Alina

you were putting on a show of riding his hard cock and he laid there as if you were barely doing anything. it was your fault really. theodore had mentioned how much he hated that cedric diggory was a little too nice to you for his comfort. you always brushed it off and laughed at him insisting it was strictly platonic from not only your side but cedric's too. however, this night you decided to mess with him.

cedric came up to you at the party the slytherins were throwing and joked about the professor you both hate. you noticed theodore watching you two from afar. theodore ignored mattheo who was ranting to him and his grip on his cup got stronger by the minute. you smiled at theodore and turned back to cedric, over exaggerating how "funny" he was being. you dramatically laughed at his jokes, squeezing his arm, and leaned closer to him not breaking eye contact. that was until you noticed cedric suddenly go mute as he looked behind you. theodore grabbed your hand and gave cedric a passive aggressive smile before walking off with you.

that's how you ended up here. being forced to ride theodore as he just watched you. you felt his cock throb inside you as you moved your hips up and down. you let out a soft moan and whined again as you gripped onto his chest.

"theo..." you said. he raised an eyebrow as he turned his head to blow out his smoke, not breaking eye contact. "please. y-you're killing me right now." you felt yourself squeezing around him and closed your eyes as you turned your head to the side. theodore grabbed your face and turned your head back to him.

"don't look away, principessa. keep riding and maybe i'll let you cum." he said making you let out more pathetic noises. "diggory will never get to feel how good this pussy is." it was the first thing he said to you since he told you to ride him 20 minutes ago.

"p-please, just a little noise or something, theo. wanna hear you so bad." theodore knew you loved every noise he made, moans, groans, his voice. it all made you cum so quick but he wasn't giving that to you after the way you acted. he kept staring at you, watching as your thighs began to shake from getting tired. you groaned out of frustration but kept going. something about the way he looked at you made you wetter by the second. his stare was intense and possesive and even though he was keeping his usual cool and collected posture, you noticed his jaw clenching and his tight grip on your thigh. 

you weren't sure you could take much more of his behavior. you moved your hips slower, slowly grinding on his lap. "i bet he would feel so good inside me." you whispered out with a small smirk on your face. theodore slightly raised his eyebrows at you. "you think cedric would agree to fucking me?" you tilted your head as you asked him.

"what?" theodore asked. you opened your mouth to tease him some more but before you could say anything else he grabs your hips and flips you over to lay on your back. he's hovering over you and starts thrusting into you at a faster rate. "y-you're mine. this pussy, t-those tits." with one hand he squeezes your nipple making you whimper as you moan from feeling him fully inside you. "all fucking mine." you smile as he continues fucking you. he leans down and kisses your forehead, your cheeks, and down to your neck. you can finally him as he loses himself from feeling you clench around him. 

There are two thick fingers sliding through your sopping, fat folds— dragging up and down, fingers smearing your syrupy juices all over your messy pussy. One finger gently teases your quivering entrance, barely dipping in before dragging your arousal back to your aching clit. . rolling the bud in circles until you gasp in delight.  You tangle your hands in Zayne’s hair, holding and tugging onto the strands in ecstasy. 

“Nghhh—! Haaah, a- stop teasing meee, Zaynie’. . I-i need moree!” You drool out from your stupor, whimpering when he suckles harder onto your nipple. . moaning softly to send vibrations through your body. 

Your body reacts wonderfully to Zayne’s touch, it’s becoming increasingly harder to deny you that sweet pleasure you desire when you beg so unapologetically to your husband. Two slender fingers pressed against your hole, plunging to hilt of your pussy with a welt squealchh— stretching your walls sooo perfectly it has you choking on a moan. You gasp on his name, toes curling up, shivering helplessly from that burning pleasure. 

He groans against your chest, finally releasing your nipples— teasing the bud by gently nibbling until you squeal. Instead, he roughly drags his tongue against your nipple, to the valley between your mounds, then to your other breast— giving it that same sweet treatment. Zayne’s fingers reaches soo deep, curling and slamming into your velvety walls with an obscure sloshh of your wet cunt.

The inside of Zayne’s hand slaps meanly into your puffy clit with every thrust of his fingers back into your greedy warmth, sending delightful shocks of pleasure through your already exhausted body. You can barely keep up, melting into the sheets as he explores your cunt— fingers somehow pressing deeper into your gooey walls, your arousal coating the base of his digits. 

“Mmh. . doing soo perfectly for me, sweetheart” Zayne murmurs against your chest, foggy glasses pressing into your skin as he tilts his head for a better angle to lap and drag his tongue against your nipple. 

You whine in response, gasping loudly when the temperature of his skin seems to drop too quickly. Synchronized, goosebumps erupts all over your body, shivering from his cool touch. One of Zayne’s hands presses hard onto your belly, fingers still positioning deep into your drooling hole.

Through scrunched up eyes, you can barely see Zayne peering up at you with lust and hungry filled eyes. He gazes at your body, drinking up every single once of your reactions to his touch; twitching, jumping, shaky breaths, he’s remembering every single one. He perfectly curls his fingers until he presses against your g-spot, the hand off your plush belly pressing harder as he thrusts his fingers into your spasming hole. 

“Haah—! O-oh fuck! Nngh. . fe- feels toooo good!” You wail out, eyes rolling back as your back arches once again. 

That subtle heat in your lower belly is now bold and loud, you’re sooo close to cumming. It’s just that, this feels more intense and hotter than you expected. Your skin feels more heated and stimulated.

“Mmhp—! Z- Zayne!” You squeal out, hands tugging at his hair as he groans from the tiny pain.

Your velvety walls quiver and tighten around his fingers, sucking him deeper as he miraculously keeps his same pace— a medium pace but he presses deeper into your pussy with every thrust. You can barely string words together, squealing in ecstasy when that boiling, white hot pleasure explodes in your belly. Your juices squirt from your sopping pussy, the liquid spraying onto Zayne’s arm and hands. 

It’s messy, your whimpering and tears are dripping from your eyes, hips jolting and shaking from how intense your orgasm was. Zayne didn’t seem to mind, eyes shut as he enjoys the way your nipples jolt against his tongue— fingers still steady fucking into your sloppy hole. 

By time you ride your orgasm, Zayne is dragging his tongue against your heated skin until he reaches your dripping and glistening pussy. 

“Mmh? N- no! P- please, I can’t handle it —nghh!” You mumble out barely coherent words, intensely trembling when he drags his tongue through your syrupy folds.

“Just let me clean you up, my beloved” he murmurs against your fat pussy lips, tongue dragging from your hole to your twitching clit— suckling onto the nerve until you squirm.

CALEB

Your breathing is completely erotic and ragged, it’s becoming awfully hard to breathe when the pleasure is overwhelming. You’re twitching and shivering in ecstasy; your body is burning hot, slick and glistening from sweat, lower belly stained by your own juices. It’s not just the pleasure that’s making it hard to breathe, it’s from Caleb— pistoning a thick dildo, molded after his cock, to ram deep into your raw cunt with an obscure squealchh.

“Hnng—! I. . fu- fuckk!” You gasp out between breathless moans, back arching off the bed every time the dildo kisses at your g-spot. 

The toy can easily press into your most sensitive spots, just like Caleb can, it’s delicious the way it stretches out your velvety walls. Your thighs tremble violently, walls spasming and quivering around the toy— sobbing out your boyfriend’s name when he engulfs your clit in his hungry mouth, suckling onto the puffy bud. He drags his tongue against the engorged hood, smearing his tongue against your clit in a slow manner. . up and down.

The dildo was fucking deeper into you now, relentless, each push of the toy was aimed directly at that spot inside you that made your toes curl and your vision blur— eliciting breathless sobs from your swollen lips. Caleb’s lips wrap around your poor clit, sucking hard. You let out a broken yelp of his name, Caleb, eyes rolling back so far as his tongue flicks at the hood of the engorged bud. 

The pleasure is becoming too much for your poor, overwhelmed body to handle. Being so thoroughly filled by a thick dildo while your clit was being suckled and lapped at by a rough tongue; your kind counselor focused on anything beside Caleb and how he’s making you feel sooo good.

“Haaah—! F- feels too good, ngh!” You squeal out loudly, hips bucking widely at the pleasure.

“Mmhp—! Ca- Caleb!” You whine out, tears clinging to the corner of your eyes.

Caleb drags his tongue firmly against the swollen flesh of your bud, sneaking his spit all over your messy pussy. He’s loud, groaning, moaning, and whining into your pussy— the vibrations coursing through your body, eliciting a sob from you. 

“Haah. . mmh? Yes?” Caleb hums out in response to you whimpering out his name, his warm breath fanning onto your exposed clit— there’s a pleasurable wave of heat that pools down to your cunt, arousal gushing around the toy.

He suckles back onto your clit, the non-stop attention he gives you is enough to have you squirming and writhing from the pleasure. Your clit, swollen, buzzing, and glistening from arousal, is throbbing in pleasure when Caleb drags his tongue against the bud over and over. It’s like he can’t keep his mouth unoccupied for too long, he needs to keep his mouth against your pussy. 

“Nngh—! O- oh fuckkk. .” You wail out loudly, velvety walls tightening around the didlo— juices pooling at the base of the toy. 

It’s messy. The wet squealch of your sopping pussy, the obscure slurping sound of Caleb lapping at your clit like his life depended on it. That heat in your lower belly is warm, it has you violently shivering in ecstasy.   

And Caleb, he’s just as messy; unapologetically loud when slurping at your puffy clit. That slurping sounds, squelching, and muffled moans, groans, and grunts against your mound is loud. Once again, he 

hums against your pussy, suckling and lapping at your cunt like his life depends on it, shamelessly moaning your poor, buzzing clit. 

“I ne- need more of you. . give me mo-more. .—“ he murmurs against your clit, one of his hands digging greedily into the fat of your thighs to push you open wider— simultaneously forcing your fat folds to part. 

“Haah. . nngh, w- wanna cumm” you drool out, rolling your head back to lay against the pillow. 

Your hips are relentless, bucking and squirming from him. Yet, Caleb pays no mind to it, he’s too big lewdly and erotically lapping at whatever sensitive skin of yours he can. Perhaps he’s gone completely drunk at how sweet you are— sweet, you taste just like how he imagined you would.

That thick toy, pressing deep and roughly into your g-spot, has you choking on air. And with a loud cry of Caleb’s name, your gooey walls clamp down tightly around the dildo, your juices spraying from your stuffy hole. 

“Oooh-! Fuck fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. .” You babble over words, incoherent as white, hot heat was all you could see. 

The bed is completely soaked in your sticky juices, some of your juices managed to land onto your lower stomach. And yet, he still gently presses the toy back into your drooling hole, slowly plunging in  and out.

“Wahh—! O- oh fuck. . Caleb. shit. . can’t—“ is all that you can say, words dying at the tip of your tongue when he suckles roughly onto your clit.

“C’mon, baby. . one more time! Wanna see you squirt like that again. .” Caleb gulps, eyes completely blown out in pleasure.

⭑.ᐟ # All work belongs to only ME, jadestone2. Translating, plagiarism, copying, posting on another website, claiming as your work will NOT be tolerated, instant block („• ֊ •„)

⭑.ᐟ #TAG-LIST @rinkomei @hon3yydew @kriscr0ss @Dummiebunny @inkwellscholar @Simphony @goobiescooby @Spookytyrantdeer @sunshimmery @prettypeachhh @nyx2021 @staying4straykids @bijuu-naginata @sillyhahaha @yanderecxre @alexander-arcturus-black-lupin-r @Ame-chan-unofficial @McDepressed290 @malleus-draconias-rose @4k1to @thxtmarvelchick @katiralovely @ninahorikoshifr @priestessrosery @blcknebula @blogsforficslol @velourmobius @thequeenofcurses @bimbohkitty @rockyeatrock @voidofryomen @megantheefann @Mcdepressed290 @minivia @cherinchee @mooseheadddd @cxlltothemxon @lamogliedizayne @plzdonutpercieveme @iridescentshine @opalesquegirl @heartyluv @alyakhq @whimsiecat @staarflowerr @madison777x 

"As mentioned prior," your boss starts, skimming through the large amounts of paper tacked onto the wooden clipboard, “you all will be the behind the scenes for the circus’ needed operations, obviously that is to aid with technical support as well as even providing customer support.”

The last part regarding “customer support” earns a couple of groans from the small crowd of employees, even an internal groan from yourself, but you made sure to keep your discontent showing on your face - you would say its due to upholding professionalism, but it is only because you are the first row, facing the boss directly.

“Don’t groan at me, that is required for all events,” he says and tucks the clipboard under his arm, “however, it shouldn’t be as prevalent for this event as the clients stated they would manage all customers themselves.”

The boss begins to ramble on about the separation of tents, where we will be quite far from the circus due to the requests from the circus owners. In fact, we are only really to leave our tents when pinged in from the walkie-talkies if a machine is broken, a tent falls, and many more.

“We will be splitting up shifts; some shifts you will be alone, and some shifts you will have one to two people with you - those are only for high volume days such as weekends, so don’t get too comfortable hanging out with buddies. Understood?”

The meeting completes with an unanimous confirmation, the scraping of chairs fills the room which follows with growing conversations about shifts or the circus entirely.

You immediately check the board containing your shifts for the next few periods where the circus will be in town. You’re annoyed at the fact that you have rarely any days that fall along that “high volume” shifts people, in fact, you’re alone for most of the days you work. Obviously, this is since you are one of the few out of school with completely open availability, while the rest of your coworkers are still in university.

This is so stupid, you internally groan, especially when you’re seeing the groups of full-time university kids obviously smiling when they see they are scheduled with someone else. You run your hands through your hair to calm your annoyance, taking a picture of the schedule and job duties.

The walkie-talkie abruptly fills the small tent with static, causing you to jump in your spot.

“One of the speakers are malfunctioning in one of the tents, is there anyone available to fix it?” a deep voice inquires over the small device. It fills your stomach with dread immediately.

It was your third shift since the meeting. On the first day you expected all kinds of technical issues to sing over the black walkie-talkie. Yet, to your surprise, it was completely silent. So silent that you nearly fell asleep before your shift ended. The second day you expected something to be relayed, and yet again, nothing.

Having not touched the circus at all in terms of equipment or even beyond the ticket gates, you dread what is waiting for you.

Despite wanting to ignore the obvious job duty appearing in front of you, you grab the walkie-talkie while pulling on a thin jacket.

“I’ll be down in just a second. Which tent is it?”

It’s silent for a few seconds before the deep voice responds again: “the red tent. We will have one of the performers show you where the issue is.”

You glance over at the map that displays a simple layout of the circus through color coding. You spot the red tent, somewhat in the middle of the circus, but not too far from your tent. That, again, resides outside of the circus layout entirely.

“Understood, thank you.”

You grab a mini bag of tools to operate on all equipment as well as your lanyard that displays “EVENT STAFF” in big red letters.

You unhook the flaps of your tent as you step outside, immediately meeting the flashing carnival lights that seem to fill the night sky with color.

Dim carnival lights flicker against the damp ground, casting warped colors over empty pathways and silent game stalls. Music hums somewhere in the distance, muffled and distorted enough to sound almost dreamlike. You can’t tell whether the smell lingering in the air is popcorn or something burnt.

You pull your jacket tighter as you begin your trek towards the circus, passing through a small opening between the metal gates surrounding the perimeter of the circus.

As you get closer to the red tent you take notice of the instantaneous rumble of music and chatter that vibrates from your shoes to the tip of your head, some laughter here and there occasionally fills your ears.

You can feel your lanyard tapping against your beating chest with every step, the small plastic clinking against your zipper fold of your jacket. You don’t know why you’re scared; you were never scared of clowns when you were younger, and yet, an unknown rush of adrenaline overcomes your body when the red tent comes into view, your stomach already twisting itself into knots.

Immediately, you spot the entrance of the tent. Not because there are obnoxious signs or lights singing above it, but because of the figure in front of it.

Tall.

Nearing six feet tall, maybe even more, if you didn’t think any better you would’ve thought they were hiring basketball players as performers.

His outfit is designed, albeit, modestly, but still reflects themes of a circus. Loose ivory fabric draped neatly over his frame, accented with deep crimson ribbons and dark diamond patterns stitched along the sleeved. A ruffled collar rests beneath his jaw, slightly wrinkled as if worn far too often, while the pale sheen of his mask displays the dark paint making up his eyes and smile – that were on you the whole time you were looking at him.

“I am so sorry,” you scramble, walking over faster, “I was just surprised how tall you were.” You give a nervous laugh at the end, staring at his masked face.

He doesn’t say anything which immediately tightens the knots in your stomach, a bloom of red reaching your face and ears from an obvious silent treatment.

The bells, you now notice that are attached to the ends of his hat, jingle as his head tilts. The movement is so small, but it does little to appease your nerves that were growing by the minute.

“I am here to help with the broken speaker?” you say in a questioning tone. “Did they tell you I was coming?”

Another few moments of silence where the rumbling of the circus fills.

The performer, you think at least is a performer, nods. The bells jingle with movement.

Without a word, he turns.

For a moment you simply stare, unsure whether the interaction is over or if he expects you to follow. But after a few slow steps, he pauses near the entrance of the tent and glances back toward you.

Waiting.

“Oh, right.”

You quickly adjust the strap of your tool bag before hurrying after him.

The inside of the red tent is much darker than expected. The air smells faintly of dust, old fabric, and something strangely sweet underneath it all. Dim bulbs hang overhead, casting uneven shadows across stacked props and metal rigging. Only after do you notice that the color palette of this tent resembles the performers colors.

Near the center of the tent, surrounded by rows of benches for an audience, sits a large speaker tipped onto its side. They must have tried to fix it themselves, either DIY or through technical experience, but it is obvious from the low static crackling from it every few seconds that it is having issues.

You kneel beside the speaker, setting your bag down and pulling out a screwdriver. The casing looks old — older than you expected for equipment still in use. Your fingers brush against loose wiring near the back panel while the static briefly squeals. It sputters out what must be the intended music to play at high volume, causing you to let out a small gasp of air.

Great, not like that was a little embarrassing. However, hearing how the performer says nothing, you try not to overthink.

As you unplug and move wiring around the back panel, you hear the bells attached to his hat softly chime behind you as a reminder.

You can practically feel him staring down onto your body.

Trying to ignore the growing discomfort crawling beneath your skin, you glance back over your shoulder with an awkward smile. “You don’t have to stand there, you know. I can probably fix this in ten minutes.”

Hopefully ten minutes.

For a second, he says nothing and you assume that this guy is mute or intentionally giving you the silent treatment.

Then, almost too soft to hear:

“I know.”

The voice is timid and soft. The response, while annoying, helps settle some of your nerves.

You muster up some courage, deciding to make a joke you hope lands correctly.

“Oh, so you can talk?” you say lightly with a chuckle, “I thought you were ignoring me.”

You turn around to meet his masked eyes. However, you notice the obvious glow of gold in the eye sockets of the mask. You assume it must be some “aesthetic” touch with the mask.

He immediately shakes his head, the bells jingling violently.

“No,” he says quickly, almost sounding distressed by the accusation. “I can’t speak freely.”

The answer catches you slightly off guard before realizing that you were operating in a circus, and a circus probably entails all sorts of acts and performers, like mimes.

“Oh.” You let out another small laugh, more genuine this time. “Sorry. Your staring was just making me nervous.”

Your attention drifts back toward the speaker, fingers working carefully along the loosened panel. The static crackles again before cutting out completely once you disconnect one of the wires.

You let out a relieved sigh; thankful it wasn’t a permanent issue you’d have to bring up to more people.

“There,” you murmur, before wiping your dust-covered hands onto your pants. “That should fix the - ”

“You are new.”

His voice interrupts so suddenly that your screwdriver nearly slips from your hand.

You glance back at him again. He’s still standing exactly where he was before, hands draped along his side with a slight hunch to his back.

“Uh, yeah,” you answer. “This is my third shift.”

The bells softly chime as his head tilts once more.

“I have not seen you before.”

Something about the statement makes heat crawl up the back of your neck. Not because of what he said, but because of the way he said it, careful and observant.

You force out a lighthearted smile.

“Well, hopefully that means I’m doing my job right.”

You tuck the screwdriver back into the pocket of your bag.

“You will probably be seeing a lot more people like me, to be honest.”

His bells jingle, implying he’s moving.

You look up expecting him to still be standing across the tent, motionless and distant, yet somehow, he is nearly right in front of you. Looking down with glowing gold eyes that seem brighter than before. The movement was so silent without the jingling of the bells notifying you, it causes you to jolt backwards slightly.

“Oh,” you gasp out, clutching the opened ends of your jacket. “Jesus, you scared me.”

The bells sway softly as he tilts his head downward.

Up close, the mask looks pristine, too pristine. The smooth lines of the mask align with what may be his natural face shape, the black paint is unchipped and still vibrant. However, you can still recognize the subtle rise and fall of his breathing beneath it – labored in a way.

“I did not mean to,” he says quietly.

Despite the apology, he doesn’t step away.

Not even a little.

You swallow awkwardly, the gulp was almost comical in noise, reminding you of how dry your mouth was. Suddenly, you are very aware of how much taller he is than you, even slightly bent over.

“Well…” You clear your throat, forcing yourself to look back down at your tools or the props around the stage. “The speaker should be fixed now. Unless you guys break it again tomorrow.”

A small pause follows.

Then:

“You will come back tomorrow?”

The question is soft. Hopeful, almost.

But something about it still makes your stomach twist.

This whole situation is weird, the red alarms ringing along your head remind you exactly how weird this is.

“Sure, if it breaks again,” you exhale, “but us, event staff, aren’t really allowed near the circus otherwise.”

You add the last part in hopes to deplete that hopeful tone in his voice, hoisting the tool bag strap onto your shoulder before meeting his “eyes” once more. The glowing gold stares back at you unblinking.

These costume effects are getting more advanced, you think.

“You are allowed now.”

Your stomach drops slightly.

The statement is simple enough, yet something about the certainty in his voice makes it sound less like reassurance and more like a decision already made for you.

You let out an awkward laugh, attempting to shake off the sudden tension curling around your spine.

“Pretty sure my supervisor would disagree with that.”

The bells jingle softly as he leans down ever so slightly.

“I would not.”

The response comes immediately.

Too immediately.

A nervous smile pulls at your lips as you take a careful step backward toward the tent entrance. “Right… well, luckily you’re not my supervisor.”

For the first time since entering the tent, the performer finally moves aside enough to give you room to pass.

But his glowing gaze never leaves you.

Not for a second.

The apartment is silent aside from the hum of your refrigerator.

Safe.

Normal.

Just how you like it.

You kick off your shoes near the entrance, hanging up your jacket on a nearby hook. You let out a lengthy and heavy yawn, followed by a full body stretch.

Maybe circus performers were supposed to act strange. Maybe the staring was part of the persona. Maybe the glowing eyes in the mask had simply caught the light strangely.

“Maybe, I need another job,” you mutter, rubbing at the nape of your neck.

And yet, for some reason, you still find yourself thinking about glowing golden eyes hidden behind porcelain.

The apartment remains still in the dead of night.

Soft moonlight leaks through the curtains, faintly illuminating the outline of your bedroom. The digital clock beside your bed blinks lazily in the darkness while the rest of the apartment sits undisturbed.

Then, somewhere near the window a quiet metallic jingle resonates through the silent room, yet unheard to your sleeping form.

The unlocked window slowly creaks upward.

Cold night air spills into the room first, followed by the silhouette of a tall figure climbing silently inside. White fabric catches dim traces of moonlight while crimson ribbons sway gently with each careful movement.

The bells attached to the ends of his hat barely make a sound now, muffled as though intentionally restrained.

He closes the window behind him with practiced care.

Golden eyes immediately find you asleep beneath the mountains of blankets enveloping your body. The blankets hide so much it bothers him, yet his heart swells at the image of you sleeping so peacefully. Blissfully unaware of his presence that caused you so much stiffness before. He recalls your tiny form cowering under his eyes that his heart is pounding against his chest at an imaginable rate.

His gloved fingers twitch faintly at his side as he is overcome with a rush of something, he is not too sure of himself.

He wants to touch. The urge is overwhelming to the point where he feels as though he may die.

Slowly, his hands make their way to the ends of the main comforter atop you, slowly pulling that the minutes are grueling to him. Yet, slowly, your skin is exposed to the cold air – to his wandering eyes.

“My lady,” he quietly rasps, huffing hot air as his body looms over your figure.

Very quickly after pulling the covers all the way down to the floor he notices you’re sleeping in nothing but a loose shirt and underwear.

For a moment, he simply stares.

The golden glow behind the mask brightens faintly, almost feverish now, drinking in every exposed inch of skin like a starving man finally allowed a glimpse of something sacred. His breathing becomes shakier with every passing moment, taking in every noticeable feature of your body: every curve, every blemish, every line, or mole sits there for him to see and revel in the moment.

“My lady, you are so beautiful,” he whispers. The words barely sound human, filled with immense amount of want.

For a slight moment your body shuffles into an open position, unfurling from the fetal position you had before. Your hands reaching for something around you – your blanket most likely.

His breath stops with the movement; afraid you’ll awake and witness an unruly side of him.

He knows he shouldn’t be here, that he should take it slow – humans are fragile, after all.

However, all reasoning is quickly going out the window as he takes in your brazen form, almost inviting for someone to touch you.

Your legs are spread, allowing a view of the cute pair of panties barely covering your bottom half. Your loose top does nothing to hide the obvious perks of your nipples.

Your body must be inviting him. That is the only reasoning he can come up with before his hands immediately find placement next to your hips on the bed. His face inches away from your clothed pussy.

His breath ghosts over the thin fabric of your panties, warm and ragged, as if he's been holding it in anticipation for this very moment. His golden eyes glow feverishly, flickering up to meet your peacefully sleeping face.

His lips part slightly, a long, inhuman tongue unfurling from his mouth with saliva pooling from the end. His tongue darts out to trace the outline of your pussy through the cloth, teasing the edges where the fabric meets your slick skin.

Your body responds despite sleeping soundly, a soft gasp fills his ears, yet still not awake. He takes it as confirmation.

The sensation is electric, a slow burn that builds as he presses his entire mouth fully against your clothed pussy, the wet heat of his breath seeping through the barrier, licking feverishly.

Your body slightly twitches to the new sensation; he hopes that whatever dream that has taken hold of you is of him. His hands grip your hips firm yet softly, holding you in places as if you were delicate, something precious he won’t let slip away. His tongue works in delicate circles, the fabric growing soaked and pliant under his insistent pressure.

You let out another small gasp of air, your body squirming slightly more, as if urging him on. He responds with a low growl, the gold hues watching your face contort with every lick. He finally pulls your panties aside. The cool air hits your exposed flesh for a brief second before his tongue delves in without second thought like a ravenous monster.

He knows this is bad, he knows he shouldn’t be doing this. But you taste better than he could ever imagine, lapping with hunger at your folds, feeling your body trembling with unknown pleasure.

His movements grow more fervent, alternating between gentle flicks against your clit and broader strokes along the inner folds of your pussy. He can tell your body is on the brink of something, your body is quivering and your hands are mindlessly fisting for something in your sleep. He doesn’t let up, instead, he delves deeper. His tongue is longer than any human, sinuous and agile, and he wastes no time pressing it forward, sliding it inside you with a slow, deliberate thrust that stretches and fills you. His tongue curls and flexes as he pulls back to only plunge in again, feeling your inner walls clench around him greedily for something more.

His arousal is evident in the way his hips grinding harshly against the bed, the tip of his cock beading with precum.

He can’t stop himself, lost within your scent and taste, and the idea of you trembling beneath him, taking him so well yet barely being able to take in the full length of his cock. He would praise you – worship you, tell you how beautiful and amazing you are.

The wet, slurping sounds of his movements fill the room, a raw symphony that heightens the intimacy, blending with your breathless moans and the occasional growl from his throat, as if devouring you is both a necessity and a revelation.

Your walls begin to tighten unbearably, shuddering with the rest of your body, but it only makes him continue with newfound hunger. The rhythm becomes relentless now, his tongue plunging deeper with each thrust, curling against that sweet, swollen spot deep within your pussy that sends shockwaves of pleasure radiating through your core. Your hips buck involuntarily which earns a small groan from him.

His hands slide up to cradle your ass, pulling you even harder against his face, his painted lips sealed around your folds as if he's savoring every drop of your arousal, his breath hot and erratic against your sensitive skin.

Your body convulses in release, your pussy clenching rhythmically around his invading tongue as the orgasm rips through you. He notes the liquid heat spilling from you, soaking his mouth and chin, and he groans in response, lapping it up greedily.

As the tremors subside, your body seems to collapse back into its peaceful deep slumber once more, your chest heaving and body twitching with aftershocks.  

His own breath is heavy and fast, following the rise and fall of your stomach.

Everything is telling him to do more – taste more.

However, he decides against it, the obvious tent in his pants giving rise to his predicament, and your alarm clock flashing dangerously close to sunrise.

end of part one!

You knew the risks that came with dating a doctor when you and Heeseung had first gotten together. Sure it was amazing dating someone as intelligent and dedicated to career as him but sometimes that came at the expense of your relationship.

Heeseung was very committed to his job despite all the things that came as a consequence of it. Although he was frequently overworked, burnt out or simply just exhausted, he would always push through when it came to work, determined to still provide his patients with the best care possible.

However, at times it felt as though he took his anger, which was truly a culmination of all his stresses from work, out on you even though it wasn’t your fault. At first, he was better at expressing his emotions, better at telling you when he had a rough day at work and needed some alone time which you would always respect. But as of recently it felt like this wasn’t happening as much anymore.

Instead of actually having a conversation and allowing you to comfort and console him, he’d lash out at you when it all got too much. Obviously he never meant to direct his anger towards you but now because of this the two of you argued often.

Tonight didn’t seem to be an exception to this.

You’re in the kitchen preparing a dinner for you and Heeseung to share before he goes to work, when he walks in dawning his hospital attire. “Hee, I thought you weren’t at work until 7 tonight??” You look down at your watch confirming that it’s in fact still five o’clock and that you aren’t running late.

“Sorry sweetheart, i got called in early because of a massive influx of patients,” he gives you a sincere, apologetic look sensing that you’re upset about the rare time the two of you can spend together being interrupted.

“B-but I thought you said tonight we could finally have a few hours of peace to ourselves…just me and you. No work.”

Heeseung sighs, pulling you into his arms. He knows he isn’t the best at expressing his emotions but his heart breaks every time it feels like he’s sacrificing you for his job. “I know sweetheart, I know. But unfortunately the circumstances changed and these people could be really sick. They need me right now.”

That was true, but you also needed him right now. “God why did I have to end up dating someone more dedicated to their career than me. It’s annoying,” you swear it’s supposed to come off as a joke, that you said it in a sarcastic tone. But it doesn’t seem to land that way, instead it sounds more like a criticism or insult.

Immediately you feel Heeseung pull away slightly causing you to miss his warmth as the atmosphere shifts to a much colder one. “W-wait Hee I didn’t…I didn’t mean to say that. I-I’m so sorry…I-i don’t know…”

“You seriously think it’s annoying that I actually care about my job?! Y/N do you know how much effort to get where I am today??” No ‘sweetheart’, no other form of stupid name. You’d royally screwed up here. “You know how much of my life I gave up to go to medical school. So yeah I’d say I am pretty damn dedicated to this job, I’m sorry that’s an inconvenience to you.”

He begins to walk towards the door about to leave but you grab onto his wrist trying to stop him from doing so. “I-I’m sorry Hee…I am so sorry. I-I didnt mean it…I-“

“Y/N, I don’t have the time for an apology right now. I know you might not mean it but I have to go. There are patients who need me.”

Reluctantly, you let go of him and he walks out of the house, the door slamming coldly behind him. Leaving you and your tears of frustration alone in the now tense apartment.

🫀

Heeseung doesn’t let your argument get to him too much once he arrives at the hospital. Like he’d already stressed to you multiple times, there were patients who needed him and he couldn’t let something so silly affect the standard of care they received. So he pushed any thought about you or that incident out his mind, fully switching into professional mode.

He doesn’t bother to check up on you during his break despite the fact deep down he does feel rather guilty for leaving you at home alone in such an upset state. He knows that you never truly meant to hurt him. Sure this job was mentally draining for him but also for those close to him, sometimes because of it they were pushed to the side even when Heeseung wanted them to be close.

He’s quickly snapped out of his thoughts by the voice of his colleague next to him, “Heeseung we need you. Some idiot ran a red light a few blocks away, a pedestrian got hit. They’re being brought here now.”

Within seconds Heeseung shifts from worried boyfriend back into doctor mode. “What’s the ETA??” He asks, voice firm.

“When I last heard it was 5 minutes but that was around 3 minutes ago so they’ll be here any moment now.”

True to his colleagues prediction barely a minute later, the doors to the ER burst open and a gurney is wheeled in. “Female, early to mid twenties, multiple injuries but vitals are stable for now!!” The paramedic shouts over the chaos of doctors and nurses.

To most people for now would’ve been good, it meant nothing bad had happened just yet. But here it almost always meant something would happen shortly afterwards.

That’s when Heeseung catches a glimpse of it. The promise ring he’d bought you a few months ago for your birthday. The tiny, gold ring catches in the glint of the fluorescent hospital lights and that’s when it well and truly hits him.

The woman lying on this hospital bed right now, the one who he has to treat, it’s you. His girlfriend. The one who he hadn’t bothered to check up on even though he knew you were upset. But now here you were, fate had brought you back together in a cruel way rather than the reconciliation that Heeseung would’ve liked.

He shakes that thought away, pulling himself back into the present. ‘Just another patient’ he tries to tell himself. Except this wasn’t just another patient, this was his love, his sweetheart and now her life rests in his hands.

Normally you’d hate him for being this dedicated to his job, but now he has to, for you.

Again, he switches back into doctor mode again. “What’s her BP now??” He asks a nearby nurse as he moves to take control of the room.

“Dropping slightly but still stable.”

Heeseung nods and leans down by your head in the name of ‘standards checks’ before speaking to you, his voice inaudible to everyone else but your unconscious body. “Sweetheart I know you’re probably mad at me right now but do not pull anything stupid on me right now. For me to apologise I need you to be conscious and alive not in this state.”

God he feels like such an idiot. He imagines that if you could see him right now you’d probably start laughing at him for turning into such a big softie.

“Why would someone even go out at night in such dark clothes…” one of the interns comments to another. “Surely she must’ve had a death wish, there was no way anyone would be able to see her.”

Heeseung’s expression darkens, “Are you seriously blaming the victim rather than the imbecile who decided to run a red light and hit her?!” He snaps at them, “The both of you can get out. Evidently you’re here to gossip, not help people.”

“Are you sure you want them out of here?? They could be of use if we need more hands later on??” A nurse whispers, trying to reason with him.

He promptly shakes his head, “If we need more hands we’ll find capable ones instead of ones who do not take the care of our patients seriously.”

He promptly shakes his head, “If we need more hands we’ll find capable ones instead of ones who do not take the care of our patients seriously.”

“Possible internal bleeding…someone page surgery and tell them they need an OR.”

As you’re wheeled towards the operating room, Heeseung stays by your side for as long as physically possible until his credentials can’t allow him to proceed any further. He slides down the wall, face in his hands as the doors slam shut behind you.

🫀

It’s not until a couple hours later when someone finally emerges from the doors. Heeseung has been sitting there, waiting, the entire time. His colleagues don’t bother to question his disappearance—they could already tell from how protective he was being, that there was something between the two of you.

His friend, Jungwon, who also happens to be a surgeon approaches him. “Something up with you Hee?? You know that girl??”

