#jeon

𝓛𝐈𝐒𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐃𝐄𝐒.

𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗢𝗡𝗘.

𝐁𝐄𝐃𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐋𝐀𝐌𝐏ㅤㅤㅤㅤsummary : : where you get fucked so good by a stranger that you see stars, but that stranger somehow comes back in your life a few days later. Not as a stranger anymore.ㅤㅤㅤㅤwc : : tba.

𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗧𝗪𝗢.

𝐓𝐁𝐀ㅤㅤㅤㅤsummary : : tba.ㅤㅤㅤㅤwc : : tba.

𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐝.

You’re grinning so hard your cheeks ache, fingers locked tight around the straps of your backpack as you half-jog, half-bounce toward the boys’ locker room.  

Campus is thinning out fast. The last pockets of post-match noise are already fading into scattered footsteps, the occasional distant shout, and the soft clatter of someone kicking a stray water bottle across the pavement. The air still carries that leftover heat from the afternoon sun, mixed with the faint tang of cut grass and sweat that always hangs around after these tournaments.  

Still, the win is buzzing under your skin like static you can’t shake. Your team took it. Clean. Loud. And the captain who just dragged them over the finish line? Yeah. That’s your boyfriend.  

You adjust the backpack higher on your shoulders, sneakers scuffing lightly against the marble as you pick up speed without even meaning to.

The changing room comes into view and you reach for the handle without slowing down, only to stop short with your fingers already curled around the cool metal.  

What if someone else is still in there?  

You hesitate, shifting your weight, then knock a couple times.  

“Hello?”  

Silence.  

You wait another beat, ear tilted toward the door, before pushing it open.  

The locker room stretches out in front of you, empty. Not a single person in sight. Just rows of red metal lockers, scattered benches, and the lingering damp-air smell.

Disappointment hits you square in the chest the second the door swings wider.  

You step inside anyway, taking a few careful steps forward, sneakers soft against the tile. The space feels bigger now that it’s empty.

You were pretty sure he mouthed “changing room” at you after the match. Or at least looked your way like he did.  

Maybe you imagined it. Maybe you’re just being paranoid.  

You should go ba—

Before you can even pivot toward the door, a sharp gasp rips out of you as two solid arms lock around your waist from behind and yank you back flush against a hard chest. The sudden heat presses along your entire spine, solid and unyielding, like it had been waiting in the shadows the whole time.  

“Ow—”  

Teeth scrape lightly over the curve of your shoulder—just enough pressure to send a quick, involuntary shiver racing down your spine and pooling low in your stomach. Nowhere near hard enough to break skin, but the sharp contrast of it against the warm brush of his breath makes your fingers twitch against the empty air.  

Your eyes drop to the arm banded tight across your middle. Fully inked, dark lines wrapping from fingers, wrist to bicep in the exact same sprawling pattern you know by heart. The muscles beneath the tattoos flex once, tightening the hold just a fraction more, keeping you pinned right where you are.  

“Thought you weren’t gonna show,” he murmurs against your skin, voice all rough and low, the words vibrating straight through you.  

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Scared to pay me back?”  

“Pay you back for what?” you frown, twisting to glance over your shoulder.  

He doesn’t give you the chance. In one smooth motion he spins you around and pins you against the nearest locker, one hand trapping both your wrists above your head. The cool metal presses into your back while the heat of him crowds in front of you.  

Shirtless. Just low-slung sweatpants. Chest rising and falling hard, messy hair still damp with sweat. The warm, clean-masculine scent of him hits your nose—nothing sharp or off, just pure post-game heat that somehow settles deeper than it should.  

“Take a picture, dove. It’ll last longer.”  

His abs tighten under the weight of your stare and you snap your eyes up to meet his, caught.

“And by the way,” he adds, eyes narrowing with that slow, knowing grin, “I thought you were scared to pay up for the win.”  

“I genuinely have no idea what you’re talking about. Context?” you fire back, raising an eyebrow even as his hold on your wrists stays firm against the locker.  

He mirrors the look perfectly, one brow arching right back at you, the corner of his mouth still tilted.  

“You promised I could do whatever I want, wherever I want, if I took this match.” His voice drops lower as he leans in, the heat of his bare chest brushing yours. Soft lips graze the shell of your ear and your mouth parts on a quiet, involuntary breath. “Want me to pull the exact time stamp too?”  

“I thought we were just messing around.”

“We?” You feel the shape of his grin press against your skin, warm and deliberate. “Don’t know about you, but I wasn’t.”

“Now, come on, Jungkook. Don’t be stubbor—”

“Oh, no no no. I’m not.” His free arm slides around your waist and locks tight, pulling you flush against him. “But I do need to teach you a little lesson about making promises to me. Joking or not.”

Then his mouth is on yours.

A soft “mhh” of protest vibrates against his lips, but it fades the second the cold metal of his lip piercing presses into your skin. He sucks your lower lip between his own, then catches it lightly between his teeth, biting down just enough to make your breath hitch.

