in conversation with the clipboard woman, nodding, reaching into his jacket pocket. His wallet comes into view. Fuck. 

Jungkook can’t imagine whipping out a wallet at the strip club is anything but bad news.

“I’m leaving,” Jungkook announces, planting both hands on the table. The way he sees it, he has about ten minutes to escape before he either blacks out or embarrasses himself even more. 

Two pairs of hands push him back down immediately. “You’re not going anywhere, big boy,” Hoseok tuts. 

“You’re detaining me.”

“It’s a birthday gift,” Taehyung argues, “You can’t refuse a birthday gift. It’s rude.”

“Watch me.”

Jungkook abruptly feels a slap on his back, and when he looks up, it’s Namjoon reclaiming his seat beside him, a sinister grin plastered on his face. “You’re welcome.”

Sighing, he shakes his head. “For what?”

“Happy birthday, Jungkook-ah.”

“That didn’t answer my fucking question, Namjoon.”

Before Jungkook can pester further, a shadow falls over the table. The woman with the ominous clipboard and headset is standing at the edge of their booth, and she doesn’t particularly look like she’s here to refill their drinks or anything tame. 

“Which one of you is Jeon Jungkook?”

Of fucking course. 

The boys erupt like zoo animals. Clapping, hollering, hands slapping his back from every direction simultaneously. Jungkook wants to cry, maybe throw himself off the balcony of his penthouse. 

The woman smiles at him. “Follow me.”

“What—”

Namjoon’s hand closes around his arm and hauls him bodily upright. “Up you go, buddy.”

“I’m not—this is—you can’t just—”

But none of it matters—his feet are carrying him, brain several steps behind. He’s following the clipboard woman through the club in what feels like cement shoes. As he walks, he peers around the club—other men at tables, women moving through the dim light to reach their poles, money piling on the floor. 

He is the only one who looks like he’s being escorted to his own execution.

The woman stops at a door at the back of the club. It’s unmarked, flush against the wall. She pushes it open, and the first and only thing Jungkook sees is red. Everything inside is red. A plush crimson couch curved against the far wall, red LED light bleeding over every surface. 

Even the color red turns him on now. That must be your doing. 

“Wait right here,” the woman instructs, stepping back toward the door. “Your private dancer will be here to join you shortly. 

“My what?!”

He’s so fucked that he might need to use a new word to describe how utterly fucked he is. 

The door slams shut behind her, a finite ending to his arguing. There’s no going back. 

His cock jumps in his pants, and Jungkook looks down at himself in indignation. Bad, he thinks. Bad. Bad dog. We are leaving.

But he thinks that even if he wanted to, he wouldn’t. He’s thinking of you, towering over him, asserting your dominance over him. He’s spent most of his life being in charge, and for once, someone else is taking the reins and letting him sit back. 

He stands in the middle of the red room until finally, his legs give up the principle of the thing and carry him to the couch. He should have known. From the moment Namjoon’s wallet came out he should have connected the dots because Kim Namjoon does not spend money without intention, has never done anything without intention, and Jungkook has known this for years and still walked directly into it like a fool.

Pressing both palms to his knees, wiping the sweat off them, he stares at the door. It might not be her, he reasons. It’s probably not her. There are lots of girls here. It could be anyone. 

It would be foolish to assume someone like you would not be taken already by another dominant, assertive man. Sure, Jungkook probably has the money that most men in this club dream of, but he doesn’t have an ounce of the confidence that he needs to handle you. 

Jeon Jungkook is currently sweating through an expensive shirt in a red room the size of a closet because a girl in lingerie might walk through that door. 

The door swings open and the first thing Jungkook sees is—red. 

Red flashes across his vision and it’s all he can see or think about. 

You step inside and the LED light catches the lace, makes your curves look like they were designed by a Greek god. For a moment, your eyes adjust to the dim light, averting around the space to try and make sense of your surroundings. 

But when they finally land on him, there’s a dangerous twinkle dancing in your eyes. 

“We meet again.” 

Loudly, he swallows whatever drool has accumulated in his mouth. The door clicks shut behind you and you move toward him, heels marking an agonizing rhythm against the floor.

Clack. Clack. Clack. 

He cranes his neck as you approach, tracking you up until you’re standing directly in front of him and he has to tip his head all the way back to hold your gaze. Your lips are freshly glossed with red lipstick, he notes. 

“You know,” you say, tilting your head, “I was starting to think you were scared of me.”

He opens his mouth (to say what, he’s not sure of.)

“Are you, Jungkook?” You pause, lips curved into a mischievous smirk. “Scared?”

Without a single reservation, yes, he is. But he’s not entirely useless—he’ll never admit that. 

Clearly, you take his non-response as an admittance of defeat. Your hand comes down, cradling the side of his face. Your manicured thumb traces his cheekbone. “Hey. We don’t have to do anything, you know. I know your friends booked this.” Your eyes are steady on his, reading him the way you’ve been reading him all night. “Or…”

He blinks like a teenage boy, saliva pooling in his mouth as you hold your words for a second. 

“Do you want me, Jungkook?”

Embarrassingly, devastatingly fast, his head bobs up and down before his brain has even finished processing the question. He wants to dissolve into the couch cushions and never be found.

Your smile breaks acros your features. Pearly white teeth come into view, the realest expression he’s seen on your face all night. “Good boy. Do you have any song requests?”

You turn toward the TV mounted on the wall, and he watches you move to it, your back to him now, and somehow that’s almost worse because he can just… look. He may be a virgin, but he’s not an idiot. Your perky ass is mere inches away from his face, and his fingers itch to reach out and squeeze the plush skin in his hand. 

With his eyes still trained on your ass, he says, “U-um. Anything. I don’t—I don’t care.”

“Hmm.” You bite your lip, scrolling. Jungkook begins to hope you never turn back around so he can relish in the shape of your ass all night. That would be well worth Namjoon’s money, he thinks.

The opening beat of a song drops from the speakers and Jungkook goes completely still. Of all the songs in the world, it’s his favorite song.

2.0 by BTS.

He’s not ashamed to listen to their music, despite them being a typical k-pop boy group. Their shit is catchy. Sue him.

You swivel back around and your hands come down onto his thighs. You lean down enough that your hair falls forward and he can smell your perfume again. His hands curl into fists at his sides.

Your eyes drag themselves down to his pants, like they’re ogling at the very unfortunate situation he’s unable to handle. Then they drift back up as if you saw nothing at all.

“You know,” you say, your voice dropping to something that would be condescending if it were anyone else. “I’ve had a lot of men in this room.”

He swallows back the bile that threatens to rise up his throat. He’d rather not think about them. .

“But none of them—” your fingers press into his thighs, just slightly, “I’ve wanted to have as bad as I do you.”

He can feel his jaw go slack, eyes widening to the size of flying saucers.

You smile. Lean in until your lips brush the hinge of his jaw, a bare whisper of contact that makes every nerve ending in his body stand at guard. “You have no idea how bad I want you.” 

Great. You must be attracted to tortured virgins who are rich and powerful but don’t know the first thing about pleasing a woman. “Lucky for you,” you pull back to look at him. “I’m going to take very good care of you.”

The weight on the couch shifts before he can really notice it, your knees digging into the sofa, until you’ve infiltrated every cell in his body. Above him, around him, your hands landing on his shoulders and squeezing, fingers pressing into the muscle there with a small sound of approval. 

Your full, warm body settles onto his lap as though you’re at home, and really, he doesn’t think there’s enough oxygen in the room. The thought of how little space there is between you two wrings a sound out of him that he will be taking to his grave. Your panties graze slow over the length of his cock. “Fuck—”

His head drops back against the couch, neck going loose, and he stares at the ceiling like it might offer him salvation. Potentially a trapdoor.

He can feel your eyes lingering on his face, and not a single thing can be done about it because every resource he has is currently being allocated to not cumming in his pants. 

Your clothed pussy drags over him through the thin barrier of your panties. He makes a sound that is not a word.

“There he is,” you murmur. Your hands slide from his shoulders up the sides of his neck, thumbs tracing his jaw, tipping his chin back down so he’s looking at you instead of the ceiling. “Stay with me.”

“I’m—” he tries. “I’m here. I’m very—I’m extremely here—”

The pace you set is torturing enough to make his eyes roll back into his head. Your lips curve. “You feel that?”

“I feel—” he swallows, “—yes. Yeah. I feel that.”

A hum leaves your mouth. Jungkook watches your eyes stay on his face and realizes with dawning, helpless clarity that you are observing every single reaction. Every twitch. None of it really matters, since he has no poker face left, has burned through every last reserve of composure he had somewhere around the moment you sat down.

Manicured hands slide down from his jaw to his chest, pressing flat against him, and you lean back to look at him from a new angle, hair falling over one shoulder, hips never breaking rhythm. 

“Relax,” you softly say, fingers digging into his chest. “I can feel how tense you are.”

“I’m not tense—”

You perk an eyebrow.

“I work an intense job—”

“Jungkook.”

“Fine. I’m tense or whatever," he admits, “and I would appreciate it if you didn’t hold that against me.”

You giggle, and his stomach erupts into a nest of angry hornets, bloodthirsty insects that rival those ‘butterflies’ people get when they fall in love. Jungkook doesn’t do girls. Never has. He feels the need to remind himself once or twice. 

“You’re doing so well,” you murmur, and your hips roll again, and he swears he can feel your folds against him. Or maybe wishful thinking. 

He just can’t fucking think straight anymore. 

“I-I’ve never done this b-before,” he whimpers as your ass rubs over his hardened length agonizingly slow. “I don’t r-really—fuck—talk to g-girls.”

His head falls back onto the couch again, small, erratic puffs of air escaping his lips. 

You lean into his ear, lips coquettishly brushing against the crimson, heated skin. “I know.” 

Kim Namjoon. When he gets his hands on him. It is so fucking over. 

Your hands leave his shoulders.  They move, traveling behind your back to undo the clip of your bra in one fell swoop. The red lace goes slack. You let it hang from two fingers, dangling, looking at his face the whole time. Then you let the red fabric drop to the floor.

Oh fuck. 

Everything he knows about boobs is from porn itself. But up close, he can see your hardened peaks, stimulated and perky, ready for him to suck and play with. They’re just the right size, enough to cup in his hand. You lean forward, bracing your hands on the back of the couch on either side of his head, closing the distance between you inch by inch until your nipples graze his chest through his shirt.

He shivers, cock twitching beneath you. 

“Sensitive,” you note with a whisper. 

“I have—I’m wearing a shirt—”

“I know.” Your lips brush his jaw. “Imagine if you weren’t.”

He grips your hips so hard the lace bunches under his fingers. “You have no idea,” you exhale against the hinge of his jaw, “what I want to do to you.”

“Tell me.” He doesn’t even recognize his own voice when it escapes him.“Please—”

You pull back to look at him, eyes an onyx black shade, lips parted.

“Have you ever touched yourself, Jungkook?” You punctuate your question with another slow grind. He whimpers in response, and the shame of it hardly registers because his cock is twitching and pulsing against his slacks, his boxers already damp with his arousal. He has never been less in control of his own body.

“Answer me.” Your nail drags across his jawline. 

Jungkook can’t breathe. All he can do is grip the couch and try not to fall apart in front of a woman who looks like she has never fallen apart in her life.

“Y-yes.” he croaks, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “I do.”

“Hm.” Your hips roll again, the lace of your panties catching against his slacks perfectly, perfectly, and his brain halts all coherent thoughts. “What do you think about when you touch yourself?”

He thinks about women, mostly. They’re usually abstract, faceless, nothing like you. Nothing like the warm weight of you in his lap or the way you smell. Usually the entire ordeal takes him four minutes and he goes to sleep feeling embarrassed about the whole thing.

He does not say this.

“I— I think about girls.”

“Just girls?”

Your eyes peer down at him, sparkling with wonder. Your lips graze his cheek and every single neuron in his body fires at once. He’s going to fucking pass out.

God, he’s an idiot. He should’ve been having sex years ago. What was he so busy doing? Working? He gave up this for spreadsheets and impressing his father?

“Y-yeah,” he exhales. “Just—yeah.”

A small sound escapes you, something like a moan. The thought that you could be finding pleasure from this makes his cock pulse desperately in the confines of his pants. 

“Well.” Your hand finds his, lifts it, and presses his palm to the curve of your hip. Guiding his grip, guiding your own rhythm, you turn him into an active participant in his own undoing. 

“Next time you touch yourself.” You pick up the pace, slowly but steadily. “Think about this. Think about me. And how bad I want to fuck you.”

Fucking hell. 

His eyes squeeze tight, tight, tight. Tries, desperately, heroically, pathetically, not to cum. Jungkook groans, and he feels your fingernails dig into his broad shoulders for stability as your movements become more frantic.  

“F-Fuck,” he chokes out. “That feels so good.”