Heeseung looks at him with teary eyes before nodding. “Yeah um…” he pauses trying to think of the correct way to phrase it. After all, your relationship had pretty much been a secret from everyone apart from your families. “Yeah um she’s my girlfriend.”

Jungwon’s eyes widen, “Shit man…I’m sorry. What even happened??”

“I-I don’t know…I got called into work again early today even though I’d promised we could finally have a bit of time to ourselves. We got into an argument because of it but…I had to be here and then I-I don’t know what happened after.”

“Guess the universe made you spend time together after all,” Jungwon murmurs before realising that’s probably not what Heeseung needs to hear at this moment.

The two of them sit in silence for a little while, only the sounds of the busy hospital occasionally breaking it before Jungwon speaks up again. “Well you didn’t hear this from me but…I heard they were taking her to room 203. The nurses up there like you so maybe they’ll let you stay up there even though it’s technically past visiting hours.”

For a second hope glimmers in Heeseung’s eyes as he pushes himself off the wall. “Thanks Jungwon!! I owe you one!!” He says before rushing off towards room 203.

When he finally reaches the room you’re supposedly in he pushes the door open cautiously, just in case Jungwon overheard the wrong room number. But luckily for Heeseung, Jungwon was in fact correct and the nurse who was checking on you swiftly moves aside once she realises your relationship.

Heeseung sinks down into the chair beside your bed. He takes your hand gently into his as though you're something delicate he’s scared to break. Carefully he adjusts his grip to make sure he doesn’t disturb any of the IV tubes in order to help you recover.

The entire situation felt unknown to him. Sure he was accustomed to seeing patients in this condition by now but not the one whom he loves most, you.

He sits there for hours and hours, tears silently falling from his eyes as he waits for you to finally awaken.

It’s not until around the middle of the night when you start to stir, the medication beginning to wear off is causing you to become increasingly uncomfortable and irritable. Before you’re fully awake and able to process where you are Heeseung has pressed the call button for a nurse.

“She needs some more pain meds…” he murmurs to the nurse who nods understandingly.

Despite the pain surging through your body you decide to make an attempt at sitting up instead of laying down. You feel a large, strong hand give you a small push back down onto the bed. “Sweetheart, it's me. Lie back down for me,” he soothes.

“Heeee?? That youuu?? I thought you were mad at meeee??” You slur, only slightly delirious from the pain medication.

He shakes his head, letting out a shaky breath as another tear rolls down his cheek. “No sweetheart I’m not mad…we can have this talk in the morning when you aren’t high out of your mind yeah??”

You gasp in offense, “I can’t be highhh!! You knowww I don’t do stuff like that silly!!”

His hand strokes your cheek tenderly, he manages to let out a watery chuckle at the fact you still have the same humour even in this state. “Right, silly me.”

The combination of the medication and just general exhaustion soon drags you back under into a deep, peaceful sleep. The nurse, who had been adjusting your medication, gives Heeseung a final sympathetic glance before exiting the room.

🫀

The next morning when you properly awaken for the first time since the accident, your entire body aches. It’s not the same sharp, stabbing pain that you vaguely remember being awoken by in the night but it still hurts.

Regardless of the pain you turn your head to see Heeseung slumped in the chair next to you. Still wearing his scrubs from the previous day, still clutching your hand in his.

You gingerly tap his hand wanting to wake him but also not startle him. When it doesn’t work after the first few tries you resort to making noise. “Heeeee,” you groan, your voice hoarse.

At the sound of your weak voice he wakes up almost instantly, scooting to the edge of his chair to be even closer with you. “Oh sweetheart…” he says, his voice already shaky again. Right now he wants nothing more than to embrace you in his arms.

“Hee,” you cough. “W-water please.”

Heeseung grabs the water bottle that one of the nurses had given him earlier on when they realised he had no intention to move from that seat until he had ensured you were okay. He tilts the water bottle up slightly, allowing you to drink easily without having to move too much. “Here. Take small sips, it should help your throat.”

Once your throat feels satisfied with the amount of water it’s received, Heeseung pulls the bottle away, placing it on a small table within your reach. “Never ever do anything like that ever again sweetheart. It scared the life out of me recognising your ring on that bloody gurney.”

“Sorryyyy. But then again I intended on going out for a walk to clear my head not to get hit by a car,” you defend.

“One of the interns said something about you and I genuinely almost lost it at them. I was so so scared of losing you sweetheart.”

You give a partially puzzled look, “So you aren’t mad at me anymore??”

Heeseung shakes his head, “Sweetheart seeing you like that it would be impossible to stay mad at you. Besides I eventually realised that you’d never mean it that way…and I get that work does take up a lot of my time but I would never ever put it over our relationship. I value that more than anything else in the world.”

“I guess I managed to find a loophole. You’re at work and now I’ve become your work aka your patient.”

“You’re unbelievable sweetheart.”

“Maybe,” you say with a shrug. “But I’m also yours.”

extra notes: can’t tell whether i love or hate this but leaning more towards love…

“Mmh…” You blamed the babe growing within you. Surely that had to be the reason, you thought, as you kissed him back with equal fervor, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt while his arms lowered you to your marital bed.

“Heh,” Aerion chuckled under his breath, watching your screwed-shut eyes as you chased his lips, incredibly wanton to him.

Strange, wasn’t it? The way life could twist bitter enemies into lovers before either of them even realized it themselves.

Your breath hitched as his hands slid beneath your knees, spreading your legs apart. He broke the kiss then, drinking in the sight of you— and you became self-conscious, only then realizing that he had made a quick work of your dress and you had been left in nothing but your lace undergarments.

“Y-You can’t...” You pressed your lips together, instinctively touching the swell of your belly. “That won’t… be good for the babe.”

Aerion’s lips curved with visible amusement.

“Oh?” he drawled, violet eyes glinting as they swept slowly over you. “Then why, pray tell, are you dressed like this, sweet wife?”

He was right, this was your own doing. Why would you have chosen such a racy, provokating thing to wear tonight?

Perhaps because—even if you wouldn’t admit it—a part of you had already suspected the evening would end with his hands on you and that dangerously pleased look in his eyes.

“A lesser man might say you want to tempt him,” Aerion mused, tracing a slow finger along your cheek, his smile still unbearably wicked.

“So you are not tempted?” you questioned boldly, meeting his gaze, despite the furious heat blooming across your face.

“No.” He shook his head, leaning closer until his lips nearly brushed yours, his voice smug and smooth as velvet. “I am, after all, a man blessed with extraordinary restraint.”

He said that, yet the way his sharp violet eyes focusing on your lips and the way his fingers drifted between your legs said otherwise.

Really, what man could resist the sight of his wife beneath him— soft, flushed, thoroughly marked as his with a babe in her belly while pretending innocence with those wide, coy eyes?

Your husband decided you were playing with fire, so you would get burned. Aerion suddenly slipped two fingers inside your underwear, before pushing one into your folds that made you wide-eyed and suck in a sharp breath—

“You just boasted about restraint!”

“And I possess it. I’m just choosing not to neglect my good wife,” he countered, his cruel grin returning as he inserted another finger, making you gasp in process.

Perfect. You were unraveling by the second, and he had barely even begun.

“There are, after all, many ways to pleasure an expecting wife like you... without compromising the babe.”

Such was your marital life now— with your prince bringing you pleasure nights after nights with the same greedy devotion he seemed to reserve only for you.

And somehow, this was merely the beginning of your happily ever after.

Ever since the word got out that you were with child, Aerion had become more protective of you.

Suddenly, servants were reprimanded for allowing sharp objects near your chambers, guards trailed several paces behind you whenever you wandered the gardens alone and healthy meals appeared at exact hours, prepared according to whichever elderly midwife had most recently filled Aerion’s head with warnings.

And once again, you noticed it most that afternoon when you merely tried to descend the stairs.

Your husband had been halfway through a conversation with his steward when he abruptly stopped speaking altogether, violet eyes narrowing upon you as you placed a hand against the railing.

“…What are you doing?”

You turned to him, blinking innocently. “Walking.”

Not that he would admit it or realize it himself though.

The steward wisely lowered his head, pretending sudden fascination with the floor tiles as Aerion strode towards you with an irritated frown.

“You nearly slipped yesterday,” he hissed, sliding an arm around your waist as he carefully guided you down the stairs.

You rolled your eyes, remembering how you stepped on a parchment the night before. “It was a harmless accident— and for the last time, no, I wasn’t slipping!”

Truthfully, beneath your outward annoyance, deep inside, you were sort of delighted. Because truly, who would have imagined that the arrogant dragon prince would express concern in ways that were somehow endearing?

Or more like, inconveniently endearing.

“Huzzah,” you declared with the flattest tone the moment your feet reached the bottom step, folding your arms dramatically as you turned to him. “I have survived the dreadful staircase, lord husband. Thanks to you.”

Aerion leveled you with a scathing look.

. . .

Soon, it was evident before the rest of Summerhall too.

You lifted your chin, eyes flashing with righteous indignation. “You dismissed a maid yesterday because she served me tea that was slightly too hot. Aerion, this has become ridiculous!”

The Bright Prince, however, remained unmoved, believing his actions were perfectly sensible. “She had one job yet failed to perform it properly. It could have scalded you.”

“You also confiscated my riding boots!”

“You are not riding, wife—”

Behind the half-open door of the solar across the hall, two spectators to your marital quarrel were your husband’s brothers. Daeron raised an eyebrow while young Aegon looked moments away from bursting into hysterical laughter.

“You are enjoying this far too much, Egg,” Daeron muttered dryly.

“Can you blame me?” he whispered back. “This is Aerion we are talking about. Aerion!” He gestured dramatically towards the door with both hands. “The same brother who once claimed affection was ‘a weakness designed by the gods to humiliate men’!”

Well, neither Daeron nor Egg had ever imagined they would witness their notorious middle brother reduced to hovering over his wife. This was indeed a sight.

“I have ridden since childhood!”

“And now you are carrying my child, woman—”

Daeron gave up at last, a chuckle escaping him too. “I never thought I would live long enough to see Aerion become a mother hen.”

“A dragon hen,” Egg corrected conspiratorially, as he strained his ears, thoroughly enjoying your marital dispute.

Another moon passed by, and the maester advised you to get more rest from now on as later moons will prove far more taxing on your body.

However, a royal summons arrived from King’s Landing not long after. The King himself intended to host a grand celebration tourney in honor of the birth of your first child—and both you and your husband were commanded to remain at court for the remainder of your confinement.

You were leaving Summerhall behind, but that was the least of your concerns.

Aerion would be entering the lists.

You had known he would before he even said it aloud. Aerion Brightflame would sooner stop breathing than ignore an opportunity to prove himself before the realm. Under ordinary circumstances, you would proudly bestow your favor upon him and watch him ride with your head held high, but—

Your labor pains could begin while he was in the field. He would be absent from the birthing chambers. Worse, he could get injured—

The thought should not have affected you as much as it did. Men rode in tourneys, princes fought for glory, and discomfort in childbed is how women served the realm.

And there was also another matter that occupied your mind—

“The shape sits high,” the midwife in King’s Landing had declared while measuring your belly, now heavier and more pronounced than ever in your seventh moon. “And my lady craves salted meats more than sweets. It should be a boy.”

Everyone seemed most pleased by the possibility. Aerion himself made it clear he favored a son. You, however, found yourself uncertain what to feel.

. . .

“Where is my lady wife?”

Contrary to what most might have assumed, Aerion was not particularly pleased to be back in King’s Landing.

The long journey from Summerhall had exhausted you so thoroughly that you had scarcely risen from bed for several days. Sure, the grand tourney stirred his excitement— his grandsire honoring the birth of his firstborn with such spectacle was a distinction not even his cousin Valarr had received.

But King’s Landing was still where rumors of another Blackfyre uprising drifted through like smoke, and with your confinement only weeks away, Aerion found himself increasingly ill at ease. These days, peace only came when you were somewhere within his sight.

“The Lady Lannister is bathing in the royal spring, my prince.”

The spring behind Aegon’s High Hill had long since become property of the royal family, secluded from common visitors and hidden behind walls of stone and tangled greenery. It was meant to be a place of relaxation— but still not somewhere his heavily pregnant wife should be wandering unattended.

His irritation simmered all the way through the winding path. The afternoon sun filtered through the trees overhead as Aerion pushed past hanging branches with impatient steps. He had half a mind to rebuke you the moment he arrived—

But every thought dissolved into dust the instant he saw you.

You stood waist-deep within the pristine spring waters, your body half-submerged in the cool waters. A white shift covered your breasts, but the generous swell of your stomach was exposed under the sunlight. Layers of skirts floated around you like scattered clouds, preserving your modesty while doing very little to dull the breathtaking sight before him.

The sight of you beneath the open sky, drenched in sunlight and water was ethereal. He was rooted near the edge of the spring, spellbound.

At nights, he had worshipped that divine body of yours with greedy hands and wandering lips, had learned every sigh you tried to hide, had savored the softness of your thighs, and the sleepy way you clung to him.

But, in the light of day, the temptation of you felt almost cruel.

His gaze lowered shamelessly over the curve of your figure, lingering upon your barely concealed breasts first, before trailing lower. Pride unfurled hotly in his chest at the sight of your rounded belly, heavy and almost ripe. You carried his blood there.

Aerion exhaled slowly through his nose, though it did little to calm the sudden heat crawling beneath his skin.

You noticed him then.

Your eyes lifted towards to him, and the moment your face softened at the sight of him, whatever remained of his irritation died completely.

“Well?” you asked with a coy smile, tilting your head slightly. “Are you merely going to stare, husband… or are you going to join me?”

Like some bewitched mortal lured by a river nymph from old Valyrian tales, the Bright Prince descended the stone steps without hesitation. His boots scraped against damp stone as he shrugged off his doublet with careless impatience, dark eyes never once leaving you.

By the time he stepped into the spring, he was clad only in his dress shirt and breeches, the cool water curling around him as he crossed towards you and drew you effortlessly into his embrace from behind.

“Standing there as though the Maiden herself rose from the spring,” Aerion murmured against your ear, lips brushing the damp skin beneath it. A faint smirk tugged at his mouth. “Did you intend to torment me in broad daylight?”

“I needed time to think,” you countered softly, though your breath caught when his wandering hands settled upon your chest beneath the wet fabric.

“To think? About what?”

You bit your lower lip as the waters lapped gently around the two of you. The way your face now marred with a frown made him click his tongue.

“Speak, wife. I dislike that look upon your face.”

“You are going to join the tourney,” you admitted at last, turning to face him. “While I may very well be laboring alone.”

“I shall return victorious,” he vowed, his violet irises blazing with conviction. “I shall place every honor I win before you and our child, just as it should be.”

Yet he could feel how you were unsatisfied with his answer. Aerion sighed quietly before lowering his mouth to your shoulder, brushing a kiss against your damp skin.

“You fret too much. The midwives will attend you day and night. You have nothing to fear— I will make certain of it.”

You pursed your lips, feeling foolish for being sullen knowing his presence would be demanded in the field regardless, but you just couldn’t help it.

Aerion fell silent for a moment, his hold around you tightening almost instinctively beneath the water.

“Look at me,” he commanded suddenly, and you did reluctantly, your lips still puckered in dissatisfaction.

Gods, how sweet could you be?

“Stop filling your little head with nonsense. I will return to you unscathed. Your task is to rest, eat whatever strange cravings seize you, and carry my child safely.”

His thumb traced the line of your jaw, tilting your chin up so you couldn’t stray from his gaze.

“Aerion—”

“I’m not finished.” His tone sharpened, though the hand cradling your face remained gentle. “I have ridden in tourneys since I was barely tall enough to hold a lance. I have been thrown from horses, split open, battered, and yet I remain standing before you now. And you think some hedge knight or a lordling’s second son could best me?”

A ghost of arrogance curved his lips. “I think not.”

His violet eyes swept over your face then. Gods, you looked painfully sweet like this— so soft with vulnerability.

“You carry blood of the dragon,” he murmured, his palm spreading over the curve of your belly beneath the water. “Do not insult either of us by imagining I would fail to return to you. And if your labor does begin while I am away...”

The thought seemed to sour his expression. “Then you will endure it exactly as I know you will. Know this, I will return to your side the moment I am able.”

You frowned faintly. “That is hardly comforting.”

Aerion snorted, his lips curling into a smirk. “You married the wrong man if you expected sweet comforts from me, wife.”

You let out a soft scoff despite yourself, some of your spirits finally lifting seeing his infuriating confidence.

“There,” he murmured smugly, poking your cheek when you broke into a little smile. “Are you done sulking now?”

“Perhaps not for long,” you countered lightly, throwing him a look. “If my husband fails to comfort me properly, perhaps I ought to find another man willing to do so.”

Aerion’s expression hardened at once, violet eyes narrowing as his grip around your waist tightened beneath the water.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“I would.”

A dark look crossed his face, then—

He devoured your lips, one powerful arm locked securely around your waist while his other hand tangled in your hair, cradling the back of your head. The cool spring water rippled sharply around you as he deepened the kiss with blatant possessiveness, as though determined to remind you exactly who you belonged to.

When he broke the kiss, you breathlessly clutched his body for support. Breathing heavily against your lips, his voice dropped to a fiercely low growl—

“I wouldn’t let another man touch you while I still draw breath... oh sweet wife of mine.”

“My lady, I trust you are well?”

House Targaryen hosted a grand luncheon several days later within the halls of the Red Keep, gathering notable lords and ladies from across the realm.

You had been navigating the crowd with practiced grace when a warm, familiar voice cut through the ambient noise. Turning, you found yourself facing your cousin-by-law, the Prince Valarr Targaryen.

“Your Grace,” you greeted with a bright smile and slight curtsy. “Yes, I have been well.”

The Young Prince had arrived from Dragonstone with his wife. From where you were, you could see the princess consort mingling with other guests with radiant smile and perfect decorum.

She truly is beautiful, you often thought to yourself. Delicate features, graceful bearings, eyes that seemed almost luminous beneath the candlelight— it was easy to understand why bards wrote songs about her beauty.

Valarr’s gaze dipped towards the unmistakable swell of your stomach, far too prominent now to be concealed beneath your dress.

“Good to see you, really. How far along are you now?”

A wistful smile came to your lips. “Near enough that everyone has begun hovering over me as though I might break apart at any moment.”

That earned a quiet laugh from him. “Still, you are in your most delicate state now. I imagine my cousin can’t stay still as well.”

“Well, one can hardly blame the prince!”

You were still smiling when another voice suddenly joined the conversation. You turned to find Lord Manderly, stout and red-faced from the midday wine, waddled over with an easy grin, goblet in hand.

“With a wife as lovely as you, oh lady—” he slurred, “I imagine Prince Aerion guards you like a dragon atop treasure!”

“You flatter me, my lord,” you answered politely.

Lord Manderly waved a dismissive hand, laughing boisterously. “Not at all, not at all! Though I confess, recalling how the Prince Aerion making quite the spectacle of himself—” he turned to Valarr, “with you, my prince, years ago...”

Ah, that story you once heard in a passing too. The tourney in King’s Landing, in which Valarr and Aerion fought each other in a contest of arms, supposedly, over pride.

Valarr’s expression shifted almost immediately. “My lord—”

But Lord Manderly, either oblivious or too deep in wine to notice, continued on cheerfully enough—

“For a long time, everyone was talking about how the Bright Prince was quite captivated by Her Grace’s beauty! Enough to demand her favor and fight her husband!”

You blinked, realization settled over you with sudden, uncomfortable clarity.

“My lord, if I may.” Valarr cleared his throat, a restrained but cross look on his face. “Words are wind. A tourney floor is full of grand gestures and exaggerated flattery. I assure you, everyone would do well not to concern themselves with such baseless rumors.”

Lord Manderly’s red face drained of color all of a sudden as the weight of his social blunder finally registered.

“Oh Seven— forgive me, my lady!” he said quickly, turning towards you with genuine embarrassment. “A foolish old man’s rambling, is all! My deepest, most sincere apologies— I meant absolutely no disrespect to you, nor to Prince Aerion!”

“Think nothing of it, Lord Manderly,” you replied smoothly, your voice a perfectly crafted mask of composure. “The wine is indeed potent today.”

Relieved to be dismissed, Manderly excused himself with hasty bows, and Valarr quickly steered the conversation back to safer waters before he also excused himself from you.

You appeared to be smiling, but deep inside, you were perturbed.

Your eyes involuntarily scanned the crowded solarium, searching through the sea of silks and velvet until they landed on your husband standing amongst a cluster of knights and courtiers.

And right in that moment, you caught how his gaze followed not you, but the princess consort at the far corner of the hall.

Something inside your chest curled unpleasantly, but you decided not to dwell in it. Whatever might have existed between them once, they meant nothing now, you assured yourself.

So, to distract your wandering thoughts, you reached for the tea the server had offered to you, thinking to calm your nerves—

Until the citrus scent suddenly turned rancid in your senses, so putrid it made your stomach lurch violently that you spit it out and let go of the porcelain cup.

. . .

When a loud crash rang through the solarium, Aerion’s attention snapped instantly toward the disturbance.

And much to his surprise— in the middle of it stood you.

Standing amidst shattered porcelain, you had one hand covered your mouth while the other clutched at your abdomen, your face drained of all color as though you might collapse where you stood.

He immediately dashed towards where you were, nearly sending one poor lord stumbling aside in his haste. The crowd parted instinctively for him as he crossed the hall at frightening speed.

By the time he reached you, his hands were already on you.

“What happened?” he demanded immediately, gripping your arms as his eyes swept frantically over your form.

You swallowed hard against another wave of nausea. “T-The tea…”

“What?”

You shook your head weakly, leaning into him. “It tastes so foul—”

His gaze snapped toward the shattered mess beside your feet. Without hesitation, Aerion crouched and snatched up what remained of the broken cup from the floor. The pungent scent hit almost immediately, and his expression darkened in realization.

Moon tea. He recognized it instantly—it had once been his most reliable safeguard during his years frequenting whorehouse before he wed you. He had forced it into those unkempt women after he was finished with them.

However, even a single sip could have made you miscarry. Someone has intended exactly that.

Aerion surged back to his feet at once, turning towards you so quickly with wild eyes.

“Did you drink any of it?” he demanded harshly. “Did you?”

You shook your head immediately. “No—”

Relief struck him so violently it almost looked painful.

Aerion closed his eyes briefly before gripping the back of your head, pulling you to his embrace. You breathed in his scent, your nausea receded somewhat.

Around the two of you, the solarium had begun to descend into chaos. Voices overlapped in alarm while guards moved swiftly through the hall. Servants looked petrified, several nobles already retreating from the tables entirely as whispers of poison spread like wildfire.

Moon tea. At a royal luncheon. You. When Aerion lifted his head again, the relief in his expression had vanished entirely, and in its place was pure fury.

“Seal the hall,” Aerion ordered sharply, but at first, no one moved quickly enough for his liking. “I said seal the fucking hall!” he roared, his voice cracking through the hall.

Kingsguard immediately surged into motion. Doors slammed shut. Panic rippled through the gathered guests as guards began seizing servants and blocking every exit from the hall.

“No one leaves this place,” Aerion continued, drawing you protectively against his side while his vengeful gaze remained fixed upon the crowd.

“I want every servant, cook, and miserable soul here questioned. One step forward— and I will have your head severed and hung to rot in Flea Bottom for all to see.”

You could feel the hammering of his heart in your ears. His expression still murderous, it was only when he looked back down at you did some fragment of restraint finally return to his face.

“You are certain you swallowed none of it?” he asked again, quieter and softer this time.

You looked up at him, eyes wide and glassy. “I am certain.”

Aerion searched your face carefully, as though trying to convince himself you truly stood unharmed before him.

And in that moment, you found yourself clinging to him instinctively—your steadfast protector amidst the chaos.

The entire castle remained in uproar long after you had been escorted back to your chambers. The server who had handed you that accursed tea was apprehended with ease, and Aerion had gone personally to beat the fear of the gods into him in the dungeons.

Yet another Blackfyre loyalist hidden amongst the castle’s walls like a serpent. No one told you exactly what became of him, but when your prince returned not long after, there had been blood across the cuffs of his tunic that certainly had not belonged to him.

By then, relief and exhaustion had finally overtaken you, dragging you into a light and restless sleep. You awoke sometime later in his arms, to the soft crackling of the fire.

His deep violet eyes were fixed on you, dark shadows under them as if he hadn’t been resting at all.

“You’re not sleeping...?”

“Was about to.”

Though he tried to conceal it, exhaustion lingered plainly across his face. It was rare to see Aerion so bare and vulnerable like this.

The memory came rushing back all at once then. The putrid stench, the panic in the hall, the horrifying realization that someone had wanted you and your child dead before they had even drawn breath—

A tremor ran through you before you could suppress it and your husband engulfed you in his embrace, holding you tightly.

“Cease this at once, wife,” he whispered in your ear, sounding almost irritated despite his obvious and clumsy attempt at comfort. “So long as I draw breath, no one will harm you.”

Your eyes burned. “What did you do to him?”

“What? You expected mercy from me tonight?”

“No.” You shook your head against his chest, your voice small and bitter. “Make him suffer first, and only then do you give him a painful death.”

That actually managed to pull a dark smile from him. “No,” he murmured, his chest rumbling against you. “I will make him rot first. Death is a mercy he has to earn.”

A faint smile tugged at your lips when you pulled away from his hold, though worry still lingered beneath your ribs.

“There.” Aerion brushed a stray tear from your cheek with his thumb, his violet eyes warmer than you had ever seen before. “Better already.”

How both of you reached this point astonished even you. The mad boy who had terrorized your childhood, your enemy who had become your destined husband— Aerion Brightflame was your greatest bane of existence too.

Yet here you were, trusting him more than anyone else alive in Westeros. You knew his cruelty, but you also knew his loyalty—and you knew, just as surely as he would make anyone who ever came close to harm you rue the day they ever did, he would guard you like a dragon atop treasure.

And because of that, the doubt in your voice was softer than it might have once been when you finally asked:

“…What if the babe is a girl?”

Aerion’s brows furrowed immediately, as though the question itself puzzled him.

“A princess,” you explained, fingers drifting protectively over your stomach. “You value a son and heir above all else. But who could have known the will of the gods?”

Aerion stared at you for a long, unreadable moment, as though carefully weighing your words before at last letting out a scoff.

“Mark my words now, wife, for I will not repeat them. I require that this child, boy or girl, survives.”

You blinked, caught off guard by his words. However, his expression hardened slightly afterwards.

“And the same goes for you. If you don’t, I will never, ever forgive you.”

In that moment, you thought you would willingly give everything of yourself to place this child safely into his arms. You would give him a son too, gods willing.

You reached for your husband then, pulling him down into the purest and sweetest of a kiss.

“Be welcome, noble knights and lords of the realm!”

Commoners and nobles alike buzzed with excitement for the grand tourney, their cheers echoing throughout the stands. High up on the royal dais, King Daeron stood, his voice amplified by the roaring acoustics of the arena as he opened the games with salutations.

“...and this glorious day has been made all the more blessed by joyful news,” the good king proclaimed proudly. “My beloved granddaughter has begun her labors! May the Seven grant fortune to every combatant this day!”

Down on the field, however, the King’s words brought no celebration to the man affected most.

Aerion sat atop his warhorse, motionless. Beneath his dark armor, his chest rose and fell in sharp, shallow breaths. While other knights waved jovially at the crowd, his gaze was locked entirely on the opposing end of the lists.

Your pains had started since last night. Through the early hours of midnight, you had endured them in silence, determined to hold yourself together a little longer, yet occasionally curling into him for comfort. By dawn, however, you were in tears, and every hour after that became a new torment for you.

But when it came time to see him off this morning, you had refused to look weak. Sweat clung to your face, and your eyes were glistening, but a fierce light burned right through them. Gripping his armor, you had hissed a command through gritted teeth:

“Win that fucking tourney, and only then are you allowed come back to me, husband.”

“Son of Prince Maekar of Summerhall—”

A violent, dark impatience overtook him.

“Grandson to King Daeron the Good—”

If he had to tear through every knight in the Seven Kingdoms to get back to your side, he would do it. And he would do it quickly.

“Prince Aerion Brightflame of House Targaryen—”

Lowering his visor with a sharp, echoing snap, Aerion gripped his lance. He would come back as a victor, exalted and feared, and you would give him his child.

Your child too. He knew already they would be sweet, just like you.

“—will choose his first opponent!”

. . .

The air inside your birthing chambers was thick by midday, smelling heavily of copper, sweat, and the sharp scent of crushed lavender oil the maids used to soothe the air.

But there was no soothing the agony ripping through you.

Another of your heartbreaking wails filled the air when another violent contraction hit, seizing your spine and twisting your abdomen with a malice that stole the breath straight from your lungs.

“Push, my lady! You must push!” the midwife urged, her hands busy prodding you beneath the heavy linens. “The child is close, but you cannot lose your strength now!”

Your body felt broken, torn apart from the inside out. Your eyes were rimmed with tears of pain and pure exhaustion, blurring the stone walls of your chambers into a hazy nightmare.

Your prince was out there tearing through the realm’s finest knights just to earn the right to return to your side. He was conquering the field for you. For this child.

And you would not fail him on your own battlefield.

“Again!” the midwife commanded when that familiar, iron grip curling and seizing your womb once more. “Now, my lady!”

But the next wave was the most terrible pain you had ever experienced, and your voice cracked into raw scream as you pushed with every last shred of strength left within your body.

You could feel the crushing pressure, the burning fire, the blinding and unforgiving sensation of your very body being split apart—

The midwife cried, her voice rising in triumph over the distant rumble of the arena:

“I see the head! One more, my lady! Give me everything you have!”

. . .

“The Prince Aerion wins!”

He had done it. The second he threw the other knight off his horse and he yielded, he had ridden his warhorse, torn his helmet off, and marched towards your chambers like a specter of death.

In his frantic rush to end his final foe, he had made one careless mistake though— leaving his guard down just enough for a lance to slice a deep gash down his forearm, and now crimson blood dripped steadily onto the pristine floors with every step towards your chambers.

He had been told that you had tethered between life and death—shivering before falling unconscious the moment the child was born.

“My prince! You cannot go in there!” a maid cried, stepping in front of the heavy oak doors, her hands raised in horror. “You are covered in filth! The lady must be kept clean, the babe—”

“Get a maester to dress my wound,” he spat viciously, making the poor girl recoil. “Now.”

The maester came soon, scrambling to pour a wine over the wound to cleanse it, hastily wrapping a fresh linen binding over the gash. It was a rushed job, done in mere seconds. The white linen instantly bloomed with a fresh patch of red. His attendant quickly wiped the sweat and grime from his face and helped him out of his armor as fast he could.

Aerion shoved them away after they were done, turning back to the heavy doors, but the midwives still stood there, hesitant between duty and fear.

His arm burned, exhaustion and blood loss leaving him half-delirious, and they knew better than to deny him his right. Aerion stormed into the chambers, drawing gasps from the wet nurses and your maids. Instinctively, every gaze in the room flickered toward the small bundle wrapped in linen within the cradle beside the hearth.

They expected him to demand his heir. They expected him to look for the son he had so desperately coveted—

But to their surprise, he didn’t even spare a glance at the cradle. Instead, he crossed the room in a few long strides and went straight to where you lay still.

“Wife,” he breathed hoarsely, reaching for you at once. “I am here.”

You were deathly pale. Your eyes fluttered open weakly, as if you were pulling yourself back from a long, deep sleep.

Then, you looked up and smiled at him— so beautiful and tender it nearly broke him.

He gathered you into his arms, engulfing you in a fierce, crushing hug— pressing a hard kiss to the crown of your head. You let out a watery laugh, clutching at him too.

“It is a son,” you told him with pride. “He looks just like you.”

Aerion let out a quiet, disbelieving chuckle at that. In truth, the idea of a daughter didn’t seem terrible to him at all right now.

In fact, now that the thought had crossed his mind, he found himself wanting a pretty little girl too... one who had your eyes and your smile.

History would fondly remember the romance between the bitterest enemies who found the truest of love, for the realm had borne witness to that auspicious day—

The dragon prince has won his triumph, and so has his lion princess.

His grip is tight, as if you might float away, and that feels stupid because you’ve never felt so heavy. Every bone in your body is an anchor tethering you to the bed. Even though it hurts a little, you don’t want him to let go. He hasn’t held you like this before, like you meant something. 

You think about saying something smart like ‘well I’m already sat down’ or, ‘it’s not like i can go anywhere else’ but your throat is too sore. It’s a strange feeling, not scratchy like a cough, more like graze. It feels like a scrapped knee. Inside you. 

Tim’s eyes dart from Jason, to you, to Bruce. He’s searching for something. You know his tells. The same way he knows yours. Sometimes better than you do. Does Tim know this guy too?

Dick shatters the silence. 

“This is Jason-”

“She knows his name.” Damian is the second to break it. His posture is similar to a cat moments before jumping off a ledge. Poised but hesitant. “She just said it, Grayson.” He’s never defended you like this before, if that's what you could call this.

“Both of you shut up.” Jason groans. He exhales, his shoulders tightening up, and then he begins. “I’m Jason.” He says it like it’s supposed to mean something. When you don’t get the hint, he continues. “Todd.” It rings a bell but it doesn’t connect any dots yet. Trying to remember anything feels like flying a kite. You’ll get a running start, and it’ll take off, but then the wind disappears and the kite falls. 

All eyes are on you. Again. This whole thing starts to feel like a monkey's paw. You used to be afraid of that story when you read it in the Manor’s library. It went something like this- A married couple are gifted a mummified monkey’s paw. They are told that each finger of the Monkey’s paw can grant a wish, but it will have disastrous consequences. The husband wishes for money. The next day, his son dies at work, but he gets bereavement pay from his son’s employer. 

When you think about the story, you remember the tiny note written at the bottom of the first blank page. Property of Jason Todd. Return if found. No. That doesn’t make any sense. 

“What?” That's all you can say. You don’t have time to think of a smarter question. 

“Just listen to him.” Tim urges with a tone that borders on patronising. 

“I used to- shit this is hard to explain. Okay. My name is Jason. When I was a kid I lived ‘round Crime alley. Bruce took me in. But I… I ran away, and didn’t come home. But I’m back now.” 

Even under the influence of the medicine, you can smell that bullshit from a mile away. “But you died. Right?” You turn to Alfred in hopes he would back you up, but instead he just gives Bruce a look, a silent message, and says nothing. 

“Jason died. You told me he died. And that doesn’t-” You cut yourself off with a violent cough, one that rattles through you like sharp wind in tunnel. It reverberates loudly thanks to the oxygen mask on your face, making it sound worse than it was. Everyone lurches at once. Like that would do anything. You want to swat them away, but a tiny part of you tells you that if you push them away now, they’ll never come back. You wanted this right? 

You rip the mask off your face and let it dangle around your neck. The first hit of fresh air is magical. Not perfectly fresh, it tastes stale, but it’s a welcome change.

“That doesn’t explain Damian.” you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand when your coughing fit stops. You feel gross. This isn’t the first time you’ve woken up and felt disgusting. Some days you wake up with smeared makeup and new bruises. Sometimes it's in someone else’s bed. But there’s always a cloud of shame. Over time it’s become something akin to a friend in the sense that it’s familiar, and you know it will always be there.

“Why did you tell me he died?” This time your eyes are on Bruce. Something shifts behind his eyes. Not pity or disappointment. Something else you can’t point. “At the time, we thought he did.” He moves his hand from your shoulder and adjusts the neck of the hospital gown. When you took it off, the cord of the oxygen mask had caught on the edge of the neckline. 

He noticed. His movements are slow and tactile, painfully comforting. You could’ve had this before. There could’ve been a world where he held you with that same gentleness, but you weren’t in that world. 