You squirm against the hold, but there’s nowhere to go—wrists still pinned, body trapped between the locker and the solid heat of him.

He deepens the kiss without warning, tilting his head so the cold metal of the piercing drags slowly across your bottom lip again. The pressure of his teeth eases only long enough for his tongue to trace the same path, warm and deliberate, before he bites down once more—soft, controlled, enough to make your fingers curl uselessly above your head.

Your wrists stay locked in his grip. The locker is cool against your back while every inch of him in front of you is pure heat, bare chest rising and falling against yours with every uneven breath he takes. The arm around your waist tightens, dragging you even closer until there’s no space left, just the solid press of his hips and the faint dampness of sweat still clinging to his skin.

You try to twist again, a half-hearted attempt that only makes him hum low against your mouth. The sound vibrates straight through you. He eases the bite and kisses you properly this time—slower, deeper, the kind of kiss that feels like he’s taking his time claiming the exact promise you tried to laugh off.

Your free hand would be pushing at his chest if it weren’t pinned. Instead all you can do is feel the way his body cages yours in, the way his mouth keeps returning to that same spot on your lower lip like he’s memorizing the shape of it.

He breaks the kiss with a slow drag of his mouth, leaving your lips tingling and slightly swollen.  

Without a word he tips your chin higher with the edge of his jaw and starts a path of open-mouthed kisses down the line of your jaw. Each one is deliberate—warm, lingering, just enough texture to make your breath catch.  

He reaches the side of your neck and settles there, mouth finding the soft pulse point beneath your ear. His lips part against it, the steady thrum of your heartbeat answering every light press and drag. The arm around your waist stays locked, keeping you pinned flush while his free hand still holds your wrists high against the cool metal of the locker.  

You feel the heat of his breath ghost across the same sensitive spot a second before he kisses it again, slower this time, like he’s testing how hard your pulse can race.

He stays at the pulse point only a moment longer before the kisses turn sharper.  

His mouth opens wider against your skin and he sucks hard enough to pull a soft, startled sound from your throat. The pressure is deep, deliberate, leaving a dark bloom of heat that will definitely show later. He releases it with a quiet pop of air and moves lower, finding a new spot just beneath the first and repeating the same firm pull of lips and tongue.  

One by one he works his way across the side of your neck, each mark overlapping the last until the skin there feels hot and thoroughly claimed. When he reaches the junction where your neck meets your shoulder he pauses, breathes once against the sensitive curve, then seals his mouth over it and sucks even harder. The dual sensation of teeth grazing and tongue soothing makes your wrists flex uselessly in his grip.  

He doesn’t rush. Another mark, then another, right at the base of your throat and along the slope of your shoulder, until every place his mouth has been throbs with the same low, insistent ache.

You’re almost mute under the onslaught, every fresh mark dragging another soft, broken sound out of you that never quite forms into words. You already know talking won’t make him stop.  

Heard that saying? Daddy gets what daddy wants. Something like that.  

His mouth keeps working lower, sealing over random spots of your neck and shoulder again and sucking hard enough that your head tips back against the locker with a quiet thud. The arm around your waist tightens, holding you still while he marks you deeper, the heat of each new bruise blooming under his tongue. Your wrists flex uselessly above your head; the only thing you can do is feel the relentless pull of his lips and the solid press of his body keeping you exactly where he wants you.

“Shit. By the way… did you wear this on purpose?”  

His eyes drop and stay locked on the low neckline of your black tank top. You’re looking at him through half-lidded eyes, still pinned, still marked, pulse thudding under every fresh bruise he left.  

Intentionally? If that’s the word. You wore it because you knew he’d love it. If that counts as intentional, then yes.  

“What if I did?” you whisper, a mischievous little smile curving your mouth.  

He answers with the same smile—slower, darker. The arm around your waist slides upward in one smooth motion, fingers catching the hem of your top and dragging it higher until the fabric bunches over your breasts and your bra is fully exposed to the cool locker-room air.  

A low gasp slips out of you. Heat floods your face.

He takes a second just to look, eyes dark and fixed, wetting his lower lip like he can’t help it.  

Then his fingers slide under the band of your bra and pull that up too. The cups give way and your breasts spill free, both the tank and the bra now bunched high above them, leaving you completely exposed from the waist up.  

He stares.  

Not a quick glance—full, hungry focus, like he’s been waiting for exactly this. His free hand comes up and cups one breast, thumb brushing slowly across the soft weight of it, testing the shape, the warmth, the way it fills his palm. He does the same to the other, almost reverent, almost greedy, like he can’t decide which one he wants more.  

A low sound leaves his throat. His eyes never leave your chest.

“Anyone can walk in here anytime,” you whimper.  