“I bet it does, baby,” you purr, and your angelic voice quells the fire in his core. “Bet your cock has been hungry for female attention, hasn’t it?” 

“No.” Jungkook hastily replies, “N-No, just for you.” 

He’s so fucking close, precum leaking out of his tip incessantly as each grind gets him closer and closer to his orgasm. Your tits bounce in his face, and he opens his eyes to see the sight that will forever be imprinted in his brain. Probably stored in his spank bank for the rest of time. Your cheeks are ruddy, eyes piercing into his, hair moving wildly, lace panties hugging every curve. 

Fuck. 

He’s going to cum untouched, like the virgin he is. 

Underneath the red lights, your hand finds his, and you guide up, up, up, press his palm flat against your chest. Your eye contact doesn’t waver. “Fuck,” he groans, “fuck, I’m—”

You watch him with a faint smile on your face. Without instruction, his fingers find your nipple, toying with the hardened peak lazily. Rolling them softly, you make a small sound above him and a lightbulb goes off in his brain. 

This is good for you too. You like what he’s doing. Holy. Shit. 

He continues to massage your nipple as you rut against his thighs, and it’s only a matter of time. He is a virgin, after all. 

Jungkook feels his cock twitch in his pants once, twice, before he’s moaning and whimpering as spurts of hot cum fill his boxers. His hand tightens around you on instinct, a sound leaving his throat that he has never made in his life, not once, not like this. He rides out his orgasm, shuddering and cursing under his breath, and your hips slow to ease him through it. 

He’s not sure how long he cums for, if he’s ever even cum this hard before. But when it does finally end, he slumps back against the couch like his skeleton has resigned. Staring at his face, your own movements still. 

Jungkook doesn’t keep track of time, only cares for the loss of the feeling of your body on his. You stand up, using his thighs for leverage to steady yourself. 

Placing a chaste kiss on his cheek, your eyes twinkle as you grin at him. “Come and find me when you’re ready, pretty boy.”

Jungkook sounds like a broken record everytime he reminds himself he doesn’t do girls. He’s already convinced himself that his attraction to you is some sort of rebellion against his virginity. 

That’s the only explanation as to why he’s standing outside Paradise Adult Club at 7 PM on a Monday holding an extravagant bouquet of red roses. 

Definitely has nothing to do with the fact that his Sunday night was spent wallowing in despair, cringing at how fast he came in his pants after you dry humped him for five minutes. No, that piece will live in his brain exclusively. It’s embarrassing to admit how much of an effect you’ve had on him. 

He’s never done anything nice for a girl in his life. Never took someone on a date, bought them flowers or jewelry, never held their hand just because he wanted to. He finds that shit cheesy, especially when his dad is yelling at him about some document from ten years ago. 

But then again, he can’t say a lot of girls have had the effect on him that you do. You had him throwing his truths and ideologies out the window, disappearing under red lights and red lace and just… he really fucking loves the color red now. 

The idea to stop by your place of work was a bold one, he can admit that much. It’s just that your last words to him before you strutted off ‘come and find me when you’re ready, pretty boy’ didn’t leave much room for representation. When he’s ready? Ready for you? Pretty sure he was ready for that the moment you laid eyes on him. 

Or, maybe you were referring to being ready to lose his virginity. He’s certain Namjoon has set him up for failure, probably mentioned numerous times everyone thought he was gay. In that case, Jungkook was also more than ready, but only if it was to you. Only if it was to see your tight little pussy swallowing his cock whole, eliciting those same sounds you did a few nights ago. 

Fuck, he needs to have you. 

“Excuse me? Sir?” 

A brunette hostess with a mousy voice jolts him out of his daydream, his cheeks rosy as if he’s been caught sniffing your panties. Her eyebrow is raised in confusion as she eyes the bouquet of roses. Chances are slim to none she’s ever seen those around a dance club before. 

“Yes. Hi. I’m looking for—” he stops.

Oh. Jungkook comes to the very hapless realization that he, in fact, does not know your real name. He knows your stage name. Candy called you Angel. That’s what he has. Angel. Which is a stage name, obviously, not a real name, and showing up to a woman’s workplace asking for Angel with a bouquet of roses is somehow worse than what he’s already doing.

“She works here,” he starts.

The hostess blinks. “…several women work here, sir.”

“Right. Yes. She was, uh, she was working Saturday night. She had—” he gestures vaguely at his own chest, “—red. She was wearing red.”

“A lot of women wore red on Saturday too.”

Her patience is wearing thin. 

“She had pretty hair.” He’s aware of how this sounds. “And she was—” another vague gesture, this time at his own face, “—she was very. You know.”

The hostess does not know. Her eyebrows are migrating slowly toward her hairline.

“Pretty,” he finishes, lamely. “Very pretty. Like, showstopping pretty.”

“Tall? About this height?” The hostess holds her hand up.

“Yes.”

“Works the private tables?”

“Uh, yeah,” he nods. “And uh, private rooms too.”

Something clicks behind the hostess’s eyes. Her brows lift in a completely different way now, a hint of recognition mixed with amusement.

“[Y/N]?” she asks.

[Y/N.]

He turns the name over in his head. Lets it settle. What a gorgeous name for a gorgeous girl, he thinks. 

(It’s his first crush, so he lets himself be as shameless as he needs to be about it.)

“Sure,” he says. “Yes. That one. [Y/N].” Your name. He knows your name now. He likes it more than he has any reasonable right to. “Is she—can I—”

“She’s off today.” The hostess smiles at him, fake sympathy seeping through the gesture. “Sorry.”

Jungkook grips his bouquet of roses until his knuckles are white. “Oh,” he says.

“Yup.”

He looks down at the bouquet. Red roses, obviously, because he’s been colonized by a color. He’d had his assistant order them this morning and had not explained why and the look on her face had been something he’d also be taking to his grave.

“Is there any chance—” he starts.

“I can’t give out personal information, sir. Our dancers lead private lives outside of their place of work.”

Jungkook sighs, weaving his fingers through his hair with his free hand. He can’t blame the hostess for her unwillingness to help, but he can’t let you get away. “No, I know. I wasn’t going to—Could I leave these for her? Is that… is that something that’s allowed?”

The hostess looks at him for a long moment.

Then she sighs, rolling her eyes and beckoning him further into the club. “Follow me.”

Somewhere, there’s a god he’ll be thanking later. 

The hostess leads him through a narrow hallway, behind the main floor, past a few closed doors, stopping at one left slightly ajar. When she pushes it open, it’s empty, save for the scattered lingerie and perfume bottles on the floor. 

“You can just leave them there,” she says, gesturing at the vanity.

She turns to leave. He hears it distinctly, murmured under her breath as she goes, “Amateur hour.”

Jungkook chooses not to acknowledge that.

He steps inside and sets the roses down on the vanity, straightening them slightly, then immediately feeling insane for straightening them and stopping. Jungkook doesn’t mean to look around, but his ADHD gets the best of him as his eyes wander. 

Your setup feels very you, although he’s only been aware of your existence for two days. The vanity mirror is framed with warm bulb lights, surface below it an organized chaos of things he has no reference for—foundation bottles and setting sprays lined up like little soldiers, a tray of eyeshadow with so many colors he can’t identify half of them. There’s trays of lip glosses, shades of red and pink that sent his brain into a tornado of horny thoughts. 

And, yeah, that’s enough for today. 

He turns to leave, trying to avoid eye contact with any of your other belongings he might find. But on the chair by the door sits a pair of panties.

Black. Lacy. Small enough to fit in one hand.

He stares at them, and they stare back. Every single rational thought he has ever had in thirty years of living lines up in his head and says, collectively and in unison: do not.

His hand moves independently of his brain, reaches out, closes around the fabric, and tucks it into his pocket in one fluid motion. Fuck. He did not plan that. That was not a decision he made, that was a decision his hand made, and he and his hand are going to have a very serious conversation about boundaries later—

He walks quickly, practically jogging. His shoes are loud in the hallway, he just needs to be outside, needs air, needs to be somewhere that isn’t the room where he just stole a woman’s underwear like some kind of pervert. 

“Have a good evening, sir!” the hostess calls from the front.

“Yep,” he quickly retorts, not stopping.

The door swings shut behind him and the cool night air hits his face. Luckily, his car is still waiting at the curb. It’s a miracle his driver hasn’t left him for dirt, despite Jungkook telling him to not wait for him. Maybe he also thinks Jungkook is a big, fat loser and knew he would need a backup plan. 

Jungkook gets in, stares straight ahead.

“Home, sir?”

“Immediately,” he says. “Please.”

With the knowledge of the black panties sitting pretty in his pocket, his cock puffs up in his pants, poking at his boxers, begging for air. Jungkook suddenly feels sweaty, even with the aircon set to 60 degrees. 

By the time Jungkook gets home, he’s a full-on mess. His cock is leaking precum at the tip, dripping into his Calvin Klein boxers. He’s never felt like this before, never been so undeniably hungry for someone that his whole body feels like it’s on the verge of collapse. 

Jungkook stumbles into his bedroom, sitting down on his bed and pulling out the pair of panties with shaky hands. 

He recognizes this is not a defense, merely an observation—he has never stolen anything in his life. He is a man of principle, of discipline, of self-control that has served him exceptionally well for three decades. He has walked away from bad deals, bad investments, bad decisions, more times than he can count.

He cannot seem to walk away from this.

Jungkook brings them up to his face slowly. Presses the fabric against his face and inhales. The fabric is warm, floral detergent filling his nostrils, and he falls back against his mattress as though his spine has stopped working.

“Okay,” he says to the ceiling. “Okay.”

He is so far gone it’s almost funny.

Almost.

His veiny hands find his waistband. The pants go first, then his boxers shoved halfway down his thighs, and when his cock finally springs free it’s so painfully hard he actually hisses, slapping against his abdomen. 

Thirty years old. CEO-in-waiting. Multiple degrees. Fluent in three languages. Lying in his bed with stolen lingerie and the most humbling erection of his life. He rushes to sit up against his headboard, otherwise his skeleton will fail him and he’ll fall straight down on his bed again. His cock is flushed, angry and red, glaring at him. The veins on the side of his length protrude, and he quickly gathers the seed of precum that’s spurted at the top to spread it around his tip. “Fuck,” he groans, head hitting the sturdy wood behind his head. 

Jungkook lets saliva fall from his mouth right onto his cock, too desperate to search for lube or lotion. Another quick glide of his hand up and down his length, and he’s painfully hard. Your black panties are strewn to the side of his mattress haphazardly, and he makes eye contact with them for a split second. 

He grabs them in his right hand. The lace is soft in his fist, softer than he expected, delicate little scalloped edges. He wraps the pair of panties loosely around his cock, and the sensation of it sends his brain into overdrive. Against him, the lace looks improper, something immoral. 

He is a little ashamed of himself.

Unfortunately, he is also completely unable to stop.

He guides his hand up and down his length, at a pace that he normally goes at when he’s just frustrated. His brain supplies images in snapshots—the weight of you in his lap, hips rolling against his crotch. He thinks about your chest, bare in the red light. The small sounds you made when the pace shifted and you stopped being professional about it for a microsecond. He thinks about your hands guiding his, hold on right there, pretty boy. 

Your thighs bracketing his, what it would feel like if there was nothing in between them… if you were actually—if he could actually watch you ride his cock, bouncing up and down on it as your tits moved in his face. He would probably press his face into them, so perfectly plump and ready for him. 

“God, [Y/N],”  he chokes out, to nobody, to the ceiling, to the concept of you existing in the world without his knowledge for however many years before Saturday.

Jungkook jerks himself off faster, twisting his hand at the ase just how he likes it when he wants to cum fast. His hair falls into his eyes as he looks down at the way your black panties are now covered in a mix of his saliva and precum. 

He wants to see you covered in his cum, maybe on your perfect tits or those glossy lips, taking every ounce of him that your body can manage. He bets you would take it like a good girl, would do anything just to please him and suck him dry of his money. 

It doesn’t take long before his mind is spiraling down a drain and he’s on the brink of his orgasm. It was never going to take long. It bubbles in his core, the knot in his stomach unfurling, and then he’s cumming, with a loud whimper and a “Fuck, fuck. [Y/N],” staining your panties with hot, white ropes of cum. Jungkook doesn’t know how long his orgasm lasts, just that he’s never cum that hard in his entire life, not with the essence of you on your panties lingering so nearby. 

For a long time, he sits on his bed, panties still balled in his fist. He sets them down very carefully on his nightstand like they’re evidence. In some sick twisted way, they are. They’re evidence of whatever is happening to him, whatever you cracked open in that private room, whatever he has blindly been waiting thirty years to feel and was not prepared for when it finally arrived.

But Jungkook knows one thing for sure: he can’t go on like this. He has to have you, one way or another. 

Sometimes, you really fucking hate your job. 