“We didn’t know how to explain it to you.” He concludes. “I thought that, given your past, you’d find it overwhelming.” You want to cry. Or scream. Or hit someone, maybe even yourself. Why does everyone treat you like you’re stupid? 

“How does Damian know him then? Didn’t you think he’d find it ‘overwhelming’?” 

Damian’s posture straightens like he was anticipating a move. “I asked.” He says simply. 

“Oh so it’s my fault for not knowing? Sorry, let me understand this- I was supposed to go up to Bruce and ask ‘hey is Jason still dead or did he crawl out of the grave and come home?’ Is that what you’re telling me?” The room goes uncomfortably quiet. 

Oh no. No no no. It’s going to happen. They’re going to leave you. You pissed them off. That’s why they’ve shut up. The Monkey’s paw. Behind you, the heart monitor starts to escalate. Your chest feels breathless. But you can’t move. 

Alfred clears his throat. He breaks from the crowd around you and ushers Bruce out of his spot without a word. Bruce complies. When Alfred sits, he picks the mask you tore off and holds it to you. Not an order. But you both know it’s not a question. Your fingers shake when you try and put it back on so he has to help. 

“I think it would be best if everyone gave you some space. For a minute” 

The men, and Damian, take the hint. One by one, they slowly filter out. Dick offers a small smile before he goes. Damian straightens out your blanket but doesn’t look at you. Tim delivers an awkward side hug, careful not to touch the equipment around you. Jason does a slight nod, the kind you give a stranger when you hold the door open for them. Bruce is the last to go. He squeezes your hand and stands up. Hesitates. Then his hand holds the side of your face and he plants the smallest kiss on the top of your head. 

You freeze. This has never happened before. Not with him. Ever. Burning tears start to bloom in the corners of your eyes. He leaves before they grow. 

Alfred starts to stand but your hand darts out and holds onto his sleeve. “Don’t go.” He sits back down and gives Bruce a nod. Then the door closes. 

“Good save.” Dick’s sarcasm is laced with anxiety. No one could’ve planned what just happened. Unfortunately for you, you live with detectives who live double lives 24/7. They created that story on the spot. This wasn’t the first time they’d run with a fake story. Undercover work wasn’t anything new, but this was different. “Ran away? Really Jason?”

“What else was I supposed to say?” Jason chides. He tries not to let his face show it, but he’s scrambling. He’d only ever seen you under the influence, so he hadn’t expected you to be so sharp when sober. This was the first time he’s seen you string together coherent sentences without slurring or stammering. 

A lot of things were clicking into place. You had told him about your brothers, now he could put a face, or faces, to the names. The Oolder brother who doesn’t really like you’ was Dick. He pins Tim as the ‘Only nice one’, and all signs for ‘The one who is embarrassed of you’ point to Damian. You never named them, he reasoned you didn’t want to give all your personal life to the big bad Red Hood. Maybe if he pressed you would’ve spilled, but then what good would that have done? 

“You think she’d be completely fine with the pit? That wouldn’t raise any questions at all.” He mirrors Dick’s sarcasm but the nervous edge Dick flavoured it with is gone, instead Jason peppers his bite with venom. 

Bruce clears his throat and all eyes go to him. Jason feels his shoulders rising, squaring up against a potential threat from Bruce. Like a junkyard dog moments before being thrown into a fighting ring. Bite or get bit. Though they were mostly cordial now, not like how it used to be, there was always a part of him that told him he had to always be ready for anything. To get ready to kick and bite. Sometimes that part felt so big that he wondered if it was a part of him, or if this was him. 

“We’re going with Jason’s story.” He decides. And then it’s law. “Jason left, and now he’s back.” It isn’t a perfect story, but he thinks it will pacify you for now. 

He did love you, he does love you even, but in a broken way. When hasn’t Bruce loved someone in a broken way? Instead of holding you and telling you every day that you were enough, he left you to your own devices. He wants to lie and say it was out of nobility, that he believed it was the most ethical choice, but it wasn’t. Every time he smelt the alcohol on your breath, or saw the bruises on your legs and arms, when he caught your eye and saw how spaced out your pupils were, it reminded him of everything he was. 

Self destruction. Trying to escape yourself. Filling an endless void with material goods, with drinks and drugs, just for the hole to deepen. Being surrounded by people but feeling like you're alone in a lifeboat in a cold and uncaring sea. The eyes that dissect your every move. Chasing pleasure from people you won’t remember thinking that’ll change something, and when it doesn’t, you just find someone else and try again. 

You were both in that lifeboat. In the vast unfeeling ocean, and you were clinging to him, begging him to pull you up. There’s a boat in the distance, a ship, salvation. He flags it over. When the boat comes, he climbs the rope ladder. You reach to be pulled up. If he takes your hand, you could lose your balance and fall in. So he leaves you. From the deck, he looks down on your lifeboat. You’re alone. If he lowers the rope back down, it means he’ll have to get back into the boat. He leaves the ladder dangling from the side, an open invitation to a party, but there is no one to escort you there. 

Every time he took someone under his wing, they broke. But, at least they could break together. He left you to fall apart all by yourself. If you were going to drown in that sea, he should’ve held your hand and sunken with you. 

But you were sinking. Every night you were drowning yourself in a bottle. You had called for help, leaving your proverbial SOS in the sky. Leaving empty bottles in plain sight. Cigarette butts on your windowsill. Eating breakfast in front of him with dark eyebags. 

You were shot in front of him. 

Even though you cried and begged not to die, he knew that look. Relief. Maybe your conscious brain couldn’t register it, but he’s certain that subconsciously you knew you’d die if you ran down that alley.

He’ll drop the ship’s anchor. He’ll climb down the rope ladder and pull you up, out of that darkness. He’ll pull you onto the ship’s deck and hoist the ladder back up, so you’ll never go down again. The storm will calm, and the waters will still. 

Bruce exhales, freeing himself from the image. Today, it will change. 

Alfred keeps fretting with the cord of the mask, adjusting it over and over again so it fits snugly without digging into your skin. You want to enjoy the attention, but you can’t focus on anything. Since you woke up, there’s been this… itch. If you can call it that. Like fingernails scratching at your chest from the inside. Everytime you think about the alley, it comes back. When you think about anything but the present, the scratching starts. You’ve felt anxiety before, you’ve had a handful of acid induced panic attacks before, but this feels so much worse. Like the breath in your lungs is slowly being siphoned off by invisible claws. 

Neither of you speak, just enjoying the silence. Well, you aren’t enjoying it, but it’s easier than talking. Everything takes effort, breathing, blinking, thinking. You wonder if you’ve actually woken up, or if you’re still dreaming. 

“You know you’re lucky, don’t you?” Alfred cracks the silence. There’s a tone in his voice. It makes you want to cry immediately. Normally you’re better at hiding that. But when doing literally anything takes effort, it’s easier for the dam to burst. The tears roll down and trickle around the mask, not breaking the seal. Alfred looks taken aback, instead of continuing his lecture, he just thumbs away the tears. 

The anger you felt at your family, for hiding such a big lie, is still hot, but not like fire, like boiling water. It bubbles and rages inside you, but it isn’t quick hot anger, it's a slow, wet kind. The kind that makes you upset for feeling angry. Like a child regretting their temper tantrum after they’ve been put in timeout. 

You lift your head when the door opens again, thinking it’ll be the gaggle of men and boys, but instead a single doctor comes in. His clipboard is snug against his chest and he walks like he’s being watched. That’s when you see a shorter doctor behind him, she carries herself with grace and controlled confidence. 

They greet you but it feels stiff. Something’s wrong. The scratching gets worse. “Good morning Miss Wayne.” the taller one greets, his voice a little shaky. He looks like he’s five minutes from imploding under stress. “How’re you feeling?” 

It takes you a moment to find the words. “Fine. My throat hurts.” You’ve never liked going to the doctors. “My stomach hurts too. But I mean I was shot, so.” Trying to find the humour in the situation backfires because Alfred tuts. That signature, ‘you’re better than this’ tut. 

“Considering..?” Alfred pries. 

The doctor seems to find it funny at least. The taller one gives a small smile and checks the clipboard again before looking back up to meet your eyes. “Well your charts look… surprisingly good. Considering everything else.” 

“Her, uh, condition on intake. Although we can’t trust these charts 100%, there could still be some floating in her system. But all things considered, you’re looking well. But uh, we’ve- uh”’

“I’ll say it.” The short one pipes up, clearly irritated by his stuttering. She takes the board from it and clasps her hands together in front of her. “Miss Wayne, we want to keep you under observation for another seventy-two hours after you’ve healed from your surgery."

“What? You said I was fine-” Alfred takes your hand in his, a silent grounder. The scratching ramps up. “I’m not sick, I didn’t break anything. You already did surgery on me, right? Look, I just want to go home.” 

“This isn’t about the surgery.” Her voice is clipped but there’s a softer ring to it. She’s exercising restraint. “We’re concerned about your substance intake. If you drink, or take recreational substances while on the medication we’ve prescribed for you, I’m not going to beat around the bush, it could turn lethal. Do you understand that? If you continue to abuse your body, you’ll die. We want to keep you under observation to make sure you put yourself in danger.”

Humiliation burns through your core. This is rock bottom. You feel like you’re back in school, getting told off for not doing your homework in front of the whole class. You wish you didn’t ask Alfred to stay. Having him hear this makes everything feel so much worse. 

You really are the worst daughter ever. No wonder they don’t want you. God if Mother could see you now she wouldn’t recognise you. She’d leave you too. If she wasn’t dead, she’d have left you. 

“How long do I have to stay?” Your voice is shaky and embarrassing. 

“Depends on how quick your stitches take to heal up. After that, we’ll keep you on some antibiotics, and once you’ve finished the course, you’ll be okay to go home.” The taller one pipes up. 

When you don’t reply, but instead just nod, they take their leave. “Someone will come by later and ask you some questions. Don’t think too deeply, just answer them honestly.” The shorter one finishes. “I hope you’ll feel better soon.” And you believe she means it. 

The group is divided. Jason and Damian come in just after the Doctors leave. Jason still looks uncomfortable. You wish you could’ve met under different circumstances. It would be nice to be alone. Or make a better first impression. He stands in the back of the room, not making any first moves, so you end up being the first to try and break the ice. 

“I’m not normally like this.” You broach weakly. “I mean, I don’t dress like this normally.” Sheepishly gesturing to the hospital gown and mask. “I’m Y/N.” 

Jason bites back a quick ‘I know’ and instead just dips his head. “Yeah, well, weird circumstances.” he summarises. You notice the scuff marks on his jacket. His clothes don’t look new and pristine like everyone else’s. They’re clearly lived in. The leather is old and worn, with discoloured patches on the elbows. He must work with his hands. 

“I like your jacket.” You try. A tiny, almost invisible, smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. 

“Nah, this thing? It’s ancient. Bet it’s older than Damian.”

Damian’s always envied how easily you connect with people. Something so simple as a trivial compliment, and you’ve already started hacking away at Jason’s icy walls. You had a charm that he lacked, and that drove him mad. How are you able to be so likable, even now when you’re practically strapped down to a bed, unwashed and dressed in thin, flatout ugly attire? 

“How come you two know each other? I know I asked but you didn’t really answer.” You try again. 

“His Mom knew mine. I left home to find her but, well it’s done now.” He puts his hands in his pockets. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be, you didn’t do anything.” He scoffs. 

“Where are the others?” Alfred asks, finally standing up and stretching his legs. You wonder how long he waited for you to wake up. How many hours had he been by your side?

“Outside getting air.” Damian clips. He’s sat back on the same chair he was before he left, right by the bed. 

“Tim’s vaping, isn’t he?” You muse, a tiny laugh fighting it’s way out. God you’d kill for a vape right now. You normally hate it, and tease Tim for 'not committing to real tobacco', but you’d do anything for a hit. Something to damp down the scratching anxiety. 

“Yeah.” Jason makes a noise, something like a laugh but more subtle, like he’s surprised you can still joke in this situation. 

“I’m going to join Master Bruce. Some fresh air will do me good.” Alfred lets go of your hand and you miss the warmth when it slips away. You feel so cold. “I’ll be back soon.” he promises, then closes the door behind him. 

Great. Now you’re stuck with Jason and Damian. You had turned Jason, or rather the vague concept of Jason, into an imaginary friend for years and vented to the fictitious friend about anything and everything. Now he was real, and old, and breathing. Old was a stretch, older is the right word. Part of you felt guilty for warping him into something he wasn’t. He wasn’t yours, it was wrong to impose an identity onto him when he wasn’t there. But it was nice to have a friend that couldn’t leave, or hurt you. 

When the door closes, the shift in the air causes the book peeking out of Tim’s backpack to fall out and hit the ground. You didn’t realise he left it there. Then you recognise the cover, it was the same book you were struggling to get through the other day. The one you were trying to read to pass the time before you went to Roy’s. 

Jason bent down to put it back, but when he saw the cover he paused. He turned it over in his hands, checking the back, then looked up at you. “This yours?” 

“Yeah.” you admitted with a twinge of embarrassment. It was below your reading level. You found it in the library one day and held on to it. It was a little older than what you were used to, to the prose and language was harder to understand. 

“No way. I used to love this one.” He handed it to you with care, like the pages would fly out. During your walks with Red Hood, you never mentioned reading. 

“Really?” He swore he could see something in your posture shift, like you were getting less afraid of him by the minute. “I haven’t gotten super into it yet. Is it good?” 

He starts a small rant about it. Jason doesn’t get to talk about his interests much. There’s a light in his voice, strong but not overpowering and loud, just passionate in a confident way. He knows what he’s talking about, he doesn’t overexplain anything.

To be honest, you aren’t really listening. A lot of it goes over your head. He talks about the themes and the character dynamics, how the time period influences their choices and actions, but a lot of it gets drowned out. You’re just grateful to have something else to focus on. Something other than the beeping of the monitors, the cords rubbing against you, the way the gown feels against your skin. 

Damian doesn’t interject, but you can tell he wants to say something. You won’t force him to. If he feels like it, he’ll talk. It’s still painful to be around him. Everytime you see him in your peripheral vision, you see yourself pushing him. You feel like a monster. A beast. 

Before he can finish, the door knocks. It’s a different doctor this time, one you haven’t seen before. She isn’t dressed like the other ones. She’s not in a lab coat, but instead just wearing a simple button up and a cardigan. She looks more like a teacher than a doctor. 

“Sorry to interrupt, I’m Dr Wyatt, I’m here to ask you some questions.” Her voice is soft and direct. Jason and Damian exchange a look and reluctantly leave the room. 

“You guys are coming back right?” Your hand grips the edge of the thin blanket tightly. 

Damian nods. Then they leave. And it’s just you and the Doctor alone. You haven’t had a single minute to yourself yet and it’s starting to drive you crazy. 

You sit up in the bed when Dr Wyatt sits down in the chair Damian was in. You’re assuming the questions will just be ‘how are your stitches’ or asking if you want anything to eat, but instead she pulls out a thick stack of papers from her bag. They’re stapled together and frighteningly official looking. You decide to take the oxygen mask off if you're going to be talking for a while.

“Now Y/N, I’m going to ask you some questions, and there is no right or wrong answer, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Okay, good. Now, when I ask you a question, you can answer it with ‘Never’, ‘Sometimes’, ‘Most of the time’, or ‘Everyday’. You understand? And again, there are no right or wrong answers. Or judgement. This is only for me and the Doctors to see.”

“Okay.” your voice quivers a little. 

“Alright, I’m going to start now. Over the last two weeks, how often would you say you’ve been feeling anxious, or on edge?” 

Oh. It’s those questions. When Mother died, you remember a lady at the social services building asking you similar stuff. You don’t think it went anywhere though. Maybe it’s the near death experience talking, but you don’t feel shame when you say “Sometimes.” Normally, you placate yourself, you water down your feelings, you make them smaller to avoid bothering anyone. But now you don’t want to be small. You want to be seen.

“Okay, and do you have any trouble relaxing?”

The question makes you snort. That catches her attention. You can already see her scribbling something down. “Something funny?” her tone isn’t accusatory. 

“No,no, it’s just- I’m really good at relaxing. I don’t do anything. I’m not in school. I don’t have a job. Or hobbies, or friends, or anything a normal person does. So I don’t do anything. I lie in bed. Or on the floor. I sleep through the day. I doomscroll. I drink.”

You’ve never said that part outloud. 

“Or I smoke. To pass the time. Then I go out, and I party. It relaxes me I guess. Then I go home and sleep for ages. That’s pretty relaxing.”

She writes something down quickly and looks back up at you. “And do you find yourself becoming easily irritable or annoyed?”

“Back off!” You fight back your growing frustration. It burns in your throat with a flaming chokehold. Your lip quivers under the heat. It’s wet and raw, warm like blood. “I’ve had a shit day and I don’t want to spend another minute here.”

“Sometimes. Yes.” It’s clipped and avoidant. 

“Have you felt little interest or pleasure in things you normally enjoy?”

You have to think for a moment on how to word your answer. “Sometimes. I used to really enjoy partying. But, I uh, I don’t know. Sometimes it feels like I have to do it. Like, if I want to drink, I have to go to a party. I don’t just want to drink at home. If I’m outside, and I’m with people, then it feels less… weird.” 

“And can I ask who these people are? In your own words you ‘don’t have friends.’ So who are you partying with?” 

“I don’t know. Just people. I meet them randomly. I don’t know them. I just talk to them and then we drink.”

“Do you feel down or hopeless?”

“.. Yes. Most of the time”

“Do you feel that you’ve let someone down? That you’ve failed.” 

You think about your college friends' graduation pictures. Of the life you could’ve lived. You think about school. How your grades were only ever fine. Average, bordering on underachieving. “Yes. All the time.”

“Do you have trouble connecting with something, like reading a newspaper or watching TV?

“When I try to read I can’t think about the words. It’s like autopilot. Most of the time. I watch TV but I'm not really taking it in, it just passes over me”

Doctor Wyatt pauses before asking the next question. “Do you have thoughts about dying? That you’d be better off dead, or hurt?” Her eyes are soft as the press. 

“Yes.” it shocks you to admit it. “When… When I got shot, I think I didn’t want to wake up. I didn’t want to die, but I didn’t want to wake up. Does that make sense? It’s stupid. And pathetic. But I just, I don’t know anymore. I think I’m tired of trying, but then I haven’t done anything. I’ve never really tried to be anything. So what's there to be tired of? It’s disgusting.”

“You aren’t disgusting Y/N.” 

You needed that more than you knew. You break into tears immediately. Again. Wyatt hands out a tissue for you and you wipe away the rolling tear drops. One strays against your lip and you taste the salty sweet residue. 

“Do you have repeating memories of a traumatic event? Recent or Old.” 

“Sometimes I see my Mother. And I see her yelling at me. And I see her body at the morgue. I was the only one that could identify her. She didn’t have friends. Or family. She died- killed- when I was thirteen. I used to get nightmares. But, when I drink, or get high, or whatever to distract myself, she’s not there anymore. And then I get sad that she isn’t there. So I go home.” 

“Where’s home?”

“I live with my Father, but my Mother’s home was on Birch street. So I just wait outside the apartment building for her to come out. But she doesn’t.”

“Do you find yourself bothered by strong negative beliefs?”

“What does that mean?”

“Thoughts like, ‘something’s wrong with me’, or ‘the world is out to get me’.”

“Yeah, sometimes. I mean, I know there’s something wrong with me, I know I’m bad, but I think the world is just the world. I think life just sucks for everyone, I think some people are just better at managing it.”

“How many times a week do you consume alcohol?”

“Pretty much every day.”

“When you start drinking do you find yourself unable to stop?”

“Yeah. I just, I don’t want to be sober. I want to stay drunk. Everything feels easier. I feel normal.”

You don’t have an answer. Dr Wyatt continues. “Has a Doctor or a relative expressed concerns, or asked you to cut down?”

“How can you tell when you’re drunk if you’re never sober?”

“Sort of. I mean, my brother does sometimes. But he doesn’t stop me.”

She writes on her notepad and you watch her face twitch. Her eyebrows knit together and droop at the end. When she stops, she gathers the papers together and looks back up at you as she stands up. “Thank you for your time Y/N.”

“It was nice to meet you.” You try a smile but you doubt she bought it. You’ve never been that open with anyone. Not even imaginary Jason. There was something freeing about deciding not to care anymore. “Do you think I can take these things off? I need the bathroom?” 

At Dr Wyatt’s request, someone comes in to take off the mask and the monitor attachments, freeing you from the bed. Your feet feel like mud when you put weight on them. For a second you nearly stumble, but you catch yourself. There’s a tall window in the room, so you prop it open to get some air in. Then you head to the bathroom. 

One day, those feelings will end, right? They have to, because there must be more to life than this. Chasing something that’ll never come. When you look in the mirror, you see her. The thirteen year old you whose life stopped because one man couldn’t take no for an answer. She’s afraid of you. Of course she is. You look awful. Her eyes are still bright. When did that light go out? 

You want to hold her close and never let go. To melt into her and try again. Go back and make better choices. Beg Mother to stay. You’d never fight with her again, you’d be her good girl. You’d let her shout and belittle you without protest if it meant she’d stay. Try school again, make friends that wouldn’t leave you. Become a better person. Be kinder. Less selfish. Choose a normal, uninspiring life. Work a job you feel ambivalent toward. Take home a paycheck that keeps the lights and fridge on. Live in an apartment that feels like it’s actually yours, not just a guest room in a hotel. 

In the blink of an eye, she’s gone, and it’s just you and staring at yourself. The last person you want to see right now. 

WE’RE HERE TEAM WE DID IT. 

GOD LIFE GOT WEIRD AFTER CHP 10. Okay so- I got my apartment keys, only for my landlord to give me the wrong ones, so I had to sort that out. And then when I started to finish packing, i got a tooth abscess which WAS THE MOST PAINFUL THING EVER OMFGG. I literally couldn’t do anything but lie in bed, even sitting up hurt. I was on strong painkillers so I couldn’t focus on anything- ended up just watching Malcolm in the Middle while trying not to move too much. 

I finished my assignments and the universe immediately struck me down. We ball. The sun is shining and I’m moving soon. Life will be good.

LMK what u think, inbox is always open <3

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The steam from the spicy tteokbokki rose between you and Minho, blurring the neon lights of the small, crowded eatery. It was one of those dinners you had every few weeks a tradition that usually involved Minho complaining about his choreography and you complaining about your boss.

"You're doing that thing again," you said, pointing your chopsticks at him.

Minho paused, a piece of fish cake halfway to his mouth. "What thing?"

"The 'I’m-about-to-mess-with-your-life' face. Just say it."

Minho grinned, leaning over the table. He looked around to make sure no one was eavesdropping before dropping his voice. "I’m setting you up. Blind date. This Friday."

You groaned, leaning back into the plastic chair. "Minho, no. The last time you set me up, the guy spent forty minutes explaining the 'lore' of his NFT collection. I'm still recovering."

"This is different," Minho insisted, his expression shifting into something unusually serious. "He’s a good person. Genuine. But he’s… well, he’s in a position where it’s hard for him to meet people who don't want something from him. I told him about you. I told him you’re the most grounded person I know."

"Who is he?" you asked, suspicious of the sudden mystery.

"I’m not telling you his name. If I do, you’ll look him up, you’ll get in your head about it, and you’ll ruin the vibe. Just show up at The Gilded Lily at 8:00 PM. Wear something nice, but be yourself."

You squinted at him. "Is he a criminal? Why the secrecy?"

"The opposite," Minho laughed, picking up his phone. He started typing rapidly, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "I’m actually texting him right now to confirm. I’m telling him exactly who he’s dealing with."

"What are you saying?"

Minho read the screen aloud as he typed: "She’s like a little sister to me, so if you're awkward, I’ll find out. But more importantly, if you break her heart, I’m the one who’s going to make your life miserable."

"Minho!" You reached for his phone, but he pulled it away, laughing.

"I’m serious, Y/N," he said, his tone softening as he tucked his phone back into his pocket. "He’s a big deal to the rest of the world, but he needs someone who sees him for who he is. Just promise me you'll give him a chance. No research, no googling. Just a dinner."

You sighed, looking at your reflection in the window of the shop. "Fine. One dinner. But if he talks about NFTs, I’m calling you to come 'rescue' your best friend."

"Deal," Minho smirked. "But somehow, I don't think you'll be calling me for a rescue this time."

The nervous energy was finally starting to settle in your chest as you stared at the contents of your wardrobe. Friday had arrived far too quickly, and Minho’s cryptic warnings were playing on a loop in your head.

With a frustrated huff, you grabbed your phone and hit the video call button. Naemi’s face popped up almost instantly, her screen shaky as she propped her phone up against a pile of books.

"The time has come!" she squealed, not even waiting for you to say hello. "Show me the options. And don't you dare suggest that oversized beige sweater."

"Minho said 'nice,' but not 'trying too hard,'" you murmured, holding up a floral wrap dress and then a silk skirt.

"Boring. Next," Naemi countered, leaning closer to her camera. "Y/N, this guy is a big deal according to Minho. You need to look like the girl who is completely unfazed by a big deal."

After ten minutes of debating, your eyes landed on something at the back of the closet. You pulled it out: a black, long-sleeve midi dress. It was made of a soft, ribbed material that hugged every curve of your silhouette, ending just below the knee with a subtle side slit.

"That's the one," Naemi said, her voice dropping to a whisper of approval. "Put it on. Now."

While you changed, you kept the conversation going. "I'm still annoyed Minho won't tell me his name. It feels like I'm walking into an ambush."

"Or a fairytale," Naemi countered. "Just think... if Minho is acting this protective, the guy must be someone special. Now, what are we doing with the hair?"

You sat down at your vanity, unpinning the large clips you’d used to set your hair. As you brushed it out, thick, glossy waves tumbled over your shoulders. You decided to leave it open, the dark strands contrasting perfectly against the black fabric of the dress.

"You look incredible," Naemi said, her expression softening. "Seriously, Y/N. You look like a dream. Whoever this mystery man is, he’s going to be the one who's nervous, not you."

You took a final look in the full-length mirror. The dress was sleek, the waves were soft, and you felt more like yourself than you had in weeks.

"Okay," you breathed out, grabbing your small clutch bag. "I'm heading out. Wish me luck."

"You don't need luck," Naemi winked before hanging up. "Just don't forget to text me the second you see his face!"

You took one last deep breath, checked your reflection, and headed for the door. The Gilded Lily was waiting, and so was he.

The cool evening air of Seoul hit your face as you stepped out of the subway station. Even in your heels, the walk to The Gilded Lily was short. You navigated the bustling sidewalks, the black fabric of your dress catching the glow of the overhead neon signs.

As the restaurant's elegant gold-trimmed door came into view, your heart did a nervous little somersault. You smoothed your dress one last time and pushed through.

The interior was draped in soft amber light, smelling of expensive wine and roasted herbs. You scanned the room, your eyes landing on a table in a private corner.

Your breath hitched.

Sitting there was a man who looked like he had been pulled straight from a cinematic masterpiece. Even in a simple, crisp button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up and dark jeans, he radiated an effortless, magnetic energy. His dark hair was styled softly, framing a face that was too beautiful to be sitting alone at a blind date table.

There’s no way, you thought, feeling a sudden urge to turn around and check if you were in the right restaurant. Minho must have sent me to the wrong place.

Someone like Jeon Jungkook doesn't get set up on blind dates.

You hesitated, frozen near the host stand, when his eyes met yours. A look of recognition and then a genuine, shy smile broke across his face. He stood up immediately, his movements graceful yet slightly nervous.

"Y/N?" he asked, his voice a smooth, low melody that made your toes curl in your shoes.

"Yes," you managed to breathe out, finally finding your feet and walking toward him. "And you’re... Jungkook?"

"I am," he said, stepping out from behind the table to greet you. Instead of a stiff handshake, he gave a polite, respectful bow, his eyes never leaving yours. "Minho didn't lie. He said I’d recognize you the moment you walked in because you’d be the one making everyone else in the room disappear."

Well he was charming.

He pulled out your chair for you, his hand briefly hovering near the small of your back in a protective, gentlemanly gesture.

"I hope the subway wasn't too crowded," he added softly as he sat back down, leaning in as if there was no one else in the world but you. "Thank you for coming. I know Minho was being... difficult with the details."

"Difficult is an understatement," you laughed, finally starting to relax under his warm gaze. "He treated your name like a state secret."

Jungkook chuckled, a rich, boyish sound. "In his defense, I asked him to. I wanted tonight to just be... us. Not the big deal he probably warned you about. Just Jungkook."

As the waiter approached, you realized that despite his fame, the man sitting across from you wasn't looking for an audience. He was looking at you, and for the first time all night, the drama of who he was felt miles away.

The waiter left two menus on the table, and for a moment, a heavy, silence settled between you. It was that classic, awkward first date tension, the kind where you’re suddenly hyper-aware of how you’re sitting, where your hands are, and the fact that you’re essentially strangers tasked with being charming.

The fact that he was Jeon Jungkook added a layer of surrealism, but the awkwardness was human. It was the way he fiddled with the corner of his cloth napkin, and the way you took a very long, unnecessary sip of water.

"So," you both said at the exact same time.

Jungkook let out a breathy laugh, ducking his head. "You go first."

"I was just going to say," you started, giving him a small, sheepish smile, "that Minho told me I wasn't allowed to Google you. So, I spent the whole train ride here trying to fight the urge to open Safari."

Jungkook’s eyes lit up, his shoulders finally losing some of their rigidity. "And? Did you win the fight?"

"I did. But mostly because the 3G in the tunnel was terrible," you joked.

He laughed, a genuine sound that reached his eyes, crinkling the corners. "I’m glad. It’s... it’s actually a relief. Usually, people have a whole biography of me memorized before we even say hello. It makes me feel like I’m auditioning for my own life."

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. The sleeves of his shirt were pushed up, revealing the intricate ink on his arm, but his expression was soft.

"To be honest," he admitted, lowering his voice, "I’ve been sitting here for fifteen minutes rehearsing how to say hello without sounding like a dork. Minho is like a brother to me, and he was very clear that if I messed this up, he’d make me do extra choreography for a month."

You felt a bridge forming over the awkwardness. "He told me the same thing. He said if you were boring, I should call him for a 'rescue.'"

Jungkook tilted his head, a playful smirk dancing on his lips. "And? Are you reaching for your phone yet?"

"Not yet," you replied, meeting his gaze. "The night is young, Jungkook. You still have time to tell me about your NFT collection or something equally tragic."

He let out a loud, delighted bark of laughter that drew a few eyes from the neighboring tables, but he didn't seem to care. The stiff idol energy was gone, replaced by a warmth that felt surprisingly intimate.

"I promise," he said, raising a hand as if taking an oath, "no NFTs. Just good food and hopefully... a version of me that isn't on a poster."

As the waiter returned to take your order, the blind date jitters began to melt away, replaced by the effortless hum of a conversation that felt like it had been waiting to happen for a long time.

The appetizers arrived a delicate beef tartare but the food quickly became secondary to the rhythm of the conversation. You realized that the best way to handle his fame was to simply ignore it, treating his stories about world tours with the same casual interest you’d give a friend talking about a business trip.

"You're remarkably calm," he noted, tilting his head as he watched you expertly navigate the conversation. "Usually, when I mention the members or a stadium, there’s a flicker of... something. But you just want to know if the catering was any good."

"Well, was it?" you asked with a grin. "I have my priorities, Jungkook. High-production sets are cool, but a cold buffet is a tragedy."

He grinned, leaning back. "It was actually pretty good. But honestly? I’d rather be in my kitchen at home. I’ve been getting really into making my own ramen broth lately. It takes like twelve hours, and I just sit there watching it simmer like a madman."

"A perfectionist in the kitchen," you teased. "I should have guessed."

"It's therapeutic," he admitted, his eyes sparkling. "Just like gaming. Sometimes I lose track of time. I’ll start a round at 10:00 PM and suddenly the sun is coming up, and I realize I’ve been yelling at a monitor for six hours. It’s the only time I’m not 'Jungkook' I’m just a guy getting frustrated by a laggy connection."

As the main course was served, he pulled out his phone, but not to check social media. "Wait, I have to show you the real boss of my house."

He flipped the screen around to show a photo of a massive, sleek Doberman with soulful eyes. "This is Bam. He looks intimidating, but he’s basically a giant, oversized lap dog. He’s the only one who doesn't care about my schedule or my awards. He just wants his ears scratched."

You leaned in, looking at the photo of the dog leaning against Jungkook's leg. "He’s beautiful. He has your eyes."

Jungkook let out a bright laugh, tucking the phone away. "I’ll take that as a compliment."

The conversation drifted naturally. He told you about the quiet moments in Busan, the smell of the sea, and how he sometimes misses the simplicity of just being a kid. There were moments where his reality seeped in mentioning security protocols or the strange feeling of seeing his own face on a bus but he said it without ego.

It was just his "normal," and you listened without making it a spectacle.

By the time the dessert menus arrived, the initial awkwardness had completely vanished. You weren't thinking about his millions of followers or his chart-topping hits.

You were thinking about the way he gestured with his hands when he was excited about a new game, and how he seemed genuinely curious about your life in return.

"You know," he said softly, stirring his coffee, "Minho was right about you."

"Oh? What did he say?"

"He said you wouldn't be impressed by me," Jungkook smiled, his gaze intense yet kind. "And that's exactly why I’d actually be able to talk to you. He was right. This is the first time in a long time I haven't felt like I'm on a stage."

You felt a flush creep up your neck, the black fabric of your dress suddenly feeling a little warmer. "I’m glad, Jungkook. You’re much more interesting than a poster anyway."

As the dinner came to an end, the waiter discreetly placed the bill on the table. Before you could even reach for your clutch, Jungkook had already tucked his card into the leather folder with a practiced, effortless flick of his wrist.

"Jungkook, wait—" you started, but he held up a hand, a playful but firm smile on his lips.

"Don't," he said softly. "It’s been a long time since I got to just be a guy taking a girl out for a great dinner. Let me have this."

You gave him a mock-reproachful look but relented. As you both stood up and headed toward the exit, the cool night air of Seoul greeted you again. The street was quieter now, the city lights reflecting in the dark windows of the boutiques.

Jungkook turned to you, his hands tucked into his denim pockets. He looked effortlessly cool, but there was a flicker of hopefulness in his eyes. "My car is parked just around the corner. Can I drive you home, Y/N? It’s getting late."

You looked at him for a moment, then slowly shook your head with a small, knowing smile. "It was a wonderful night, Jungkook. Truly. But I have a rule: I don't let dates drive me home on the first night. It keeps things... grounded."

Jungkook paused, clearly surprised for a split second, before a wide, boyish grin broke across his face. He let out a soft chuckle, nodding his head in respect. "Grounded. I like that. Honestly, I should have expected that from a friend of Minho’s."

"It’s just a few stops on the Green Line," you added, adjusting your bag over your shoulder. "I'll be fine."

"Promise to text me when you’re inside?" he asked, stepping a bit closer. The scent of his subtle, woody cologne caught in the breeze.

"I'll text you," you promised.

He stood there, watching you as you began to walk toward the glowing entrance of the subway station.

Just before you descended the stairs, you turned back. He hadn't moved an inch; he was still standing under the streetlamp, a lone, handsome figure in a simple shirt and jeans, looking like a dream you might wake up from.

He raised a hand in a small wave, his grin still visible even from a distance.

As you swiped your card at the turnstile and waited for the train, your heart was thumping a rhythm that had nothing to do with the city's pace. You pulled out your phone and saw a message from Minho: 'Is he a dork? Should I come get you?'

You smiled to yourself, typing back: 'Put your phone away, Minho. He's definitely not a dork.'