He ignores the warning completely. His head drops and he buries his face between your bare breasts, pressing in deep so the soft weight of them cushions his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. Hot breath spills across your skin as he nuzzles harder, turning his face side to side like he wants to feel every inch of you against him at once.  

The hand that isn’t pinning your wrists squeezes both breasts inward, trapping his face even tighter between them. A low, satisfied sound rumbles out of him, muffled by your skin, while the cool air of the locker room kisses the rest of your exposed chest.

The second his hand finally releases your wrists, your fingers fly into his hair, threading deep and tugging.  

Your nipples have been tight and pebbled for what feels like forever, aching from the cool air and the constant attention.  

He pulls his face free from between your breasts and immediately captures one nipple in his mouth. Hot, wet heat seals over the stiff peak as he sucks hard, tongue circling and pressing flat against it while your hands stay buried in his hair, holding him right there.

Moans and soft gasps spill from your lips without permission, each one sharper as he sucks harder on the sensitive peak.  

Your fingers tighten in his hair, pulling him closer even as your back arches off the locker. The wet heat of his mouth works the nipple relentlessly—tongue flicking, lips sealing, teeth grazing just enough to make another broken sound catch in your throat. His free hand comes up to cup the other breast, thumb rolling over the equally stiff peak so both sides stay under the same focused, hungry attention.

He switches to the other breast without warning, dragging his mouth across the soft space between them before sealing over. The same hard suction, the same deliberate swirl of tongue, pulls another shaky moan out of you. His hand stays busy on the other, squeezing and teasing the wet peak he just left behind so neither side gets a break.  

Your fingers stay tangled in his hair, guiding him, holding him, while the cool metal of the locker presses into your bare back and every fresh pull of his mouth sends heat pooling lower. 

A loud gasp tears out of you as his lip piercing, hard and cool presses firmly against your nipple. The sharp contrast of pressure mixes pleasure with a thin edge of pain that shoots straight down your spine and makes your knees tremble.  

Your fingers tighten hard in his hair, holding him there while he keeps the firm contact, rolling the sensitive peak under the unyielding pressure until your breath comes in short, shaky bursts. The hand still cupping your other breast squeezes in time with every movement, making sure both sides stay oversensitive and aching.

He spits on your tit, spreading it out with his tongue, making everything messy and sticky.

He pulls back just enough to change the angle, then seals his mouth over the soft upper curve of one breast and sucks hard. The deep, deliberate pressure blooms into a dark mark almost immediately. He holds it there, tongue working against your skin, until the spot throbs.  

Then he moves.  

Another hickey forms lower, right along the outer swell. Then one beneath the nipple, the suction strong enough to make your fingers yank at his hair. He treats the other breast the same way—open-mouthed, insistent, leaving a trail of darkening bruises across the pale skin until both sides are scattered with fresh, aching marks.  

Your knees keep trembling. Every new pull of his mouth draws another soft, broken sound from your throat while the cool locker-room air kisses the wet, freshly marked skin he leaves behind.

He works his way higher without pause.  

Open-mouthed kisses climb the upper slope of your breasts until his lips find the delicate ridge of your collarbone. He sucks hard there, sealing over the bone and drawing a deep, dark mark that will sit right at the edge of any shirt you wear.  

Another one forms just beside it, then a third farther along the line, each one firm and lingering. The skin over your collarbones heats and throbs under the attention while your fingers stay buried in his hair, holding him close as he claims that exposed stretch of skin one deliberate bruise at a time.

He drops back down to your breasts like he can’t stay away.  

Soft, playful bites scatter across the marked skin—quick nips along the upper curve, a sharper one just beneath a nipple, another on the full outer swell. He doesn’t settle in one place for long, moving from side to side like he’s tasting every inch he already claimed.  

Each bite is followed by the soothing drag of his tongue. His hands keep pushing your breasts together, lifting them, squeezing them, presenting them to his mouth so he never has to stop. A low, almost greedy sound leaves him every time his teeth sink in, as if the soft weight of you in his hands and under his mouth is the only thing that matters right now. 

He keeps going like he has no intention of stopping.  

One hand stays under your breast, lifting the soft weight so he can take as much of it into his mouth as possible. He sucks deep and slow, cheeks hollowing, tongue pressing flat against the nipple before flicking it in quick, teasing strokes. When he finally releases it, the peak is darker, wet, and aching.  

He switches sides immediately, giving the other breast the exact same treatment—long pulls of suction broken by soft, playful bites that make your fingers tighten in his hair. Every few seconds he pauses just to look, eyes dark and fixed on the way your breasts move with every shaky breath you take, before diving back in like he’s starving for the feel of them.  

The marks he already left darken under the new attention. His thumbs keep brushing, squeezing, rolling the sensitive skin while his mouth works, completely focused.

You don’t complain.  

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t enjoying this—a lot—but the fact that you’re both still in a technically public place sits right at the edge of every breath.  