Men over the age of 40, married with two kids, will treat you with such disregard, as though you’re a piece of meat lucky enough to be desired by them. Your boss, Natalie, is a fucking cunt who takes half your earnings some nights, just to assert her dominance. Some nights, it’s so slow that you and the other dancers watch paint dry on the wall in your dressing rooms. 

But sometimes, when the stars align and the universe throws you a bone, you really, really love your job. 

Those nights are harder to come by. Usually, they start with a man throwing wads of cash at you, or stuffing them into the hem of your panties. They end with a private lap dance in the red room, where you rake in enough cash to pay off ten months of rent in advance. 

But in the case of Jeon Jungkook, although your night started and ended the same way with him, you were utterly, completely intrigued by the harmless creature you had made cum in his pants last weekend. 

His friends had showered you with cash, but Jungkook sat back in fear, watching you with a hypnotized gaze that never wavered. It was like he was captivated by every movement, hanging on every gyration of your hips. Namjoon didn’t need to tell you he was a virgin. You could smell it on him, something you predicted with just one glance. 

And now, that virgin had infiltrated your every thought.

When you stumbled into the club on Tuesday, you saw the fresh bouquet of red roses lying on your vanity, and immediately knew who they were from. Sure, you had other older suitors at the club, some regulars, but none that would bring you flowers or shower you in anything but money. No, this was the gift of a boy, someone who wasn’t quite yet a man. 

Quite honestly, you wanted to defile Jeon Jungkook. 

So you waited. You waited and you waited, but he didn’t show up all week. By Friday, you were beginning to lose hope of seeing the aforementioned man again. You settled back into your old routine, hoping to get him off your mind with older, more forward men. It’s not like you were having sex with them. It’s a firm line you never wanted to cross, made that clear the first day you started. 

It’s also not every day a hot, buff, tatted guy with bunny teeth and puppy-dog eyes walks into your club.

Saturday begins the same way it always does. Saturday nights at Paradise run like a well-oiled machine, and you are one of its most valuable parts.

The private tables are usually packed by 9PM, main stage rotating girls every twenty minutes. Bartenders furiously make drinks for eager men with open wallets, scanning for a dancer they can claim as their own for the night. You move through it with ease, a calming sensation spreading through your limbs. At least for now, this place has become your sanctuary. Or until the number in your head for your mother’s hospital bills finally hits zero.

Candy (also known as Lisa, but no one calls her that anymore) materializes out of nowhere, falling into step beside you. Since the day you joined Paradise, you two have shared a dressing room, secrets, lip gloss, and even underwear. She’s in gold tonight, hair pinned up, already counting a wad of bills from her regular client. Her hand connects with your bare ass, smacking the firm skin hard enough to leave a mark. “Lover boy show his face yet?”

“Haven’t seen him.” You adjust your bra strap without breaking stride. “Don’t think he can handle me, honestly.”

She snorts, “Yeah, no shit. Baby, he came in his pants from a lap dance.” She tucks the bills into her garter. “He cannot handle you. That’s the whole point.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m going easy on him. Letting him come to me if he wants.”

Candy stops walking entirely to look at you. “You’ve never gone easy on anyone in your life.”

“I’m feeling charitable.” You try to walk around her, but she holds her arms out. 

“We don’t do free shit around here,” she squints her eyes at you, sizing you up. She knows you better than most people do, which is usually a positive, but has now turned into what you hate most about her. 

“Listen, the guy’s obviously a virgin.” You roll your eyes. “Not to mention, he’s fucking stacked. Like, loaded loaded. He’s also hot. Need I go on?”

She stares at you for a long moment as though she’s watching a car accident happen in slow motion. Then she opens her mouth to refute.

“CANDY. [Y/N].”

Natalie’s voice bellows across the floor. Your boss is standing by the bar in all black, clipboard tucked under her arm, wearing the expression she reserves for moments when she feels her 40% cut is not being adequately earned. “Floor. Now. Both of you. Please, for the love of God.”

Candy mouths a not-so-subtle we’ll talk later and runs off toward the main stage. You turn back toward the floor, scanning the private tables, already taking mental note of the bachelor party in the far left corner. There’s eight guys, sashes, someone wearing a veil ironically. They’d keep you busy for an hour tops, and everyone knows bachelor parties are where the money is—

Natalie’s hand lands on your shoulder, redirecting you with zero ceremony. “Not that one.”

You turn. “The bachelor party has—”

“Got it covered. I need you at table five.” She steers you firmly. “He’s alone.”

You raise a brow. “He got money?”

Natalie gives you a side eye that could scare kids on Halloween. “Yes, dumbass.”

“How much money?”

“Just enough.” She releases your shoulder and delivers a brisk slap to your ass that you choose not to comment on. “Make me proud.”

Cursing under your breath, you start toward table five, fluffing your hair as you walk, rolling your shoulders back. Chin up, gaze level, lips pouted. Table five is tucked slightly off the main floor, dim even by Paradise standards. 

As you approach the booth, you excitedly say, “Hi—”

The word dissolves in your mouth.

Because sitting at table five, in a dark t-shirt that hugs his tattooed biceps, turning a glass of whiskey between his hands nervously, is Jeon Jungkook. 

He lifts his eyes to yours. For a second, he has the audacity to look surprised, like he didn’t come here specifically. He blinks at you and his ears go bright pink. 

“Well,” you say, recovering first, “Look who found his nerve.”

His eyes rake over your figure, and his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. 

You don’t want to let the poor man suffer for too long. Swinging yourself into his lap, your knees straddle his thighs. A sharp inhale escapes him, hands flying up instinctively before freezing mid-air like he’s forgotten whether touching is allowed, ears going from pink to red in one second flat. “Nothing to be shy about, pretty boy,” you murmur.

He lowly whimpers. A soft and involuntary noise, his jaw snapping shut like he can take it back.

“I got your gift,” you say, wrapping your arms around his neck, tugging him an inch closer to you. His sculpted chest is pressed against your tits, and he doesn’t need to take his shirt off for you to decipher how buff he is. 

His eyes go wide. “Y-yeah? Did you like them?”

You tilt your head, lips brushing against his jawline. “How did you know my favorite color was red?”

(It’s not. Your favorite color is green, has been since you were seven years old. But he doesn’t need to know that, and the way his body tenses when you say it is worth every cent of the lie.)

“L-lucky guess,” he stammers, and looks so pleased with himself.

“You’re a smart boy.” You press a chaste kiss to his jaw, then to his neck, and you feel his cock twitch underneath you. He shifts a little, trying to hide it, but you press down further. 

His hands hover at your hips, still not quite landing, suspended in that same paralyzed uncertainty from the private room last week. 

“You can touch me.”

He doesn’t spare a moment. His hands land directly on your hips, curling into the fabric of your underwear that rides high. 

“Tell me why you came back,” you coyly bat your eyelashes. You know exactly why he’s here and what he wants, but you’ll let him tell you. After all, that’s what you instructed him to do. To come and find you when he was certain he was ready. Even though it was unspoken, he had to have known what you meant. 

“I–I wanted to, uh, see you,” he swallows thickly, struggling to maintain eye contact. 

“Alone?” You tilt your head. 

“My friends don’t know I’m here.”

“Ah, so I’m your secret?” you tease. 

“N-no!” He leans forward, brunette hair falling into his eyes. God, he’s so fucking cute. “No, you’re not. I just—this is new for me.”

“What is?”

Say it, Jungkook. Say it. 

“You… you know what.”

“You know,” you say, leaning in slightly so he can feel your hardened nipples through your bra, “most men who come in here alone aren’t shy about what they want.”

“I’m not shy,” he pouts. 

You roll your hips over his half-hard cock, and he exhales. “You’re right. I’m so sorry, Jungkook. You are a big, strong man.”

He owlishly blinks at you, trying to understand what mind game you’re playing on him. Not that it matters, since he’s putty in your hands. 

“So prove to me that you want me.”

You tip his chin up with two fingers, pulling his gaze back to yours. “Hey,” you say quietly. “Right here.”

Hurriedly, like he’ll lose the words, he says, “I touched myself to you. Like you said.”

“Yeah? Did you cum?”

“I did,” he pauses, mulls over his next words. “I came so hard I almost cried.”

“Wish I could’ve seen that.” You kiss his neck, teeth biting down on his soft skin before soothing it with your tongue. A sweet moan echoes in your ear as you suck on his skin, sure to leave a blooming purple bruise on him. “What did you think about?”

“You… and me.” Your lips travel to a different park of his neck, littering a new section with sloppy hickies. “You…ah, fuck… on top of me, riding me. Making me cum again. I wondered w-what it would feel like if there were no clothes between us.”

Your hands slide from his jaw down his chest, feeling him tense under every inch of movement. “And what did you decide?” you ask. “Would it feel good?”

“I think it would feel like—I think you would ruin me,” he whimpers. 

It’s written all over his face, plain and undefended, the way everything is with him, and you think about all the men who have sat where he’s sitting and uttered the complete opposite. Your hands drift lower, finding him at your hips, and you guide them up over your waist, ribcage, until his palms are cupped over your tits, fingers curling around you through the thin fabric of your bra.

He breaks your gaze. Looks down at his tattooed hands cupping your breasts. 

“Jungkook,” you say.

He looks back up like a puppy following orders from a trainer.

“Still with me?”

“Yeah,” he exhales, massaging your tits with his massive hands. “Yeah,‘m very—I’m extremely with you.”

You roll your hips forward and watch his eyes flutter. “Good,” you murmur, lips brushing the corner of his jaw, cheek, the soft skin below his ear. “Because I’ve been thinking about you all week.”

“You have?”

“Mhm. Kept thinking about how good you’d feel inside me.” Your thumb traces his lower lip, catching the piercing. His cock is hard against you now, has been since you sat down, and you roll over it slightly, enough to feel him inhale sharply through his nose and grip you. “I want you to cum inside me, fill me up the way I know you want to.”

“O-oh,” he breathes, rutting his hips up to feel more. “I want that too.”

“You’d take it like a good boy, wouldn’t you?” You tug at the piercing, running your fingers over his supple pink lips. 

“Y-yes, please. Anything.” 

His eyes are glossed over with lust, so much that you doubt he’s hearing a word you say. “I bet my pussy feels so good wrapped around your cock. Bet you’re—”

“How much?”

Huh?

Your brows furrow, and his hands halt all movements on your tits. “What do you mean?”

“H-how much for a private room?”

He eyes you expectantly, chest heaving. 

Of all the things you expected him to say in this moment, it was not that. You’re half naked in his lap, you just told him you’d been thinking about him all week, and he’s asking for a price point.

The old version of this interaction writes itself easily. You name the number, take him to the back, take his money, take what you want, and send him home by midnight. Clean cut. 

You’ve done it a hundred times. 

But then he’s looking at you with those eyes, looking like a kicked puppy. An obscenely wealthy, tattooed, jawline-having kicked puppy who brought you roses on a Tuesday and almost cried when he came. 

You genuinely, physically cannot take his money right now.

“I don’t want your money, Jungkook,” you say.

He stares at you like you’ve grown an extra head. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“I—” he frowns, “—that’s not—you should take it, it’s fine, I have it—”

You shift in his lap, rolling your eyes. “I know you have it.”

“So just let me—”

“I want you,” you shrug. “Not your money. You.”

He goes still underneath you, like he’s running it back trying to find the catch. His brows pull together. “That doesn’t make any sense—”

And before he can question you any further, you kiss him. 

You don’t plan it. One second he’s trying to logic his way out of being wanted and the next your hand is at his jaw and your mouth is on his and he makes a strangled sound against your lips. A muffled noise falls from his lips, and you swallow it down. For half a second, he’s frozen, your lips guiding themselves. He clearly has no idea what to do. 

And then something gives way in him all at once and he kisses you back clumsily. His lips try to match your speed, and you cup his jaw in your hand to guide him as best you can. 

Jungkook lets out a soft moan, fingers digging into your waist so he can tug you closer to him. It feels like your body is melding into his, becoming one. The sound of misogynistic men waving cash around fades into the background, and you forget where you are. Only a mere moment, until you snap back into it. You wrap your arms around his neck, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck as he licks into your mouth desperately. You open your mouth a bit to let him explore, and his tongue is so soft and warm that butterflies erupt in your stomach unexpectedly. 

When he pulls away, his cheeks are red, breath escaping him in puffs. Those doe eyes of his are twinkling under the light, bunny teeth poking out underneath his top lip. 

“I—was that, um, okay?” 

Oh god. You’re going to ruin this man’s life. 

You bashfully giggle. “It was perfect, pretty boy. Are you sure this is your first time?” 

Jungkook nods a few times like a broken bobblehead. You chuckle, shaking your head. Your voice lowers an octave. “I want more of you.” 

“R-really?” He squeaks. 