The train pulled into the station, and as you stepped on, you were already thinking about the way Jungkook’s eyes crinkled when he laughed and wondering if there would be a second time.

Once you were safely inside your apartment, the silence of the room felt loud compared to the hum of the evening. You kicked off your heels with a sigh of relief and immediately reached for your phone.

To: Jungkook Just walked through my door. Thank you again for tonight, the food was amazing, but the company was even better. Sleep well!

You watched the screen for a moment. Almost instantly, the "typing" bubbles appeared.

From: Jungkook Glad you’re safe. I’m still smiling. Sleep well, Y/N. :)

A small, fluttering feeling took hold in your chest. You set the phone down and headed to the bathroom, pulling your hair back into a messy bun. As you swiped a cotton pad soaked in micellar water across your skin, removing the makeup Naemi had helped you perfect, your phone began to vibrate on the counter.

It was Minho. You picked up on the second ring.

"So?" his voice boomed through the speaker, sounding far too energetic for the hour. "Do I need to find a new best friend or a new brother?"

"Hi, Minho," you laughed, leaning against the sink and looking at your bare face in the mirror. "No one needs to be replaced. Yet."

"He texted me," Minho said, his tone shifting to one of pure smugness. "All he said was: 'She didn't let me drive her home. I like her.' You really pulled the first date rule on a global superstar?"

"He’s not a 'superstar' when he’s talking about his dog and burnt ramen, Minho. He’s just a guy. A very polite, slightly nervous guy."

"He was nervous?" Minho sounded delighted. "Good. He should be. But seriously, Y/N... you liked him? The real him?"

You softened, tracing the edge of the sink with your finger. "Yeah. I did. He’s... he’s a lot more than I expected. He’s grounded, despite everything. It didn't feel like a blind date with a celebrity. It just felt like a date."

"I knew it" Minho murmured, and for once, there was no teasing in his voice. "He needed someone who wouldn't treat him like a trophy. And you needed someone who could actually keep up with you."

"Don't get ahead of yourself," you warned, though you couldn't stop smiling. "It was just one dinner."

"One dinner that ended with him 'still smiling,'" Minho countered. "I’ve known that kid for years, Y/N. He doesn't say things like that just to be polite. Get some sleep. I have a feeling your phone is going to be busy tomorrow."

After you hung up, you finished your skincare routine and crawled into bed. Just as you were drifting off, your phone buzzed one last time. It wasn't Minho.

From: Jungkook I’m heading to Busan for a few days to see my family. It’s quiet there. I’d love to show it to you properly while I’m there?

You bit your lip, the moonlight filtering through your curtains. The drama of his world felt far away, but the spark of something new was very, very close.

You stared at the message, a playful spark lighting up your eyes. You knew Busan was his sanctuary, a place away from the flashing lights of Seoul, and the fact that he was already mentioning it made your heart do a little somersault.

You typed out your reply, keeping the tone light and just a bit teasing.

To: Jungkook Busan? You’re moving fast, Mr. Jeon. Do you usually take every girl you meet to your hometown after just one dinner? 😉

You paused, then added another line:

But honestly, I’ve always wanted to go to Busan. I’ve heard the ocean air there is different.

You hit send and tossed your phone onto the pillow, rolling onto your side. A few minutes later, the screen lit up again.

From: Jungkook Only the ones who make me forget my own name for a second. And you're right the air is different. It’s better. I’ll start planning.

You fell asleep with a smile on your face, the sound of the city outside your window fading into dreams of crashing waves and pepperoni pizza.

The next morning, the sunlight streaming through your window felt a little brighter than usual. You were lounging on your sofa with a cup of coffee when your phone buzzed. Naemi’s face flashed on the screen. You took a deep breath, bracing yourself; you knew she was going to grill you for every single detail.

"Spill! Everything!" she screamed the moment you picked up. "I stayed up until 1:00 AM waiting for a text! Did he have two heads? Was he a weirdo? Please tell me he was at least handsome."

You leaned back, a small smile playing on your lips. "He definitely didn't have two heads, Naemi. And yes... he was incredibly handsome. Like, 'forget-how-to-breathe' handsome."

"Oh, thank god," Naemi sighed dramatically. "And? Was he boring? Did he talk about his crypto-wallet?"

"Not once," you laughed. "Actually, he was the opposite. He was shy, really polite, and we ended up talking for hours about... normal things. Cooking, his dog, how much he loves gaming. He’s actually a huge dork."

"A handsome dork? That’s the most dangerous kind," she warned, though you could hear her grinning. "So, who is he? Minho acted like he was the King of Korea. Is he a CEO? An actor? A secret billionaire?"

You hesitated. You weren't ready to drop the 'Jungkook' bomb just yet. You wanted to keep this feeling the feeling of him just being a guy you liked a little longer before the reality of his fame crashed in.

"He’s... successful," you said vaguely. "In a creative field. Minho was being dramatic because they've known each other for a long time. But honestly, Naemi, it didn't feel like a big deal date. It just felt like... a connection."

"You're being suspiciously mysterious, Y/N," Naemi narrowed her eyes at the camera. "But I'll let it slide for now because you look happy. You have that first date glow. So, is there going to be a second one?"

"He actually already asked," you admitted, your heart fluttering again. "He’s in Busan right now visiting family, and he suggested I come down there to see it with him."

"Busan?! On a second date?" Naemi shrieked. "Girl, he is not playing around! That’s a serious move. Are you going?"

"I think I am," you whispered, looking at the text from Jungkook still sitting on your screen. "I’ve always wanted to see the ocean there."

"Well," Naemi smirked, "just make sure you pack that black dress. Or maybe something even better. If this guy is taking you to the coast, you need to look unforgettable."

You laughed and chatted for another hour, keeping his identity tucked away like a precious secret. You knew the drama would come eventually, but for now, it was just you, a girl with a crush, and a train ticket to the sea.

The excitement was a low hum in your veins as you pulled your small weekend bag from the top of the closet.

You folded a breezy, sundress in a soft cream color, perfect for the coast, and tucked in a pair of minimalist strappy sandals. A few essentials, a light cardigan for the sea breeze, and your favorite book went in next. As you zipped the bag, you felt a flutter of nerves. This wasn't just a trip to the beach it was a trip into his world.

You pulled up the KTX booking app on your phone, scrolling through the departures from Seoul Station. Once you found a seat on the Saturday morning express, you took a deep breath and opened your chat with Jungkook.

To: Jungkook I just finished packing. I hope you’re ready, because I officially booked my ticket. I’ll be arriving at Busan Station on Saturday at 11:30 AM. Don't worry, I brought comfortable shoes just in case you try to make me hike a mountain.

You stared at the sent icon, feeling a mix of adrenaline and shyness. A minute later, your phone vibrated.

From: Jungkook 11:30 AM. Noted. I’ll be the one waiting at the platform looking way too excited. And don’t worry about hiking the only thing I have planned involves zero cardio and a lot of carbs. See you soon, Y/N. Safe travels.

You leaned back against your bed, clutching your phone to your chest. The reality was setting in: you were going to Busan. You were going to see his home, the place that shaped him before the world knew his name.

As you looked around your quiet apartment, you realized that whatever happened next, the normal life you had before that dinner at The Gilded Lily was already starting to change.

The next morning, the sun was barely over the horizon when you dragged your weekend bag to the front door. You checked your reflection one last time casual, light makeup, and a comfortable outfit for the train ride.

You picked up your phone and dialed Minho. He had insisted on being your official chaperone for this journey, mostly because he wanted to tease you one last time before you left his sight.

"I’m outside," Minho groaned into the phone, sounding like he hadn't had nearly enough coffee. "And you owe me big time for this, Y/N. Driving at this hour is against my religion."

You laughed, heading down the stairs. "You're the one who set this up! Consider this your duty as a matchmaker."

When you climbed into his car, Minho was hidden behind a pair of dark sunglasses and a hoodie. He looked over at your small bag and then at your face.

"You look nervous," he noted, pulling out into the quiet Seoul streets.

"I am," you admitted, staring out the window at the passing city. "It’s just... it’s Busan, Minho. It’s his home. It feels like a big step for a second date."

Minho softened, his grip on the steering wheel relaxing. "Look, Jungkook doesn't do things halfway. If he asked you to come down there, it’s because he feels safe with you. Just... keep being yourself. Don't let the BTS stuff get in the way. To his mom and his brother, he’s just the kid who eats too much and leaves his socks everywhere."

"I'll try to remember that," you smiled.

The drive to Seoul Station was quick. As Minho pulled up to the curb, he turned to you, his expression unusually serious. "Have fun, Y/N. And seriously... text me if you need anything. I’m only a couple of hours away."

"I will. Thanks, Minho. For everything."

You stepped out of the car and headed into the massive, glass-walled station. The energy of hundreds of travelers blurred around you, but you were focused on one thing: the platform for the KTX to Busan.

As you settled into your seat and the train began to hum, picking up speed until the Seoul skyline was a distant memory, you pulled out your phone.

To: Jungkook Just left Seoul. Minho says hi, but mostly he just complained about the traffic. See you in a few hours.

You leaned your head against the cool glass of the window, watching the green countryside of Korea fly by, wondering what the boy from Busan had waiting for you at the other end of the line.

The train slowed to a rhythmic halt, and as the doors hissed open, the salty scent of the sea seemed to drift through the station, even before you reached the exit. You gripped the handle of your bag, your stomach doing nervous flips as you followed the crowd toward the arrivals platform.

Then, you saw him.

Jungkook was leaning against a pillar, looking remarkably casual. He was wearing loose, comfortable shorts and an oversized black long-sleeve shirt that made him look cozy and approachable. A baseball cap was tucked low over his eyes, but it didn't hide the way his face lit up the second he spotted you.

He didn't wait for you to reach him. He stepped forward, effortlessly closing the distance between you.

"You actually came," he said, his voice warm and filled with relief.

"I told you I’d be here," you laughed, feeling the tension in your shoulders melt away at the sight of his grin.

He reached out, naturally taking your bag from your hand. "I know, but I’ve spent the last twenty minutes pacing this platform thinking maybe I dreamt the whole dinner in Seoul."

"Well, I’m definitely real," you teased, brushing a stray wave of hair behind your ear. "And I'm definitely hungry."

"Good," he said, adjusting his cap. He looked around for a split second, a quick, instinctual check for cameras, before turning back to you with a soft expression. "Because the first stop isn't fancy, it´s just my favorite place"

As you walked beside him toward the exit, his hand occasionally brushed against yours. In the crowded station, no one seemed to realize that one of the most famous men in the world was walking right past them, carrying a girl's weekend bag and talking about the best pizza place in Busan.

After he stowed your bag in the back of his car, he took you to a small, hidden gem of a restaurant tucked away in an alley near the coast. It was the kind of place that didn't have a flashy sign, just the smell of incredible food and the sound of the locals chatting.

As you both sat at a small wooden table, digging into steaming bowls of Dwaeji Gukbap (pork soup), the conversation picked up exactly where it had left off in Seoul. He seemed even more relaxed here, the salt air of Busan doing wonders for his spirit.

"You know," he said, setting his chopsticks down and looking at you with a shy, hopeful glint in his eyes. "This lunch... it was just the welcome to my city part. It doesn't officially count as our second date."

You raised an eyebrow, a playful smile tugging at your lips. "Oh? So this is just the orientation phase?"

Jungkook laughed, leaning in across the table. "Exactly. I was thinking... if you aren't too tired from the train ride, maybe we could start the actual date tonight? I have a spot in mind. No fancy suits this time, just the beach, some wine, and the best pizza in the city."

He paused, his thumb tracing the edge of his water glass as he waited for your answer. Even though he was a global star who performed for millions, he looked genuinely nervous about whether you'd say yes to a second night in a row.

"A picnic on the beach with pizza?" you asked, tilting your head.

"And wine," he added quickly. "I checked the weather it’s going to be a clear night. We can actually see the stars out here."

You looked at him, really looked at him and saw how much he wanted to share this quiet side of his life with you. "I think Date Two sounds perfect, Jungkook."

His entire face brightened, that famous bunny-smile making a full appearance. "Great. Then eat up. We have a few hours to kill before sunset, and I want to show you the view from the cliffs first."

As you finished your meal, the weight of his fame felt lighter than ever. In Busan, away from the frantic energy of the capital, it felt like you were finally getting to know the boy behind the name.

And as the afternoon sun began to dip lower in the sky, you realized that you were just as excited for this date as he was.

The afternoon turned into a blur of laughter and salt-crusted air. As you walked along the coastal paths, Jungkook pointed out landmarks from his childhood, telling you stories of how he used to run around these cliffs long before the world knew his name. He was funny, surprisingly clumsy at times, and made you feel so comfortable that you almost forgot he was someone who sold out stadiums.

As the sky began to turn a bruised purple and gold, he pulled the car over near a secluded stretch of the beach, far away from the main tourist spots.

"Stay here," he said, holding up a finger as he turned off the engine. "No peeping."

"Jungkook, it’s a car, not a blindfold," you laughed, but you stayed put, watching his silhouette move around the trunk and head down toward the sand.

Ten minutes later, he jogged back and tapped on your window, looking slightly out of breath but wearing a triumphant grin. "Okay. The VIP lounge is ready."

You stepped out of the car and followed him down to the shore. On a small patch of sand, tucked away between two large rocks, he had laid out a mismatched, slightly frayed blanket.

In the center sat two steaming pizza boxes and a bottle of red wine propped up in a shallow hole he'd dug to keep it from tipping over.

There were no fancy picnic baskets or crystal glasses just a stack of napkins he'd clearly grabbed in a hurry and two plastic cups.

"It’s a bit trashy, I know," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck as he sat down and patted the spot next to him. "I realized halfway through that I forgot real wine glasses. And the pizza place didn't have any plates left, so... we're going caveman style."

"It’s perfect," you said sincerely, settling onto the blanket. The contrast was striking the most famous pop star on the planet, sitting on a sandy blanket with a plastic cup of wine and a box of pepperoni pizza. "Honestly, if it were too perfect, I’d think you hired a professional."

"Just me," he smiled, popping the lid of the pizza box. The steam hit your faces, smelling like heaven. "I wanted it to be real. No managers, no stylists, just us."

As you both ate, the atmosphere shifted from the playful energy of the afternoon into something more intimate. The sound of the waves hitting the shore was the only music you needed.

"You know," he said softly, staring out at the dark horizon where the sea met the sky. "People think my life is all gold and lights. And sometimes it is. But sitting here, getting sand in my shoes and eating lukewarm pizza with someone who actually wants to talk to me... this is the only time I feel like I can actually breathe."

He looked over at you, the moonlight reflecting in his dark eyes. The playful dork from the afternoon was gone, replaced by a man who was opening up his world to you, one quiet confession at a time.

The air was getting cooler as the sun disappeared entirely, leaving only the silver glow of the moon dancing on the waves. You shifted on the blanket, drawn to his warmth, and slowly leaned your shoulder against his. To your surprise, he didn't pull away; instead, he adjusted his posture so you could rest your head comfortably against his arm.

"You know, Jungkook," you whispered, watching a distant ship on the horizon. "For someone who has the whole world watching him, you’re actually pretty cool."

He let out a soft, breathy laugh that vibrated through his chest and against your shoulder. He tilted his head slightly, his temple resting against the top of your hair.

"Cool, huh?" he teased, his voice dropping an octave in the quiet of the night. "Most people use words like 'unreachable' or 'intimidating.' I think 'cool' is my new favorite."

He went quiet for a moment, the only sound being the rhythmic pull of the tide against the sand. You felt him shift slightly, and then his hand found yours on the edge of the blanket, his fingers lacing through yours with a gentle, hesitant pressure.

"You're pretty cool too, Y/N," he said softly, turning his face toward you. "Actually, you're more than cool. You’re the first person in a long time who hasn't looked at me like I’m a finished painting. You look at me like I’m still being sketched out. I like that."

You looked up at him, and in the dim light, the distance between you felt non-existent. The pizza was forgotten, the wine was untouched, and for a few minutes, the rest of the world, the fans, the tours, the fame was just noise. Here, on a sandy blanket in Busan, he was just a boy who felt understood, and you were the girl who had managed to see past the gold.

"Do you really mean that?" you asked.

"Every word," he promised, squeezing your hand. "I think Date Two is going even better than Date One. Which is a relief, because I have no idea how I’m going to top this for Date Three."

You smiled, closing your eyes and breathing in the scent of the sea and his woody cologne. "Don't worry about topping it, Jungkook. Just being here is enough."

The wine had made you feel light, but the sound of the crashing waves made you feel alive. Without a second thought, you reached down and tugged off your shoes and socks, tossing them carelessly onto the edge of the blanket.

"What are you doing?" Jungkook asked, his eyes widening with a mix of surprise and amusement.

"I’ve never seen the ocean this close before," you shouted over your shoulder, already sprinting toward the dark, shimmering shoreline. The sand was cool and damp beneath your bare feet, and the moment the icy Busan water swirled around your ankles, you let out a breathless gasp of pure joy.

You turned back to see him still sitting there, silhouetted against the moonlight. "Come on, Superstar!" you laughed, gesturing wildly. "Don't tell me you're afraid of a little salt water!"

That was all the provocation he needed. Jungkook kicked off his own shoes and was on his feet in a second. He was fast terrifyingly fast. You shrieked and began to run along the shoreline, your feet splashing through the shallow surf, but he was gaining on you with effortless, athletic strides.

"You're going to pay for that Superstar comment, Y/N!" he yelled, his voice full of boyish mischief.

You tried to pivot, but the wet sand was slick. Just as you felt his hands reach out to catch your waist, your heel hit a soft patch of silt. You lost your balance, letting out a yelp of surprise as you tumbled backward. Jungkook, unable to stop his momentum, tried to grab you to steady you, but instead, he ended up going down with you.

Splash.

The shock of the cold water hitting your back made you lose your breath for a second. You surfaced, drenched from head to toe, your cream-colored dress clinging to your skin. Jungkook was right there next to you, sitting in knee-deep water, his black long-sleeve soaked through and his hair dripping into his eyes.

For a heartbeat, there was silence. Then, Jungkook pushed his wet hair back and started to laugh a deep, chesty sound that echoed off the rocks.

"I thought we agreed on zero cardio!" he choked out, wiping salt water from his face.

"You pushed me!" you accused, though you were laughing so hard your stomach hurt.

"I tried to save you!" he countered, splashing a bit of water toward you. He looked at you then, his laughter softening into a warm, wet glow. "You're a mess, Y/N."

"We're both a mess," you replied, looking at his dripping clothes.

He reached out, his hand wet and cold but his touch incredibly gentle, and brushed a wet strand of hair away from your cheek. The playfulness lingered, but as you sat there in the surf, the waves bubbling around your waists, the atmosphere shifted.

He was looking at you with an intensity that made the cold water feel like it was simmering.

"Best second date ever" he whispered, his face just inches from yours.

A violent shiver raced through your body. Your teeth began to chatter, the adrenaline of the fall fading into the reality of the freezing water.

Jungkook noticed immediately. His playful expression vanished, replaced by instant concern. "Wait right here," he said firmly, standing up and wading out of the surf with much more grace than before. He jogged back to the car, his own wet clothes clinging to him, and pulled a thick, oversized wool blanket from the backseat.

He was back at your side in seconds. He didn't just hand you the blanket, he stepped behind you and wrapped it tightly around your shoulders, tucking the edges in so that you were completely cocooned in the warmth.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, his voice laced with guilt as he rubbed his hands over your arms through the fabric to generate heat. "I should have been faster. I shouldn't have let you fall."

"It was... worth it," you managed to say through your shivering, looking up at him.

He let out a small, relieved huff of air, his forehead resting against yours for a brief second. "You’re freezing. Come on, let's get you back to the car. I’m turning the heater on full blast."

As he led you back toward the car, his arm stayed firmly around your waist, holding you close to his side. Despite the wet clothes and the shivering, there was a warmth radiating from him that had nothing to do with the car's heater. You realized then that for all the Superstar titles he held, the way he was looking at you right now full of protective, genuine care was the most impressive thing about him.

The moment you stepped into the car, the blast of the heater felt like a warm embrace. Jungkook quickly adjusted the vents toward you, making sure the heat reached your shivering frame. He reached for the console, and a second later, a soft, acoustic melody began to play low enough to be intimate, but loud enough to fill the comfortable silence.

You sank into the leather seat, wrapped tightly in the wool blanket, feeling a deep sense of contentment. Despite the wet hair and the cold sand between your toes, you were genuinely happy.

Jungkook glanced over at you, a soft smile playing on his lips as he saw you relaxing. "Feeling a bit better?" he asked softly, his hand lingering near the gear shift. "I don't want you catching a cold."

"I'm okay now," you laughed, pulling the blanket closer to your chin. "It’s actually really cozy in here."

He nodded, though his eyes remained focused on you for a beat longer than necessary. "I should probably get you somewhere warm where you can take a hot shower. Where am I taking you, Y/N? Which hotel are you staying at?"

"It’s just a small place near Gwangalli Beach," you told him, giving him the name of the boutique hotel you had booked. "It’s not far from here."

"I know the spot," he said, shifting the car into gear. "It’s quiet. Good choice."

As he drove through the winding streets of Busan, the city lights blurred outside the window.

When he pulled up to the front of the hotel, he turned off the engine and looked at you. "I'll wait here until I see you’re safely inside. And Y/N?"

"Yeah?"

"Today was... it was exactly what I needed," he said, his voice sincere. "Thank you for not making me feel like a superstar tonight."

You smiled, reaching out to squeeze his hand briefly. "Goodnight, Jungkook. Get some dry clothes on."

"I will," he promised. "I'll text you tomorrow."

The hotel room was warm, and the scent of the hotel’s lavender soap lingered on your skin after a long, steaming shower. You were huddled in a plush white robe, drying your hair with a towel, when your phone lit up with a video call request.

Naemi.

You propped the phone up on the desk and hit accept. Her face appeared, illuminated by the glow of her laptop. She was wearing a sheet mask and holding a glass of wine.

A giggle escaped your lips.

"Finally!" she exclaimed, leaning into the camera. "I've been staring at my phone for hours. How is Busan? Did the mysterious creative guy sweep you off your feet, or did he turn out to be a local fisherman in disguise?"

You couldn't help the massive grin that spread across your face. "It was... incredible, Naemi. Better than the first date."

"Ooh, look at that blush!" she teased, pointing a finger at the screen. "Details. I need details. What did you do? Did he take you to a fancy yacht club?"

"Actually," you said, tucking a damp strand of hair behind your ear, "we had a picnic on a secluded beach. Pepperoni pizza and red wine on a beat-up blanket. It was the most trashy-chic thing I’ve ever done."

Naemi paused, her brow furrowing under the sheet mask. "Wait. A picnic? On a blanket? That sounds... surprisingly normal. I thought you said he was a big deal."

"He is," you said, trying to keep your voice steady. "But he’s also just... really grounded. We ran into the ocean well, I ran, he chased meand we both ended up falling into the surf. I'm pretty sure I ruined my favorite dress, and he’s probably sneezing right now, but I haven't laughed that hard in years."

"He fell in the water with you?" Naemi’s eyes widened. "Okay, he’s definitely a keeper. Most guys wouldn't want to mess up their hair. So, what’s his vibe? Is he still being all mysterious?"

"He's just... sweet," you whispered, leaning your chin on your hand. "He wrapped me in a blanket and turned the seat heaters on in his car until I stopped shivering. He’s very protective, but in a quiet way."

"You’re falling for him," Naemi stated, her voice softening. "I can see it in your eyes. Y/N, when am I going to get a name? Or at least a photo? I’m starting to think you’re dating a ghost."

"Soon," you promised, a playful glit in your eyes. "I just want to keep him to myself for a little bit longer. Before the rest of the world gets involved."

"Fine, keep your secrets," she huffed, though she was smiling. "But if Date Three involves a private jet, you’re calling me immediately. Deal?"

"Deal," you laughed. After you hung up, you looked at your reflection in the mirror. You knew the secret couldn't last forever especially once you went back to Seoul but for tonight, in this quiet hotel room in Busan, he was still just the boy who liked pizza and his dog.

The sleep that followed was deep, influenced by the salt air and the lingering warmth of the heater, but your mind wouldn't let go of the evening.

In your dream, you weren't at a crowded restaurant or a dark beach. You were in a vast, sun-drenched studio filled with blank canvases. The windows were open, and you could hear the distant, rhythmic crashing of the Busan waves, but the air smelled like expensive oil paints and fresh laundry.

Jungkook was there, but he looked different older, perhaps, or just more at peace. He wasn't wearing a cap or a mask. He was standing by a window, the sunlight catching the gold in his skin, and he was painting. Not a landscape or a city, but a flurry of colors that looked like the way laughter feels.

In the dream, you walked up behind him, and without turning around, he reached back and found your hand, lacing his fingers through yours just like he had on the beach.

"I was waiting for you to wake up," he whispered, his voice echoing as if it were underwater.

He turned then, and his eyes weren't the eyes of a pop star or a "big deal." They were just dark, warm pools of sincerity. He leaned in, his face inches from yours, and you could feel the ghost of a breath against your lips a promise of something that hadn't happened yet in the real world.

Just as his lips were about to touch yours, the scene shifted. Suddenly, you were back in the surf, the cold water splashing against your skin, and you heard him calling your name, his voice fading into the sound of the tide.

You woke up with a start, the morning light of Busan filtering through the hotel curtains. Your heart was drumming against your ribs, and for a split second, you reached out to the empty side of the bed, half-expecting to feel the wool of his blanket.

You sat up, pushing your hair back, the dream still vivid behind your eyelids. You realized then that the "drama" wasn't just the paparazzi or the fame it was the fact that he was starting to occupy the spaces in your head where you usually kept yourself safe.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand.

From: Jungkook Good morning. I hope you didn't catch a cold. I’m already thinking about Date Three... I hope you like cooking, because I want to show you my 'chef' side back in Seoul.

You smiled, the dream fading as the reality of him took its place. The kiss in the studio had been a dream, but as you started typing back, you had a feeling it wouldn't stay that way for long.

You looked at your phone, a playful spark in your eyes as you sat up in bed. He was certainly confident, wasn't he? You decided to tease him just a little bit, keeping the ball in your court.

To: Jungkook You sound very sure of yourself, Mr. Jeon. Why are you so certain there’s going to be a Date Three? I haven't even given you a review of Date Two yet! 😉

You tossed the phone onto the duvet and walked over to the window, opening the curtains to reveal the stunning view of Gwangalli Beach. The ocean was calm today, a sparkling blue that reminded you of the night before.

A few minutes later, your phone chimed.

From: Jungkook Because I’m a high-achiever. And also because you didn't run away when I accidentally dragged you into the ocean. Most people would have called a taxi right then, but you stayed and shared a blanket with me.

The "typing" bubbles appeared again almost immediately.

From: Jungkook Plus... I haven't made you my signature ramen yet. It’s my secret weapon. You can’t leave me without at least considering it.

You laughed softly to yourself, leaning against the window frame. He was charming, there was no denying that. He wasn't relying on his fame or his status; he was relying on his cooking and his personality.

To: Jungkook A secret weapon, huh? Bold claim. I guess I'll have to stay on my guard. Get some rest, Jungkook. I’ll see you back in Seoul.

From: Jungkook Count on it. Safe trip back. See you soon, Y/N.

As you started to pack your bag, you realized that despite your teasing, you were already looking forward to seeing what his chef side looked like. The transition back to the reality of Seoul was coming, but for now, the warmth of the Busan sun was enough.

As the KTX pulled into Seoul Station, the transition from the quiet, salty air of Busan back to the frantic energy of the capital felt like a bit of a shock. You navigated the crowds with your weekend bag until you spotted a familiar tall figure leaning against a sleek black SUV.

Minho was leaning against the door, checking his watch, looking every bit the high-powered agent. But the second he saw you, he broke into a smirk and waved you over.

"Look at you," he teased as you reached the car, taking your bag and tossing it into the back. "You’ve got sand in your shoes and that I just spent the weekend with a heartthrob glow. I’m almost offended I didn't get a play-by-play text every hour."

"I was busy, Minho," you laughed, climbing into the passenger seat. "Actually enjoying the scenery for once."

"Right, the 'scenery,'" he mimicked, pulling out into the Seoul traffic. "I’m starving. Since I’m the one who provided the shuttle service and the romantic lead, you’re coming with me to get some real food. My treat."

He took you to a quiet, high-end barbecue place in Hannam-dong, a spot where the booths were deep and private the kind of place where people in the industry went to talk without being overheard.

As the waiter laid out the side dishes and started the grill, Minho leaned forward, his playful demeanor shifting into something a bit more curious. "So, seriously. How was it? I know he took you to the beach. He told me he was nervous about the trashy picnic idea."

"It wasn't trashy," you defended, a smile tugging at your lips as you remembered the cold wine and the soggy pizza. "It was perfect. We actually fell into the ocean."

Minho stopped mid-pour of his water, staring at you. "You what?"

"We fell in. Both of us. Completely soaked," you explained, unable to stop laughing at the memory. "He looked like a drowned cat, but he was so worried about me getting cold. He’s... he’s really not what I expected, Minho. He’s so normal when the cameras aren't there."

Minho watched you for a moment, a genuine, soft smile crossing his face. "That’s exactly why I set it up, Y/N. He’s lived in a bubble since he was fifteen. Most people treat him like a god or a product. You treat him like a guy who’s clumsy in the surf. He needs that."

"He asked for a third date," you admitted, poking at a piece of kimchi. "He wants to cook for me back here in Seoul."

Minho whistled low. "The cooking date? Wow. He’s bringing out the big guns. Just a heads up if he makes the ramen, clear your schedule for the next day. He takes that broth very seriously."

He grew a bit more serious then, glancing toward the door. "But listen, Y/N. Now that you’re back in Seoul... it gets trickier. Busan is his fortress, but here? People are always looking. Just be careful, okay? I want this to stay normal for you guys as long as possible."

"I know," you sighed, the weight of the city pressing in. "But for now, I’m just looking forward to the ramen."

Monday morning hits you like a bucket of cold water. You’re back at your desk, the hum of the office and the click of keyboards replacing the sound of the Busan waves. But as you look around, you realize you can’t escape him not even here.

There’s a BTS calendar on your coworker's desk. A Jungkook themed coffee mug sits by the printer. Even the background music in the office kitchen is a remix of one of bts tracks. Before, these were just pop culture artifacts, part of the background noise of living in Seoul. But now? Now it feels crazy.

You find yourself staring at a poster in the hallway, your eyes drifting to the center. There he is Jungkook. He’s wearing leather, his hair perfectly styled, his gaze intense and "unreachable," exactly like he told you people see him.

That’s the guy who forgot the wine glasses.. you think to yourself, a suppressed smile tugging at your lips.

That’s the guy who looked like a drowned cat in the surf and worried about me catching a cold.

It’s a surreal disconnect. To the rest of the world, he’s an icon, a symbol of perfection. To you, he’s a guy who yells at his computer screen when his game lags and talks to his dog like it’s a human being.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket. You pull it out, shielding the screen from prying eyes.

From: Jungkook Found a new game last night. It’s terrible, but the graphics are cool. Also, I’m currently staring at a mountain of groceries. Operation: Date Three is officially in motion. Try not to work too hard.

You look back at the Superstar on the poster, then down at the text message. The contrast is almost overwhelming. You realize that you’re holding a secret that millions of people would die for, but to you, the most valuable part isn't the fame it’s the fact that he feels comfortable enough to be terrible at games with you.

"Y/N? Are you okay? You've been staring at that wall for three minutes," a colleague asks, walking by with a stack of papers.

"Oh! Yeah," you stammer, quickly locking your phone. "Just... thinking about what to have for dinner."

"Relatable," she laughs, nodding toward the BTS calendar. "I wish I had a dinner date with one of them."

You just nod and head back to your desk, your heart racing. If only she knew.

You bite your lip, trying to maintain a neutral expression as your colleague, Min-ji, practically vibrates with excitement. She pivots her chair toward you, her eyes wide as she taps frantically on her phone screen.

"Y/N, did you see them? The new high-res shots from the Calvin Klein campaign?" she gasps, turning the phone toward you. It’s a shot of him in denim cool, effortless, and undeniably a global heartthrob. "I mean, how is he even real? Look at that jawline. He’s literally a god walking among us."

You look at the photo, and for a second, you’re paralyzed by the surrealism of it all. This is the man who, just forty-eight hours ago, was sitting on a sandy blanket with you, picking pepperoni off a pizza and laughing about his wet socks.

"He... yeah, he looks great," you manage to say, keeping your voice as casual as possible.

"Great? He looks like a masterpiece!" Min-ji continues, oblivious. "I heard he’s back in Seoul now. Can you imagine just bumping into him at a cafe? I think I’d actually stop breathing. I’d probably faint right on the spot."

You feel a weird mix of guilt and amusement. You want to tell her that he’s actually quite shy and that he worries about his ramen broth being too salty, but you know that would be like dropping a thermal detonator in the middle of the office.

"I don't know, Min-ji," you say, turning back to your computer to hide your face. "Maybe he’s just a normal guy who puts his pants on one leg at a time."

"Please," she scoffs, rolling her eyes. "Jungkook doesn't do anything normally. Everything about him is legendary."

Your phone vibrates in your lap. You glance down, hidden by the desk.

From: Jungkook Just accidentally dropped a whole bag of flour on the floor. Bam is currently licking it up and now he looks like a ghost. This cooking date might be a disaster. Send help.

A small, genuine laugh escapes your throat before you can stop it. Min-ji looks at you, suspicious. "What’s so funny?"

"Nothing," you say, your heart thumping. "Just... a funny meme. Back to work, right?"

As you type away at your spreadsheets, the legendary image on Min-ji's phone feels like a character from a movie, while the ghost dog story in your pocket feels like home. The double life is officially getting complicated, but as you think about seeing him tonight, you wouldn't trade it for anything.

The tension in the office is the perfect cover for a little bit of mischief. While Min-ji is still gushing over his billboard-sized abs, you decide to test just how much the Superstar can handle when things get a little real.

He’s been blowing up your phone all afternoon, clearly excited about his "Chef JK" debut.

From: Jungkook Okay, the flour is cleaned up. Bam is back to his normal color. Everything is set. So... are we officially on for tonight? Date Three? I need to know when to start the broth.

You wait. Ten minutes. Twenty. You watch the clock tick as you sip your lukewarm office coffee. Finally, you type back, keeping your face a mask of professional boredom.

To: Jungkook I don’t know, Jungkook. I’ve been thinking a lot today... seeing your face everywhere in the city is a lot. Honestly? I’m starting to wonder if we’re even a good match. We live in completely different worlds. Maybe we’re just too different.

You hit send and put your phone face down. You feel a little mean, but you want to know if he’s willing to fight for this "normalcy" he claims to crave.

Five minutes later, your phone starts vibrating. It’s not a text. It’s a call. You decline it. Then another text.

From: Jungkook Wait, what? Y/N, what do you mean? Is it the Calvin Klein stuff? I can explain that, it’s just work! Please tell me you’re joking. I’ll cancel the billboards! (Okay, I can’t do that, but I’ll try!). Did I do something wrong in Busan?

He’s spiraling. You can practically hear the panic in his typing. Suddenly, your phone rings again, but this time the caller ID says Minho.

You step into the hallway to answer. "Hello?"

"Y/N! What the hell did you say to him?" Minho’s voice is frantic, but there’s a hint of suppressed laughter in the background. "Jungkook just called me sounding like the world is ending. He’s pacing his kitchen so loud I can hear it through the phone. He’s convinced you're breaking up with him before the third date even starts!"