“You done now?” you manage, voice low and uneven. Your face is flushed deep red, chest rising and falling hard, eyes half-lidded. Fresh hickeys scatter across your neck, shoulder, collarbone, and both breasts, the skin tender and marked.  

He lifts his head, grinning, and gives a short nod.  

“For now, I guess so."

You barely register the soft creak of the bedroom door first, that familiar low groan of hinges as Jungkook nudges it open just enough to peek inside. The dimmed lights must have tipped him off that you’d already tapped out for the night. He slips fully into the room, the cool draft from the hallway brushing your bare legs for a split second before he closes the door behind him with a deliberate, quiet click that seals the space.

Moonlight strains through the massive floor-to-ceiling glass window dominating one wall, painting silvery streaks across the floor and bed, tangled up with the low, golden haze from the nightstand lamp. It bathes everything in this hazy, intimate glow that makes the air feel thicker, warmer. Jungkook takes those slow, small steps toward the bed, shoulders loosening as he peels off his suit coat, the fabric whispering when he drapes it over the back of the chair in front of your dressing table. His fingers linger on the wood a moment, like he’s grounding himself after whatever bullshit the outside world threw at him.

His eyes lock onto you immediately, dark and full of that raw adoration that always seems to hit him harder in these stolen quiet moments. You’re fast asleep on your back, oversized shirt (which belongs to him) twisted from the day’s chaos, with seven-month-old Jae nestled right on your stomach—his little cheek smushed against your skin, tiny fists curled, breathing in that deep, trusting rhythm that syncs with yours. The weight of him anchors you even in sleep, warm and solid, his soft exhales tickling your belly through the thin fabric.

The exhaustion clings to your bones in the best-worst way; days blur from early feeds to those midnight wails that rip you awake, but you handle it with this fierce, stubborn grip. Barely twenty-three and already owning the mom role like it’s second nature, your body tuned to every shift of Jae’s, every tiny sound, while still carving out space to look after Jungkook when he drags himself home wrecked. You’ve been running on barely five or six hours, eyes heavy, muscles sore from rocking and carrying, but the thought of handing any of it off to a nanny never crosses your mind. This is yours—messy, relentless, and so fucking real it hurts in the sweetest spots.

That middle-school spark you two carried through high school and into this love marriage still simmers under everything—no big fights, just this lived-in understanding where he offers help at every turn and you push back because wearing yourself down for them feels like the only right move. Well, Jungkook was just as stubborn. He did as much work as possible before going to work, like the dishes, laundry, and so on.

His breath catches a little as he watches Jae’s tiny hand flex against you, the way your arm stays curled protectively even in deep sleep. It’s all present, all consuming—the faint baby-powder scent mixing with your usual warmth, the quiet hum of the room, his own pulse kicking up at how perfectly wrecked and beautiful you look tangled in this life you built together.

He’s won in life, no contest, the thought hitting him square in the chest as he stands there a second longer.

You look so damn peaceful, features relaxed in that deep sleep only new parents steal when the baby finally crashes too. Jae’s the same—tiny chest rising and falling right on your stomach, those soft tiny snores filling the room like the world’s most effective lullaby, warm and trusting against your skin.

Jungkook’s eyes trace your face slow, carving out every detail he already knows by heart: the faint crease between your brows that’s finally smoothed out, the way your lashes fan against your cheeks, lips parted just enough for those quiet breaths that pull at something low in his gut.

He lowers himself onto the edge of the bed, movements deliberate and slow, the mattress dipping under his weight as he braces his hands beside him, careful not to disturb the perfect pile of you and Jae.

Then his gaze slips. It trails lower without permission—from the soft lines of your face down the column of your neck and collarbone, catching on the way the top two buttons of your shirt was undone probably from breastfeeding Jae, that teasing peek of cleavage rising with each inhale under the mixed moonlight and lamp glow. It follows the dip of your waist, the curve of your hips hugged by the sheets, illuminated like they’re begging for attention, all the way to the smooth stretch of your thick thighs where your shorts have ridden up. God, he would love to bury his face betwee—

He jerks his eyes away hard, suddenly hyper-focused on the curtains like they’re the most fascinating shit he’s ever seen, jaw flexing as he tells himself he wasn’t just checking out his wife while she’s dead asleep with their kid on her.

Wasn't he feeling warm-hearted a moment ago? His heart isn't the only warm thing now.

You’ve had this body that’s ruined him since forever, perfect in that effortless way that makes his brain short-circuit. Carrying Jae only smoothed everything out and emphasized those curves harder, leaving him stealing extra fifteen minutes in the shower way too often just to shake the constant pull.

Intimacy has turned into this rare, almost mythical thing since Jae showed up. The little guy is the ultimate cockblocker without even trying—tiny demands at all hours turning what used to be easy, constant touch into stolen glances and quick brushes that leave you both aching in the quiet.

Jungkook isn’t some hormonal kid who doesn’t get self-control. He’s been solid about it, the respectful type who reads the room and never pushes, even when the want sits heavy under his skin.