Rather than answer him with words (which he seems to understand so little of), you peel yourself off his lap, taking his hand in yours and tugging him off the couch. Jungkook stands, brows stitched together in confusion. You’d forgotten how tall he was, how much of him there is. 

The floor parts around you as you move through it, the Saturday night chaos swallowing the two of you whole. You catch Natalie’s eye near the bar. She locks eyes with Jungkook and gives you an enthusiastic double thumbs up from behind her clipboard.

She’d lose her mind if she knew you were walking her highest-paying client of the night to the back for free. That’s a problem for later. 

You push open the door to the red room. The LED light bleeds warm over everything. 

Turning, you push him onto the couch with one hand flat against his chest and he plops into it with a soft exhale, hair falling across his forehead, looking up at you with those eyes. Puppy dog eyes, you think. 

“You know what I’ve been thinking about all week?” you say, reaching up to slide one strap off your shoulder. Then the other.

He frantically shakes his head.

“Taking you apart,” you murmur. “Until you don’t remember your own name.”

“That’s—” he swallows thickly, “—that’s fine. Y-yes.”

You reach behind you and unclasp your bra.

For some reason unknown to you, it’s at this moment that you remember what you’re actually doing. 

You’re standing in the red room on a Saturday night about to take the virginity of a man, a man who looked at you in a room full of women and somehow only saw you.

His eyes drop to your bare chest, perked nipples on display

The moment of clarity evaporates completely. You don’t feel bad at all.

Sinking to your knees, you crawl over to where he sits. The carpet is soft beneath your knees. You place your hands flat on his thighs and look up at him, plump, pink lips parting, hands gripping the couch cushions on either side of him. You run your hands slowly up his thighs, feeling the muscle jump under your palms, and tilt your head. “Is this okay, pretty boy?” 

“Y-yes. It’s okay,” he hurries to respond like you might rid him of this moment. 

“Have you ever been titty-fucked before?” you blink up at him, already knowing the answer. 

His cheeks turn the color of the lights. His hand comes up to cover his face and he makes a sound into his palm that is equal parts mortified and desperate. “I-no. I never-I don’t even know, like, what that—I don’t—“

“Hands down,” You tug his hands away from his face. “Use your words, pretty boy. It’s just me.” 

“No.” He finds his voice, his big brown eyes burning into yours. “I have not.” 

You hold his gaze and run your palms up the inside of his thighs. Every coherent thought he has exits his body through his eyes.

“Well,” you say. “Pay attention.”

Your hands find his zipper. The sound it makes in the quiet room ricochets off the walls. His breath goes ragged, stomach caving on an inhale, watching your manicured hands fiddle with his pants. You take your time dragging the denim down his legs until he kicks them off desperately, left in his boxers. 

Even through the fabric, you can see the outline of his erect cock. You wonder how long he’s been hard for, if it’s been before you saw him. You press your palm flat against the fabric, rubbing his bulge, and his head drops back with a groan. 

“You’re so responsive,” you murmur, more to yourself than him, pressing slightly and watching his hips shift toward the pressure. “You feel everything, don’t you?”

“Y-yeah, I really—” he stops, swallows, “—I really do.”

“That’s so good,” you tell him. “That’s exactly right.”

His fingers find the edge of the couch cushion and grip. You take the waistband of his boxers between your fingers and look up at him one more time, giving him every opportunity to change his mind.

Jungkook’s eyes say please before his mouth does.

“Please,” he whispers anyway, because he has no defenses left. You trace the outline of his cock—and holy fuck, you can’t believe your luck. You’re the first girl to bear witness to his cock, and its massive, hidden underneath a man who’s never felt the warmth of a woman, never wanted to. Through his boxers, you can feel his girth, how thick he is. 

Saliva builds up in your mouth. Slowly, you peel down his boxers, dragging them down his legs to the floor. 

His cock stands up proud, slapping against his abdomen. For a moment, your heart thumps in your chest at the size of it, how thick and veiny he is. Fucking hell. You haven’t taken a cock this big in years, but damn straight you’re willing to try. 

“I-is everything okay?” he asks, eyeing your expression. 

You wrap a firm hand around his cock and he jolts forward. Stroking upwards, you feel every ridge, every vein that outlines his length. “It’s perfect, Jungkook. I can’t wait to taste you, for you to be inside me.” 

Precum seeps from his glossy, red tip. You jerk him off a few times until he’s thrusting his hips into your hand. He’s beyond eager for anything you’ll give him, you note. Your eyes meet his, and slowly, you let spit dribble onto his cock, giving you enough slick to jerk him off properly. “Agh-fuck,” he moans, biting his bottom lip hard enough to produce blood. 

“Feels good?” you ask, smiling. 

“Y-yes, don’t stop,” he begs. Flicking your hair behind your shoulder, you hold your tits together, slipping his cock in between your cleavage. He chokes on a breath. “O-okay—okay—” he stammers, hands hovering uselessly on the couch. 

The image of his pretty pink tip sitting between your tits sends waves of arousal to your core, flooding your panties. Adrenaline pumps through you, at the thought of taking this man’s virginity. Slowly, tentatively, enough for him to feel it, to understand it, you observe his face the entire time. His head falls back against the couch.

“You’re—fuck—” he cuts himself off, fingers digging into the cushion. You tilt your head, adjusting the pressure, testing what makes him react harder. Gradually, you move your tits up and down, down to his base and back up to his tip. The slick sounds of skin-on-skin echo across the room, mixed with his soft whimpers. His body tightens under your hands, thick thighs flexing, hips starting to thrust into you without thinking. He’s losing control faster than he can handle, faster than he can pause it. “S-shit, [Y/N], I don’t wanna—I don’t wanna cum—“

But you want him to cum. Want him to cum all over your tits, paint your body with it and let himself claim you. “It’s okay, Kookie,” you let the nickname roll off your tongue. “I want you to cum. It’s okay, I won’t be mad.” 

“Y-You won’t?” His eyes bug out of his head like you’ve just spoken another language. 

You giggle. “No, of course not.” 

He shakes his head like he wants to deny it, but it’s useless. “I– I don’t know, I just— it feels—”

The words fall apart in his mouth. You slow down for a moment before leaning in and adding more slick, dragging your breasts over him again. Jungkook's head snaps back, a broken sound ripping out of him as his hands grip the couch harder. “Oh—fuck— I think I—“

Beneath your grasp, his thighs quiver, eyes rolling into the back of his head as he spurts all over your tits, white, hot liquid painting your skin. Some of it lands on your face, which you lick off happily. “O-oh, [Y/N], fuck fuck, I can’t stop—cumming,” he cries as you slow your pace down, laughing to yourself. 

You ease back onto your knees, hands resting loosely around him. Jungkook is entirely too beautiful for his own good with his chest heaving, long lashes fluttering. 

You’ve had men leave this room strutting. Buttoning their shirts before they’re off the couch, already reassembled, gone. It’s a specific kind of departure that reminds you what this is and what it isn’t.

He takes two shaky pulls of air, then a third. His eyes find yours and stay there. “I—I think you’re amazing.”

Maybe you shouldn’t have volunteered to defile the virgin, because now he’s saying things like this. 

You laugh softly,. “Yeah?”

“No, like—” he pushes himself up further on the couch, words tripping over themselves, “you’re so beautiful and you knew exactly—and I didn’t even—I couldn’t—”

He stops himself. Cheeks flooding red, and all you can do is 

look at him. “God, you’re cute,” you say.

Obviously, you’ve said the wrong thing because his ears go scarlet and his shoulders cave inwards. “Oh. Thank you”. 

Another giggle escapes you, and you hardly recognize yourself. You’re not the girl who giggles during sex with a client, let alone any man. But then again, Jungkook isn’t really your client. 

Your fingers wrap around his softened cock, and without doing much, he begins to harden in your hand, puffing up to his full potential again. He owlishly blinks, gulping. “Sorry, I’m just—“

“Don’t apologize,” you interrupt. “How do you want me?” His throat bobs when he swallows, eyes flicking down to where your hand rests on his length, then back up to your face. “I—”

He exhales shakily. “I don’t know.”

You hum, not letting him off that easy. Your thumb brushes over his tip, gathering the precum that’s begun to form and his hips twitch up. 

Your mouth curves into a sinister smirk.“That’s not true.”

Jungkook lets a small, frustrated sound slip from his lips.“I just—” He breaks off again, dragging a hand over his face. “I don’t know how to say it.”

Leaning in a little closer, he has no choice but to feel how little space you’re giving him to hide in. “Use your words, pretty boy,” you murmur, “You’ve been doing so good.”

He sucks in a breath, “I want… I want your mouth on my cock. I want you to suck me off.” 

Immediately, he turns bright red and you can’t help the delighted laugh that wracks through you. “Kookie,” you say, shaking your head a little, “I didn’t know you had such a dirty mouth.”

He chuckles at that, reaching down to place his hand over yours, guiding your slow strokes. Your heart leaps into your throat at the innocent touch, betraying you entirely. 

With your eyes locked on his, you lean down and kitten lick his tip, and then drag it down his shaft. His mouth drops open on a silent moan, chest heaving. When you reach the bottom, you lick back up, following the path of a vein, before engulfing him fully in your mouth. He’s bigger than you expected, and your jaw aches at how much you have to open up to fit him in. Your tongue swirls around his tip, and he jolts forward, instinctively pulling your hair and entangling his tattooed fingers in it. 

“K-keep going.” He bucks his hips up, the tip of your nose hitting his pubic bone. You can hardly hold back your gags, choking sounds escaping from your mouth, tears seeping through your lashes as you take him to the hilt. “Feels s-so good, angel. You’re so p-pretty.” 

Your lips pop off his cock as you gasp for air, jerking him off in the meantime. “Yeah? You like how I look with your cock in my mouth, baby?” 

He nods eagerly. “Yes, please.” Jungkook pushes your head down, and then blushes as though he just caught himself sticking his hand in a candy jar. It’s not as if you mind—his cock is addicting, his precum so sweet and warm. You lower your head, swirling your tongue around his tip just so you can hear his pretty little moans again. 

You move at a steady pace, your hand working anything your mouth can’t take. His fingers dig into your scalp, almost guiding you. You don’t want to stop, never do, not until you ruin him. Not until you’ve had every ounce of him. His cock twitches in your mouth, and his thighs shake. It’s hard to hide the smile that’s curving upon your lips. After suctioning your lips around his tip a few more times, he drags your head up, practically ripping you off his body. 

Your stomach leaps into your throat, and the unfamiliar swell of anxiety bubbles inside you. Men don’t ever push you off, and you’d be lying if you said your ego isn’t taking a hit. 

“What do you want, pretty boy?” you ask sweetly. 

“I liked it when you c-choked on it.” His cheeks turn a scarlet glow, brunette hair sticking to his golden skin. “You look pretty.” 

“Want me to deepthroat your cock?” You grin, kitten licking his tip. Jungkook whimpers, and you take that as your answer. With no further instruction, you deeply inhale through your nose and take him to the hilt again, your throat full of him. Your air flow is entirely restricted, and Jungkook—the innocent virgin—pushes your head down, as if there were anywhere further to go. The feeling of being lightheaded doesn’t even scare you, just turns you on from how utterly desperate he is for you. “Shit, you’re so good at this,” he whines. “Don’t wanna cum yet. I wanna cum inside you, baby.”

You hum around him, and your mouth pops off  his cock, saliva connecting his tip to your lips. “Are you sure, Kookie?” 

You’re certain the poor boy has never been more ready for anything in his entire life. “Yes, please, please fuck me.” He begs between breathless groans, and you have to hide your own whimper from how fucked out he sounds. 

Now, you’ve done a lot of things in the red room. Bondage, roleplay, orgasm denial… but taking someone’s virginity? And that of a man who actually might be worth your time? Can’t say you’ve done that before. It excites you, and for a moment, you have to wonder if it’s because of the situation, or because of the man sitting in front of you. 

Standing up, you steady yourself despite the ache in your knees. You unhurriedly peel off your underwear, your arousal sticking to your thighs as you kick them off. Jungkook’s eyes follow your legs up, up, until he stares at your pussy with a tiny gasp. You straddle his thighs, using his shoulders as leverage. Your soaking core hovers above his erect cock, and he looks down to see just how close you actually are. “Are you sure, pretty boy?” you ask again, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. 

“Please.” His eyes snap to yours, and the sincerity behind it sends electricity through your veins. You take his fingers, placing them in your mouth before sucking on them and bringing them to your clit so he can feel how aroused you are for him. So ready and pliant above him. “O-oh, you’re really wet.”

“I am, Kookie,” you giggle. “You made me like this.” You guide his movements, little circles on your clit. Foreplay isn’t even necessary—you’re not sure you’ve ever been wetter. 