"I just told him I wasn't sure if we were a match," you say, struggling to keep your voice flat.

"He’s in full panic mode, Y/N! He just asked me if he should send a truck with flowers to your office. I told him that would definitely make the 'different worlds' problem worse. Are you actually serious or are you just torturing the poor kid?"

"Maybe a little bit of both," you admit, a smile finally breaking through.

"You're dangerous," Minho sighs, though he sounds relieved. "Look, just put him out of his misery soon, okay? He’s currently staring at a pot of water like it’s his last hope for happiness. And for the record? He’s never been this stressed about a girl. Ever."

You hang up, feeling a warm glow in your chest. He isn't the untouchable icon from the posters; he’s a guy who’s terrified of losing the one person who treats him like a human being.

You head back to your desk and pick up your phone.

To: Jungkook Stop pacing, you’ll ruin the floor. And tell Bam I’m sorry for the flour incident. I’ll be there at 7:00. But that ramen better be life-changing, Superstar.

The reply comes back in less than three seconds.

From: Jungkook I hate you. (I don't). 7:00. Don't be late. I'm doubling the garlic just for you.

You stand in front of your mirror, taking a final look. The satin skirt catches the light with every movement, hugging your silhouette before falling elegantly, perfectly contrasted by a simple fitted top and your cleanest sneakers.

Then, the address arrives via text. It’s a luxury complex in Hannam-dong, a place where the air itself seems to cost more.

When you arrive at the massive iron gates, your heart sinks. This isn't just an apartment building; it’s a fortress. Two stone-faced security guards in sharp suits step out of the booth, looking at your casual sneakers with professional disdain.

"I'm here to see... a friend," you say, your voice sounding smaller than you intended. "In the penthouse wing."

The lead guard checks his tablet, his brow furrowed. "Name?"

"Y/N."

He scrolls slowly, his expression hardening. "You aren't on the cleared list for today, Miss. And the resident has strict 'no-visitor' protocols in place."

"Can you check again? Jeon Jungkook? He’s expecting me," you plead, feeling the heat rise in your neck.

The guards exchange a look—the kind of look that says they’ve dealt with a thousand "delusional fans" before. "Look, we get this every day. No name, no entry. You need to move your car; you're blocking the private lane."

The embarrassment hits you like a physical weight. After your joke earlier, this feels like a cold slap of reality. You’re standing outside a literal wall, being treated like a trespasser, while the man inside lives behind layers of protection you'll never truly understand. The "different worlds" argument you used to tease him suddenly feels painfully, hauntingly true.

You turn away, blinking back tears of frustration. You aren't going to beg. You pull out your phone, your fingers trembling as you start to type.

To: Jungkook I’m at the gate, but I’m not on the list. The security is treating me like a stalker. Honestly, Jungkook, maybe this was a mistake. I think I’m just going to go home.

You’re already halfway to the sidewalk, looking for a taxi, feeling foolish for ever thinking a satin skirt and some sneakers could bridge the gap between your life and his.

You are just about to raise your hand to hail a passing taxi, your heart heavy with the realization of how difficult this "normal" relationship actually is, when you hear the frantic scuff of leather shoes on pavement.

"Miss! Wait! Please, wait!"

You turn around to see the lead security guard, the one who had been so cold just moments ago, actually jogging toward you. He looks breathless and, more notably, terrified. His professional mask has completely shattered, replaced by a look of sheer panic.

"I am so incredibly sorry," he gasps, bowing so low it’s almost a 90-degree angle. "There was... a massive oversight. Mr. Jeon just called the main office. Personally."

He looks like he’s just survived a hurricane. "Please, follow me. We have an elevator waiting. Truly, Miss Y/N, we had no idea... he was very clear about your importance."

You walk back toward the gate, feeling a strange mix of vindication and shyness. As you pass the security booth, you see the other guard standing at attention, looking straight ahead as if he’s afraid to even blink in your direction. Whatever Jungkook said over that phone line, it clearly carried the weight of a king protecting his queen.

The elevator ride is silent and swift, whisking you up to a floor that requires a private keycard. When the doors finally chime and slide open, you find yourself standing in a foyer that looks like something out of an architectural magazine minimalist, expensive, and smelling faintly of that same woody cologne from the beach.

Jungkook is standing right there. He’s wearing a simple apron over a white t-shirt, his hair a bit messy, and he’s holding a wooden spoon like a weapon. He looks stressed, but the moment he sees you, his shoulders drop in a massive exhale of relief.

"Y/N," he says, stepping forward and taking your hands. His palms are slightly damp maybe from the steam, or maybe from the panic of almost losing you at the gate. "I am so sorry. I’m such an idiot. I was so focused on the sauce that I forgot to update the registry. I almost ran down there in my slippers to fight them myself."

He looks into your eyes, his expression soft and pleading. "Please tell me you're not still thinking about going home. I've been stirring this broth for three hours, and Bam really wants to meet the girl who 'bullied' his dad today."

You look at him the apron, the spoon, the genuine worry on his face and the frustration from the gate melts away. You realize that while the world builds walls around him, he’s doing everything in his power to pull you through the door.

"The sneakers stay on," you say with a small, teasing smile. "And the ramen better be worth the drama."

"It is," he promises, leaning in to kiss your forehead before leading you into his world. "I promise."

"I've seen enough of the kitchen for now," you say, a playful spark returning to your eyes. "I want to see the real star of this apartment. Where’s Bam?"

Jungkook’s face breaks into a proud, slightly nervous grin. "Oh, he’s been waiting. He knew someone was coming the second the elevator chimed."

He walks over to the heavy glass doors leading into the expansive living room and slides them open. For a split second, there’s silence—and then, a blur of dark fur comes charging across the polished floor. Bam, a massive, energetic Doberman, doesn't just greet you; he practically launches himself at you, his tail wagging so hard his entire back half is wiggling.

"Whoa!" you yelp as seventy pounds of pure excitement hits your legs, nearly sending you stumbling back into the foyer.

Jungkook’s eyes go wide. "Bam! No! Down, boy!" He reaches out instinctively, grabbing your arm to steady you, his face pale with sudden worry. "I’m so sorry, Y/N! I should have leashed him. Is he too much? Did he hurt you? He’s a giant, I know, I should have—"

His frantic apologies are cut short by the sound of your laughter. It’s a loud, genuine sound that echoes through the high-ceilinged room. You’re already down on your knees, despite the satin skirt, letting Bam lick your face while you scratch behind his floppy ears.

"He’s perfect!" you laugh, buried under a flurry of happy nudges and wet nose boops. "He’s just like his dad, a total sweetheart with zero chill."

Jungkook freezes, his hand still hovering in the air. Seeing you on the floor, completely unfazed by the giant dog, seems to do something to him. The tension drains out of his face, replaced by a look of pure, unadulterated adoration.

"You're not mad about the skirt?" he asks softly, leaning against the doorframe as he watches the two of you.

"It’s just fabric, Jungkook," you say, looking up at him with a bright smile while Bam tries to climb into your lap. "Besides, I think I have a new favorite Jeon."

Jungkook laughs, a deep, relaxed sound. "Hey, watch it. I’m the one making the food. Bam only offers emotional support and hair on your clothes."

He walks over and crouches down beside you, his hand resting on Bam’s head, but his eyes stay locked on yours. "You’re amazing, you know that? Most people are terrified of him because of his size. But you... you just dove right in."

"I told you," you say, giving Bam one last pat before standing up. "I’m not 'most people.'"

"I'm starting to realize that," he whispers, standing up with you. The kitchen timer beeps in the distance, breaking the moment. "That’s the broth. Come on, let's see if I can actually live up to the hype."

He reaches into a drawer and pulls out a spare black apron, stepping behind you to loop it over your head. His hands linger for a second as he ties the strings around your waist, his chest brushing against your back, before he hands you a knife and a pile of green onions.

"Alright, sous-chef," he says with a playful wink. "Show me your skills. And try to keep your fingers intact, Minho will kill me if I send you home with a bandage."

As you both stand side-by-side at the massive marble island, the atmosphere is light and domestic. You find yourself laughing as he tells you a dramatic story about a cooking fail he had during a livestream, gesturing wildly with a wooden spoon. But as the conversation flows, your focus starts to shift from the vegetables to the man beside you.

You pause for a moment, resting your knife, and just watch him.

He’s focused on dicing garlic, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows. The harsh kitchen lights catch the sharp lines of his profile, but it's his hands that hold your attention. As he applies pressure to the knife, the veins in his forearms and the backs of his hands become prominent, corded and strong. There's a raw, effortless masculinity in the way he moves, a stark contrast to the soft, apron-clad "chef" he’s trying to be.

He looks so incredibly attractive in this lighting, stripped of the stage makeup and the designer clothes, just a man in his kitchen with messy hair and a concentrated gaze.

Jungkook must feel your eyes on him, because he tilts his head, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth without him even looking up.

"Is my chopping technique that impressive?" he asks, his voice dropping into that low, honeyed tone that always makes your heart skip. "Or do I have flour on my face again?"

"Neither," you admit, your voice a little breathier than you intended. "I was just thinking that the Superstar look has nothing on the Chef look."

He finally stops, turning fully toward you. He leans one hip against the counter, the veins in his arms still standing out as he crosses them over his chest. His gaze is intense, dark, and filled with a heat that has nothing to do with the stove.

"Careful, Y/N," he says softly, stepping a fraction closer. "If you keep looking at me like that, the ramen is definitely going to burn."

You feel the heat rush to your cheeks, turning them a deep shade of crimson as you quickly look back down at the cutting board. You start dicing the green onions with a sudden, renewed intensity, trying to hide the fact that your heart is practically doing gymnastics in your chest.

"Just... finish the sauce, Jungkook," you mutter, though you can’t keep the smile off your face.

Beside you, you hear him let out a soft, triumphant chuckle. He knows exactly the effect he has on you, but he mercifully turns back to the stove to give you a moment to recover.

While his back is turned, you feel a heavy weight settle against your leg. You look down and see Bam sitting perfectly still, his large brown eyes tracking every movement of your hand with laser-like focus. He’s the picture of a "good boy," but his tail is thumping a rhythmic thud-thud-thud against the floor.

You glance over your shoulder. Jungkook is busy adjusting the flame under the pot, humming a soft melody to himself.

Quick as a flash, you grab a small, choice scrap of beef from the beef broth. You lower your hand behind your skirt and drop it. Gulp. It’s gone in a literal blink. Bam licks his chops, looking at you with what can only be described as pure, undying devotion.

"What are you two doing back there?" Jungkook asks, turning around just as you pull your hand back up.

"Nothing!" you say, perhaps a bit too quickly, as you toss the onions into a bowl. "Just... bonding."

Jungkook narrows his eyes, looking from you to the suspiciously happy Doberman. "Y/N... did you just feed my dog? He has a very strict diet, you know."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," you say, reaching over to pat Bam’s head. Bam, the traitor, lets out a small, satisfied burp.

Jungkook bursts out laughing, shaking his head as he walks over to you. He stops just inches away, the scent of garlic and his warm cologne wrapping around you. "First you bully the dad, then you bribe the son. You really are a piece of work, aren't you?"

He reaches out, his thumb catching a stray smudge of flour on your cheek, his touch lingering just a second too long for it to be accidental. "Good thing I like your style."

You freeze, your breath hitching as he steps into your personal space. The distance between you disappears until you can feel the warmth radiating from his chest. He leans down slightly, his gaze dropping to your lips and then back to your eyes, his hand moving from your cheek to cup the back of your neck. His touch is firm yet incredibly gentle, and for a moment, the entire world, the kitchen, the city outside, even Bam simply ceases to exist.

Jungkook’s eyes flutter shut as he begins to tilt his head, his nose brushing against yours. You can feel the ghost of his breath on your skin, and you instinctively lean in, closing the final inch between you...

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

The oven timer blares with a sharp, piercing shrillness that cuts through the romantic tension like a knife.

Both of you jump, startled. Jungkook flinches so hard he nearly hits his head on the kitchen vent, and you stumble back, your face burning a shade of red that would put a tomato to shame.

"The... the pork!" Jungkook exclaims, his voice an octave higher than usual. He frantically spins around, grabbing a pair of oven mitts and fumbling with the oven door as a cloud of savory steam billows out.

From the corner of the room, Bam lets out a sharp, confused bark, wondering why the mood suddenly shifted from "soulmates" to "emergency response team."

"I, uh... I should probably check that," Jungkook mumbles, his ears glowing bright red as he hunches over the oven. He looks completely flustered.

You lean against the counter, trying to catch your breath and steady your racing heart. You let out a small, shaky laugh, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "Saved by the timer, Jeon. I think the universe is telling us that the ramen needs to come first."

Jungkook glances back at you over his shoulder, a sheepish, lopsided grin on his face despite his embarrassment. "The universe has terrible timing, Y/N. Truly terrible."

You move over to the sleek, minimalist dining table that overlooks the sparkling lights of Seoul. Jungkook follows shortly after, carefully carrying two steaming bowls of ramen. The presentation is surprisingly professional, perfectly placed soft-boiled eggs, charred pork belly, and bright green onions.

"Here we go," he says, setting the bowl down in front of you with a nervous pride. "Operation: Date Three is officially served."

"Thank you, Jungkook. It looks incredible," you say, genuinely impressed.

He smiles, the tension from the almost-kiss still lingering in the air, making every movement feel a bit more charged. He reaches for a bottle of red wine and pours two glasses, the deep crimson liquid catching the soft glow of the apartment's mood lighting.

As you pick up your chopsticks, a soft, lo-fi beat begins to pulse through the hidden speakers in the room. You recognize the style it's one of BTS´s unreleased tracks, something raw and acoustic that he’s probably been tinkering with on his soundboard. It’s intimate, like he’s sharing a piece of his private thoughts with you.

"To the chef," you say, raising your glass.

"To the girl who survived the Busan ocean and my security team," he counters, clinking his glass against yours.

The first bite is a revelation. The broth is rich and complex, warming you from the inside out. "Oh my god," you whisper, closing your eyes. "Jungkook, this is... you weren't kidding about the secret weapon."

He leans back, watching you eat with a look of pure satisfaction. "I told you. I don't lose when it comes to ramen." He takes a sip of his wine, his eyes never leaving yours. "So, does this mean I'm officially 'good enough' for you, despite the billboards?"

You look at him the way the music seems to wrap around both of you, the warmth of the meal, and the way he’s looking at you like you’re the only person in the world and you realize the different worlds don't feel so far apart anymore.

You lean back in your chair, swirling the last bit of wine in your glass, a playful yet genuine smile on your face. "Alright, I'll admit it," you say, looking at him across the table. "Date Three isn't so bad. In fact, between the ghost dog and this broth, you might actually be winning me over."

Jungkook beams, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He looks incredibly relieved, the earlier panic of the different worlds conversation finally fading away. "Only 'not so bad'? I’m going to have to work even harder for Date Four then," he teases.

He notices your bowl is empty and immediately stands up. "Wait, you can't stop now. I made enough to feed a small army, and you haven't even tried the extra spicy oil yet."

Before you can protest, he’s already back at the stove, humming along to the low music coming from the speakers. He returns with a second, smaller portion, carefully topping it with another perfectly marinated egg.

"Here," he says, sliding the bowl toward you. "A little extra for the sous-chef."

As he sits back down, the atmosphere in the apartment feels incredibly cozy. The city lights of Seoul are flickering outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, but in here, with the soft beats and the smell of savory broth, it feels like your own private bubble. You realize that despite the fame and the chaos, he’s managed to make this high-end penthouse feel like home for the evening.

"You're going to have to roll me out of here," you laugh, picking up your chopsticks again.

"That's fine by me," Jungkook replies softly, resting his chin on his hand as he watches you eat. "I’m not in any rush for you to leave."

You set your chopsticks down, the warmth of the second bowl still lingering. "You know, it hit me today at the office," you say, shaking your head slightly. "My colleague, Min-ji... she's completely obsessed. She was showing me your new Calvin Klein campaign and talking about you like you're some kind of untouchable myth. It was so surreal sitting there, knowing I was texting the guy who was currently covered in flour and panicking over his dog."

A small, thoughtful smile plays on your lips. "It made me realize just how huge your world is. To her, and to millions of others, you’re this perfect icon. It’s a little intimidating when I actually stop to think about it."

Jungkook’s expression softens, turning a bit more serious. He leans back, swirling the wine in his glass as he looks out at the glowing Seoul skyline.

"I get it," he says quietly, his voice dropping a notch. He nods slowly. "It’s a blessing and a curse, honestly."

He looks back at you, his eyes searching yours. "The blessing is the love, the music, and being able to do what I love on such a massive scale. I’m grateful for it every single day. But the curse..." He sighs, a short, tired sound. "The curse is that the 'myth' usually swallows the person. People stop seeing me. They see the posters, the stage, the 'Superstar.' Sometimes it feels like I’m living inside a gold-plated cage where everyone is watching, but no one really knows me."

He reaches across the table, his fingers lightly brushing the back of your hand. "That’s why Busan was so important. And why tonight is important. With you, I don't have to be the masterpiece your colleague was talking about. I can just be the guy who’s bad at dicing garlic and forgets to update the security list."

He gives your hand a small, reassuring squeeze. "The myth is for the world, Y/N. But the normal guy? He's the one who’s really glad you stayed for the second bowl of ramen."

You stand up and start gathering the bowls, ignoring his protests. He keeps telling you to leave it for the housekeeper or that he'll do it later, but you just give him a firm look. "You cooked, I clean. That’s the rule, Superstar," you tease.

As you stand at the sink, the warm water running over your hands, the soft lo-fi track from his soundboard shifts into a slow, melodic rhythm. The apartment is quiet, save for the hum of the city far below and the gentle clinking of the dishes.

Suddenly, you feel a presence behind you.

Slowly, almost tentatively, two strong arms reach around your waist. He doesn't pull you in tight immediately; instead, he rests his hands lightly against your stomach, his touch hesitant, as if he’s waiting for a sign that it’s okay. It’s a side of him that the world never sees the vulnerable man behind the icon, asking for permission to be close.

You let out a soft breath and lean back, resting your head against his shoulder. Taking the hint, Jungkook exhales a long sigh of relief, his grip tightening just a fraction as he pulls you flush against him. You can feel the steady, rapid thrum of his heart against your back.

The two of you begin to sway slowly to the music. It’s not a formal dance it’s just a gentle, rhythmic movement in the middle of the kitchen. There are no cameras, no screaming fans, and no security gates between you. Just the scent of his cologne, the warmth of his body, and the quiet magic of the moment.

"This," he whispers into your hair, his voice vibrating through your chest. "This is better than any award show."

You close your eyes, letting the music carry you both. For the first time since you met, the noise of his fame feels miles away, replaced by the simple, beautiful reality of being held by the man who made you ramen. You just stay like that, drifting together in the dark, enjoying a peace that belongs only to the two of you

Slowly, you turn around within the circle of his arms, never breaking the connection. You reach up, lacing your fingers behind his neck, pulling yourself just a little closer. He reacts instantly, his hands sliding down to rest firmly on your waist, drawing you into the slow, rhythmic pulse of the music.

Being this close to him is overwhelming. His scent a dizzying mix of expensive woodsy cologne, clean laundry, and a faint hint of the savory kitchen spices is absolutely undoing you. It’s warm and masculine, and it seems to wrap around your senses until all you can focus on is him.

The lighting in the kitchen is dim, casting long shadows across his face and making his dark eyes appear even deeper, more intense. As you sway together, his gaze never leaves yours. He looks at you with a mixture of awe and raw affection, as if he still can't quite believe you're standing here in his kitchen, in his arms.

"You're making it very hard to focus on the music," he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that you feel in your very bones.

He leans down, his forehead coming to rest against yours. The tip of his nose brushes yours, and you can feel the slight heat of his skin. Every time you move, the soft fabric of your satin skirt brushes against his legs, a gentle friction that only adds to the electricity between you.

In this moment, the superstar from the billboards is gone. There is only this man, the weight of his hands on your hips, and the way he’s holding you as if you’re the most precious thing he’s ever touched. You find yourself tightening your grip on his neck, pulling him down just a fraction more, completely lost in his scent and the quiet, private world he’s built for you tonight.

The air between you is thick, charged with the kind of tension that makes your skin tingle. Jungkook’s gaze drops to your lips, his thumb tracing a slow, rhythmic circle against the satin of your skirt. He starts to lean in, his movements slow and deliberate, giving you every chance to pull away.

You can feel the heat radiating from him, that intoxicating scent of his pulling you closer like a magnet. But just as his lips are a breath away from yours, you tilt your head back slightly, a playful, challenging smirk playing on your mouth.

"Just one kiss," you whisper, your voice steady despite the way your heart is hammering against your ribs. "The rest... well, the rest has to be earned, Mr. Jeon."

Jungkook pauses, a surprised but delighted huff of a laugh escaping him. He looks at you, his eyes dark with a mix of frustration and deep admiration. "You really like to make me work for it, don't you?"

"I think you're used to getting things a little too easily," you tease, your arms still looped around his neck. "I like to keep things interesting."

"Fair enough," he murmurs, his voice dropping into a low, husky register that makes your knees weak. "Challenge accepted."

He doesn't wait another second. He closes the distance, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that is soft, lingering, and tastes faintly of the wine you shared. It’s a gentle exploration, a promise of everything that’s still to come, but it’s over almost as soon as it began.

He pulls back just an inch, his forehead resting against yours, his breath hitched. He looks slightly dazed, his hands still anchored firmly on your waist.

"One kiss," he repeats, a lopsided, breathless grin spreading across his face. "Okay. But just so you know? I’m a very fast learner, and I’m definitely planning on earning the rest."

He gives you one last, lingering look before reluctantly letting go of your waist, though he keeps one of your hands in his, lacing your fingers together as the music continues to play softly in the background. The boundary has been set, but the look in his eyes tells you he’s more than ready for the chase.

The cool night air of Seoul greets you as he leads you out onto the sprawling balcony. The city stretches out below like a sea of neon lights, but the atmosphere out here is quiet, shielded by the height of the penthouse.

Jungkook sits down on one of the oversized, plush outdoor chairs and gently pulls you down with him. You end up right on his lap, your satin skirt draping over his knees. One of his arms curls around your waist, holding you securely, while his other hand rests on your thigh.

He leans his head back against the chair, looking up at the stars for a moment before letting out a long, dramatic sigh.

"Okay, I’ve been thinking about it for exactly three minutes," he murmurs, his voice vibrating against you. He looks up at you, his dark eyes sparkling with a mix of mischief and genuine longing. "How do I do it? What’s the fastest way to earn another one? Do I need to cook a five-course meal? Learn a new dance? Win a gold medal in something?"

He pouts slightly. "Tell me the criteria, Y/N. I’m very competitive."

You look down at him, watching the way the moonlight softens the lines of his face. He looks so hopeful and so completely focused on you that your "strict" rules melt away in an instant. You can't help but grin at how charmingly desperate he’s acting for someone who literally has the world at his feet.

"Actually," you whisper, leaning down until your face is just inches from his. "I think you just earned one for being cute."

Before he can even process the words, you press your lips to his.

This kiss is different from the one in the kitchen it’s deeper, more confident, fueled by the quiet intimacy of the balcony and the way you’re tucked perfectly into his space. Jungkook makes a low sound of surprise in the back of his throat before his hand moves to the back of your head, deepening the contact, his fingers tangling in your hair.

When you finally pull back, both of you are a little breathless. He looks up at you, dazed and wearing a triumphant, toothy grin.

"If that's the reward for being cute," he whispers, pulling you closer into his chest, "then I'm never acting like a cool superstar again."

You lean your head against his shoulder, watching the tiny lights of the cars moving far below like glowing ants. The silence of the night feels heavy, but in a comfortable, grounding way. You trace the edge of his sleeve with your finger before looking up at him, your expression becoming a bit more soft and serious.

"You know," you say, your voice barely a whisper in the cool breeze. "I actually had a rule. A pretty strict one, actually."

Jungkook tilts his head, his curiosity piqued as he brushes a stray lock of hair from your forehead. "A rule? About what?"

"About this," you gesture between the two of you. "I told myself I’d never kiss anyone before a fourth date. I always thought you needed that much time to really know if someone was worth the trouble. It was my safety net."

Jungkook stays silent for a moment, his dark eyes searching yours. The teasing smirk he had a moment ago softens into something much more genuine. He shifts slightly, pulling you a little tighter against his chest, as if he’s trying to absorb the weight of what you just admitted.

"So..." he starts, his voice low and incredibly tender. "I broke the safety net on Date Three?"

"You did," you admit with a small, helpless laugh. "I don't know if it was the Busan ocean, the flour-covered dog, or that ridiculous secret-weapon ramen, but... you made me forget about the count."

Jungkook exhales a breath he seemed to be holding, a look of pure, humble pride crossing his face. He doesn't brag or make a joke this time. Instead, he leans down and presses a soft, lingering kiss to your temple.

"I'm glad," he murmurs against your skin. "Because I don't want to be someone who just fits into a rule, Y/N. I want to be the exception. Thank you for letting me be the one to break it."

He rests his chin on your shoulder, both of you looking out at the city, and for the first time, the "Superstar" doesn't feel like a title he's carrying he just feels like the man who managed to win your heart a little ahead of schedule.

The night stretches on, the frantic pace of the world below feeling like a distant memory.

You talk about the small things your favorite childhood memories, the songs that make you cry, and the things that actually keep you up at night. He tells you about the pressure of always being "perfect" and how he sometimes misses the simple smell of the sea in Busan. You tell him about your dreams, the ones you haven't shared with your colleagues, and how you sometimes feel like you're just playing a role in your own life.

Deepening the Connection, Jungkook opens up about his fears of the future and the loneliness that often comes with fame. You realize that behind the tattoos and the sold-out stadiums is a man who just wants to be understood.

You find out he’s surprisingly good at drawing, and he finds out you have a secret talent for mimicry. He makes you laugh until your sides ache, and you make him feel a sense of peace he hasn't felt in years.

Sometimes, the talking stops, and you both just sit there, listening to the muffled sounds of the city and the steady rhythm of each other's breathing. It’s the kind of silence that doesn't need to be filled the kind that only happens when two people are truly comfortable.

As the clock ticks toward the early hours of the morning, Bam eventually trots out onto the balcony, letting out a soft whine and resting his large head on Jungkook’s knee.

"I think he's jealous," Jungkook whispers, his voice thick with a mix of tiredness and affection. He looks down at you, his eyes reflecting the city lights. "I don't remember the last time I just... sat and talked like this. Thank you, Y/N. For not treating me like that.'"

You reach up, tracing the line of his jaw. "Thank you for the ramen, Jungkook. And for being exactly who you are."

He pulls you closer, tucking your head under his chin. The world is vast and complicated, and tomorrow the security guards and the billboards will still be there but for tonight, in this quiet bubble high above Seoul, it's just the two of you and a very sleepy Doberman.

You shift slightly in his lap, the cozy warmth of his body making your eyelids feel incredibly heavy. As much as you want to stay in this bubble forever, reality is starting to tug at your sleeve.

"Jungkook," you mumble softly, your voice thick with sleepiness. "If I stay here any longer, I’m going to fall fast asleep right on your shoulder. I should probably head home while I can still keep my eyes open."

He doesn't let go immediately. Instead, he tightens his hold for a brief second, burying his face in the crook of your neck with a quiet, reluctant hum. "Just five more minutes?" he pleads, his voice vibrating against your skin. "The city looks better with you here."

"I have work tomorrow, Superstar," you remind him with a small smile, pulling back just enough to look at him. "And unlike someone I know, I can't just show up whenever I want."

He sighs, a dramatic but sweet sound, and finally nods. "Fine. You're right. I don't want you falling asleep at your desk and blaming my ramen for it."

He helps you stand up, steadying you as you find your balance in your sneakers. As you walk back through the quiet penthouse toward the door, the atmosphere has shifted from high-energy tension to a soft, lingering intimacy.

At the door, he grabs his keys and a hoodie. "I'm calling a private car for you, and I’m walking you down to make sure those guards don't give you a hard time again. Actually," he adds with a mischievous glint in his eyes, "I want them to see exactly who they almost turned away."

"Jungkook, you don't have to—"

"I want to," he interrupts gently, taking your hand and interlacing his fingers with yours. "I'll see you all the way to your door."

As the elevator descends, he doesn't let go of your hand. The night might be ending, but the way he's looking at you makes it clear that Date Three was just the beginning of something much bigger.

The elevator ride down is quiet, the digital numbers ticking away the final moments of the night. Jungkook doesn't let go of your hand for a single second. When the doors slide open, the lobby is silent, bathed in soft moonlight and the glow of security monitors.

The guards from earlier snap to attention, their eyes widening as they see the "Superstar" himself personally escorting you out, his hand firmly interlaced with yours. Jungkook doesn't even look at them; his focus is entirely on you as he leads you to the sleek black car waiting at the curb.

The cool night air hits your face, waking you up just enough to realize the night is truly over. He stops by the open car door, turning to face you. The streetlights catch the sparkle in his eyes and the slight, nervous curve of his lips.

"Text me the second you're inside," he says, his voice low and protective. "I won't sleep until I know you're safe."

You look up at him, feeling a wave of warmth that has nothing to do with the temperature. You reach up, cupping his face with your hands, and pull him down for a soft, lingering kiss. It’s gentle a quiet "thank you" for the effort, the honesty, and the way he made a billionaire's penthouse feel like a home.

"It was a beautiful evening, Jungkook," you whisper against his lips, pulling back just enough to see his stunned, happy expression. "Truly."

He looks a little breathless, a faint blush creeping up his neck. "Yeah," he breathes out, a dazed smile spreading across his face. "It really was."

He stands there on the sidewalk, hands shoved into his hoodie pockets, watching as the car pulls away. As you look through the back window, you can see him waving a lone figure under the streetlights, looking less like a global icon and more like a guy who just had the best night of his life.

The cool sheets feel amazing against your skin as you collapse into bed, but your mind is anything but restful. Every time you close your eyes, you feel the ghost of his touch on your waist and the incredible softness of his lips. You’re still wearing that faint scent of his cologne, and it’s making your heart race all over again.

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand. You don't even have to guess who it is.

Jungkook:

I’m staring at the empty chair on the balcony. It looks lonely. Bam is currently moping by the door because his favorite 'bribing' guest left.

You:

Maybe Bam just misses the snacks. And I'm pretty sure that chair is fine, it’s a very expensive chair.

Jungkook:

It’s not the chair, Y/N. It’s the person who was sitting in my lap. My heart is beating so loud I’m surprised you didn't hear it down the street. Is it weird that I already miss you?

You:

A little bit... but only because I feel the same way. My rule about Date Four didn't stand a chance against you tonight.

Jungkook:

I’m going to spend the whole night thinking about that kiss. And the way you looked in that skirt. And how you laughed at me when I panicked over the security guards. I’m completely gone, aren't I?

You:

We both are, Jungkook. It's a disaster.

Jungkook:

The best kind of disaster. I’m serious, though..I’ve never felt this normal and this crazy at the same time. Get some sleep, beautiful. Dream of me (and maybe a little bit of the ramen).

You:

Goodnight, Superstar. I think the ramen has some serious competition for my dreams tonight.

You set the phone down, clutching your pillow to your chest with a wide, helpless grin. You’re staring at the ceiling, completely lost in him, knowing that somewhere across the city, a global icon is doing exactly the same thing.

The different worlds don't feel like a problem anymore. Tonight, you were just two people, one kitchen, and a kiss that changed everything.

The next afternoon, you're sitting in a small, tucked-away cafe with Naemi. You’ve been trying to act "normal," but you’re glowing so much that even the steam from your latte can’t hide it.

Naemi narrows her eyes at you over her cup. "Okay, spill. You’ve been staring at your phone and smiling like a lunatic for twenty minutes. How was the guy last night?"

"It was... a lot," you say, trying to stay vague. "He made ramen. We sat on his balcony. It felt very real."

"Ramen? On a balcony?" Naemi leans in, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Y/N, is he rich? Does he live in a nice place? Is he a secret CEO?"

"Not a CEO," you laugh, the memory of him in that apron hitting you. "He's just... he’s very intense. And he has this dog, Bam, who is basically a giant teddy bear. We ended up dancing in the kitchen and—" You bite your lip, the words slipping out before you can catch them. "And his kiss was literally the best thing that's ever happened to me."

Naemi’s jaw drops. "You kissed him?! On Date Three? What happened to your legendary Date Four rule? Who is this guy, James Bond?"

You feel your face heating up. "His name is Jungkook, okay? And he’s not James Bond, he’s just... Jungkook."

The name hangs in the air for a second. Naemi’s eyes go wide. She freezes, her spoon halfway to her mouth. "Jungkook? As in... Jeon Jungkook? The Golden guy? The one whose face is currently on a three-story billboard outside my office?"

You realize your mistake instantly. You reach across the table, grabbing her arm. "Naemi, please! You cannot tell anyone. Especially not Min-ji! I wasn't supposed to say his name."

"ARE YOU SERIOUS?" she shrieks, then immediately covers her mouth as people turn to look. She leans in so close you can smell her peppermint gum. "You are dating the Jungkook? The superstar? And you're telling me you were making ramen and kissing him on a balcony while the rest of the world is literally screaming for a glance at his tattoos?"

She looks like she’s about to have a physical meltdown. "Y/N, I need details. Everything. Does he smell like heaven? Is he actually that muscular? Oh my god, wait... you meet the dog? The famous Bam?!"

You bury your face in your hands, half-laughing and half-terrified. "Yes, he smells amazing, yes, the dog is huge, and yes, I'm a complete goner. But if this gets out, I’m dead. He’s just a guy to me, Naemi. A very sweet, very panicked-about-security guy."

Naemi just stares at you, shaking her head in disbelief. "A 'guy.' She calls a global legend a 'guy.' I need another coffee. Or a shot of tequila. My best friend is dating the most famous man on earth."

Naemi takes a long, slow breath, visibly trying to bring her heart rate back down to a human level. She reaches across the table and firmly squeezes your hand, her expression turning from pure shock to fierce loyalty.

"Okay," she whispers, her voice low and steady. "I’m locking this in a vault. I promise. I won't say a word not to Min-ji, not to my mom, not even to my diary. Your secret is safe with me."

She looks around the cafe one more time to make sure no one is eavesdropping before leaning back in her chair. "But Y/N... be careful. Not because of him, but because of everything around him. If my brain just short-circuited hearing his name, imagine what the rest of the world would do."

You nod, feeling a weight lift off your shoulders. Having one person know the truth makes the whole thing feel a little more grounded and a little less like a fever dream.

"I know," you say softly. "That’s why he’s so protective. He just wants to be a normal guy for a few hours. And honestly? When he’s pouting because I won't give him another kiss, it’s easy to forget who he is to everyone else."

Naemi giggles, shaking her head. "You’re the only person on the planet who would make Jeon Jungkook 'earn' a kiss. I think that’s exactly why he’s so obsessed with you. You don't see the billboard; you just see the guy who’s bad at dicing onions."

She takes a sip of her coffee, a mischievous glint returning to her eyes. "But just so we're clear... if you ever need a double date, I am available. I’ll even bring my own ramen."

"Don't push it, Naemi," you laugh, finally feeling like you can breathe again.

Your phone vibrates on the table. A text from him. You don't even have to look to know you're smiling, and Naemi just rolls her eyes. "Go on," she sighs dramatically. "Answer your Superstar. I'll just sit here and pretend my life is half as exciting as a K-Drama."

Four days have passed, filled with endless text messages that kept your phone glowing late into the night. The anticipation for "The Official Date Four" has been humming in the background of your entire week.