You let out a slow yawn, body shifting under the sheets as sleep starts to loosen its grip. He snaps his attention back to your face instantly, clearing his throat like he’s been caught mid-thought, shoulders tensing for a beat.

Your lashes flutter, eyes cracking open heavy and unfocused, the room’s soft glow filtering in as awareness creeps back in slow waves. The weight of Jae on your stomach grounds you first, his tiny snores still humming steady, then Jungkook’s solid presence right there on the edge of the bed, close enough that his warmth cuts through the sleepy haze.

“Little guy’s got better taste in pillows than I do,” he teases, voice low and rough from the long day, dragging his gaze down to Jae with a small, crooked smile tugging at his lips. There’s that playful glint in his eyes, the one that always sneaks in like he’s trying to lighten the exhaustion weighing on both of you.

You blink harder, glancing at the clock on the nightstand. Your frown deepens quick. “You’re home?” The words come out thick with sleep, eyes widening when the numbers hit—four whole hours had slipped by since you crashed.

He looks back up at you, that steady gaze softening around the edges as he nods. “Yeah. And don’t worry about it, I’ll hit the rest of the house chores later. You can sleep more.” His voice drops a notch, reassuring and warm.

“I don’t wanna sleep more,” you murmur, voice still scratchy from the nap. “And you sure you can handle the rest? I mean, you must be wiped from work—”

“I can and I will,” he cuts in, firm but gentle, that no-argument tone he pulls out when he’s decided.

You feel a small smile tug at your lips despite the fog in your head. “Thanks.”

“You’re always welcome, love.” The words roll off him easy, low and warm, wrapping around you like the blanket you’re half tangled in.

You move slow and careful, easing Jae off your stomach with practiced hands. His little body stays limp and trusting as you lift him, settling him down beside you on the bed. You tuck the blanket up to his chin, fingers brushing his soft cheek for a second before you push yourself up to sit, back against the headboard. The motion makes your shirt slip lower on its own, the undone buttons giving way and exposing more of your cleavage in the warm lamp light.

Respectful or not, he’s still a man at the end of the day. His eyes drop immediately, tracking the movement before he can stop himself, that familiar heat flashing quick across his face.

He drags his gaze back up with visible effort, jaw tight like it’s taking every ounce of willpower he’s got. You rub at your eyes, another yawn slipping out as you stretch your arms overhead, body still heavy with leftover sleep.

“You must be tired from doing the same grind every day,” he says, clearing his throat. “Wanna go out tonight? Like a drive or something?” The suggestion comes out casual.

You frown, head tilting. “To where?”

“Not every drive needs a fixed destination. Count on the night to take us wherever it wants to.”

“You can’t be for real,” Jungkook mutters, cutting a sideways glance at you while the car idles at the red light, city glow reflecting off his eyes. The engine hums low beneath you, mixing with the distant buzz of traffic.

You’re staring straight ahead at the empty crosswalk, mind half elsewhere. “Really, I’m not hungry. Now stop arguing about it,” you tell him, turning your head to meet his gaze while your fingers scratch lightly at the back of your head, trying to shake off the leftover sleep fog.

He sighs, long and defeated but fond, shaking his head with the smallest curve at the corner of his mouth. “Nevermind. I’d rather make you something when we get home anyway. My way tastes better than whatever greasy spot we’d hit.”

“It’s been months since we got alone time like this,” you murmur, rolling your shoulder in a slow, deep stretch that pulls a contented sigh from your chest, the tension unraveling bit by bit in the quiet car. Then worry crashes in fast, tightening your expression. “But I hope Jae’s doing okay. What if he wakes up or—”

“Shh, baby,” he cuts in, voice soft and steady. “He’ll be just fine. Kid passed out hard before we left, belly full, and we handed off every single thing he could possibly need to your friend. She’s got him covered, promise.”

“How about you focus on me instead?” he mutters, voice dropping low as his hand slides over, palm warm and deliberate, settling high on your thigh. His thumb starts tracing slow, lazy circles against the fabric of your shorts, the pressure just firm enough to pull your attention fully into the car.

“I am,” you mutter back, eyes flicking down to watch the path of his hand for a beat before lifting to meet his gaze again, the city lights flickering across his face.

“I don’t think so,” he murmurs, his tone dipping into that deeper octave that always seems to vibrate through you. His fingers inch higher up your thigh in no rush at all, drawing light, teasing patterns along the way, taking his sweet time like he’s memorizing the feel of you under his touch after too many rushed nights. The weight of his hand feels grounding and electric all at once, cutting through the quiet hum of the engine.

“You got a cigarette on you?” The question makes him jerk his head your way for a split second, eyebrows lifting in that surprised, amused way he does when you catch him off guard.

“Bad habits die hard, huh?” he asks, the low chuckle rumbling through his chest as he shakes his head.