You align his length to your hole, and sinking down on him, inch by inch, you can feel every ridge and vein decorating his cock. You're deliciously full, until you’re filled to the brim, stuffed with his cock. You’d had a rough idea of what to expect. You’d done this a hundred times in this room. You thought you knew how this part went. But you were not prepared for Jungkook.

The stretch of him is slow and overwhelming and your walls have to work to accommodate his size. You hear yourself exhale, an involuntary release of air. His face finds your neck immediately and he groans. “O-oh my god,” he croons in your neck, muffled against your sweaty skin. “Is this what pussy f-feels like?”

You can hardly think long enough to form a response, and then he starts to move. Careful rolls of his hips, driving his cock up into you, checking every flicker of your expression for anything that looks like discomfort. It’s so like him. Completely, specifically him, that something in your throat tightens. 

What he finds instead is your eyes, telling him everything. He continues fucking upwards, and a borderline scream escapes you from how quickly he finds that sweet spot inside you. His fingers flex at your hips. He gasps and then he’s babbling, words tumbling out unfiltered the way everything does with him. “Your pussy feels so good. So tight and warm,” he speaks into your neck, inhaling your scent like he’s a wolf. “It’s so wet, [Y/N], so fucking wet.”

You need to get it together. You need to find the part of yourself that knows what she’s doing in this room, that has always known, that has never once lost the upper hand. Your hands come to rest on his thighs behind you, and you lift yourself up his cock, only to slam yourself back down. Each time you take him fully, your breath punches out in a grunt you can’t swallow back, your knees working against the cushions as you ride him. Your nails dig into his thighs, red, crescent moons forming. The sound of skin slapping and your wet cunt swallowing his cock fills the room. “Fuck, you feel so good, Jungkook. You’re so big, so deep inside me.”

“Yeah? You like how I feel inside you?’ His hands cup your ass, helping your movements. Despite it being his first time, Jungkook moves like he knows you.

Muscle memory takes over, and you grab a fistful of his hair and drag him towards you. You kiss him. 

Sloppy and breathless and without technique, lips catching and sliding, both of you too far gone to be graceful about it. He makes a broken sound into your mouth, hips stuttering.

“Want to make you my fucktoy. Would you like that, pretty boy?” 

He nods excitedly, eyes squeezed tight as you milk his cock with every bounce. Although you should be focused on making him cum, all of that flies out the window as the familiar coil in your stomach begs to come undone. Your walls flutter around his cock and his eyes open, looking to where your bodies join to try and decipher the sensation. “Fuck, I’m gonna cum,” you moan. 

“Really?” he asks, wide-eyed with wonder. “Shit–keep going, baby. You’re gonna make me cum too, I won’t be able to last l-long.”

You switch to a back-and-forth motion, your clit hitting his pelvic bone, enough to make your legs shake as your orgasm washes over you. Jungkook grips your hips tight as you whimper, falling forward and wrapping your arms around his neck for stability. He takes the opportunity to thrust up into you again desperately, chasing his own release. “Fuck, you feel so good,” he whines. “So fucking addicting. I want to be inside you forever.” The sound of those words tumbling from his lips, tone so easy, has something inside of you clenching.

“Shit, I’m gonna cum again,” he hisses, hips faltering as he coats your walls with his cum, and the warmth of him fills you up. Wrapping his arms around you entirely, you feel Jungkook press chaste kisses to your neck, jaw, and cheek, bringing you back down to earth. 

When you two finally catch your breath, you rest there, with his cock softening inside you and your nails tracing patterns down his back. Your legs remain glued to his thighs, like the rest of the club doesn’t exist, like Natalie and her clipboard and the Saturday night chaos on the other side of the door are happening on a different planet. It feels like just you two in the whole building.

14 months ago, your last relationship ended abruptly. In the parking lot of a grocery store, which is such an unglamorous setting for the end of two years that you’ve never quite been able to shake it. He was handsome, aware of it, rationing it, using it for his benefit. He never brought you flowers. Not once, not for birthdays or apologies or just because. Flowers were a waste of money in his opinion, and not to be spent on ‘cheap girls’ like you. 

You look at Jungkook’s profile. The soft line of his jaw in the red light, the flutter of his long lashes. 

There are red roses on your vanity that he left without being asked.

“Did I… did I do okay?”

You pull back to peer at him, and his eyes are sparkling, an earnest expression taut on his face. You recognize what he needs to hear. “Yes, Jungkook,” you say, combing your fingers through his hair. “You did very good.”

The relief that moves across his face is immediate. “Okay,” he nods. “That’s good.”

He ducks his head. “How do I—how do I pay you?”

The ripple of his question moves through you. You need the money more than anyone in this room. You have a number in your head that lives there rent free, that wakes you up at 3 AM sometimes, that is the entire reason you’re here in the first place.

You open your mouth to name a figure, but instead, “It’s fine,” you hear yourself say. “You don’t have to.”

He pouts. “But I want to. You should let me.”

“It’s fine,” you repeat.  

“Not even a tip?” he tries again, and you have to commend his effort. 

“No.”

And  with a calm confidence that was not there an hour ago, “My number then,” he says. “Can I have yours? Would that work?”

You laugh, dropping your face into the curve of his neck, and feel him go warm underneath you. “You have some nerve, Jungkook.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Huh?” Maybe he wasn’t expecting your compliance, but you give it anyway. You’ll give yourself this one. 

“Yeah, Jungkook.” It’s probably a bad idea. Or maybe it’s the best one you’ll ever have. “You can have my number.”

The next night, when you open your phone, you read a text from Jeon Jungkook that says: i know you said no tips, but think of this as a gift. open your door. 

Outside your door sits a bouquet of red roses, with piles and piles of cash sitting beside it. He’s persistent, you’ll give him that. 

On the flowers is a note, something even cuter than his text, that reads: give me one more night? - your pretty boy 

It started before eight in the morning. Power tools, yelling, laughing, car doors slamming. It ruined the peace and tranquility of the post-school bus and rush hour lull. At first, you turned over and tried to fall back asleep. When that didn't work, you grabbed your extra pillow and pressed it against your ear. But after thirty minutes of chasing sleep with the sounds outside only growing louder, you gave up, blood boiling.

Maybe you should have coffee first, but unfortunately, your rage wins out. It's way too early. They're being far too noisy. And it's your goddamn day off!

You're seeing red when you tighten your robe around your waist, not even bothering to tie it but instead you hold it closed with your fist as you storm towards the front door. Your pajamas are just a tank top and sleep shorts, it's not anything scandalous anyway, especially given how hot Texas gets in the summer, but the last thing you want is a whole construction crew gawking at you while you give them a piece of your mind.

Music had just been turned on somewhere amongst the site. Tom Petty, you think, as you make your way over. Your flip flops snap angrily against the blacktop as you cross your driveway into your neighbor's front yard to survey the scene.

There's at least eight workers getting set up. Their trucks are parked all up and down the street, taking up every open spot. None of them glance your way as they unload tools, coolers, and supplies from their flatbeds. Your arms cross tightly and your brows furrow but the noise only gets louder.

"Excuse me?" you call out to no one in particular, but they don't hear you. Your jaw tightens. "Hey! Excuse me?"

"Can I help you?"

You swivel around, taken off guard by the deep voice behind you.

"Yes! I—"

Your words falter when you lay eyes on the man who snuck up on you. He's setting a ladder down by his feet, giving you time to take in his strong arms and broad shoulders underneath the stretch of his black short sleeved shirt, which still allows you a generous view of his tanned forearms. His jeans look lived in in the best kind of way. He wears them like a man who doesn't care what they look like, so long as they're comfortable. You push down the heat crawling up your neck by the time he straightens up, but when you see his face, you lose your train of thought once again.

Deep brown eyes, sharp nose, a chiseled jawline dusted with a short, somewhat patchy beard. Then he offers a soft, crooked smile that knocks the wind out of you to the point where you nearly forget your earlier anger.

Focus, you scold yourself.

"I live right over there—" You point behind him and he slowly turns, eyes scanning your modest home. "And my bedroom window is right there," you add. His eyes flicker to your open window towards the back of the house before he gives you his full attention again, something that makes your stomach flip. "I'd appreciate it if you guys could keep it down this early in the morning. It's disruptive to the whole neighborhood."

His devastatingly dark eyes glimmer with humor and even though he's not smiling, you can sense he's not taking you seriously. He makes a show of checking his watch—a beat up old thing with a green fabric band—before looking back at you. "It's eight fifteen," he tells you, tone flat.

"Yeah, now," you say, rolling your eyes, "but this noise started earlier. It woke me up."

Now the corner of his mouth lifts and he slowly crosses his arms, which simultaneously irritates and excites the hell out of you.

"Sorry 'bout that, miss," he tells you, "but we're abidin' by city ordinance."

"I'm sure you are, but you have to admit it's disturbing the peace."

He regards you silently for a moment, his heavy gaze drifting up and down your frame. Suddenly, the thin robe you're wearing is too much and doesn't seem like enough all at once. An amused look flits across his face at one point before his eyes drop to the dirt.

"Could start at seven, technically," he finally says, "we're doin' you a favor by startin' at half past."

Your hackles raise at that. "Would you like me to thank you?"

He chuckles and shakes his head before meeting your gaze again. "Never said that. Just sayin' we're followin' the law, is all."

"I know you are," you huff, "all I'm suggesting is maybe keeping your voices a little lower."

He smirks and uncrosses his arms in favor of propping his hands on his hips, giving you a spectacular view of his wide chest.

"We could," he muses, pretending to think about your request while staring off at a fixed point somewhere over your shoulder, "if you ask real nice."

Your jaw drops at the same time your knees go weak. "Excuse me?"

He shrugs, still staring somewhere behind you in order to keep his shit eating grin from stretching across his face. "Just sayin', you came over here all hot under the collar. Had you asked nice, I mighta been able to help you out."

Your throat tightens. He's not trying to sound suggestive but your brain doesn't care. It's sending a wave of arousal right through you, causing your heart to slam against your ribs the more it builds.

"What's your name?" you demand with a clipped tone.

"Joel," he says without missing a beat.

"Joel," you repeat, "I'd like to speak with your boss."

"Ah, that'd be me."

He stretches out his hand with a grin. You ignore it and look back at the trucks until you spot a logo on the side and squint.

"Miller?" you guess. He nods. "Great. I'll be filing a complaint with the better business bureau."

You shoulder past him and try not to fixate on how good he smells, a mixture of motor oil, fresh soap, and coffee.

"Yeah? And what's your complaint gonna be for?" Joel calls after you. You ignore him and keep walking. You hear his deep chuckle before he picks up the ladder and it pisses you off even more, but you don't allow your rage to show until you're safely inside your house where you can seethe to yourself while making some coffee.

***

The rest of the week is uneventful. You have meetings downtown all week, a disruption to your usual remote work schedule, but a necessary evil you try your best to organize all at once every month. When you leave in the morning, the workers are just arriving. When you get home, they're already packed up or gone entirely. You nearly forget all about your intriguing run in with the mysterious Joel Miller until the following Monday, when you're back to working remotely.

You're an hour into emails and onto your second cup of coffee when you first hear the familiar ruckus next door. It starts with amused banter. Then truck doors slamming. Then the music kicks on. You shake your head, close your windows, and keep working.

With your television playing in the background, it's easier to block out some of the construction noise, but at around one in the afternoon you hear a repetitive, ear piercing beep, beep, beep during a work call that sets your teeth on edge.

Stones are pouring from the back of a metal flatbed. Shovels are scraping and banging loudly. And you do your best to stay focused, but when the call ends and you can't recall half the topics discussed, you can't hold back any more.

You spot Joel with his back to you, holding a shovel and shouting instructions to his crew while you approach. As if he can sense it, he turns when you're about ten feet away. His eyes sweep up and down your body and he grins before leaning on his shovel, amused by the anger currently forcing your feet forward.

"Don't tell me we woke you up again," he teases before you can even open your mouth. "It's after lunch. What's the matter now?"

You scowl at him, ignoring the way his crew sends you curious looks as they work.

"No," you snap, "I'm working. Or, at least, trying to! I have all my windows closed and I still can hardly hear myself think."

He looks at you like he's sizing you up, like he's trying to figure something out. "Thought you worked in an office somewhere."

You frown, slightly alarmed. "How would you know that?"

"Saw you couple times last week," he says hurriedly, as if he just realized how his comment sounded. "When I was gettin' here in the mornin', sometimes I'd see you gettin' in your car and drive off."

The silence that followed made Joel nervous. He shifted his weight and awkwardly scratched his beard while you tried to sort through what he just said without giving away your feelings. He noticed you? Was he looking for you, or did he just happen to see you?

"Uh, based on your spiffy clothes, just figured you worked somewhere fancy," he finished, rubbing the back of his neck before looking away.