True to his word, Jungkook didn't just send a text; he sent a handwritten note delivered via his private driver. It simply said:

The safety net is gone, and I’ve had four days to plan. Wear something comfortable but warm. I’m picking you up at 7 PM. No ramen tonight, I’m taking you to my favorite place in the world.”

When 7:00 PM rolls around, the familiar black SUV is idling outside your apartment. But this time, Jungkook isn't hiding in the back. He’s standing by the car, wearing a bucket hat pulled low and an oversized leather jacket. The moment he sees you, his entire face lights up, that bunny-smile breaking through his incognito look.

"You're on time," he teases, opening the door for you. "I was worried you’d make me wait just to keep me on my toes."

"And miss seeing what you have planned? Not a chance," you reply, sliding into the seat.

As the car moves through the city, you realize you aren't heading toward the glitzy district of Gangnam or his penthouse. Instead, the car winds its way toward the outskirts of the city, eventually pulling up to a private trailhead near the Han River, far from the usual tourist spots.

"A hike?" you ask, looking at the dark path lit only by the moon.

"A walk," he corrects, reaching into the back for a small backpack. "And a view."

He takes your hand, his grip firm and warm, and leads you up a gentle incline. After about fifteen minutes of walking and easy conversation, you reach a small, secluded wooden deck overlooking the river. The entire skyline of Seoul is spread out before you, reflecting off the dark water like a million fallen stars.

There’s a blanket already laid out with a small lantern and a thermos.

"Since I already earned the kiss on Date Three," he says, stepping closer until your shoulders touch, "I decided Date Four should be about this. No billboards, no managers, no security guards within earshot. Just the wind, the river, and us."

He looks down at you, the moonlight catching the silver of his piercings. "I told you I wanted to be the exception to your rule. So, how am I doing so far?"

You let out a soft, surprised giggle as he reaches into his backpack. Instead of more snacks or wine, he pulls out two small, portable canvases and a compact set of acrylic paints.

"Painting?" you ask, eyebrows raised in amusement. "You know I’ve seen your sketches, Jungkook. This feels like a trap. You’re a professional, and I haven't picked up a brush since middle school."

He grins, the moonlight making his eyes sparkle with mischief. "It’s not a competition! Well... maybe a little bit. But the rule is: you have to paint me, and I have to paint you. No looking at the other person's canvas until we're finished."

He hands you a brush and sets up the small lantern between you so you can see your palettes. You sit cross-legged on the blanket, the cool night air nipping at your nose, but the warmth of his presence keeps you perfectly comfortable.

For the next hour, the only sounds are the gentle rustle of the wind in the trees and the soft scritch-scratch of brushes against canvas. You find yourself peeking over the top of your frame, trying to capture the exact curve of his nose and the way his hair falls over his eyes. Jungkook is intensely focused, his tongue poking out slightly in the corner of his mouth a habit he only has when he's deeply concentrated.

"No cheating!" he scolds playfully, catching you staring.

"I’m not cheating, I'm observing my subject!" you defend yourself with a laugh.

Finally, he claps his hands together. "Done. Okay, on the count of three. One... two... three!"

You flip your canvases around at the same time.

Your painting of him is... well, it's spirited. You captured his big eyes and his bunny teeth, even if the proportions are a little wonky. But when you look at his canvas, your breath hitches.

He hasn't painted a realistic portrait. Instead, it’s a beautiful, atmospheric blend of colors—mostly deep blues and purples like the night sky—with a silhouette of you in the center, glowing with a soft, golden light. It captures exactly how you felt on the balcony four days ago.

"Jungkook..." you whisper, touched by the raw emotion in the piece. "It’s beautiful."

He looks at your version of him and lets out a hearty, melodic laugh, pulling you closer until your side is pressed against his. "I love mine too. It really captures my... essence."

He sets the canvases aside and looks at you, his expression turning soft and serious. "I wanted to paint you because I wanted to show you how I see you. Not as a rule, or a date, or a person I met by accident. But as the light in all this darkness."

He leans in, his hand cupping your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek. "So, did I earn another one yet?"

You nod breathlessly, and before he can even finish his sentence, you close the gap. This isn't the soft, hesitant thank you kiss from the sidewalk. This is the culmination of four days of frantic texting, the tension of the kitchen, and the raw honesty of the night air.

The moment your lips meet, the kiss intensifies. It’s deep, hungry, and slightly desperate, as if you’re both trying to make up for all the rules and barriers that have stood in your way. His hand, previously gentle on your jaw, slides back into your hair, his fingers tangling in the strands to pull you closer, while his other arm locks around your waist.

With a low, guttural groan that vibrates against your lips, Jungkook shifts, lifting you effortlessly and pulling you onto his lap. You straddle him, your hands sliding from his neck to his chest, feeling the frantic thrum of his heart through his leather jacket.

The world around the small wooden deck disappears. The city lights, the river, the paintings none of it matters. There is only the heat of his body, the scent of his skin, and the way his hands are now gripping your hips, anchoring you to him.

He pulls back for a fraction of a second, his breath hitching, his forehead resting against yours. His eyes are dark, hooded, and completely focused on you. "Y/N," he rasps, his voice a low, rough shadow of itself. "I told you... I’m a fast learner."

He doesn't give you a chance to respond before he’s claiming your lips again, his touch becoming more confident, more demanding. The cool night air is forgotten, replaced by the electric heat radiating between the two of you. In this hidden spot, far away from the cameras and the noise, the Superstar is completely gone, leaving only a man who has finally found exactly what he’s been searching for.

The air on the secluded deck is thick with a heat that defies the cool night breeze. Jungkook’s hands have found their way under the hem of your top, his palms warm and slightly calloused against the sensitive skin of your waist. He pulls you even tighter, lifting you so you’re pressed flush against his chest, leaving no space between your racing hearts.

His kisses transition from your lips to your jawline, trailing fire down to the crook of your neck. A soft, involuntary moan escapes you as his teeth graze your skin, and his grip on your hips tightens, his breathing coming in ragged, shallow hitches. You can feel the tension in his muscles, the raw strength he’s trying so hard to keep in check, but the way he’s holding you tells you he’s just as lost in this as you are.

Every touch feels electric, amplified by the silence of the forest around you. Your hands slide under his jacket, feeling the warmth of his shoulders, your fingers tracing the firm lines of his back. He groans low in his throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated want that sends a shiver straight down your spine.

Just as his hand begins to wander higher, seeking more of you, and your head lolls back to give him better access to your throat—

BRRRRRRT. BRRRRRRT. BRRRRRRT.

The vibration is violent against the wooden deck, echoing like a jackhammer in the quiet night.

Jungkook freezes, his lips still pressed against your collarbone. He lets out a frustrated, muffled growl against your skin, refusing to move for a few seconds.

BRRRRRRT. BRRRRRRT.

"Ignore it," he rasps, his voice deep and thick with desire, his eyes dark as he looks back up at you. He tries to lean back in for another kiss, but the phone starts a third round of relentless vibrating.

"Jungkook," you breathe out, your face flushed and your hair a mess. "It might be important. Nobody calls this late unless it’s an emergency."

With a heavy sigh that practically rattles his ribs, he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out the glowing device. He looks at the screen, and his expression immediately shifts from passion to utter annoyance.

"It’s Namjoon-hyung," he mutters, rubbing a hand over his face. He looks at you, then back at the phone, then back at you his gaze lingering on your swollen lips. "If he’s calling to ask where I put the studio headphones, I’m actually going to retire."

He answers with a sharp, "Hyung, this better be a life-or-death situation," but he doesn't let you off his lap. He keeps his arm wrapped firmly around you, pulling you back against his chest as if to make sure you don't go anywhere while he deals with the real world for a moment.

The harsh reality of the phone call acts like a bucket of ice water. Even though you’re on a secluded deck, the sudden intrusion of the real world via Namjoon’s voice makes the surrounding shadows feel a little too open. Your heart is still thudding against your ribs, but the spell is broken.

You gently disentangle yourself from his arms, sliding off his lap. The cool air hits your heated skin instantly, making you realize just how far things had escalated.

Jungkook looks up at you, his eyes still dark and dazed, his hand reaching out instinctively as if to pull you back. He’s still holding the phone to his ear, listening to Namjoon, but his focus is entirely on your sudden retreat.

"I... I should eat something," you whisper, smoothing down your clothes and tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. You reach for the small container of snacks he’d brought, your fingers trembling slightly as you pick up a piece of fruit.

Jungkook watches you, his expression a mix of lingering heat and sudden concern. He realizes the shift in your energy the way you’re now looking around at the dark trees instead of at him. He speaks quickly into the phone, his tone clipping Namjoon’s explanation short.

"Yeah, Hyung. I get it. I'll check it when I'm back. Okay. Bye."

He ends the call and tosses the phone onto the blanket with a frustrated thud. He doesn't get up immediately; he just sits there, his elbows on his knees, watching you eat in silence.

"Y/N," he says softly, his voice finally losing that rough edge. "We're safe here. I checked it myself. No one knows about this spot."

He crawls forward a few inches on the blanket, stopping just short of your space, respecting the distance you just created. "Are you okay? Did I... did I go too fast?"

You shake your head quickly, wanting to ease the look of worry crossing his face. You reach out, placing a hand on his knee to ground both of you.

"No, Jungkook, it’s not that," you say softly, your voice gaining more confidence. "I enjoyed it. Really. You’re... you're amazing." You feel your cheeks heat up again, but you meet his eyes. "It’s just that the phone call reminded me that we’re not actually in a vacuum. It made me realize where we are."

Jungkook lets out a long, relieved breath, his shoulders finally dropping. He covers your hand with his own, his thumb tracing the back of your knuckles. "You scared me for a second," he admits with a small, lopsided smile. "I thought I'd messed up the Date magic."

He reaches for a piece of the fruit you were eating, popping it into his mouth before leaning back on his elbows. The tension has shifted from something heavy and heated into something much more comfortable and sweet.

"I get it," he says, looking out at the river again. "It’s hard to switch it off. One minute I’m just a guy on a date, and the next, I’m BTS Jungkook answering a work call. I hate that it broke the moment for you."

He turns back to you, his eyes soft. "But I'm glad you liked it. Because I've been thinking about doing that since the moment you walked into my kitchen and told me my ramen was okay."

You laugh, the last bit of nerves finally melting away. "It was better than okay, and you know it."

"The ramen or the kiss?" he teases, moving closer again, though this time he just settles next to you, shoulder-to-shoulder, as you both look out at the city lights.

"Both," you admit, leaning your head on his shoulder. "But definitely the kiss."

He kisses the top of your head, resting his cheek there. For the rest of the night, the phone stays face-down on the blanket, completely forgotten, as you finish the snacks and talk about everything and nothing at all.

The walk back to the car is quiet and comfortable, with Jungkook’s hand firmly anchored in yours. But the moment he slides into the driver's seat and pulls off his oversized leather jacket, the comfortable vibe shifts back into something much more dangerous.

He’s wearing a simple, well-fitted black t-shirt now, and as he starts the engine, the dim glow of the dashboard lights up the sharp angles of his jaw and the focused intensity in his eyes. He throws the car into reverse, resting his right arm on the back of your headrest as he looks over his shoulder to back out of the trailhead.

Watching him drive is a complete sensory overload. He drives with a relaxed, effortless confidence, one hand casually on the steering wheel while the other rests on the gear shift.

You find yourself mesmerized by the way the muscles in his forearm flex every time he turns the wheel, and how the light catches the intricate tattoos on his hand.

He catches you staring at him from the corner of his eye and a small, knowing smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"You're very quiet over there," he murmurs, his voice low and smooth over the soft hum of the engine. "Something on your mind, or am I just that interesting to watch?"

"You're just... very good at driving," you manage to say, trying to sound casual, though your heart is doing that familiar double-thump again.

He lets out a low, melodic chuckle, his fingers tapping a rhythmic beat against the steering wheel. "I'll take that as a compliment. Just keep looking at me like that, and I might accidentally take the long way back to your apartment."

He reaches over, briefly squeezing your hand before returning it to the wheel, but the look he gives you dark, heated, and full of unspoken promises tells you that even though the date is technically winding down, he's nowhere near ready to let the night end.

The car is stopped at a red light, the interior filled with the soft, rhythmic clicking of the turn signal. The tension from earlier the heat of the balcony and the intensity of his driving finally boils over. You unbuckle your seatbelt and lean across the center console, your hand finding the back of his neck, where his hair is softest.

You kiss him one more time, and it’s deep and lingering, tasting of the night air and the sweet fruit you shared. Jungkook lets out a low, surprised hum of approval, his hand leaving the gear shift to cup your cheek, his thumb grazing your lower lip as he pulls you closer into his space. For a few seconds, the high-end SUV feels like the smallest, most private world in all of Seoul.

The light turns green, and a car behind you honks, breaking the moment. Jungkook pulls back with a breathless, boyish grin, looking completely ruffled and thoroughly satisfied. "You're definitely trying to make me crash," he mutters, though he looks like he wouldn't mind at all.

When he finally pulls up to the curb of your apartment building, the playful energy settles into something more tender. He kills the engine, and the silence of the street wraps around the car.

"I'm not leaving until I see your light go on," he says, his voice dropping into that protective, low register. He leans over, brushing his lips against your forehead. "Thank you for tonight, Y/N. Date Four was... everything I hoped it would be."

You step out of the car, the cool air hitting you, and walk toward your entrance. As you reach the door, you turn back to see the dark SUV still idling at the curb. Through the tinted windshield, you can just make out the silhouette of him watching you, making sure you’re safe.

Once you’re inside, you head straight to your window and flick the lights on and off twice, your secret signal. Only then do you hear the low growl of the engine as he finally pulls away, leaving you alone in your quiet apartment, still feeling the heat of his touch and the weight of a night that changed everything.

The next day, you’re back with Naemi, hiding away in the corner of a quiet park with some takeout coffee. You can’t stop fidgeting with your sleeves, the adrenaline from last night still humming under your skin.

"He is so incredibly attractive, Naemi," you breathe out, staring blankly at the grass. "I mean, I knew he was handsome the whole world knows.. but when he’s just there, driving the car or looking at you in the dark... it’s completely different. It’s overwhelming."

Naemi nudges your shoulder with a smirk. "So, I’m guessing Date Four lived up to the hype? You look like you’ve been struck by lightning."

Your smile fades slightly, replaced by a flicker of genuine nerves. You lean in closer, lowering your voice. "It was perfect. But that’s the problem. Things got... intense. And now I’m starting to panic."

Naemi frowns, her playful tone shifting. "Panic? Why? He seems like he’s head-over-heels for you."

"He is, and I am for him too," you admit, twisting your coffee cup. "But Naemi... I’ve only ever been with one person. My experience is basically zero. And look at him. He’s this global icon, he’s confident, he’s powerful... I’m terrified that when the time comes, I’m going to be a total disappointment. What if he expects someone who knows exactly what they’re doing? I’m scared to sleep with him because I feel like I’m going to ruin the magic by being so... inexperienced."

Naemi watches you for a moment, her expression softening into something very grounded and supportive.

"Y/N, listen to me," she says firmly. "That guy didn't spend four days planning a painting date because he’s looking for a 'pro.' He’s looking for you. From everything you’ve told me, Jungkook is the one who’s been nervous around you. He’s the one asking for permission and trying to earn your kisses."

She takes a sip of her drink and looks you straight in the eye. "If he’s as into you as he seems and trust me, he is! he’s not going to care about your 'stats.' He’s going to care about the connection. Just be honest with him when the time feels right. Someone like him probably finds your sincerity way more attractive than some rehearsed performance."

You let out a long, shaky breath, wanting to believe her. "I hope you're right. It’s just hard not to compare myself to the idea of who people think he should be with."

"Forget the 'Superstar,'" Naemi reminds you. "Just focus on the guy who made you ramen. He’s the one who’s waiting for your next text."

You pull your coat tighter against the evening chill as you walk out of your office building, the first thing on your mind being the sound of his voice. You dial his number, and he picks up on the second ring, though the background is filled with the muffled, heavy beat of a bass track and the squeak of sneakers on a dance floor.

"Hey," he breaths out, sounding completely winded. "Y/N. I was just thinking about you."

"Are you still at the company?" you ask, leaning against a lamp post. "I was calling to see if you were free to grab dinner or just... see each other for a bit."

You hear him let out a frustrated groan, followed by the sound of him walking into a quieter hallway. "I’m so sorry. We’re deep into choreography for the new tour. The instructors are being real perfectionists today. I probably won't be out of here for another three or four hours."

You can hear the genuine disappointment in his voice, and for a second, you feel that sharp tug of longing. But you don't want to be the reason he feels guilty for working.

"Oh, Jungkook, it’s no big deal! Truly," you say, trying to sound as cheerful as possible. "You’re a busy man, I get it. I’ll just head home, order some food, and have an early night. Don't overwork yourself, okay?"

"I hate this," he mutters, his voice dropping into that low, intimate register that always makes your stomach flip. "I finally get to call you mine and I’m stuck in a practice room with six sweaty guys instead of with you. Are you sure you're not mad?"

"I'm 100% sure. Go back in there and kill it. We’ll see each other soon."

"Soon isn't fast enough," he sighs. "Text me when you're home? I’ll call you the second I’m in the car, even if it’s 2:00 AM."

As you hang up and head toward the subway, you feel a mix of pride for him and a little bit of that lingering nervousness. Part of you is almost relieved to have a night to yourself to process everything Naemi said but the larger part of you already misses the way he looks at you.

The train ride home feels longer than usual. You stare at your reflection in the dark subway window, Naemi’s words echoing in your head. He’s not looking for a pro. He’s looking for you.

You try to convince yourself of that, but the image of him in the dance studio sweaty, focused, powerful only fuels your intimidation. By the time you get to your apartment, the silence feels heavy. You’ve just changed into your oversized pajamas and a pair of thick socks when your phone pings. It’s a video clip.

It’s only ten seconds long. It’s Jungkook in the practice room, his hair damp and sticking to his forehead, wearing a loose sleeveless shirt that shows the full sleeve of his tattoos. He looks exhausted but incredibly sharp. He looks at the camera, wipes sweat from his brow, and blows a kiss before the video cuts off.

Jungkook:

Thinking of you keeps me going through the 100th run-through of this choreo. Eat something delicious for me, okay?

You spend the next few hours trying to distract yourself with a book, but around midnight, your phone rings. It’s a FaceTime call. You hesitate your hair is a mess and you have no makeup on but you answer anyway.

His face fills the screen. He’s in the back of a car, the streetlights of Seoul blurring past behind him. He looks drained, leaning his head back against the seat, but his eyes brighten the moment he sees you.

"There she is," he rasps, his voice even deeper from exhaustion. "I missed that face."

"You look tired, Jungkook," you say softly, tracing the screen with your thumb. "You should just go straight to sleep."

"I will. But I needed to hear you first." He studies you through the camera, his expression turning curious. "You're quiet tonight. Is everything okay? You didn't sound like this on the phone earlier."

You bite your lip, the familiar wave of insecurity hitting you. "I'm just thinking. About... everything. About how different our lives are. Sometimes I see you in videos like the one you sent, and I remember who you are to the world. It’s a little intimidating."

Jungkook is silent for a moment, his gaze intense even through the digital connection. He leans closer to his phone. "Y/N, look at me. In that video, I’m 'Jungkook of BTS.' But right now? I’m just a guy who’s so tired he can barely sit up, and the only thing making me feel better is talking to you."

He pauses, as if sensing there’s something more you aren't saying. "Whatever you're worried about... we'll figure it out. Together. Okay?"

You nod, feeling a little bit of the tension melt. You don't tell him about your fear of the first time yet, but the way he looks at you even through a tiny screen makes you feel like maybe, just maybe, Naemi was right. To him, you aren't a "stat" or a "case." You're the person he chooses at 2:00 AM.

The anticipation for Date Five is different. It’s not about the thrill of a secret location or the adrenaline of a grand gesture; it’s about the quiet intimacy of just being together.

When you arrive at his penthouse, you’ve opted for a low-effort look. You’re wearing loose, comfortable lounge pants that hang low on your hips, paired with a fitted, ribbed white tank top. It’s casual, but the thin fabric hugs your curves perfectly, highlighting the shape of your breasts in a way that is effortlessly enticing.

The moment the door clicks open, you aren't greeted by the superstar, but by a frantic, tail-wagging Doberman.

"Bam! Hey, big guy!" you laugh, dropping to your knees immediately.

The dog is all over you, his giant paws thumping against the floor as you wrestle with him, scratching behind his ears. Your top shifts as you move, the neckline dipping slightly as you lean over to kiss the top of Bam’s head. You’re so distracted by the dog’s excitement that you don't notice Jungkook standing in the hallway, leaning against the doorframe.

He’s wearing oversized sweatpants and a simple tee, but he’s gone completely still. His gaze is locked on you or more specifically, the way you look on the floor, flushed and laughing, with the light catching the soft curves emphasized by your tight top. He swallows hard, his throat moving visibly.

"I'm starting to think he likes you more than he likes me," Jungkook finally says, his voice a bit huskier than usual.

You look up, still breathless from playing, and give him a bright smile. "Can you blame him? I give better ear scratches."

Jungkook walks over, reaching down to give you a hand up. As he pulls you to your feet, his eyes linger on your chest for a split second longer than intended before he meets your gaze. The air in the room suddenly feels much warmer.

"You look... really good, Y/N," he murmurs, his hands staying on your waist a beat too long after you're standing. "I thought we were just doing a 'lazy' movie night."

"I am lazy!" you tease, gesturing to your pants. "This is my peak comfort level."

"Well," he says, his thumb absentmindedly brushing against the side of your ribs, sending a jolt of electricity through you. "Your version of 'comfortable' is very dangerous for my concentration."

He leads you over to the massive, cloud-like sofa where he’s already set up a mountain of pillows, blankets, and of course an array of snacks. But as you settle in next to him, the movie feels like a very secondary thought. The way he’s tucked you into his side, his arm draped over your shoulders and his fingers tracing patterns on your arm, tells you that Date Five might be the night where all your fears and his patience finally meet.

You’re both snuggled deep into the cushions of his oversized sofa, a glass of red wine in your hand and the glow of the TV flickering across your faces. A Spider-Man movie is playing, and as Tom Holland appears on screen during an action sequence, you lean back and let out a thoughtful hum.

"You know," you say, taking a sip of your wine, "I never realized it, but he’s actually really good-looking. There’s something so charming about him."

Beside you, Jungkook stiffens almost imperceptibly. He reaches for a handful of popcorn, his eyes narrowing slightly at the screen. "He's okay," he mutters, his tone suddenly flat. "I mean, if you like that 'boyish' look, I guess."

You peek at him over the rim of your glass, catching the way his jaw is set and how he’s pointedly not looking at you. He’s actually jealous. The global heartthrob, the man millions dream about, is pouting because of a movie star.

It’s the most adorable thing you’ve ever seen.

You set your wine glass down on the coffee table with a soft clink. The liquid courage is buzzing in your veins, making you feel bold. You turn toward him, looking him dead in the eye, and then slowly crawl across the cushions until you're straddling his lap.

Jungkook’s breath hitches. His hands fly to your waist to steady you, his eyes wide and dark as they search yours. The movie is completely forgotten.

"He's charming," you whisper, leaning in until your nose brushes against his. "But he doesn't look like this."

You trace the line of his tattoos with your fingers before sliding them up to cup his face. You don't give him a chance to respond. You lean down and kiss him deep, slow, and full of the intent you've been hiding all night.

The jealousy vanishes instantly, replaced by a low, hungry groan. Jungkook’s grip on your waist tightens, his fingers digging into the fabric of your leggings as he pulls you flush against him. His tongue sweeps against yours, demanding and possessive, as if he's trying to erase any thought of anyone else from your mind.

Your heart is hammering against your ribs. You can feel his heat through your thin tank top, and for a moment, the fear of your inexperience is drowned out by the sheer, overwhelming pull of him. He tastes like the wine and looks like everything you've ever wanted, and right now, in the dim light of his living room, the rest of the world has ceased to exist.

The movie on the screen is nothing but a blur of flickering light and distant noise as Jungkook’s focus narrows entirely to the woman in his lap. The jealousy from moments ago has morphed into a raw, territorial heat. He pulls back from the kiss just enough to look at you, his pupils so blown that his eyes appear almost entirely black. His large, tattooed hands slide from your waist, slipping beneath the hem of your ribbed tank top. The sensation of his skin against yours makes you gasp, his palms warm and slightly rough as they travel upward, molding over the undersides of your breasts. He groans into your neck, his teeth grazing your collarbone, while his thumbs rhythmically brush against your nipples through the thin fabric, making them ache with a sudden, sharp need.

He doesn't stop there. One hand remains anchored to your back, pulling you flush against his chest, while the other slides down, disappearing into the waistband of your loose lounge pants. You let out a broken whimper against his lips as he finds the damp heat blooming between your thighs. Jungkook is patient, his long, slender fingers moving with a devastating precision that belies his own frantic breathing. He finds your center, his touch feather-light at first, circling and teasing until you are arching your back against him, your fingers tangling desperately in his hair. He begins to slide two fingers inside you, the length of them filling you so perfectly that your head lolls back, your eyes fluttering shut. He uses his thumb to maintain a relentless, rhythmic pressure above, and the combination sends jolts of electricity through your entire body.

"Jungkook," you sob out, your hands clutching at his shoulders as the tension in your core winds tighter and tighter. He watches you with a fierce intensity, his jaw clenched, as he picks up the pace. His fingers move deep and rhythmic, perfectly attuned to the way your body trembles and clenches around him. The world begins to tunnel, the only thing real being the friction and the heat and the low, encouraging murmurs he’s whispering against your ear. When the peak finally hits, it’s a violent, white-hot explosion that leaves you breathless, your internal muscles spasming around his fingers in a long, agonizingly beautiful release. You collapse against him, your forehead resting on his shoulder as you sob for air, your body still twitching with the aftershocks of the most intense sensation you've ever felt.

As your breathing slowly begins to level out, the vulnerability of the moment hits you, but it’s quickly replaced by a fierce desire to give back the pleasure he just gave you. You shift, sliding off his lap and down onto the plush rug between his knees. Jungkook watches you, his breath coming in ragged hitches, his hands resting on the edge of the sofa as he stares down at you. You look up at him, your lips swollen and your eyes glazed, before your hands reach for the drawstring of his sweatpants. You pull them down, freeing his length, which is already straining and slick with anticipation. You take him into your hands, marvelling at the heat and the weight of him, before leaning forward to take him into your mouth. The sound he makes is a raw, guttural animal noise, his head snapping back against the sofa cushions as his fingers dig into the fabric. You move with a slow, deliberate focus, using your tongue and the suction of your lips to drive him to the same edge he just showed you, relishing the way his entire body trembles under your touch.

The air in the room is heavy and still, the only sound the ragged, uneven rhythm of your shared breathing. As Jungkook reaches his limit, his hands find their way into your hair, his fingers gripping gently but firmly as he lets out a low, shuddering groan that seems to vibrate from deep within his chest. When he finally releases, you stay there for a moment, the intimacy of the act settling over you both like a warm blanket.

You eventually pull back, wiping your lip with the back of your hand, looking up at him through your lashes. Jungkook looks completely wrecked. His head is still resting against the back of the sofa, his eyes half-closed and his skin glowing with a light sheen of sweat. He looks down at you, and the sheer tenderness and gratitude in his gaze make your heart swell even more than the physical act did.

"Y/N," he whispers, his voice nothing more than a raspy shadow. He reaches down, hooking his arms under your pits to lift you back up into his space.

You collapse against him, your head tucking into the crook of his neck. You're completely speechless. Any lingering fear you had about your inexperience or "not being good enough" has been incinerated by the last twenty minutes. You feel empowered, connected, and thoroughly exhausted in the best possible way.

"That was..." you start, but the words fail you. You just shake your head against his skin, breathing in the scent of his cologne and the heat of his body.

"I know," he murmurs, his arms wrapping around you so tightly it's as if he's trying to pull you inside his own ribcage. He kisses the temple of your head, his lips lingering there. "Don't say anything. Just stay right here."

He reaches for the discarded blanket on the floor, draping it over both of you, shielding you from the rest of the world. For a long time, neither of you moves. The movie has long since reached the credits, the white text scrolling silently over a black screen, but in the quiet of his living room, everything feels loud and clear: the Superstar and the Rule are gone. There is only this.

You are completely under his spell. Lying there in the quiet aftermath, wrapped in the warmth of his arms and the soft weight of the blanket, everything else feels like a distant memory. You feel a sense of belonging that scares you and thrills you all at once. You are utterly, hopelessly fallen.

The heavy, romantic silence is suddenly shattered by a wet nose poking insistently at your shoulder.

Bam, who had been patiently waiting in the corner of the living room, has decided that the humans-doing-nothing portion of the evening has gone on quite long enough. He lets out a sharp, playful bark and starts zoomie-ing around the massive sofa, his paws thumping rhythmically against the hardwood floor.

He skids to a halt, head tilted, before pouncing on the edge of the blanket and trying to tug it away with his teeth, his tail wagging so hard his entire back half is wiggling.

The sheer absurdity of the moment breaks the tension. You burst into a genuine, tired laugh, your shoulders shaking against Jungkook’s chest.

"Bam! No! Not now!" Jungkook groans, though he’s laughing too, his deep chest-rumble vibrating against you. He tries to grab the corner of the blanket back, but the Doberman is faster, leaping back and letting out a "woof" that sounds suspiciously like a challenge.

"I think he's jealous," you manage to say through your giggles, sitting up slightly and trying to fix your hair, which is a complete disaster. "He wants in on the cuddle pile."

"He's a menace," Jungkook says, but his eyes are full of affection as he watches his dog act like a puppy. He reaches out and ruffles Bam's ears, then turns back to you, his expression softening as he catches the sight of you flushed, messy, and laughing in his living room.

"See?" he whispers, leaning in to give you a quick, sweet kiss on the tip of your nose. "Even he knows you belong here."

You look at him, still slightly breathless from the laughter and the lingering heat of the night. As much as you want to stay in this bubble, the habit of being careful is hard to break.

"Will you drive me home?" you ask softly, your hand resting on his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart. "It’s late, and I don't want to get in the way of your schedule tomorrow."

Jungkook doesn't move. His grip on your waist actually tightens a fraction, and he looks at you with an expression that is so sincere it makes your breath hitch. He doesn't look like he's ready to let go of the warmth between you just yet.

"Stay," he murmurs, his voice low and a little bit vulnerable. "Sleep here tonight. I have plenty of room, and Bam clearly won't let you leave without a fight anyway."

He leans in, resting his forehead against yours, his dark eyes searching yours. "I don't want to drop you off at a cold apartment and then drive back to this big, empty place alone. I just want to wake up and see you there. No pressure, no expectations. Just us, some coffee, and maybe a very confused dog."

He brushes a stray hair from your face, his touch incredibly tender. "What do you say? I have a spare toothbrush, and I promise I’m an excellent cuddler."

The offer is tempting so tempting that the fear of your inexperience or the rules of the relationship feels a thousand miles away. You look at his expectant face, then at Bam, who has finally settled down at the foot of the couch, and you realize there's nowhere else you'd rather be.

"Okay," you whisper, a small smile spreading across your face. "I'll stay."

Jungkook’s entire face lights up with that triumphant, boyish grin. He pulls you into one last, lingering kiss before standing up and offering you his hand. "Best decision you've made all night. Come on, let's get you settled."

The hot water feels like a dream against your skin, washing away the lingering salt and heat of the night, but it does nothing to calm the butterflies in your stomach. After drying off, you spot the oversized black T-shirt he left out for you. You pull it on, and it’s so large it reaches mid-thigh, the fabric heavy and soft, smelling exactly like his signature woody, slightly spicy cologne. It feels like a warm embrace before you’ve even stepped back into the room.

When you finally push open the heavy door to the master bedroom, you’re struck by how perfectly the space is. It’s a sanctuary of dark, moody aesthetics and high-end luxury. The walls are a deep charcoal, the lighting is dimmed to a soft, golden amber, and the floor-to-ceiling windows offer a breathtaking, silent view of the Seoul skyline. Everything from the state-of-the-art speakers tucked into the corners to the massive, plush bed that looks like a dark cloud screams comfort and sophistication.

Jungkook is already in bed, propped up against a mountain of pillows with a tablet in his hand, likely checking his schedule one last time. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung black pajama pants. The sight of his bare, tattooed chest and the way the dim light plays over his muscles makes you pause in the doorway.

He looks up, and the moment his eyes land on you in his shirt, the tablet is forgotten. It clatters onto the nightstand.

"Wow," he breathes out, his gaze traveling slowly from your damp hair down to your bare legs. A soft, satisfied smirk tugs at his lips. "I think that shirt looks significantly better on you than it ever did on me."

He reaches out, patting the empty spot beside him. The luxury of the room is intimidating, but the look in his eyes is nothing but warm and welcoming.

"Come here," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. "I’ve been waiting to see how you fit in this bed."

You climb in, the silk sheets cool against your skin, but the moment you slide next to him, he pulls you into his side. You rest your head on his chest, listening to the steady, calm beat of his heart. Out there, he’s the world’s biggest star, but in this dark, luxurious room, he’s just the man holding you tight, finally letting out a long sigh of contentment.

As you settle against him, the steady rhythm of his heart acting like a lullaby, Jungkook reaches for his phone on the nightstand. You expect him to just set an alarm or check a final message, but instead, he angles the camera toward the two of you.

You look up, blinking sleepily at the lens. He’s grinning, looking completely relaxed and smugly happy, while you are tucked firmly under his chin, wearing his oversized shirt and looking soft from the shower.

Click.

"What are you doing?" you mumble, your voice thick with sleepiness as you watch his thumbs fly across the screen.

"Just sending a little update to Minho," he says, his voice vibrating through his chest and into your ear. "He’s been texting me all night asking if 'Date Five' was a success. I think this counts as a pretty definitive 'yes'."

He hits send before you can protest. You can only imagine Minho’s face on the other end the shock, the inevitable teasing, and the realization that his friend is officially, deeply gone for you.

"Jungkook! He's going to never let us hear the end of this," you laugh softly, hiding your face in the crook of his neck.

"Let him talk," Jungkook murmurs, dropping the phone back onto the nightstand and pulling the heavy duvet up over your shoulders. He wraps both arms around you, locking you into place as if he’s afraid you might float away. "I want the whole world to know eventually. But for tonight, Minho is the only witness."

He kisses the top of your head, his breath warm against your hair. "Now, go to sleep, Y/N. You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be."

As the silence of the dark, luxurious room settles back in, you drift off to sleep feeling more secure than you ever thought possible, knowing that while he might be a superstar to millions, he’s chosen to share this quiet, private reality only with you.

The sleep you get is the deepest you’ve had in months. Wrapped in the scent of his cologne and the weight of his arm draped protectively over your waist, you don't even stir when the sun begins to peek through the gaps in the heavy blackout curtains.

But peaceful mornings in the Jeon household are apparently a rare luxury.

Suddenly, the mattress dips violently. A heavy, rhythmic thud-thud-thud of a tail hitting the duvet is followed by the sound of muffled huffing. Before you can even open your eyes, a giant, wet nose is pressed directly against your cheek, and a massive paw lands squarely on your hip.

"Oof!" you grunt, your eyes flying open to see Bam’s giant Doberman face just inches from yours, his tongue lolling out in a goofy, morning grin.

Beside you, Jungkook groans, burying his face deeper into his pillow. "Bam... no... it’s too early," he mumbles, his voice thick and gravelly with sleep. He reaches out a blind, tattooed arm, trying to grab the dog's collar to pull him away, but Bam is too excited. The dog lets out a sharp, playful boof and starts walking over both of you, his paws digging into the mattress as he tries to find a spot right in the middle.