He eases the car into a long, deserted lane, tires crunching softly over gravel before he kills the engine. Silence settles heavy around you both, broken only by the faint tick of cooling metal. Jungkook leans over and pops open the hidden compartment, pulling out the familiar pack of your favorite—Marlboro Red—and holds it out without a word.

You pluck one from the pack, the paper smooth between your fingers, and wait as he fishes out the lighter. You slip the cigarette between your lips, the filter resting familiar and comforting. You flick the flame to life, the small orange glow lighting up the space between you for a moment as you lean in, inhaling slow until the tip catches and burns steady. The first drag fills your lungs with that sharp, smoky hit, tension easing from your shoulders

You glance sideways at Jungkook and catch him staring, that dark, unreadable intensity locked on you like he’s memorizing every little shift in your expression. Grinning, you lean in closer on purpose, lips parting as you blow a slow, deliberate stream of smoke right across his face. It curls around his sharp jaw and lingers in the space between you, hazy and intimate under the dashboard lights.

To him, the whole thing is pure heat.

You pull the cigarette from between your lips and hold the filter out toward him, pinching it lightly between your ring and middle finger, the paper still warm from your mouth.

He watches you for a long second, eyes heavy, before his fingers wrap around your wrist—grip solid and warm, thumb pressing just enough against your pulse point. He leans in, takes the cigarette between his lips, and pulls a long, unhurried drag. The ember glows brighter for a moment. Then he rolls every window down, letting the cool night breeze rush through the car, carrying the smoke out into the empty lane. He drops his head all the way back against the seat, as he exhales a thick cloud.

You freeze right there in your seat, the rest of the world fading for a second. The sight hits different—his relaxed shoulders, the sharp cut of his jaw in the low light, throat exposed, neck veins popping, the effortless way he owns the moment. Your breath catches without meaning to, pulse thrumming louder in your ears. It might honestly be one of the hottest things you’ve witnessed in your life, simple as it is, leaving the car feeling smaller, the air thicker, and your thoughts a little scrambled.

You take another slow drag, deliberately turning your face away toward the open window, desperate for anything to distract from the unfairly hot man sitting right beside you. The cool air does little to settle the sudden warmth crawling under your skin.

You pass the cigarette back and forth a few times, letting each of you steal a couple drags in comfortable silence, the smoke mingling with the night breeze. Then he snatches it smoothly from your fingers, bringing it to his lips for a long, deep pull without asking.

You don’t complain. Not even a little.

Your eyes drift over him instead—his hair still a little messy and damp from the quick shower he took before you left, half-lidded eyes heavy with that post-work exhaustion mixed with something sharper. That prominent big nose you’ve always had a weakness for (whatever Doja Cat said about big noses), the full cupid’s bow lips you’ve almost forgotten the exact taste of after so many tired nights, the sharp jawline that cuts straight through your better judgment and sanity, the strong column of his neck, those muscular arms flexing casually, the broad chest and defined lines under his plain t-shirt, and the very obvious, massive outline straining against the gray sweatpan—

You freeze hard, head snapping up so fast it’s almost embarrassing. You did not just look there.

Heart hammering, you gather the nerve to sneak one more millisecond glance downward, confirming the prominent bulge the soft fabric does nothing to hide, especially in the dim lighting. Then you jerk your eyes back up to his face, only to find him already watching you, that dark, knowing look pinned right on your expression.

The gray sweatpants make everything stand out even more in the low light, impossible to ignore now that you’ve seen it. The air in the car suddenly feels ten degrees warmer.

He keeps his lips parted, slowly exhaling the smoke in a lazy, controlled stream that curls toward the open window. He taps the ashes out with a flick of his finger, then turns that heavy stare back on you—like a predator eyeing prey he’s forcing himself not to pounce on, the tension thick enough to taste.

“What?” you ask, voice coming out quieter than you mean it to. You snatch the cigarette right from his fingers and twist toward your window, staring hard at the empty lane outside. Your face feels way too warm, probably bright red, and you keep it turned away on purpose so he can’t see the flush creeping up your neck.

“Don’t look at it like that if you can’t do something about it, yeah?” he murmurs, the deep rasp of his voice cutting straight through the quiet car and sending a rush of heat straight down your body. “Gives me all kinds of wrong ideas.”

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t miss this—the easy, skin-prickling intimacy that used to happen without thinking, back before Jae turned your nights into a constant rotation of feeds and exhaustion. The hunger is mutual. He’s desperate for you in that quiet, restrained way, and you’re every bit as desperate for him. He’s just holding back, staying respectful and patient like the man you married.

He holds the eye contact when you finally glance back, the moment stretching thick between you as you pull a long, deliberate drag from the cigarette. The smoke burns down your throat, grounding you for a second, before you toss what’s left of it out the window into the dark.

You let your eyes wander over him freely now, no more pretending. Why should you? He’s your husband—your person.

Your man.