You look down at the clothes you currently have on—denim shorts and an old, oversized shirt... far from spiffy today—before looking back up at him. To your surprise, you notice some red creeping up his neck and staining the apples of his cheeks. You have to bite your lower lip to keep yourself from smiling because despite how pleased it makes you to see the big, annoying, sexy construction guy next door all embarrassed because of you, you're here for a reason.

"Sometimes I work in an office, but most of the time I work at home," you explain, waving toward your house, "and right now, it's pretty much impossible to get anything done."

"Well, m'sorry 'bout that, but we gotta work, too."

You sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose. "I know. How much longer is this going to take?"

Joel clicked his tongue, making you lift your chin to look back up at him. The way he looks at you like you're something worth studying makes your heart skip a beat. Traitor.

"I'm offended you wanna get rid of us." His tone is back to teasing, and that glint in his eye confirms it. He likes pushing your buttons.

"I just want my quiet back! My—your customers are elderly! They can't hear for shit, they keep to themselves, they're the perfect neighbors! They aren't bothered by all this noise, but everyone else is!" Your voice is getting louder than you thought. People are beginning to notice, but you don't care.

"Everyone?" Joel repeats, narrowing his eyes now. "Strange, 'cause you're the only one cryin' 'bout it."

"I am not crying about it, I'm attempting to come to some sort of agreement, but you're being too... too..." Your hands flail in the air as you struggle to think of the right word.

"Too what?" Joel presses, stepping closer. You catch a whiff of his sweat mixed with sawdust and it makes your head swim. Focus.

You glare at him, blood on fire in your veins the longer he stands there looking all cocky.

"Misogynistic!" you exclaim triumphantly. Joel just blinks at you.

"What?"

You roll your eyes. "Means if a man were out here asking you to keep it down, you probably would, but instead you're giving a woman a hard time."

That seems to piss him off. His jaw sets into a tight line and he leans forward, voice low and dangerous. "Now you listen here," he says, and the way his demeanor suddenly shifted makes your spine straighten. "I'll allow for alotta shit, but I ain't gonna stand here and let you spin some wild story when you don't even know me or my crew. That's disrespectful and untrue."

You swallow tightly, unable to tear your gaze away from his eyes. They're so dark and stormy when he's legitimately mad that it's hard to look away.

"Sorry," you mumble, "but you're not taking me seriously, what else am I gonna think?"

His gaze softens then. His shoulders loosen. And the clouds clear from his eyes. The playful glimmer returns and you swear you see a ghost of a smile tug at his lips before he casually says, "I'll prove it to you. Bring out your husband or boyfriend or whoever and I'll tell him the same things I've been tellin' you."

"I don't have a husband or boyfriend," you answer before you even realize the trap you stepped in. His face lights up but he plays it off with ease.

"That's a relief." Your eyes widen and he grins. "'Cause if you had some guy hidin' in there all this time, lettin' his woman handle all the dirty work, gripin' to me while wearin' short shorts or a see-through robe? That wouldn't be much of a man."

Then he turned on his heel to join his crew, leaving you to weave through the rollercoaster of emotions he just dumped on you for the rest of the afternoon.

***

Over the next few days, something slightly changed. You found yourself going outside more, lingering around your car or taking a while to get your mail just to catch a glimpse of Joel. Usually, he'd catch your eye and give you a small smile, but that was the extent of it. Nothing overtly friendly and nothing mean, either. He was very good at being polite and cordial, which infuriated you. It made it impossible to figure out exactly what he was thinking. You replayed so many looks and conversations in your head to the point where you were paralyzed trying to pick apart every inflection and glance.

Why do you care anyway? you kept asking yourself. You never provided an answer.

It's the combination of your frustration with yourself as well as Joel's confusing signals that cause you to find more things to complain about, although you never admit it. But every interaction with Joel leaves you more aggravated and pent up than the last.

"That's not the property line. This is the property line," you had argued with him on Tuesday.

"It's just four inches."

"That's nine inches, easy."

Joel had tsked sympathetically under his breath. "Oh, darlin', if someone out there's tellin' you that's nine inches, I'm so sorry."

On Thursday morning, he had parked his truck in your driveway.

"I need to have my driveway clear!"

"I know, I know, it was only for a minute til the concrete truck comes—"

"I don't care! Park on the street!" you had yelled, but the angrier you got, the more pleased Joel looked.

"No parkin' left on the street."

"Then park on the lawn," you said, crossing your arms and jutting out your hip. His eyes had drifted down, noting you chose to wear a shirt that showed a little more cleavage than usual.

"Careful, sweetheart. Keep yellin' at me like this and I'll fall in love with you."

Every time he said something flirty like that, it sent you back to your house to obsess over whether or not he was serious or just trying to get you off his back.

The cherry on the sundae was the incident on Friday when someone accidentally dug in the wrong spot and severed your internet cable, completely derailing the latest project you had been tasked with at work. Joel had anticipated your anger before you stormed out of the house, screen door smacking loudly against the siding as you stomped down the old wood stairs of your porch, making a beeline right for Joel next door.

"Tell me it wasn't your guys who did that."

He sighed before slowly turning around to face you. He looked tired, no doubt drained from the long, hot week, but he still managed to brighten up a little when he laid eyes on you.

"Sorry, darlin'. They're comin' to fix it."

"When?" you snapped. Joel narrowed his eyes as if to silently warn you about your tone. Who the hell does he think he is?

"An hour," he said flatly.

"An hour?" you exclaimed, clearly devastated.

"Yeah. An hour. Ain't you got a lunch break or somethin' you can take til it's fixed?"

You snorted and tossed your hair over your shoulder. "I haven't taken a lunch break that didn't involve a client in more than five years."

"Well, today's the day you break that streak," he told you before turning back to the hole in the ground. "Damn inspector didn't flag the property right. Ain't our fault, it's the town's."

You bury your face in your hands with a groan. "I can't believe this," you mutter to yourself.

"If it helps, I ain't happy 'bout it either," Joel says, crouching down to inspect the spot closer. "This just set me back a couple days."

"Days?!" you exclaim, letting your hands fall back to your sides in disbelief. Joel nods, still not looking at you.

"Yeah. Gotta redo the plans now. Old plans were built 'round the cables bein' two feet west—"

"So this insanity is going to last even longer?" you ask, cutting him off. Joel sighs and drops his head between his shoulders briefly before standing with a grunt. He's tall—his shadow blocks the sun when he towers over you, a fact that never went unnoticed.

"What's the matter, sweetheart? Thought you'd be happy to know you ain't gettin' rid of me just yet." The smirk he gives you is devastating. Your gaze falls to his throat, where beads of sweat have been trickling down and soaking his collar. It's not fair this man is so fucking handsome yet so irritating.

"I'll survive," you mutter, crossing your arms tightly and looking away to clear your head.

"Yeah? Who you gonna yell at when I'm gone, hm?"

"Believe it or not, I'm actually not a yeller," you shoot back with a glare. "Guess you just bring it out of me."

His gaze darkened for a moment like he was considering how to reply. You could almost see the silent back and forth behind his eyes, the words locked and loaded on the tip of his tongue but a small sliver of logic fought to hold onto them and pull them back down.

He says it anyway.

"That right?" His voice dips lower than you've heard it before, but not out of anger. Something else. Something far more heated and dangerous. "Wonder what else I could bring outta you."

The implication falls between you like an anvil. The weight of it keeps you both still, oblivious to what's going on around you entirely. Somehow, you manage to hold his gaze, but you're swallowing hard and breathing even harder and he can see it. He tracks the movement with those dark eyes, waiting for you to come up with a retort or storm off.

Normally, you'd do the latter, but today, you're fired up. It's always Joel who gets the last flirty word in. It's always Joel who leaves you spinning while he happily carries on with his day. So this time, you close the distance between you and crane your neck up. He doesn't break eye contact but you can tell he didn't expect this. He didn't expect you to get inches away and hold the silence like a knife to his throat. His lip curls into a smile, breathlessly anticipating some flustered, snappy comeback paired with an angry look. Instead, what you say shocks him.

"You couldn't handle it, Miller."

The confidence in your voice is what makes him falter. You clock it and grin, very satisfied with yourself, before turning and heading back to your house. The world begins to wake up around him again. Sounds begin to crescendo slowly in the air: power tools, his crew's voices, cars rumbling down the street. But his eyes are fixed on you. On the way you carry yourself back up your porch and into your house without the courtesy of a single glance back.

When your screen door snaps shut, he blinks. Clears his throat. Then forces his feet to move.

After that, Joel spends the rest of the afternoon praying he doesn't get distracted enough to lose a finger.

***

The weekend is thankfully quiet, but long. You pace around trying to keep busy, but you miss it. You hate it, but you miss peeking out your window to see what Joel is up to. You miss whatever has been brewing between you over the last two weeks. You miss the excitement and electricity that crackles between you when you stomp over there for one reason or another.

By Sunday night, you decide it isn't healthy to be so fixated on this. You're not even sure what's gotten into you. Usually, your life is mundane and quiet, yet this man has burrowed his way in and found a piece of you to bring to life you didn't know existed.

He pisses you off, you remind yourself. It's not good. He's not good. Let this go, the sooner the better.

So on Monday, you force yourself to stay in your house all day. It's hard, but you know it's the right thing to do. You need to focus on work and Joel is just a distraction. A big, annoying, sexy distraction.

On Tuesday, you do the same thing. It's a littler easier this time. You get a decent amount of work done with your earbuds solidly in place. You only look up from your computer to check your window a handful of times. Once or twice you swear you catch Joel glancing expectantly towards your house, but you push down the butterflies in your belly and focus back on the project in front of you.

Wednesday is more difficult because on that day, there's a legitimate reason to be annoyed. Joel's crew is using a portion of your lawn to toss old pieces of wood from the porch next door. When you first notice, you find yourself rising to your feet, propelled by anger. But then you catch yourself and slowly sit back down.

It's fine. They'll clean it up. Don't worry about it.

You finish your workday without stepping foot outside, although you had to close your curtains so you'd stop looking at the mess.

Thursday is loud. Drills pierce the air earlier than usual. You assume it has to do with the rain clouds forming on the horizon, but it still grates your every nerve to hear metal grinding into solid wood first thing in the morning. You pop your earbuds in and turn the volume up. It works, until the rain starts. The water streaking suddenly down your windowpane catches your attention, so you pull your earbuds out and look up.

Across your driveway, Joel's crew is packing up early. They're running, getting absolutely soaked in the rain while trying to get everything valuable back into their trucks as quickly as possible.

Good, you think. Peace and quiet a little earlier today.

Then you see him. Joel. With his dark curls plastered against his forehead and his white shirt sticking to his torso like he had just jumped into a pool. Your brain buffers and your lips part at the sight. You could tell before he's strong, but now his shirt is leaving very little to the imagination.

"Shit," you whisper as you watch, unblinking, while Joel packs up his truck and then turns to help his crew. His muscles flex under his rain soaked skin, water drips furiously down the sides of his head, and you forget how to breathe.

Fuck him for being so irritating and goddamn good looking at the same time.

The image is seared into your brain for the rest of the night. It has you tossing and turning in bed until you can't stand it anymore and you give in, sliding one hand down the front of your shorts in search of relief. It's fleeting and not as good as you hoped, but at least you're able to fall asleep.

Friday is when everything comes to a head.

You're tired from a restless nights sleep and on your third cup of coffee when you notice the end of your driveway is blocked. Your jaw clenches as you push a curtain aside to get a better view and of course, it's Joel's truck.

"Son of a bitch," you mutter, narrowing your eyes like you could destroy the car with your mind if you tried hard enough.

It's fine. He'll move it. He's probably waiting on some delivery, like last time.

But this time, his truck remains parked haphazardly at the end of your driveway all day. When you manage to spot him working next door, he's all smiles, completely unbothered. At last around three you see him walk to his truck, but it's just to get something from the console. The way he strolls back to his crew like he had every right in the world to encroach on your property makes your blood boil.

That's it. You've had enough. You've kept to yourself all week long, it's almost the weekend, you did pretty good. And this isn't unreasonable. He's in your fucking driveway! He's had multiple chances to move and he didn't!

Before you could stop yourself, you reach forward, lift open your window, and lean out.

"Joel Miller!"

He stops dead in his tracks, along with half his crew, to track your voice from your office window. When he spots you, he lifts his hand to his eyes to shield himself from the sun and he grins.

"Yeah?"

"Move your goddamn truck out of my driveway or else I'm havin' it towed!"

His crew chuckles and goes back to wrapping things up for the day. Joel tilts his head at you like he's amused.

"Thought you moved," he says, "haven't heard that smart mouth all week."

"Unfortunately for me, I'm still here," you snap, "now move that hunk of junk right now!"

"She ain't no hunk of junk," Joel says with mock offense. "She's the only lady in my life that never let me down, don't talk 'bout her like that."

"Stop talking about your car like it's a woman, that's gross."