"He's a literal alarm clock," you laugh, your voice scratchy as you try to sit up while a seventy-pound dog treats your legs like a bridge.

Jungkook finally cracks one eye open, squinting at the chaos. When he sees you messy hair, his oversized shirt slipping off one shoulder, and his dog trying to lick your face—his grumpy expression melts into a lazy, lopsided smile.

"I told you he liked you," he rasps, reaching out to pull you back down into the pillows, dog be damned. He tucks his head into the crook of your neck, his morning stubble tickling your skin. "Good morning. Ignore the monster. Stay for five more minutes?"

Bam, feeling left out of the cuddle, lets out another bark and flops his entire heavy body across your feet, effectively pinning you both to the bed. It’s not the quiet, sophisticated morning you’d imagined in a luxury penthouse, but as Jungkook kisses your shoulder and the dog wags his tail against your shins, it feels a lot more like home.

The chaos of the dog alarm slowly subsides as Bam realizes that if he wants to be part of the pack, he has to match the energy. With a heavy, dramatic sigh, he circles three times at the foot of the bed before flopping down, his chin resting right on your ankles.

The weight is grounding, and the room is still cool and dark, shielded from the morning rush of the city outside.

Jungkook doesn't let go. If anything, he pulls you even closer, his front pressed against your back, his breath steady and warm against the nape of your neck. His arm is a heavy, comforting weight across your stomach, his fingers lazily interlaced with yours.

"See?" he mumbles, his voice barely audible, vibrating through your skin. "Even he knows... it’s too early for the real world."

You feel yourself drifting again, the safety of his embrace and the rhythmic breathing of the dog at your feet acting like a powerful sedative. The luxury of the penthouse, the pressure of his career, and your own lingering nerves all fade into a soft, hazy blur.

In this cocoon of silk sheets and quiet breathing, time seems to stop. You fall back into a deep, dreamless sleep, knowing that for the first time in a long time, you don't have to be anywhere else. You’re exactly where you belong, tucked between a sleeping giant and the man who makes the rest of the world feel like background noise.

When you wake up the second time, the sun is higher, casting long, golden streaks across the dark floor. Jungkook is still out cold, sprawled across the bed with one arm thrown over where you were just lying, his face looking incredibly soft and peaceful in sleep.

You slip out of bed quietly, trying not to disturb him. You find your clothes from the night before, pull them on, and head out to the living room. Bam is already waiting by the door, his ears perking up the second he hears your footsteps. He lets out a tiny, hopeful whine, his tail thumping against the wall.

"Okay, big guy," you whisper, smiling at his enthusiasm. "Let's give your dad some peace and quiet."

You find his leash near the entrance a sturdy, professional-looking lead and clip it onto Bam’s collar. The dog is surprisingly well-behaved, sitting patiently as you get him ready, though his whole body is vibrating with excitement.

Stepping out of the penthouse and into the crisp morning air is refreshing. The neighborhood is quiet, upscale, and lined with manicured greenery. Walking Bam feels like a glimpse into a completely different side of Jungkook's life the mundane, everyday responsibility he handles when the cameras aren't rolling.

Bam is a dream on the leash, walking proudly by your side, his head held high. You spend about thirty minutes wandering the nearby paths, enjoying the silence of the city as it slowly wakes up. You feel a strange sense of pride, walking his dog through his neighborhood, like a secret part of his world has been handed over to you to look after.

By the time you head back toward the building, you’re feeling energized and far more relaxed about "Date Five" and everything that happened. As the elevator rises back up to the penthouse, you wonder if the sleeping giant in the bedroom has realized his two favorite distractions are missing yet.

When you let yourself back into the apartment, the air is silent except for the low hum of the air conditioning. You unclip Bam’s leash, and he immediately trots off toward the bedroom to check on his master. You follow slowly, stopping at the kitchen island to pour yourself a glass of water, feeling a strange but beautiful sense of belonging in this high-tech, silent sanctuary.

You’ve just set the glass down when you hear the heavy thud of footsteps. A moment later, Jungkook appears in the hallway.

He’s a mess of morning-after perfection. His hair is standing up in every direction, his eyes are puffy and half-closed, and he’s still only wearing those low-slung black pajama pants. He’s rubbing his face with one hand, while the other is buried in Bam’s fur as the dog circles his legs.

He stops when he sees you standing there in the light of the kitchen. A slow, relieved smile spreads across his face, and he leans his shoulder against the doorframe, watching you.

"I woke up and the bed was cold," he rasps, his voice even deeper and scratchier than it was earlier. "I thought maybe I’d dreamed the whole thing. Then I saw Bam was gone too and I figured you’d both made a run for it."

"We just went for a little walk," you say, leaning back against the counter. "I wanted to let you sleep. You looked like you needed it."

Jungkook walks over to you, his bare feet silent on the floor. He doesn't say anything at first; he just steps into your space, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you against his warm, bare chest. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, taking a deep breath of your scent.

"I needed this more," he murmurs against your skin, his grip tightening. "Thank you for taking care of him. And for staying."

He pulls back just enough to look down at you, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. The intensity in his eyes from last night is still there, but it’s tempered with a new kind of softness—a quiet domesticity that feels even more intimate than the sex.

"Hungry?" he asks, his stomach let out a timely, loud growl that makes you both laugh. "I might not be a Michelin-star chef, but I can make a mean breakfast. Or we can just stay hidden in here all day and pretend the rest of the world doesn't exist. Your choice."

Jungkook is in full "chef mode," moving around the high-end kitchen with a focused energy that is surprisingly endearing. He’s crackling eggs into a pan and toasting thick slices of bread, the morning light catching the muscles in his back as he moves.

You’re perched on the edge of the marble island, your legs swinging slightly, wrapped in the warmth of a mug of tea. You watch the way he handles the spatula with the same precision he uses for everything else, a small, content smile on your face.

"You know," you murmur, taking a slow sip of your tea and glancing at his sleek, professional coffee setup, "for a place this fancy, you’re missing something vital."

Jungkook looks over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised in a challenge. "Oh yeah? What did I forget? I have every gadget known to man in these cupboards."

"A matcha station," you say, gesturing to a clear spot on the counter. "I’m talking the real deal. A traditional ceramic bowl, a bamboo whisk... the whole ceremony. It would fit right in here."

Jungkook pauses, the spatula mid-air, as if he’s actually visualizing it. A thoughtful look crosses his face. "A matcha station, huh?" He turns back to the stove, flipping the eggs with a flick of his wrist. "I usually just go for the strongest espresso I can find to survive practice, but... I like the sound of that. It sounds peaceful. Very you."

He plates the food and slides it over to you, leaning his elbows on the counter so he’s eye-level with you. The smirk returns to his lips, that playful, competitive glint in his eyes.

"Tell you what," he says, his voice dropping into that smooth, intimate register. "Next time you come over, there’ll be a matcha station right there. But on one condition."

"And what’s that?" you ask, leaning in closer.

"You have to be the one to teach me how to use the whisk properly," he murmurs, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering on your skin. "I have a feeling I’m going to be a very slow learner. You might have to spend a lot of time here making sure I get the technique right."

He leans in and steals a quick, breakfast-flavored kiss before you can answer, looking thoroughly pleased with his plan to keep you coming back.

You take a bite of the eggs he prepared, surprised by how perfectly he seasoned them. The kitchen is quiet, save for the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional sound of Bam’s claws clicking on the floor as he hopefuly patrols for fallen scraps.

"So," Jungkook says, leaning back against the sink and crossing his arms over his bare chest. He watches you eat with a look of pure, unadulterated satisfaction. "Now that I've officially fed you and my dog has accepted you as his new leader, does this mean I get to keep you here for the rest of the day?"

You look up from your plate, a bit of toast halfway to your mouth. "Don't you have practice later? You said last night they were being perfectionists."

Jungkook groans, throwing his head back and looking at the ceiling. "Don't remind me. I have a mid-afternoon session, but that gives us a few more hours." He looks back at you, his eyes softening. "Honestly, I just want to do nothing. No cameras, no choreography, no 'Golden Maknae' stuff. Just... sitting here with you. Maybe you can show me those matcha sets online so I can order the best one?"

He moves closer, sliding into the space between your knees as you sit on the counter. He rests his hands on your thighs, his touch grounded and warm. "I was serious, you know. About the station. I want this place to feel like somewhere you want to be, not just somewhere you're visiting."

The weight of his words hits you. It’s a subtle shift from dating to building something, and it makes your heart do a nervous little dance. You reach out, running your fingers through his messy morning hair, smoothing down the stray strands.

"I think I already want to be here, Jungkook. Whisk or no whisk."

He grins, pulling you forward by the waist until your chest is pressed against his. He kisses you a soft, lingering morning kiss that tastes like coffee and home.

"Good," he whispers against your lips. "Because I'm already planning Date Six, and it involves significantly less Tom Holland and significantly more of me having you all to myself."

He pulls back just enough to wink at you, his thumb tracing the hem of your shorts. "But first, show me this matcha bowl. It better be a nice one."

The morning air eventually shifts from that slow, lazy haze into the reality of his schedule. Jungkook checks his phone and lets out a long, dramatic sigh, leaning his forehead against your shoulder.

"The perfectionists are calling," he mumbles, his voice full of mock despair. "I have to be at the studio in forty minutes."

You laugh, sliding off the counter and giving him one last squeeze. "Go. Go be a superstar. I should get going too; I have a mountain of things to catch up on."

The atmosphere changes as you both get ready to leave. The intimate, skin-on-skin warmth of the bedroom is replaced by the rustle of denim and the search for misplaced keys. Jungkook pulls on a hoodie and a bucket hat, the public version of him slowly snapping back into place, though he keeps looking over at you with a soft, private smile that belongs only to the kitchen you just shared.

At the door, Bam is pacing, sensing the departure. Jungkook kneels down to give him a final pat before standing up and turning to you. He reaches out, pulling you into his arms for a long, firm hug that feels like he’s trying to memorize the sensation of you.

"I’ll call you the second I get a break," he says into your hair. "And I meant what I said. By the next time you're here, that matcha station will be waiting."

"I'll hold you to it," you tease, looking up at him.

He leans down, giving you a deep, lingering kiss that tastes like a promise. "I'm serious, Y/N. This wasn't just a one-time sleepover. Stay safe, okay? Text me when you're inside your apartment."

You step out into the hallway together, the heavy door of his penthouse clicking shut behind you. As you walk toward the elevator, you feel a strange mix of emotions a bit of a comedown from the high of the night, but also a solid, grounded sense of security. You’re leaving his home, but for the first time, it feels like you’re leaving a piece of yourself there, too.

When the elevator doors close, you catch your reflection in the mirror flushed, slightly messy, and wearing a look of quiet happiness that even the busiest Monday couldn't ruin.

The high of that morning in the penthouse starts to fade, replaced by a cold, hollow silence that grows heavier with each passing day. At first, you tell yourself he’s just busythose instructors he mentioned must be pushing them to the limit. But when Day 3 turns into Day 7, and Day 7 turns into Day 10, the silence starts to feel like a message.

You check your phone a thousand times a day. Your last few texts sit there, marked as "Read" or sometimes not even acknowledged.

You: "Hope practice is going well! Don't forget to eat." (Sent 6 days ago)

You: "Hey, just checking in. Everything okay?" (Sent 2 days ago)

No reply.

What makes it hurt more is that he isn't missing. You see the updates. Fans post clips of him leaving the building, looking tired but laughing with Jimin. He posts a story of Bam running in a park, captioned with a simple heart. He looks fine. He looks like he’s having fun. He looks like he’s moved on to the next thing, while you’re still wearing the phantom scent of his cologne on your skin.

The thoughts you tried to suppress start to poison your mind. Maybe Naemi was wrong. Maybe I was just a case to him. Maybe I was too much, or maybe, after he got what he wanted on that couch, the mystery was gone. You feel a deep, burning embarrassment when you think about how you looked after his dog and talked about a matcha station. You feel like a fool for thinking you were building a home with a man who belongs to the world.

You don't tell anyone. Not even Naemi. You don't want to hear the "I told you so's" or the pity. You go to work, you come home.

You’ve stopped checking the news, but the notifications still find you.

On the tenth night, you’re sitting in your dark living room, the silence of your apartment feeling deafening compared to the memory of his laughter. You pick up your phone to delete his contact to just end the torture of waiting when your screen finally lights up.

It’s not a text. It’s a call. But it’s not from Jungkook.

It’s Minho.

You stare at the screen, your thumb trembling as you slide to answer. Part of you hopes desperately that he’s calling to say Jungkook lost his phone, that there’s a reason for the radio silence.

"Hello?" you whisper, your voice thin and brittle.

"Y/N! Hey!" Minho’s voice is loud, booming over a chaotic wall of sound. You hear the unmistakable thumping of a club beat, the clinking of glasses, and the high-pitched shriek of laughter. "I wasn't sure if you'd pick up! It's been a while, right?"

"Minho? Where are you?"

"We're at that new place in Gangnam the private lounge!" he shouts, sounding like he’s already had a few drinks. "The guys finally finished the main choreo block, so we're celebrating! You should hear the noise in here, it’s insane."

In the background, a familiar voice yells something indistinct, followed by the unmistakable, boisterous laugh of Jin. Your heart doesn't just sink; it shatters. They are out. They are celebrating. They are fine.

"Is... is Jungkook there?" you ask, the words feeling like shards of glass in your throat.

"Yeah, he’s right over wait, JK! Move your head!" Minho laughs, and you can practically hear the movement of the phone. "He’s right in the middle of it, Y/N. He’s been going hard all night. I think he’s finally blowing off some steam."

You hear Jungkook’s voice then, muffled but clear. He isn't asking for the phone. He isn't asking about you. He’s shouting a lyric to a song, his voice full of energy and alcohol-fueled joy. He sounds... happy. He sounds like a man who hasn't spent a single second of the last ten days wondering why he stopped answering the woman who slept in his bed.

"Listen, I gotta go, tae is trying to start a dance-off," Minho says, oblivious to the silence on your end. "I just wanted to see if you were coming by later? Or... wait, did he not call you?"

"No," you say, your voice finally going cold. "He didn't call. I have to go, Minho. Have a good night."

You hang up before he can respond. You drop the phone onto the sofa as if it burned you. The silence of your apartment returns, but now it’s suffocating.

Ten days of silence. Ten days of you worrying, overthinking, and feeling like you were "too much." And the whole time, he was just... moving on. The matcha station, the morning cuddles, the way he looked at you after Date Five it was all just part of the show.

You walk to your kitchen and look at the empty counter. You feel a wave of nausea. You weren't a girlfriend. You weren't a partner. You were just a temporary stop on his way to a celebration you weren't invited to. You sit down on the floor, pull your knees to your chest, and finally let the first tear fall. The dream hasn't just ended; it’s been demolished.

The Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom had always been a little colder than the others. and you had been sitting in your place for some time, your elbow resting on the desk as the pale light streaming through the tall windows slowly slid across the floor.

The other students were talking quietly. Laughter, whispers, the tapping of quills on wooden desks.

But the teacher’s chair was still empty. Someone always came in to substitute—an anxious professor who rattled through the lesson quickly.

Usually, Galatea Merrythought taught this class, at least on paper. Her name was attached to the room, the syllabus, the old notes. But in recent weeks, she seemed to have disappeared from the corridors. Someone else always came in her place, and none of them stayed long.

You felt someone glance at you, perhaps one of your classmates. But it didn’t last. Just a quick, measuring look, the kind you knew well.

People often looked at each other like that. As if they were only seeing the cover of a book and deciding what was inside just from that. From the colors, the outward appearances, the way someone sat, or even just listened.

As if no one thought to read the story itself.

By now, the light at the window had dimmed, turning from gold to gray on the stone floor. The ticking of the clock echoed softly off the walls. Someone was standing by the window, others leaning partially on the desks, chatting, as if this class had long since lost its importance.

Then the doorknob moved. Just a soft click. Conversations died quickly. The door slowly opened. The pale, cold light of the corridor spilled into the room for a moment, and the silhouette of a tall figure appeared.

Tom Riddle stepped in. He didn’t hurry; his movements were too calm to be accidental. The silence of the classroom seemed to belong naturally to him. The door closed behind him.

As he came closer, the pale afternoon light touched his face. He was strangely beautiful—not in a kind, warm sense. More in a way that made one instinctively step back. Sharp features, pale skin, and those dark eyes that had lingered too long on a face, as if trying to strip away its layers.

There was something… contradictory about him. As if beneath the surface, a poisonous calm was lurking. Something cold. And yet all of this wrapped in a perfect, almost unsettling elegance, making it impossible to decide whether to step back or keep looking.

Beauty and danger. That was the best way to describe Tom Riddle.

Eventually, Riddle slowly leaned against the edge of the desk, the whole situation providing him with some quiet amusement. His gaze swept across the desks.

“I’ve heard,” he said at last, “that in recent weeks this class… has been somewhat irregular.”

Someone at the back chuckled softly.

“I thought,” he continued, “we can start in a less formal way. Ask anything you like.”

Immediately, the classroom stirred. Quills slid aside, chairs creaked, and some students looked at each other as if trying to decide whether he was serious.

The first hand went up surprisingly fast. A blonde girl in the front row, who had been sitting unusually straight.

“Professor,” she began, her voice a shade softer than what would be required for a simple question, “did you really get a teaching position at such a young age?”

“Merlin…” whispered a boy.

But the girl held Riddle’s gaze steadily, as if it were the most natural question in the world. His eyes settled on her. He was not disturbed by the question.

“The Ministry sometimes… makes peculiar decisions,” he replied calmly.

The girl smiled. “I’m sure that wasn’t the only reason.” A few girls stifled giggles after the sentence.

A girl in the third row—dark, wavy hair and the confidence that usually comes only when one knows they are being watched—slowly raised her hand. She didn’t really wait for permission.

“Professor,” she said, her voice calm but a playful glint in her eyes, “if we may ask anything…”

Now the entire room was watching. A few boys buried their faces in books to avoid laughing out loud.

“Is it true the rumor that you’ve… dueled someone outside of school?”

Someone at the back laughed. “Oh, this is going to be good.”

But the girl continued as if it were a completely serious question. “Because if so…” she tilted her head slightly to the side, “I can imagine it must have been quite… impressive to witness.”

The professor looked at the questioner for a moment. Not embarrassed. Not offended either.

“Dueling…” he said, “is usually not meant to be a spectacle.” His voice was polite. Yet beneath the sentence, there was something cold. Something that reminded the classroom, even briefly, that this was still a Defense Against the Dark Arts class.

The laughter slowly died away. It seemed most questions had been asked. Some students fiddled with their quills, others leaned back in their chairs as if the lesson was winding down.

Tom Riddle’s gaze swept across the class. “Any more questions?” he finally asked.

For a moment, you looked at your book on the desk, as if weighing whether to speak.

Then you lifted your eyes. “Professor,” you said at last.

The room went silent immediately. Perhaps because your voice was completely different from the previous questions. There was no playfulness, no stifled laughter.

“I would like to know…” you began slowly, “in your opinion, what truly defines success in a wizard’s life?”

Some students looked puzzled. You continued.“People often talk about it as if success is something external. Power, influence… or simply money. As if these are the signs everyone uses to decide who has gone far in life.”

You looked briefly at the light by the window before meeting Riddle’s gaze again. Your voice remained calm.

“But often I feel people accept this standard too quickly. As if wealth or social rank alone proves someone is… successful.”

You paused briefly, then continued. “Do you think money is the anthem of success?”

The question hung in the air. No one laughed. Not even the girls who had flirted quietly earlier.

Tom Riddle didn’t answer immediately. His gaze stayed on you. Not like when he was scanning the class before. Now he looked at you as if reading the first page of a particularly interesting book.

Then he slowly tilted his head thoughtfully. “Interesting question,” he said finally.

He genuinely seemed to be considering it. Slowly, he walked alongside the desk. “Money…” he continued, “undoubtedly brings power.”

His voice was calm, almost contemplative. “It opens many doors more easily than any spell.”

His gaze swept the classroom for a moment. “But in itself, it rarely makes someone successful. It is more a consequence.”

He paused. “Those who achieve truly great things… usually aren’t seeking money.”

His eyes found yours again. “But something else. Influence. Knowledge. Or simply… superiority.”

Then Riddle smiled faintly. “And interestingly,” he added, “such people often end up acquiring wealth anyway.”

The lesson slowly ended. The tapping of quills and creaking of chairs gradually faded into the silence of the room.

A few students stepped closer to Tom Riddle. They surrounded him, as if he himself were the light in the dark room, the center in which every shadow made sense.

It was like every glance directed at him—he was an invisible nebula, and he himself the gravity to which every particle was drawn. As if he were heaven itself on Earth.

You didn’t join the circle. You closed your book and put down your quill. You didn’t want to participate in the admiration. You were already heading toward the door, your footsteps echoing softly on the stone floor, when his voice spoke behind you.

“Wait,” said Tom Riddle, his voice not commanding, yet not dismissive. “I would like to talk more about your question.”

You stopped. Your heart beat a little faster, but not from fear. Just… from curiosity and the feeling that overcame you being near him.

Riddle slowly raised his hand, with an elegant, subtle gesture signaling you to follow him. Then he excused himself to the others and said goodbye.

“Shall we?” he said softly, still calm but firm. “Let’s move a little aside.”As you passed the desks, Riddle touched your shoulder, guiding you.

The gesture was small but significant.Something warm, but not intrusive, ran through you; as if the scent of summer had quietly drifted into the air.

And his gaze… looking into his eyes was like the world briefly became lighter, taller—as if heaven itself were hidden in his gaze.

You stopped at a secluded corner of the corridor. Riddle looked at you slowly, weighing his words before speaking.

“So… we’re talking about money,” he began, his voice calm. “I’m interested in your own opinion as well.”

You took a deep breath before beginning. “True success,” you continued, “is when one is capable of creating something lasting, regardless of how much gold is in their pocket. The knowledge, the impact we have on others, the consequences of our choices… these measures are far more enduring than wealth.”

Riddle slowly lifted his gaze. His dark eyes fixed on you, a tension vibrating in them, stopping the air in the corridor.He looked at you as if trying to control his thoughts. Trying to restrain himself,trying hard not to get into trouble, yet in every movement there was… a war in his mind.As if trying to contain an internal bloodbath. A battlefield where thoughts and instincts clashed, yet in every motion he exercised strict control.

Riddle nodded slowly. “Interesting,” he said, his voice quiet and deep, still looking at you. “Few see the world this way. Most follow appearances. Money, title… these easily distract from what truly matters.”

A tiny, almost imperceptible smile crossed his face. “And the fact that you think this way…” he added, as if carefully choosing the next word, “…is rarely granted, Miss…”

His gaze swept over you, waiting for an answer, as if every moment mattered. Silence stretched slowly.

After you said your name, Riddle nodded slightly, but his smile remained mysterious and slightly weighing. There was no playfulness, only attention and… some hard-to-define interest.

He repeated your name slowly, savoring it. Riddle paused for a moment, then stepped back slowly and elegantly.

“You know,” he began, “my door is always open to any student. If you ever want to talk… anytime.”

“Thank you, Professor,” your voice was polite but firm. “I really appreciate it.”

A quiet pause followed, in which you both looked at each other. His gaze was still heavy and attentive.

“Goodbye, Professor,” you said quietly.

“Goodbye.” he replied, with a small, almost imperceptible smile.

…

Every step felt slow. The laughter and chatter of your other friends were just distant noise in your ears.

And yet… your thoughts were elsewhere. You could think of nothing but Riddle. Every word he had spoken today, every quiet glance, every small gesture, still seemed to vibrate in the air around you.

Somehow, it felt as if the world were different without him. It was as if something had separated you from the others.

The lessons passed slowly. One spell after another, the teacher’s voice, the tapping of quills. And there you sat, between the pages of your book, yet your thoughts were far away.

…

You lay in bed, the blanket slowly slipping off your shoulders. You didn’t even remember how you had ended up in your bed. The room was quiet, the candles flickering faintly, but your eyes were wide open, and your thoughts revolved around Riddle.

You tried to push them away, tried to turn your attention elsewhere, but every attempt proved futile.

You knew it was pointless—he was a professor. It was like the stars searching for the sun in the morning sky—impossible.

Finally, you slowly sat up. You couldn’t let this decision simply vanish into the night. You had to go, had to speak with him.

In the shadows of books and quills on the floor, you slowly dressed. You draped the wool coat over your shoulders, put on your shoes. In the mirror, your own face looked back at you—tired, but determined. There was resolve in your eyes.

Quietly, you slipped out of your room, careful not to wake your roommates. The corridor was cool, the stone floor cold beneath your feet. Every step echoed against the silent walls.

You drew closer to the door, though you weren’t sure if you were making the right choice. Your heart beat slowly, yet with each thrum there was anticipation and curiosity. The light of the torches along the walls trembled, casting golden shadows across the stone.

Finally, you stopped in front of the door. Dark wood, old and heavy. The handle gleamed coldly in the torchlight. For a moment, you just stood there, hand raised in the air, as if the final part of the decision still hung inside you.

Then you knocked. Three soft raps.

For a few seconds, nothing could be heard from inside. Just the distant draft in the corridors, the faint creaking of the old walls.

Then the soft scrape of a chair across the floor, from inside. Footsteps—his footsteps. The doorknob slowly turned, and the door opened. Professor Tom Riddle stood there in his glory.

He had the face of a fallen angel, beautiful, almost otherworldly, yet carrying a kind of world-weary, sly charm. A face that could not be forgotten, even if one tried—made for the role of a beautiful sadist.

You knew he was a troublemaker, steeped in sin. A dark soul. Lucifer. But you had your own sweet choice, your own little path.

His dark eyes assessed you in an instant. Not surprised,he had already accounted for you.

Then that faint, almost imperceptible smile appeared on his face, the one you had seen in class..“ I suspected you might return to our question.”

He stepped half a pace back in the doorway. “come in.”

The door slowly closed behind you, the soft click of the lock echoing dimly in the room. Riddle’s office was quiet and orderly. Dark bookshelves lined the walls, their spines’ old golden letters faintly gleaming in the candlelight. In front of the window stood a heavy desk, covered with parchment, ink pots, and a few carefully stacked books.

The air carried the scent of ink, old paper, and something delicate and tangy. Riddle moved toward his desk with calm steps.“Please, have a seat.” he said, gesturing toward a comfortable armchair on the other side of the desk.

You sat in the soft chair; its armrest was cool under your hand. Your back remained straight, almost instinctively. The professor also seated himself behind the desk. For a moment, he clasped his fingers together, then fixed his gaze on you.

His dark eyes now seemed even more attentive. ”Well” — he said quietly at last, ”I’m glad you came.”

"I hope it’s not a problem that I came so late. The castle… at night is sometimes better for thinking."

A faint, almost playful smile appeared at the corner of his mouth. "Indeed," he said calmly. "Most are already asleep by now. But I cannot complain," he added. "If I tell my students that my door is open, I ought to keep to that."

His gaze lingered for a moment on the door, then returned to you. "And officially, it is open for another hour still."

His dark eyes studied you carefully. "What is it that still occupies your mind?"

"This time it's more about... something else"

Riddle’s brow moved just slightly. "Money is more of a… phenomenon," you continued calmly. "A tool. People often treat it as a symbol of success because it’s easy to measure."

You paused briefly before continuing. "But that’s not what I’m really interested in."

Tom now leaned slightly forward over the desk. His gaze sharpened, more attentive. "Then what?" he asked quietly.

The candle flame flickered between you. "Power," you said at last.

For a moment, you met Riddle’s eyes, and you saw satisfaction in them, as if he had been expecting that answer.

"The kind of power I desire is that which can shape things. Influence people, shape the future…"

The man leaned back slowly. "I see," he said quietly at last.

For a moment, he just looked at you, as if turning a thought over in his mind, like a chess piece between his fingers. Then his fingers slowly interlaced on the desk. "Power…" he repeated softly.

"You know, many believe such things… are grim, fateful. That anyone who speaks of power is already halfway down a dark path."

A small, barely noticeable smile appeared on his face. "Yet sometimes, it’s nothing more than a game."

Riddle’s fingers slowly traced the edge of the parchment on the desk. "Dark" he continued softly. "But just a game."

His gaze returned to you. "People take positions in life. They move forward, back, circle around one another… and all the while think they are in control."

His dark eyes now locked onto yours. "Tell me," he asked calmly, "what kind of player would you be in this… game?"

For a moment, you just looked at him, then tilted your head slightly to the side. "Perhaps we should see," you said calmly.

Riddle’s brow lifted almost imperceptibly. Your gaze flicked to a corner of the desk, then back to him. "Let’s see it in a chess game."

For a moment, complete silence. Then the professor chuckled softly. "You assume a professor would be willing to play chess with a student at this hour."

There was a light, ironic edge to his voice—but not dismissive. He stepped toward one of the bookshelves and pulled open a lower drawer. Some parchment slipped aside, and then his hand found a small, dark wooden box.

He returned to the desk, opened the box, and produced an old chess set. Riddle slowly set up the board between you. The pieces were placed one by one, each settling with a quiet click.

"Well," he said at last, as he placed the final piece, "if you insist on the demonstration…"

He looked up at you, dark eyes now clearly gleaming with interest. "Let’s see what kind of player you are."

Riddle began. The pawn in front of the king moved forward two squares. A simple opening. Classic.

You studied the board for a few seconds, then responded. The game started slowly, but after a few moves it was clear neither of you was playing merely out of politeness.

Riddle occasionally glanced at you as you considered your moves. He didn’t rush you. He simply observed how you looked at the board, how you assessed your options. "Tell me," he spoke a few moves later, moving a bishop, "do you always think so… strategically?"

You moved a knight. "Only when necessary."A few minutes later, with a bold move, you captured one of his bishops. The candlelight flickered as the piece fell from the board.

Riddle did not speak immediately. He just studied the board, then slowly leaned back in his chair. "Interesting," he said softly. Now he wasn’t observing the pieces. He was observing you.

Riddle’s fingers lightly touched his queen, but he did not move it. His eyes now shone vividly. "You know," he said finally, "I thought you had returned because of an interesting question."

A faint smile appeared on his face. "But now I begin to think… it’s not just the question that is interesting."

After the sentence, silence fell for a moment. Only the faint crackle of the candle could be heard on the desk. You were just adjusting a piece back to the center of a square when you realized what he had really meant. The words reached you slowly, as if assembling in your mind a moment later.

Your face warmed. A faint blush ran across your cheeks, which you tried in vain to hide by looking at the board again.

Riddle noticed, of course. His dark eyes lingered on you for a moment, and that faint half-smile reappeared at the corner of his mouth.

"It seems," he remarked quietly, "compliments are sometimes more dangerous than a good chess move."

"You… did that on purpose, didn’t you?" you asked slowly, a little flustered, yet still looking him straight in the eyes.

Riddle paused for a moment. His eyes were dark, but now a hint of genuine curiosity shone in them.

"Yes," he said quietly, and after a brief pause added, "but that doesn’t change the fact that I was telling the truth."

Tom Riddle found you interestinging.

...

Since that conversation, something had changed between you.

It wasn’t friendship… but it wasn’t just a teacher-student relationship either. You already called him “Tom,” at his request. He wasn’t your professor, he didn’t teach you, so the formalities felt unnecessary.

Throughout the week, you seized every small opportunity, every pretext, to meet him again. A question asked in the castle corridors, a book you “accidentally” brought to his office—each served to spark a new conversation, another shared moment between you.

Now you were sitting in Tom’s office, leaning slightly on the desk, nervously twirling a quill in your hand.

“Seriously… Dumbledore gives so much work that there’s barely time to rest,” you muttered, your voice a mix of frustration and boredom. “It’s like the whole week revolves around studying for his lessons.”

A small smile crossed Riddle’s face, playful yet satisfied. “Ah,” he said slowly, a faint glimmer of pleasure in his voice, “yes… Dumbledore and his ‘charming’ methods.”

“I wouldn’t say I’ve ever particularly liked his style,” you added softly. “He overcomplicates everything, too… rule-bound.”

As you looked at him, you saw his smile widen for a moment. You knew he was proud of you, and it made you feel very good.

“You know…” he began slowly, “sometimes I feel Dumbledore’s methods are overly rigid. Always the rules, the obligations, the paperwork… as if every student were trapped by duty. A little freedom, a little play… well, that never hurt anyone. Somehow, I feel we were all created to be free.”

“But Tom…” you began, slightly embarrassed, gripping the armrest of your chair, “I still have an essay due next week, and… honestly, I barely understand the material.”

Riddle’s gaze immediately brightened; his eyes sparkled as if he had discovered a new opportunity. A small, almost imperceptible smile crossed his face.

“Well,” he said quietly, “if you’d like, I’d be happy to help. We can go over the material together, discuss the harder parts.”

For a moment, you fell silent, and a faint blush of embarrassment swept over you. "This…," you began cautiously, "technically doesn’t count as cheating, does it?"

Tom leaned back slowly in his chair. His dark eyes stayed fixed on yours. "No," he said firmly. "Because I’m not writing the essay for you. I’m only helping you understand the material. Sharing knowledge is not cheating." There was a faint, secret pleasure in his voice, as if he enjoyed that someone dared to approach him and gently test moral boundaries.

"Tom…" you began, but he interrupted with a small gesture of his hand.

"I’m helping," he repeated calmly, though his tone carried that stubborn determination that made you feel arguing with him would be completely pointless. "I’ll even get you coffee," he added.

"You mean… we’re going for coffee?" you asked slowly. "Just the two of us?"

A faint amusement glimmered in Tom’s eyes. "Studying, mostly," he replied calmly. Then, after a small pause, almost deliberately, he added, "But yes. Coffee too."

"Then we should pick a time," you remarked calmly.

The man thought for a moment. "Friday?"

"That works. Where?" you asked.

"The Hog’s Head?"

You raised an eyebrow."Not the most elegant place, but that’s exactly why it’s ideal. Few pay attention to who talks to whom there," he said.

His eyes lingered on you for a moment. "Friday evening," he said finally, quietly. "Coffee, studying… and maybe a slightly less unbearable explanation of Dumbledore’s tasks." His voice carried that dry humor he rarely allowed himself.

"Perfect," you replied.

Friday evening fell quietly over the streets of Hogsmeade. Candlelit lamps cast faint golden-yellow shadows on the cobblestones.

You stepped through the door of The Hog’s Head, immediately hit by the tavern’s characteristic, tangy smell: ale, cinnamon, smoke, and a faintly dusty aroma that was at once cozy and mysterious.

Tom was already there, sitting at a corner table, his dark eyes attentively scanning the entrance. As soon as he saw you, he gave a small, almost imperceptible smile and gestured to an empty chair with the tip of his finger.

"Right on time," he said calmly, his features sharp in the soft candlelight. "Sit down."

As you sat across from him, a cup of coffee was already waiting on the table: its steam curling slowly into the air, its bitter scent mingling delicately with the tavern’s tangy aroma.

You picked up the cup and looked at him curiously. "What kind of coffee is this?" you asked.

Tom rested his elbow casually on the table, as if the question amused him. "Caramel. Quite…sweet," he replied simply.

"How did you know I like that?"

He twirled his own cup between his fingers. "Just a guess. Based on your personality."

"My personality?" you asked, slightly incredulous.

Tom nodded. "Yes."

He took a sip of his own coffee, which was much simpler—dark and strong, without any adornment. Then he looked at you again. "Most people choose what suits them," he said calmly.

You swirled your cup in your hands; the caramel scent still rose warmly from it. For a moment, you thought, then looked up at him, a playful glint in your eyes. "So you think… I’m sweet?"