You let your eyes drift deliberately now—down the strong column of his neck, over the flex of his arms where the muscles shift under your stare, across the broad stretch of his chest and the defined ridges of his abs visible through the thin t-shirt. His body reacts under the attention, arm tensing visibly as you keep looking. Your gaze drops lower again, settling on the prominent bulge in his gray sweatpants, and he spreads his legs a little wider on purpose, manspreading across the seat in that casual, devastating way.

Fuck, it’s stupidly hot.

It’s been so long since you’ve had this kind of uninterrupted moment, and you’d almost forgotten how perfectly you two used to fit together, like you were molded for each other in every sense.

Again— every sense.

Your hand moves almost on its own, sliding across the center console before coming to rest on his thigh, fingers settling warm and tentative right below where the fabric strains so obviously.

You hear him exhale sharply through his nose, the sound rough in the quiet car.

“Y/N,” he says, your name coming out half warning, half like he’s talking himself down from whatever pull is threatening to drag him under. His hand covers yours on his thigh, not pushing it away, just holding it there—warm and steady.

You glance up for a second, catching the raw hunger burning in his eyes—dark, barely leashed, the kind that makes your stomach flip. You look back down almost immediately, breath shallow.

Your fingers start inching higher up his thigh on their own, slow and exploratory.

“Y/N,” he murmurs again, voice strained. “You gave birth to our son just seven months ago. I don’t know if you’re healed enough. And honestly, I think it’s probably those ovulation hormones messing with you right now. I don’t think you’re ready. I’m trying to be nice here, so don’t do this.” The words come out in a low whisper, but he holds eye contact the whole time, steady and intense. You’ve known him long enough to read what he’s not saying—the need is written all over his face, screaming in the tension of his jaw and the heat in his stare.

“Jungkook…” you murmur back, barely above a breath.

“Yes, love?”

“Didn’t you just tell me to stop looking unless I wanna do something about it?” you say, a small, teasing,challenging smile tugging at your lips. “I’m working on that.” With that, you gently push his hand off yours, freeing your fingers to keep moving at their own slow pace.

Your fingers trace the hard outline of his bulge through the soft fabric, deliberate and slow, as you lean across the center console for better reach. The position puts you half out of your seat, shoulder brushing his, the console digging lightly into your ribs. He doesn’t stop you this time.

He knows you both need this—the months of careful distance cracking open in the quiet dark of the car.

You slide your hand beneath the waistband of his sweatpants, fingers finding the warm, thick base of his cock. His head drops back against the headrest with a heavy, relieved sigh, throat working as he lets you explore.

He helps without a word, lifting his hips just enough to tug the sweatpants lower. His cock springs free, hard and heavy, the cool night air hitting heated skin as it rests against his stomach. The sight of him like this—laid out in the driver’s seat, chest rising faster, jaw clenched—sends a fresh wave of want through you, sharp and undeniable after so long.

You pause with your hand wrapped around him for a second, heart hammering too loud to ignore. Then you grab the collar of his shirt with both hands and yank him toward you, crashing your mouths together in a hungry, fierce kiss that’s been building for months.

He meets you just as hard, one big hand sliding to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair as he kisses you back with raw need. He tastes like cigarette smoke and mint, the combination dizzying, making your head spin. You can feel yourself getting wetter, panties clinging uncomfortably as heat pools low in your belly.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to grab his phone, connect it to the car’s speaker, and blast some random R&B track on full volume. The deep bass fills the space as he yanks all the heavily tinted windows up, sealing you both inside, as well as turning the air conditioner in the car on. Then he looks back at you, both of you breathing hard, lips swollen.

You crash your mouths together again because once isn’t enough—you’re addicted, and so is he, tongues sliding, teeth nipping, desperate and messy. That manly scent rolling off him hits you harder with every inhale, warm skin and faint cologne and pure Jungkook, working on you like some kind of aphrodisiac drug that makes your thighs press together on instinct.

You break the kiss when oxygen becomes non-negotiable, pulling back with a sharp inhale, both of you breathing hard and fast. Your face feels flushed, lips tingling and swollen, the taste of him still lingering on your tongue.

Your hand drifts back down without hesitation, fingers wrapping snug around the thick base of his cock. You stroke him slowly at first, a few firm pumps that draw a deep, contented hum from his throat, the sound vibrating through his chest and straight into you.

With your other hand you tuck loose strands of hair behind your ear, then bend down over the center console, leaning in close. You drag your tongue in one long, slow stripe from the base all the way to the flushed tip, feeling every ridge and vein under the wet heat of your mouth.

He lets out a low, guttural groan the moment you sink your mouth down onto him, lips stretching wide around his impressive girth. The fullness of him on your tongue is overwhelming in the best way, warm and solid after so much time apart.

His hands are careful but possessive, gathering your hair and twisting it into a loose ponytail at the back of your head. He holds it there like his own personal grip, fingers flexing against your scalp as you start to move, the bass from the speaker pulsing around you both in the sealed, slightly space of the car.