Joel whistles low and comes closer so he doesn't have to shout. "Jealous?"

"Of a car? Give me a break," you snort.

He tsks and inches closer. By now, he's halfway across your driveway. "Why don't you try askin' me real nice, then maybe I'll move it."

"Why don't you get a little closer and I'll make you do it."

The deep groan that rumbled from his chest made your thighs clench.

"Don't tease a fella now," he warns with a playful look, "'cause if you talk like that I'm gonna make you follow through."

You roll your eyes, grateful you have an entire wall between you to hide the way you're practically squirming in place.

"Will you please shut up and move the truck?"

"Don't love the shut up part, but y'did say please, so I will."

"Thank you," you reply, overly sweet with a fake smile. Still, Joel stifles a laugh, entirely enthralled with how riled up he manages to make you.

"No problem. I'll be done in an hour, then I'll get outta your hair."

The smile falls from your face to be replaced with a scowl. "An hour?"

"Yeah. An hour," he confirms, turning back to his job site. "Don't worry. Won't get in the way of your Friday night plans."

"Joel—"

"It'll be longer if you keep flirtin' with me," he says loudly over his shoulder so his entire crew can hear. Your cheeks instantly heat up but you slam your window shut before you can give him the satisfaction of witnessing your embarrassment.

You sit back down and try to focus on work, but it's impossible. Why does this man get under your skin so easily? And why do you find him so irresistible at the same time? It must be because it's been a while since the last time you've been with someone. You've been so focused on work the last several months, you can't even remember the last time you went on a date, let alone took a man home.

Your gaze drifts up against your will. Most of Joel's crew has cleared out next door. There's two guys left plus Joel, cleaning up the rest of the lawn before the weekend. You can see the relaxed smiles on their faces as they chat, probably discussing weekend plans. It makes you wonder what Joel does on the weekends. You have a feeling he's single based on his earlier comment about his truck. So what does a single man do with their spare time?

Probably pick up girls. The thought makes your stomach twist into a knot. You shake your head and focus back on your computer. That's none of your business. Who cares if he's getting laid? It doesn't matter.

Your lips press together when your eyes lift to find Joel through the window again, but now you realize the yard is empty. The remaining trucks are gone. The supplies are picked up. It's quiet.

For some reason, you're relieved when you stand and hurry to your window to find Joel's truck still idle in your driveway. You stand there staring at it while you weigh your options in your head.

It's a bad idea, you think. Joel isn't good for you. He drives you crazy. Yet you have to admit, you can't remember the last time you've felt such a spark with someone before. He's certainly not boring, you'll give him that. And he's funny, in his own way. Would it really be so bad?

Fuck it. You rush to your bedroom to change your shirt for a simple light dress and freshen up as fast as you can, all the while straining to hear for the telltale sound of his motor turning over, then you slow down.

You decide to leave it up to fate. If he's still there by the time you're ready, then you'll go for it. If he's gone, then he's gone, no big deal.

After tapping on some subtle, fruity flavored lip balm and spritzing just a tiny bit of perfume in your hair, you step out of your bedroom, mustering up as much confidence as possible as you walk to your front door. You decide not to practice what to say, that you'll just let it happen organically if it feels right. But when you swing your door open only to be met face to face with Joel, who has one fist raised in the air as if he were about to knock, all that confidence goes straight out the window.

Shit.

"Hey," he says with a crooked grin. His arm lowers to his side and your heart kicks in your chest when you notice his eyes sweep up and down your body before meeting your gaze.

"What can I do for you?" you ask, leaning against the doorframe with a small smile. His grin widens and you feel like you've stepped into yet another trap.

"That's a loaded question, sweetheart," he says, voice low. You suppress a shudder. "Wanted to tell you I'm headin' out. Looks like I got good timin', too." He gestures to your appearance and you look down.

"I'm not going anywhere."

He quirks up an eyebrow. "You got someone comin' over?"

You shake your head and try to bite back the smile that threatens to stretch across your face.

Joel makes a soft noise and casually lifts his arm to rest against the frame, right above your head. He's towering over you like this and you think it's on purpose.

"Just gettin' all dolled up to sit home alone?" he asks. You shrug and cross your arms, hoping your breasts lift when you do. His gaze flickers down quickly, confirming you're successful.

"You think this is dolled up?"

Slowly, he lets himself take in your appearance again, this time making sure you saw.

"Just used to seein' you in shorts or that little robe of yours."

"You don't like my shorts or robe?"

"Never said that."

You have to stifle a laugh and his eyes practically glitter with amusement.

"Do you have any big plans this weekend?" you ask, hoping to come across casual.

"Nothin' too crazy," he tells you, leaning in a little further. "Watch the game. Mow the lawn. Come up with new ways to get you yellin' at me."

You laugh and shake your head. "You've been doing a great job so far."

"Not so sure 'bout that," he says, swiping his palm over his chin. "Been tryin' all week. Didn't get your attention til I parked in your driveway."

The expression on your face instantly melts into one of annoyance. "You did all of that on purpose?"

His enjoyment couldn't be contained. With a huge grin, he replies, "Yes, ma'am."

"The mess on my lawn? The extra early noise?" You could feel your anger rising, flooding your chest with heat.

"That's right," Joel replies. "Parkin' in your driveway was a last resort."

Your jaw tenses as you stare him down in disbelief. "What is your goddamn problem?" you seethe. Your earlier plans to ask if he wanted to come in for a drink vanish. Screw this guy.

"Thought you were dead or somethin'. Consider it my version of a wellness check."

"I don't need you to do a wellness check on me!" you yell, throwing your hands in the air to stop yourself from pushing him. "I've put in the shittiest work this week because of you! Why are you hellbent on bothering me so much?"

"'Cause it's fun and you're cute when you're all pissed off."

"I'm cu—"

The words die in your throat as your brain formally processes what he just said. You're still angry and red in the face, your chest is still heaving from adrenaline, and yet you're frozen solid, blinking up at him like an idiot. A slow smile spreads across his face, revealing that dreadfully adorable dimple.

"Probably the only woman on earth who looks prettier when she's readin' me the riot act," he adds just to watch your mouth open and shut like a fish.

"You—"

You're at a loss for words. The emotional whiplash has you reeling. He's into you, but he's showing it like an elementary school boy. It's kind of endearing but mostly immature, so you stand your ground.

"How old are you? Because you act like you're no older than twelve."

"I'm definitely older than twelve," he chuckles without missing a beat. "But listen... I really am sorry if your work suffered 'cause of me. Lemme make it up to you."

"How could you possibly—"

"Lemme take you out to dinner tonight."

The floor practically gives out from under you. What the hell is going on? The last ten minutes has your brain scrambling and your heart racing faster than any workout. How does this man manage to drive you to the brink of insanity only to pull you back at the last second with something sweet?

"You can yell at me the whole time, if you want," he says once too much time has passed without an answer. If you could see through your rage, you'd be able to pick up on his nervousness: his hand flexes at his side and his weight shifts from foot to foot with anxious energy.

"How about I just yell at you right here?" you snap. Joel laughs.

"If that's what you want, darlin', then sure."

Frustration bubbles up with a growl. You push away from the door to pace up and down your small hallway, raking your fingers through your hair while you attempt to calm down. All the while, Joel remains where he is, planted just outside your door, watching you spiral.

"You seem tense."

"I am tense! Because of you!"

"I can help with that."

You freeze and stare at him, long and hard. All those thoughts you've had about him, those images of him working in the rain, his way of turning a phrase to just barely imply he could ruin you... all of those moments crash down over you like a tidal wave and you decide that maybe he could help, after all.

In the blink of an eye, you close the distance keeping you apart. Your hand fists his sweaty, dirty shirt and you yank him forward. He stumbles a few feet into your house with surprised huff. You see the way his eyes widen right before your mouth crashes over his and finally, for a few blissful minutes, you get your coveted silence.

Joel only needs a moment before he catches up. His lips soften against yours as you pull him deeper into your house. He kicks back one foot and it collides with your door, slamming it closed behind him, then his hands are on you, pushing you gently against the wall so he can take control.

His teeth greedily graze your lower lip and your mouth parts for him with a soft moan. Driven by the sound, his tongue eagerly slips past your lips and his hands drop to cup the backs of your thighs. He hauls you up and your legs circle his waist while your tongues tangle together, hot and angry. It's desperate and messy and exactly what you need. The broad heft of his body pressed up against yours, the heady scent of the outdoors and sweat and him invading your senses, the faint taste of coffee on his tongue... it's utterly perfect.

"Where'd this come from, hm?" he asks, voice low and rough as his lips skim the edge of your jaw. Your head tilts back and your eyelids remain closed, offering your throat up to him without a fight.

"You said you could help," you murmur, craning your neck to give him better access. He finds a spot below your ear and sucks, leaving the beginnings of a mark that will take days to disappear.

"I did," he mumbles against your skin. "Meant a drink or somethin', but I ain't complainin'."

Your chin drops, hunting for his mouth, but then his hand is there tipping your head back, cupping your cheek with his thumb pressed on the underside of your jaw.

"Ain't done," he grumbles before continuing his assault on your throat. You pull your bottom lip between your teeth and let him move your head this way and that, enjoying the way he's taken control. You get the sense he's wanted this as badly as you because he seems determined to taste every inch of your skin. When his mouth travels lower to ghost over your shoulder, you shrug, allowing the strap of your dress to fall and expose more skin. Joel makes a pleased grunt before his lips explore the newly revealed territory.

"Christ, you're soft." It almost sounds like he's talking to himself, the way his voice is full of quiet wonder. A shiver rolls down your spine and you tug impatiently at his hair.

"Joel," you whine, but your thought is cut off with a gasp when he presses himself firmly against the cradle of your hips. You can feel him there, hot and hard behind his zipper. One of your hands drops to his belt and you slip your fingers past his waistband, but just as you're about to reach your target, his body jolts and he swats your hand away with a chuckle.

"Eager thing," he grins before sealing his lips over yours again.

"Bedroom," you manage to mumble when he takes half a second to breathe. "Behind you."

"Bossy," he scolds. His mouth covers yours with a deep groan before he tightens his grip around your legs. He pulls you from the wall and swings around to carry you in the general direction of your bedroom, all while never breaking the kiss.

It's kind of comical the way you stumble into your room. The door swings open too fast and knocks back against Joel's shoulder but it doesn't slow him down. He refuses to pull away to look where he's going, but when his boot collides with a half empty laundry basket on the floor, he curses under his breath and finally tears himself away.

You take the opportunity to squirm out of his grip. When your feet hit the floor, you instantly rise to your tiptoes, lips seeking out the warm skin of his throat. You moan a little when your tongue drags over his pebbled skin, tasting salt and sun that remains there. It's addicting to taste the product of his day's hard work, so you do it again and relish in the way he shudders from your attention.

"Shoulda just told me from the start what you wanted." His fingers fumble with his belt buckle after he hears the quiet sound of your zipper coming undone. "Would've saved us both alotta time, darlin'."

"Shut up," you grumble before your teeth pinch a spot next to his Adam's apple. Your dress falls into a pool at your feet, hands free to help him lift his shirt over his head.

"I need a shower," Joel says after his shirt is discarded. You just shake your head and press your mouth over his collarbone, then his sternum, mapping his body while he works on kicking off his boots and jeans.

"I like you like this," you whisper. He smirks, stepping out of his clothes as best he can with your mostly naked body pressed against his own. "You smell good," you add after a minute, and he seems pleased with that.

"Get on the bed, sweetheart. Lemme see you."

You pull away from the faint red marks you left littering his chest and look up at him through your lashes. "You first."

Joel frowns. "Wha—"

With a grin, you give him a gentle push. His back hits the bedding and he barely has a chance to register it until you're climbing on top of him, legs bracketing his hips with a giggle. He smiles so big that his eyes squint, revealing those damn dimples again beneath his beard. Then his gaze drops to your bare breasts and his eyes darken.

"Fuck, you're pretty," he mumbles, palming them greedily. When his rough thumb grazes your nipple, you lunge down and capture his mouth with a searing kiss.

"You want me like this?" he asks, words tumbling against your swollen lips. "Wanna ride me, baby?"

"Yes," you whine while tugging down his boxers with one hand. His palms glide over your thighs, squeezing and pulling you back and forth so your hips begin to grind down on his lap.

"Take these off 'fore I ruin 'em," he warns you, fingers hooking into the band of your panties. You suppress the shiver of arousal at his tone before you do exactly as he says.

When your bare cunt comes in contact with the underside of his cock, you suck in a deep breath. He's so hot and throbbing against your soaked folds, making every slide of your hips steal your breath away.

Joel watches you move with heavy lidded eyes, seemingly just as lost in the feeling as you. His chest rises and falls a little faster when the tip of his cock presses against your clit and your whole body shudders with a moan he will end up dreaming about for weeks.