Tom paused for a moment. That half-smile you had begun to recognize slowly appeared at the corner of his mouth. "Not exactly that," he said at last. "But I didn’t say you weren’t." An interesting contradiction.

He rested his elbow on the table and tilted slightly toward your cup. "Someone who talks about power… thinks in chess… and drinks caramel coffee." That slow half-smile appeared again at the corner of his mouth. "Not the combination you’d expect at first."

Then he took a sip of his coffee. "And those kinds of combinations… are usually much more interesting."

A brief silence settled between you, broken only by the quiet murmur of the tavern. Your heart beat fast, and you felt a slight blush. Then he leaned back lightly in his chair, his gaze drifting toward your bag.

"Alright," he said finally, calmly. "Let’s see how serious you are about this studying. What did you bring?"

With a small sigh, you pulled your bag into your lap. "Quite a lot," you said.

You opened it and began pulling out your notes: parchment, bookmarks, a thick notebook… and finally a small ink bottle. You slid the notebook across the table. "Here are my notes."

Tom leaned closer and began flipping through them. He was perfectly calm on the first page. On the second, however, the corner of his mouth slowly moved. By the third page, he was clearly smiling.

You noticed immediately. "What is it?" you asked suspiciously.

Tom didn’t answer immediately. He just turned another page, where more colors alternated: blue, purple, green, pink notes. Then he looked up at you.

"If I had to judge you only by our conversations," he said slowly, "I would think I’m dealing with an intelligent strategist." He paused for a moment. "Someone who thinks in chess… talks about power… and calculates every move in advance."

Then he gently lifted your notebook. "But your notes tell a completely different story." He turned the notebook toward you so you could see the page. "Colored inks. Carefully organized remarks. Marks on every little detail."

The half-smile returned to his face. "Not the kind of notes you’d expect from someone… contemplating power."

"Orderliness is a strategic advantage," you replied, blushing slightly.

Tom’s eyes lit up for a moment. "Of course," he said quietly. He picked up a pen from the table. "Alright," he continued. "Let’s see where Dumbledore really started being cruel with this assignment."

His voice was even, patient. His finger slowly followed the lines, occasionally underlining a word, then adding a brief explanation. He didn’t rush; he unpacked each sentence carefully, as if his goal truly was to make everything perfectly understandable.

Tom nudged your notebook closer, gently pointing to the edge of the page. "Look," he said calmly, "Dumbledore isn’t testing the theory itself here—he wants you to understand the connections."

You watched him. At first, really, the material. Then, after a while… more him. The way he spoke. The way his eyebrows slightly furrowed when explaining a more complicated section. He was completely absorbed in the explanation, as if the noise around you had ceased to exist.And somehow… that seemed amusing. A small smile appeared on your face, then another.

After a while, Tom noticed and looked up at you. "What’s the matter?" he asked suddenly, with that measured, professorial tone.

The situation suddenly became even more absurd. Your smile nearly turned into laughter. "Nothing, Professor," you said quickly, trying to remain serious.

One of Tom’s eyebrows lifted slightly. "Then perhaps you’ll share with me what’s so amusing?"

"Just… interesting."

"What?"

After a quiet breath, you answered, "That the person I talk about power with… and play chess with…"

You paused for a moment, then pointed to the notebook and continued, "…can get so absorbed in teaching."

Tom’s expression shifted for a moment. You shrugged. "As if that were the purpose of his life."

A faint smile slowly appeared at the corner of his mouth."Almost…," you added lightly, "sweet."

"Watch what you say to me," he began slowly, "think about who you’re speaking to." The half-smile and his dark eyes carried no real threat, only that playful, power-laden attention he was always known for.

With a short sigh, you turned back to your notebook, picking up your pen. "Then let’s continue," you said decisively.

Tom nodded, leaned forward slowly, and again delved into the details.As you progressed through the assignment, you got stuck at a complicated section. Your brow furrowed, and you felt that you simply didn’t understand something at first glance.

Tom noticed the small hesitation. "Come here, let’s look at it together," he said quietly.

You moved closer, pulling the notebook between you, and as he lifted his finger over the line to show the step, your hands accidentally touched. A light, fleeting contact, but as if the world slowed for a moment.

For a moment, you just looked at each other, but neither moved your hand away. Tom finally gave a slight smile, but his hand remained next to yours. "There it is," he said softly, running his fingers slowly along the notes. "See now?"

Your heart beat faster, but you focused on the studying, even as your hands stayed like that.

...

In the following weeks, Dumbledore’s famous written exam arrived. The quiet of the room was broken only by the soft scratching of quills on parchment.

Yet you weren’t nervous for a moment: you knew the answers to every question. Among your notes and the colorful inks, you could retrieve everything precisely.

As you worked through it, a small smile appeared on your face. Every item, every problem, every little twist… came so easily that writing felt almost joyful.

At the end, when you looked up from the completed exam, pride, satisfaction, and a kind of happy relief shone in your eyes, and you could hardly wait to tell Tom.

After submitting the paper, you slung your bag over your shoulder, and your heart gave a small, contented beat as you walked through the quiet corridors of Hogwarts toward his office.

You entered Tom’s office. The professor sat behind his desk, and when he looked up at you, that familiar, restrained half-smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.

"So, did you know all the answers?" he asked, his voice carrying satisfaction, as if nothing else mattered.

You nodded with a smile, and he leaned forward over the desk, letting his eyes scan you.

"I’m not surprised," he said, enunciating each word slowly, almost deliberately, so you could feel his pride.

"Thank you, Tom," you said quietly, sincerely. "You really helped me, and… I appreciate that you took the time."

Tom raised one eyebrow briefly, and in his dark eyes there was a faint glimmer of satisfaction—the kind you only saw when someone truly earned his attention. "I’m glad you found it useful," he said calmly. "You deserve it."

You blushed slightly, a faint warmth spreading across your face, your gaze fixed on Tom. "Tom… why did you help me?" you asked slowly, curiously, but with a hint of playfulness. "Is this… part of some interesting game for you?"

Tom slowly glanced at his book, then back at you, his eyes carrying that familiar, dark gleam. "You’re too clever," he said softly, slowly, emphasizing each word, "sometimes even to your own detriment."

You raised your eyebrow faintly. "You don’t have… some evil plan, do you?" you asked timidly, but with a little mischief in your voice.

Tom raised one eyebrow, a faint half-smile appearing at the corner of his mouth. "We’ll see," he replied slowly. "Tomorrow we meet again there, and I’ll help you. Don’t be late."

"But… I never agreed to this," you protested quietly, afraid of giving away too much.

"Go," he said calmly, firmly, "so you don’t miss your next class."

...

Next Friday evening quietly settled over the streets of Hogsmeade. The wind whispered softly beneath the stones, and the golden candlelight gently fell across the small, dim interior of The Hog’s Head. The faint memory of caramel coffee from the previous meeting still lingered in the air.

As you entered the room, you immediately saw Tom already sitting in a corner. His dark eyes scanned the entrance attentively, and when he saw you, that faint, restrained half-smile appeared at the corner of his mouth that you had come to know so well. "Right on time," he said calmly.

"Come here," he said quietly, his voice calm but firm. "Don’t sit across from me, sit like this, close. I can watch you better."

As you moved the chair closer and sat beside him, your shoulders lightly touched. For a moment, you both paused, feeling the closeness, but neither moved.

"This way it’s much easier to follow what you’re doing," Tom added, gesturing toward the parchment. "And this way you can see better what I’m showing." Now it really felt as if you had entered a little world of your own, where only studying and closeness mattered.

After a while, leaning over the parchment, your head accidentally rested on Tom’s shoulder for a moment. You jumped up immediately, moving away awkwardly. "Oh… sorry!" you stammered.

Tom slowly looked at you, his dark eyes carrying a hint of tenderness. "It’s alright," he said softly, his voice as if nothing had happened. "You smell like vanilla."

For a moment, you were lost for words, then you looked at him and smiled gently. "Hmm… you… smell of mint and wood," you noted honestly.

Tom nodded with a half-smile. "You’re right."

As the parchments and notes slowly went back into your bag, Tom leaned back in his chair. "Tell me," he began quietly, "what would you like to be after leaving school?"

You exhaled briefly, collecting your thoughts. The question wasn’t just about your future—it was also about how closely Tom paid attention to your words and how much he cared about your inner world.

"I don’t know completely," you answered slowly, honestly, "but I do know that I want to be someone who creates value… and where the knowledge I gain here truly matters."

A faint half-smile appeared on Tom’s face. "I see," he said softly.

After you finished packing, a small sigh escaped your lips. "Thank you for your help, Tom," you said quietly.

"You’re welcome," he replied.

As you left the small, dim interior of The Hog’s Head and walked along the stones of Hogsmeade toward home, you felt each step lighter, every moment bringing a smile to your face.

The air was cold, but somehow it caressed your face sweetly. Every thought revolved around Tom: his eyes, his smile, his playful attention. Warmth filled your heart, happiness slowly, surely washing over you. You smiled all the way home.

When you entered your room, pausing for a moment after the door closed, your bag still on your shoulder, the silence enveloped you—but something vibrated inside.

You slowly sat on the edge of your bed, leaning forward, your hands resting on your knees. A small smile appeared on your face, but your thoughts were no longer about studying, notes, or success.

You realized that the entire day—the meetings, the closeness, the playful glances, the chess, the coffee…—all revolved around Tom in your mind. A warm, strange feeling crept over you, one you had tried to ignore until now.

It was more than respect or mere curiosity, and you felt your heart beat a little faster.

As you leaned back and stared at the ceiling in the faint light, it became perfectly clear: you harbored feelings for Tom. Not just respect, not just playful curiosity… but a deeper, personal attachment, both thrilling and frightening.

...

Tom entered his own room, the quiet crackle of the fireplace accompanying every movement. After the door closed, he paused for a moment and leaned back in his chair.

He knew the game he was playing was dangerous. A student and a professor. Yet instead of being deterred, he enjoyed it.

You came to his mind. Your sharp mind, your strategic sense, your hunger for power—all shining as brightly as his own dark ambitions. He saw your talent,your potential… and the faint shadow of darkness in you that could one day lead you down the path of a Death Eater.

And yet… perhaps he felt more. Perhaps he truly liked you. Perhaps he enjoyed your company. Perhaps he liked the scent of vanilla and caramel coffee.

A soft sigh escaped his lips, meant only for himself, as his gaze rested on the empty corner of the room. He was a professor, and you were a student…

The thoughts slowly circled in his mind: the day’s events, the smiles, the quiet touches… and he knew that this game, this close connection, was leading both of you toward something entirely different.

...

You were now sitting in Tom’s office, half leaning on his desk while he reclined in his chair, watching you. The afternoon light filtered through the window, casting golden streaks across the books lined up on the shelves.

"So you think Dumbledore actually enjoys all these endless assignments?" you asked casually.

"Even if he doesn’t enjoy them, he certainly likes seeing the students suffer through them," he said with dry humor.

"Cruel," you noted with a smile.

"More like… consistent," Tom corrected.

The conversation was light. Every now and then, Tom would look you over, as if simultaneously analyzing and enjoying your company. You no longer even noticed how natural it felt to sit there in his office, as if you had always belonged there.

"By the way…" you began a bit more cautiously, "is our… coffee-and-study program still on today?"

Tom paused for a moment over the parchment on his desk. "I’m afraid not this week," he said calmly. "I’ll be quite busy."

The response was simple, matter-of-fact… but something in you immediately tightened. Your smile dimmed slightly. "Oh… of course," you said quickly, as if you needed to explain yourself even to your own thoughts. "Sorry, that was a stupid question. Obviously you’re busy. You’re a professor, after all, with so much to do"

Tom just watched for a few seconds. He didn’t like seeing your disappointment; he hated that he had caused it. A troubling sense of satisfaction mixed with unease stirred within him, seeing you sad.

"I have a meeting… with a certain group," he finally said."Exceptional wizards," he continued calmly. "Those who are never satisfied with what the world offers. They want more. Power. Influence."

His eyes now studied you sharply. "Actually…" he said slowly, "if you wanted, you could come with me."

There was a darker curiosity in his gaze. "I think they would find you… interesting."

You nodded slowly. "Alright," you finally said. "I’ll go."

Riddle’s gaze lingered on you for a moment. He didn’t smile broadly, but there was a flash of satisfaction in his eyes. "Good decision," he said quietly.

You stood up from the chair, gathered your bag, and started toward the door. Before stepping out, you glanced back at him one more time. "So… we’ll meet there," you said.

Tom nodded slightly. "I’ll be right by your side."

His eyes followed you as you left the office. The door closed slowly behind you, and the sounds of the corridor swallowed your footsteps.

Tom remained at his desk, his fingers tapping slowly on the wood.

Interesting. He had been thinking a lot about you.

He wasn’t the kind of man who easily let others get close. People were usually tools to him: useful, clever, ambitious, loyal. If not… they were insignificant.

Most people were predictable, but you… not entirely. Yes, he saw the darkness in you. The desire for power. The strategic thinking during your chess games. The sharpness with which you observed the world. Exactly the qualities that could make someone valuable on his side. Perhaps… one day, even among the Death Eaters.

But that wasn’t the only reason he was intrigued. Most of his followers respected, admired, or feared him. But you… you spoke with him, debated with him. Sometimes even laughed at him, and for some reason… he enjoyed it.

The thought was slightly disconcerting, because when you had felt disappointed earlier… it wasn’t part of the plan that he would invite you. And yet, he acted instinctively.

...

You stood before the mirror, staring at yourself for a moment. The black dress clung to your figure, the corseted waist subtly accentuating your shape. The dark fabric shimmered elegantly with every movement. You put on black heels. You adjusted your hair, then ran your fingers over the dress. The girl reflected in the mirror was no longer just a student. She was someone ready to step into a far more dangerous game.

This wasn’t just a meeting for you. It was something entirely different. Tom’s world. The thought brought a small smile to your lips.

Inside Tom’s room, the dim light cast soft shadows. The embers of the fireplace glowed slowly, throwing orange light across the lined books and dark furniture.

He stood by the window for a moment, arms crossed, reflecting once more on the evening—the meeting, the group, and you. The thought made the corner of his mouth curl into a faint, barely noticeable smile.

Finally, he slowly put on his coat. He adjusted it with a single motion over his shoulder, then stepped in front of the mirror. A calm, confident man stared back at him—dark eyes, perfectly groomed hair, natural elegance that drew attention instinctively.

He knew this day shimmered with a cruel kind of destiny. You'd finally see him, not just some boy lost in the dark arts, but a god. A dark lord bathed in glory. He wondered, if you'd tremble, maybe worship him like the fallen, or if, tragically, he'd have to silence you forever.

His fingers smoothed over his shirt cuff. "This will be an interesting evening," he murmured to himself. Then he switched off the light and stepped into the corridor.

...

When you arrived, you paused for a moment at the door to adjust your dress. The black fabric draped elegantly, the corset held your waist snugly, and your heels clicked softly against the stone floor.

He was already there, by the candlelit columns when you drifted in. Shadowed by a dark coat. His eyes, dark pools, saw you whole. You wondered, what those eyes would look like, lost in love, faded and golden. He was the demon you dreamed of, the handsomest angel fallen from grace.

A small, satisfied smile appeared at the corner of his mouth. "Right on time," he said quietly.

You glanced around the room for a moment. Strange people were gathered in small groups, dressed in dark clothing, engaged in quiet, serious conversations. Several looked toward you, including a woman standing next to Tom. She was tall, in a sleek black outfit made of subtly shimmering fabric that followed her every movement. Her long dark hair fell loosely over her shoulders, yet every strand was perfectly in place, complementing her rigid, commanding posture.

Her face was sharply defined, high cheekbones and dark eyes, filled with a playful sense of danger. Her gaze was both attentive and threatening. You watched her every small motion. You didn’t yet know who she was, but something about her aura, her eyes, suggested she was no ordinary woman.

Tom stepped closer to you. "I’m glad you came," he said softly.

He led you to the center of the room. One step ahead, shoulders straight, his eyes darkly gleaming. They were all looking at him with admiration,you didn't know where to place...was he some kind of leader? Did he lead all of these people?

"Listen, all of you," he began, but his gaze lingered on you, as if his words were primarily for you. "The world is not for the weak. Not for those who fear power, decisions, or responsibility. The world belongs to those who can master themselves and the space around them."

His voice gradually strengthened. "And you, who are here tonight… remember, power is not a gift. It is not given to anyone automatically. Power must be earned, with thought and a clear mind. And those who understand this… survive, and prevail."

As he spoke, the weight of his words and the intensity of his gaze enveloped you. You felt that he was teaching, observing, and playing with you at the same time. This was not just a speech for the others; in every gesture, Tom made it clear that you were his most important audience.

After the speech, quiet murmurs and the clinking of plates indicated that dinner was approaching. In one corner, candles were already placed on the tables, and the scent of wine mingled with roasted meat, fresh bread, and spices.

Tom slowly guided you to the table. You sat to the right of him, and on your left was the woman whose gaze you had noticed earlier. You still didn’t know her exactly, but something in her aura and movements suggested she was far more than a simple companion.

As the first dish were set before you, conversation gradually unfolded. You slowly realized that her eyes frequently flicked toward Tom. When she lightly touched his shoulder with a gentle but deliberate motion, a strange, hot sensation ran through your stomach.

You immediately tried to mask your reaction. A quick glance at your plate, your hand slowly reaching for your glass, as if the movement were natural. "Who… is the one sitting on your left?" you asked.

"Bellatrix," he replied. "She is… important."

That little tremor down in your soul, it bloomed into something darker, like a faded dream turning green with envy.

Tom immediately noticed that something had changed in you."What’s wrong?" he asked quietly, leaning a little closer.

You tried to hide your real feelings with a smile."Nothing, just… the atmosphere here is a bit tense," you lied.

Under the table, his hand slowly reached for yours. His touch was gentle. You felt the warmth of his skin beneath yours, and your anxiety slowly eased—yet your heart still beat faster.

"You see," he said softly with a faint smile, "there’s no reason to be tense. You’re here now, and I’m paying attention to you."

The gesture was both protective and intimate. It wasn’t intrusive, yet it said everything: he was there for you, and the moment belonged only to the two of you.

After a while, Tom slowly released your hand beneath the table. The movement felt natural. Meanwhile, you tried to regain your composure and shifted your attention to the other side of the table.

The man sitting across from you leaned slightly forward."It seems we haven’t met yet," he said politely. "Barty Crouch Jr."

His smile was easy, slightly playful, and when he spoke it was clear he enjoyed the exchange."The Dark Lord rarely brings new people among us," he remarked with curiosity. "Which is why I’m particularly interested in you."

The Dark Lord...Professor Tom Riddle,who was he, really? The dream you've built of him, it's all faded. Do you even know him at all? Or did you fall for a shadow, a phantom? Was he a dangerous man doomed from the start?

"Then I suppose… I’ve been given quite a special honor," you said lightly. "Though I suspect it was more his curiosity that brought me here than any merit of mine."

Barty chuckled softly and leaned a little closer across the table."Oh, no," he shook his head playfully. "The Dark Lord’s curiosity… doesn’t usually bring such elegant company with it."

"Then I can consider myself lucky," you replied with ease. "It’s a rare occasion when someone finds themselves among such… distinguished company."

"Distinguished?" he repeated, tilting his head slightly. "That’s a rather diplomatic word for what’s happening here. But I must admit, it’s far more interesting when someone doesn’t immediately get frightened by this… company."

"Perhaps," you said calmly, "because I’m curious."

Barty laughed again, this time more genuinely."Oh, I like that," he said. "Curiosity is a dangerous trait."

"Especially when it leads someone into the company of the wrong people," you replied.

His gaze lingered on you for a brief moment, and a half-smile appeared at the corner of his mouth."Now I’m beginning to understand why he brought you here.It’s rather difficult not to notice you."

You paused for a moment before answering, then slowly smiled. You realized that this man was flirting with you."Then perhaps I’m lucky," you said calmly, gently turning your glass between your fingers.

Barty’s eyes lit up at your reply."Believe me," he answered playfully, "the word interesting is sometimes far too mild for what happens here."

You raised an eyebrow slightly."So now you’re flattering me?"

"I’m only observing," Barty said with an easy smile. "And what I see is quite…"

"Crouch."Tom’s voice cut in.

Barty’s gaze immediately turned toward him. The playful smile faded from his face in an instant.

Tom didn’t look at him for long, just cast a brief, dark glance across the table."If you have so much energy," he said quietly, "perhaps you should focus on our next matter."

Barty straightened in his chair immediately."Of course, my Lord," he replied at once.

The earlier light, flirtatious mood vanished in a moment. Barty said nothing more, instead idly turning his glass while keeping his attention respectfully on the table.

Riddle’s eyes glinted darkly, and beneath his usual calm, elegant manner there was something sharper vibrating there—a possessive intent."Now," he said slowly, "I understand who is trying to gain whose attention."

The way he looked at Barty, all gestures and honeyed tone, it was clear that this situation was unmistakably his territory. His eyes watched every move, but always drifted back to you. And in that hazy, golden light, it hit you. Tom Riddle consideres you his. And god, it felt like a dream, knowing he felt something, anything...but you were still lost in the shadows of his secret.

"Be careful who you play with here," he added quietly. "I decide what is acceptable."

The moment he touched you,your breath hitched. His hands, they found your thighs, and he held on tight, like they were finally home. His eyes, those pools of desire, watched every little reaction you gave.

"Careful," he murmured. "you're not made for their world." He gestured to his subjects. "You belong with me.To me, forevermore."

Your breath caught, and God, you yearned for it. To be his,to belong with him,utterly. Your heartbeat was faster than ever.

A small, almost disbelieving smile appeared on your face."What about Bellatrix?"

Your gaze briefly slid toward the woman sitting to his left. Bellatrix was speaking with someone else at the moment, but even so her posture remained confident and commanding.

Tom gave you that crooked little smirk. "Don't worry," drawled, his hand heavy on your thigh, possessive as a forgotten dream. "I am not interested in her,she is just faithful. Besides,she's already spoken for."

After the conversation, the murmur at the table slowly faded. The plates were empty, and at the bottom of the wine glasses only a thin red line remained.

He stood up.The chair slid back on the stone floor with a soft scrape, and in that moment the room fell almost completely silent. All eyes turned to him."I think we've talked enough for today," he said calmly.

"You all know what to do." Some nodded, while others were already standing up.Bellatrix was one of the first to stand, then with an elegant motion adjusted her dress and walked out.

Barty Crouch Jr. stood up from his chair. Before he walked away, he cast a brief glance at you—a faint, slightly cheeky half-smile—then followed the others.

Within a few minutes, the room slowly emptied.The murmur of conversations faded down the corridors, the sound of footsteps died away.

You remained.

"Well," he said softly, "it seems you survived your first evening."

"Thanks to you," you replied quietly, with a small smile you didn’t try to hide. "If you hadn’t been there… I might not even know how to act around these people."

"You see it correctly," he answered calmly, his voice slow and measured. "But don’t forget… it’s always up to you how you play within the rules. I only show the way."

Tom stood up from the table and looked at you for a moment, as if weighing whether to say something more."Come," he finally said quietly.

The candlelight dimly lit the way as you stepped out into the corridor. Your footsteps echoed on the stone floor while Tom led you through the building with a steady, calm pace.

Outside, the streets were quiet. The air was cool, and the yellow light of distant lanterns stretched long shadows across the stones.For a while, neither of you spoke.

Eventually, he stopped in front of a door. It was a simple dark wooden door, with no special markings.Tom opened it, then stepped aside to let you enter.

"I didn’t want you to have to go back alone this late," he said calmly. "I thought… it might be better if you rested here for a while."

The room was surprisingly orderly. A fireplace crackled softly, books lined the shelves, and on the table lay a few parchments and an open bottle of ink.

Tom closed the door behind him, then leaned casually against the wall.His gaze settled on you again.

"Is this… your room?" you asked quietly.

Riddle looked at you for a moment, then slowly nodded."Yes," he answered simply.

After his reply, the situation suddenly became clear to you. You weren’t standing in a guest room. You were in Tom’s room. Alone.

You felt warmth slowly rise to your face. Quickly, you looked away, as if the bookshelf had suddenly become far more interesting.But Tom noticed.

That faint, almost amused half-smile appeared at the corner of his mouth—the one he wore when he knew exactly what was going through someone else’s mind.

"Is something wrong?" he asked calmly, though there was a trace of playfulness in his voice.

His gaze slid over you for a moment, then returned to your face, where the blush was still visible."I didn’t think the idea would make you this flustered," he added quietly.

For a moment, you awkwardly adjusted the sleeve of your dress, as if buying yourself a little time.

"I’m not flustered," you finally said quietly, though your voice revealed you were still trying to compose yourself. "I just… didn’t expect it."

Tom slowly pushed himself away from the wall and took a few steps toward the center of the room. His movements were calm, but with every step he came closer to you."You didn’t expect to end up here?" he asked softly.

The candlelight cast faint shadows across his face, and his dark eyes were far more attentive now than they had been at dinner.

You slowly let out a breath."Yeah..." you finally admitted quietly.

Your gaze slipped to the floor for a moment, then returned to him. The faint blush he had already noticed was still visible on your face."I never thought… that one day I’d be standing in your room," you added honestly.

His eyes lingered on you, attentive, as if noticing every small change in your expression. Slowly, a faint, almost satisfied half-smile appeared at the corner of his mouth."Interesting," he said quietly.

"Interesting," he said quietly.

He stepped half a step closer, though he still left a little space between you."Because I, on the other hand…" he began slowly, "have been expecting it for some time."

The blush on your face deepened, and your heart was beating so fast you were sure he could hear it. For a moment you couldn’t even hold his gaze.

You turned away abruptly and walked to the window, putting a little distance between the two of you. The cool glass and the dark night outside helped you steady yourself.Tom watched you silently, his eyes following every movement.

You took a quiet breath."I think… we should talk about something else," you said, still facing the window. "Something more important."

Tom tilted his head slightly, studying you."More important?" he repeated calmly. "And what would that be?"

You turned back toward him, your expression now more serious."You," you said simply. "Who you really are."

For a moment Tom didn’t seem to understand. His expression barely changed, but there was a flicker of curiosity in his eyes."What exactly do you mean?" he asked slowly.

You folded your arms lightly, gathering your thoughts."You left out a rather important detail," you said. "When you brought me into all of this."

Tom’s eyes narrowed slightly."And that is?"

You held his gaze."The fact that you’re a Dark Lord."

Tom stepped closer to the window with a slow, deliberate pace, stopping behind you but still keeping a respectful distance. His gaze was dark and deep, yet not intrusive; it felt as if he were simultaneously observing and weighing.

“Don't tell me, you're scared of me.” he said calmly.

“No,” you replied softly, your voice trembling slightly. “I just don’t know who you really are.”

Tom slowly stepped closer, his gaze fixed steadily on yours.“You're the only one who knows me,” he said calmly.

He carefully raised his hand and brushed it along your face. The gesture was gentle, yet deliberate. You instinctively leaned into his touch.

“I’m still the same person,” he continued. “the one you drink caramel coffee with, the one you tell about your days at school, the one you play chess with…”

He paused briefly,his hand leaving your cheeks.“But today… today you saw another side of me. And you need to know,” he added, his eyes piercing deep into yours, “that this is a part of me.”

You turned to face him fully, the cool stone at your back. “Who are you to me? Right now, in this moment. The man who drinks coffee with me and pretends to let me win at chess? Or… My Lord?”

“I am both,” he whispered. “The one who craves your thoughts, your sweet little laugh, your presence across a checkered board, bathed in the hazy lamplight… and the one who aches for you, my equal, your breath mingling with mine, your very soul entwined with my own. They are not separate. You cannot have one without the other now. Do you understand?”

His words should've scared you away, sent you running for the hills. But a dangerous warmth bloomed instead, low in your soul. The danger of it all, that was the drug. And there it was, that dark, twisted beauty, the way the light fades into the dark. The gentle professor and the dark lord... both real. Both here. Both yours.

“I understand,” you breathed, the words barely audible.

He closed the distance between you in one fluid step. His kiss wasn't soft,it was a coquest, a whispered promise of forever. His mouth swallowed yours whole, a taste of champagne and dangerous authority. You whimpered into him,your hands flying to his chest,pulling him closer.

He broke the kiss, his own breathing ragged. “You are mine,” he stated, the words leaving no room for argument. His hands left your face, sliding down your neck, over your shoulders, tracing the neckline of your dress. “Tell me what you want.”

“You.”

“Good.”One hand slipped behind you, finding the delicate zipper of your dress. The sound of it sliding down was obscenely loud in the quiet. Cool air kissed your spine, followed by the scorching trail of his fingertips. He pushed the fabric from your shoulders, letting it pool at your feet in a whisper of silk. You stood before him in only your underwear, exposed to the night and his burning gaze.

"Beautiful," he whispered, like a prayer. His eyes, a hungry, worshipful shadow, traced your figure like a forgotten melody. He spun you around, slow and sweet, your bare skin flush against the dark fabric of his suit, his arms a velvet cage. And the cruel, beautiful ache of him pressed against you.

His lips found that sweet spot where your neck fades into your shoulder, a soft bite, then a gentle surrender of his tongue. One hand found your breast, hidden beneath lace, thumb circling, teasing until you ached. The other hand slid down, past the waistband of your panties finding you already already burning for him.

"Taste so good," he purred. "Tried not to want you this way ,but fuck sweetheart."

A low moan hummed against your very skin. "So eager for your Lord." he breathed,his fingers sliding through your wetness, gathering it, then circling your clit with a precision that made your knees buckle. “Is it the danger that excites you? Or is it simply me?”

Words just wouldn't come. Head heavy, falling back against his shoulder, and a sound escaped your lips as his touch teased, slow circles at first, driving you mad. Then faster, harder, a rhythm that left you panting.His other hand pinched your nipple through the lace,sending shivers down your spine.This was nothing like the tentative touches you might have imagined in the safe confines of Hogwarts. This was raw, primal, an unleashing."It's You", you breathed.

“Tom… please…” you begged, unsure what you were begging for.

“Please what?” he growled, his fingers pushing deeper, curling inside you, stretching you.

“Please,My Lord” you gasped, the world narrowing to the stroke of his fingers, the bite of his teeth on your shoulder. “Need you. All of you.”

That seemed to be the answer he was chasing. He turned you then, lifting you up like a feather to sit on the wide bed. He stepped between your thighs, pushing them open. His hands moved to his shirt ,then his belt, the buckle's clink a deliberate echo. He freed himself and your breath caught at the sight—thick, proud, the tip glistening. He was magnificent and terrifyingly real, all at once.

"This is who I am," he whispered. "The one who'll hold you close, and the one who'll lose himself in you. They're all the same."

With a single, powerful thrust, he sheathed himself fully inside you.The cry that left your lips was swallowed by the night. The feeling was overwhelming. He held himself there, buried to the hilt, letting you adjust, letting you feel every inch of him claiming you.You moaned, your hips lifting to meet his making him groan, his forehead dropping down against yours.

"That feel good,sweetheart?"

"Yes," you sighed, hips swiveling to find more friction. "Please,My Lord."

Then he began to move. It was slow at first—careful, gentle. The movement pulled a soft sound from your soul, your fingers holding on to him, finding your place in the hazy closeness.

"Taking me so well, feels so good." he moved in and out, getting you both used to the feeling of him.

He held you like you were made of stardust. His touch tracing the curves of your thighs, pulling you in close.The shift made your breath catch, the new closeness sending a warm shiver through you.

"That's it sweetness," he licks and sucks a nipple into his mouth.

Your head fell back against the softest pillow. Your rhythm turned into something deeper, each touch a little more sure, a little more desperate. His name slipped from your lips, a prayer trembling with all the feels.

The world faded, until it was just the two of you. His movements running free. A pressure, sweet and heavy, bloomed inside. Words dissolved, replaced with whispers and desperate little cries.

“My Lord…” you murmured again as the feeling building inside you grew stronger.

“Sweetheart… I’ve got you.”

His words were enough to unravel everything. And you just fell apart. Body shaking, nails digging into his back, a white-hot pleasure washing over you in waves. Tom groaned, a deep, echoing sound as his hips moved.He pushed one last time and you felt him. That warmth, filling you from the inside.

For a fleeting moment never of you moved,untouched by reality. Then, ever so softly, he leaned into you, his weight a gentle surrender, a solace. You could feel the steady rhythm of his heart against your own,you both struggled to find your breath in the aftermath.

sunghoon knew about your fangirl past — i mean he did meet you at one of his concerts , granted you were holding a jake picket , which he never let you live down , but he knew you were a fangirl through and through. you’ve calm down a bit even though he didn’t mind , he just never expected your fangirl past to show up during certain times , like in the bedroom.

you were a virgin when you met him , and of course he’s eaten you out , but you’ve never given him head — he didn’t mind , he didn’t want to push you when you weren’t comfortable , so he was surprised when you climbed into his lap while he was sitting on the couch. “i wanna give you head.” he wasn’t about to deny himself , he was ready to guide you. except you told him that you got it and it shocked him even more; because where did you learn do it?

“okay.” he said. “but don’t try and take all of it , i’m fine with anything baby i swear.” you just kissed his cheek , climbing in between his legs — he did not except you to not only take his cock fully , holding his thighs as you bobbed your head up and down. “wait fuck!” he groaned , holding on the arm of the couch , his head thrown back as you deepthroated him. “fu-fuck baby slow down.”

you stroked the base of his length , sucking the tip , you’ve never heard a moan like that coming out of your man’s mouth like you did then. “ba-baby you’re killing me.” he groaned. “fuck i’m gonna cum.” his hands tangling up into your hair , trying to gain some sort of control before you completely took over him , bucking his hips up into your mouth. “oh fuck! fuck!” his cock twitching as he came , shooting a large load into your mouth , milking his cock dry before pulling off of him , kissing his tip . wiping your lips.

his chest heaved up and down , he was completely in shock at what just happened. “baby…” he finally caught his breath. “baby where the fuck did you learn to do that?” you smiled like you just won an award , shrugging. “tumblr duh.” tucking himself back into his sweats , he looked at you. “what?”

“i learned from tumblr.” you said like it was the most normal thing in the world. “and how did you learn to do that from tumblr? they have head instructions on there.” you shrugged. “i wouldn’t be surprised if they did , but no i learned from fan fiction.” you said. “fan fiction?” he trailed off. “fan fiction of who?” you looked at him smiling. “sunghoon you have to take into account i did not expect i would end up in a relationship with you , you know how you met me , remember that.”

“fan fiction of who yn?”

“jake.” you smiled sheepishly . “but i swear i don’t read them anymore , i don’t even have tumblr.” you defended. “it better be deleted yn i swear , i don’t need jake finding out my girlfriend reads smut on tumblr about him.” he said. “well since we’re questioning me , where’d you learn to eat a girl out.” you questioned. “it came naturally to me” you rolled your eyes. “do you think i’m an idiot?” he cracked under your glare. “ok fine i learned it from porn obviously , but i perfected the technique over time.” he smirked , climbing in between your legs , spreading them. “you’re lucky , you’ve gotten the best version of it.” kissing in between your thighs. “see? we all have to learn from somewhere.” you said , he nodded agreeing. “i guess , but still you don’t need to learn anything else from tumblr , especially about my members.”

“fine i’ll only learn it from your smut.” teasing , yelping when he pinched you thigh. “no you learn from me personally.” he kissed the spot , licking it to soothe it , smirking when you flinched. “sunghoon.” he finally pulled your shorts down. “okay baby , okay.” he said. “let me reward you for that stunt you pulled on me , i wanna feel you cum all over my mouth.” you moaned , feeling his breathe on your cunt.

“i’m much better than those stupid stories.”