Reality hits when a streak of his arousal leaks and smears across your skin, bringing him back down to earth for one second.

"Wait, my wallet—"

He extends one hand towards the floor and your eyes follow, connecting the dots and sliding off him to grab his pants. You find it tucked into his back pocket and toss it his way. He catches it and fishes out a little foil packet from its depths while you resume your spot in his lap, lips parted and heart racing with anticipation as he rolls the condom on with care.

"Alright honey, I'm all yours," he announces, smirking as he folds his arms behind his head. You roll your eyes but still shimmy forward and raise your hips, using one hand against his chest to prop yourself up and the other to guide him to your entrance. The moment you sink down, however, his lips melt into a soft circle and his eyelids flutter shut, filling your chest with pride before caving into the pleasure yourself.

You sigh and tilt your head back when you finally take all of him. The stretch is exquisite, or maybe it's just been a while, but it doesn't matter. All the static that's been electrifying your brain lately, all that stress from work, from pushing yourself too far every single day dissolves away.

"Oh, shit," he whispers, voice cracking. His fingers dig into the meat of your hips. "Feel so goddamn good."

You drop your head forward to look at him, chest and neck all flushed underneath you. Your eyes trace his body as you begin to move, just slow rolls of your hips while you take in every detail: strong arms built from work, not weights. Skin slightly sweaty and a shade lighter where his shirts protect him from the sun. Broad shoulders and a firm stomach, but not too lean. One of your hands drifts over the planes of his chest and the curves of his muscles, humming with admiration as you continue to slowly ride him. His eyes light up and you swear you can see the pleasure in his expression when he clocks your appreciation for him.

"Make yourself feel good, honey," he says, voice low. Your gaze flickers up to his and you share a smile. "Wanna see what you like. Wanna watch you fall apart on it."

Your hips lift and drop a little faster, skin slapping against skin. "Should've known you never stop talking, even when you're getting laid," you tease, and Joel chuckles.

"Bark and bite, I like that."

"Yeah, I figured that out." You gasp when he thrusts upwards, hitting a spot deep inside you can't reach on your own. He notices and files it away for later.

"Takin' notes on me?" he asks, ghosting his palms over your ribs before landing on your breasts, watching in a daze while they bounce in his hands.

"You wish," you pant. He tsks, eyes still fixed on your chest.

"I got a few things figured out 'bout you, too."

You stop moving to glare down at him and catch your breath. His dark eyes dance with amusement at your annoyed look.

"Like what?"

He shrugs but the smile still tugs at the corners of his mouth. "You work hard but don't ever blow off any steam. Don't know yet if it's cause you're too tired or you feel like you don't deserve it."

That stuns you. Even though you're naked and he's currently buried inside you, you suddenly feel very exposed. He sees he might have overstepped, so he backtracks with a joke.

"You can call me anytime and I'll be happy to help you unwind."

You snort and begin moving again, shaking off the unexpected flash of vulnerability. "Why don't you focus on making this memorable enough for me to call you again?"

Joel laughed then, loud. And despite yourself, you giggle.

"Baby, when you're done playin' cowgirl, I'm gonna flip you over and fuck you so hard, you'll feel it on Monday when you're watchin' me through that office window of yours."

Your pussy clenches involuntarily and you begin working faster, fucking yourself on his lap now like you mean it.

"That's a-a lot of big talk, Miller," you reply, breathless from the exertion. You circle your hips and moan loudly when you find an angle you like.

"Ain't just talk," he says, big hands back on your hips, helping you move. His gaze is fixed on where you're connected, on the slick smearing between your bodies, and his stomach tightens. "Been thinkin' 'bout fuckin' you every which way to Sunday, got a head full'a ideas."

"You've been thinking about fucking me?" you repeat almost shyly.

"Don't be coy, now," he tells you, grunting softly when you plant both hands on his chest for leverage. "You know you came over there that first day with these perfect fucking tits pokin' through that little robe on purpose."

"Did not," you breathe, but all the fight has left your body. You're getting close and it's all you can focus on now.

"Uh-huh," Joel says, clearly not believing you. He swallows hard and his cock twitches impatiently inside you. He could come like this, with you riding him, getting yourself off, but he doesn't want to. He doesn't want it to be over just yet, especially if you expect this to be a one time thing.

Shit, he hopes it's not just a one time thing.

"C'mon, baby, let go," he says before mouthing at your breasts. His tongue glides over one nipple then grazes it with his teeth before moving to the other one. You jolt and whine and push your chest even closer to his face.

"Joel..." you whisper. Your muscles are tired, you're slowing down. Sweat dots your forehead, collects behind your knees, and you're gasping for air.

He sits up suddenly, understanding right away what you need, and wraps one arm around your waist while the other braces himself against the mattress. He's able to fuck up into you like this and instantly your legs relax and your body slumps forward, causing him to relinquish the attention to your chest.

"That's it," he coos, "lemme help you."

You rarely accept help. The thought flickers across your mind for a moment before you push it away. This is different. This is just sex.

"M'close," you mumble shakily, fingers digging into the thick muscle of his shoulders, forehead pressed intimately against his.

"I know," he breathes, "give it to me, darlin'."

A few more harsh snaps of his hips has you falling, whimpering his name as white hot heat rolls through your limbs and soaking your brain with a drunken haze. He's murmuring to you the whole time: how tight you feel, how beautiful you look, what a good job you did, how perfectly you fit on his cock. The praise goes straight to your head and fills a much needed void somewhere inside you. Some piece of you that is always pushing you to do more, try harder, work faster... efforts that rarely give you desired results. Or, at least, the results you're after. But this—this man—he's giving you something you desperately crave without even realizing it.

Your breath stutters like you've been knocked off kilter, and maybe you have. Joel thinks it's an aftershock of your orgasm and doesn't think anything of it.

He lifts you off his lap and you gasp, eyes flying open in shock. You have about half a second before you're tossed face down onto the bed next to him, then he's climbing behind you, rough hands gentle on your hips as they pull you back up to your hands and knees.

"That's it," he grunts when you obediently spread your legs and arch your back. He smirks to himself before pushing back inside you with a heavy sigh. "Goddamn, you're warm," he says after sliding slowly all the way in, giving you a chance to adjust to the new position. You bite your lip and breathe through it, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing just how deep he feels like this. How good he feels.

"Fuck me, Joel," you moan, pushing your ass back, encouraging him to move. He rolls his hips forward, slow and deep.

"I know," he pants, "I know what you need."

He moves a little faster. Your ass bounces with every push. He grabs it with one big hand and squeezes before giving you a playful smack and doing it again.

"No, you don't. You barely—barely know me," you remind him. Your words stumble over each other as you feel yourself losing focus again. He feels so good, it's impossible not to.

"Know you better than you think," he shoots back. He smoothes over the spot on your ass he had spanked, soothing the area before sliding his palm up and over your spine. He can feel every knot and twist, every stress point you keep locked away deep inside. His fingers seek them out with ease, like maybe he really can see more than you think.

Still, you're stubborn.

"You only know what I want you to know." Your jaw is clenched, the words escape through your teeth but your point is made. You swallow down a moan and close your eyes, giving in to the way he expertly takes you apart.

"I knew you needed this from the first time we met," he tells you, "could've fucked this out of you back then and saved us both the trouble."

"You like it," you hiss over your shoulder. His pace is relentless now, hips swinging roughly against your ass, burying his thick cock as deep as it'll go. He wants to split you open and make you scream his name. He wants your mind blank and your body satiated. "You like—ohh... f-fuck—"

"What's that?" he goads. Joel drops forward so both his arms bracket yours. His chest presses against your spine and his breath is hot in your ear. You shiver and your jaw falls open.

"You..." Your throat is dry. Heat is building behind your navel and your legs are starting to shake. You swallow and keep talking. "You like trouble. You like it... when I yell at you. Whe—when I—"

"Yeah, I know," he admits, "somethin' real sexy 'bout you when you get all pissed off."

"—Like when I tell you... tell you what to do."

He's silent for a moment but his pace never falters. The wet sound of skin on skin is deafening, addicting. Your face warms as he punches the air from your lungs with every devastating thrust.

"Yeah. Maybe I do."

You hum and breathe deep through your nose. Fuck, he's right. You're going to be sore. You can already feel it.

"So tell me what to do now," he adds. It takes you a second to process it, but when you do, you force your eyes open.

What does he want to hear?

Don't overthink it.

"Touch me," you demand, firm and clear despite how your heart is racing.

Joel doesn't hesitate.

He leans back, leaving your sweaty back exposed to the cool air, and he reaches around to play with your clit. Instantly, you gasp and buck under him.

"Like that?"

If you had any clarity at all you would have shot him back some sarcastic remark because of course the answer is yes. Your entire body is shaking, you can barely speak and he knows it.

"Mhm," you manage, "ye—yeah, just like that. Fuck, keep going—"

"Jesus Christ," he mutters when your body begins to work in tandem with his, meeting him thrust for thrust. "Shit honey, you're gonna make me come like this."

You whine and throw your head back. His fingers don't stop circling your clit. Sweat coats your skin now. Gasping breaths and the sound of his hips meeting your ass over and over are filling the room, punctuated by Joel's deep grunts and your breathy moans.

"Joel—" you whisper as your body locks up. Your muscles ache, your cunt aches even more, but you continue to take it all. Your hand feverishly finds his between your legs and you leave it there, loving the way his fingers feel while they play you like a guitar.

"Sweetheart, I'm gonna—"

But you cut him off before he could finish his thought with a sharp cry. Your orgasm washes over you, harsh and unforgiving. A moment later Joel follows you over the edge with a loud curse, then a rough, deep grunt you can feel in your bones as he empties himself into the condom.

"Oh, holy fuck," he gasps, removing his hand from between your legs. He still thrusts weakly into you as the last of his orgasm streaks through his veins. It's cut short when he feels your body shaking violently under him and just like that, his focus is back on you.

"You okay?"

"I'm—" You're out of breath. Your vision is spotty and your muscles are weak. You swallow hard and try again. "I'm good, just need to—"

You fall onto your elbows and Joel takes the hint. He eases out of you, ignoring the way his chest pangs at the loss of your body, before he collapses into bed and hauls you down next to him.

Now you can rest. You close your eyes and breathe, deep and heavy. He does the same while the sweat cools on both your bodies and slowly, your brain begins to come back online. When it does, you realize his body is loosely curled around yours, keeping you warm and grounding you. It's strangely intimate but you don't pull away. Not yet.

"How 'bout I take you for that dinner now?" he mumbles before carefully pressing a soft kiss against your neck. His sweaty chest is pressed against your back, sealing you together.

"Let's just order something instead," you sigh with your eyes closed.

"Did I tire you out, darlin'?"

"Didn't sleep well," you say, unwilling to give him any credit just yet, "the damn construction crew next door woke me up way too early."

"Uh-huh," he teases before tightening his arm around your middle. It feels nice, so you lean into him just a bit. And for a while it's quiet and peaceful. Your breath steadies, your head clears, but your muscles stay soft and relaxed. Joel doesn't say anything. His thumb rubs idly over your stomach, lips occasionally graze over your back or shoulder, and it feels good until that defensive part of your brain wakes up, right on schedule.

This isn't serious. This didn't mean anything. It was just stress relief. Don't get attached.

"So," you say, voice a little hoarse when you gently slip out of his grip. He rolls onto his back with a soft, reluctant noise and he watches you stand to pick up your clothes. "This is what it takes to finally shut you up, huh?"

You grin at your joke as you press your clothes to your front, hiding your bare body from him like he hadn't just touched every inch of it minutes ago. When he doesn't answer right away with some smart remark, you pause and meet his eye.

He's stretched out on your bed, looking at you like he's seeing something not meant for him. You swallow nervously and try not to let yourself enjoy how good he looks in your space, amongst your things, in your life.

"Yeah," he finally says, "guess that'll do it."

His voice sounds flat and you begin to feel bad, so you clear your throat and inch towards your bathroom. "Let's order something to eat before you go."

Before you go. Joel heard it and got the message. He didn't know what to expect but for some reason, it stings.

"Yeah, what are you thinkin'?" He sits up and reaches for his jeans, where his phone is still tucked into his pocket.

"I don't care. Whatever you like." Then the door to the bathroom quietly snaps shut. Joel sighs once's he's alone and rubs his face before looking around your room. It's neat and organized, nothing like his own. He chews the inside of his cheek while he thinks, but before he lets himself get too lost, he snaps out of it and looks at his phone.

Chinese is a safe bet, so he orders that before standing to rid himself of the condom and get dressed. Suddenly he feels out of place. He's rough and dirty and you're... not. And that's fine. This was fun, it doesn't have to be anything more. Yet when he wanders into your kitchen for water, he can't help but feel an empty pull in his chest at the thought of leaving.