His hips jerk up instinctively when you take him deeper, pushing more of his thick length into your mouth. You can barely handle halfway before his tip nudges the back of your throat, making your eyes water slightly at the stretch and fullness.

His head falls back hard against the headrest, a strained “Fuck…” slipping from his lips like a prayer and a curse all at once.

The raw reaction only fuels you more, heat curling tight in your belly as you work him with renewed hunger.

Your hand and mouth move together in a steady rhythm—fingers wrapped tight around the thick base your lips can’t reach, stroking in time with the way you bob your head. You swirl your tongue around the sensitive tip on every upstroke, tasting the salty bead of precum that leaks for you, sucking lightly as your cheeks hollow out. The car fills with the wet sounds of your mouth and his low, broken breaths, the music still thumping low in the background.

“You’re doing so fucking good,” he breathes, the words rough and strained. You lift your gaze through wet lashes and meet his eyes—half-lidded, burning down at you with that raw, unguarded hunger that makes your stomach tighten. “Good girl.”

The praise sinks straight into your bones. The second you feel him twitch against your tongue, you pour everything into it, sucking harder, taking him deeper, hollowing your cheeks as your hand works the base in tight, slick strokes.

He groans deep in his chest and tightens his grip in your hair, using it to bob your head up and down at the pace he needs. You let him take control, relaxing your throat as much as you can, eyes watering from the stretch and the way his thick cock fills your mouth completely. Saliva drips down your chin but you don’t care, humming around him, the vibrations pulling more broken sounds from his lips.

His breaths turn ragged, groans getting louder, hips jerking up every few seconds as he twitches more frequently on your tongue. The tension coils tighter in his body until it finally snaps. His orgasm hits hard with a loud, guttural groan, head slamming back against the headrest, eyes rolling back as thick, hot ropes of cum flood your throat. His body jerks with every pulse, thighs trembling under your touch as you swallow around him, taking everything he gives you.

He keeps you there for a long moment, fingers still tangled tight in your hair, holding you close as the last tremors run through his body. His groans gradually fade into heavy, satisfied breaths that brush warm against the top of your head.

Then he tugs you up gently by the makeshift ponytail, guiding you until your mouth meets his in a fierce, claiming kiss. He doesn’t hesitate for a second, tasting himself on your tongue and groaning softly into it, the kiss turning deep and messy, filled with raw gratitude and the kind of hunger that hasn’t been fed in months.

You grab onto his shoulders for balance, but he’s already pulling you closer, strong hands gripping your waist as he maneuvers you over the center console. You end up straddling his thighs in the driver’s seat, knees pressing into the leather on either side of him, the position intimate and close in the cramped space.

“I missed this…” he murmur against your lips, voice breathy and rough.

He proved his point by trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the line of your jaw and along the curve of your shoulder. You tilt your head to the side without thinking, giving him better access, a shiver running through you as his lips and tongue work over your skin, hands sliding possessively up your back under your shirt.

“Mmh… Jungkook…” The gasp slips out sharp when he bites down on that sensitive spot along your shoulder, teeth grazing just hard enough to make your eyes flutter shut and your nails dig into the front of his shirt.

“Mhm,” he hums against your skin, soothing the sting with a slow drag of his tongue, the vibration sending sparks straight down your spine.

His hands are everywhere at once—one gripping your hip possessively, fingers digging into the soft flesh like he needs to anchor himself, while the other trails down your stomach, teasing along the waistband of your sweatpants. The light touch makes your breath hitch, anticipation curling tight in your core.

Your eyes fly open the second his hand slips inside your pants, palm cupping your soaked mound with confident possession. A thick finger slides through your wet folds, parting them easily, and a full-body shiver runs through you at the contact, thighs clenching around his lap as the car suddenly feels impossibly smaller.

“Fuck, you’re dripping down my hand,” he growls against your skin, pulling back just enough to look up at your flushed face. A wicked grin spreads across his lips, eyes dark with satisfaction.

“Eyes on me, baby,” he murmurs, voice low and commanding. He waits until you manage to lock your gaze with his, pupils blown wide, before he plunges two thick fingers deep inside you in one smooth thrust.

Your hips jerk hard against his hand, a sharp gasp tearing from your throat at the sudden stretch and fullness. He doesn’t give you time to adjust, capturing your mouth in another hungry kiss, swallowing every moan that tries to escape as his fingers start moving—deep, steady, curling just right inside you.

The pads of his fingers brush against that perfect spot with every stroke, making your thighs tremble around his lap, pleasure sparking sharp and hot through your body as he works you open with practiced precision.

As he pulls back from the kiss, you’re both panting hard, lips swollen and breaths mingling in the steamy confines of the car. His free hand slides up your body with purpose, long fingers wrapping around your throat in a firm, possessive grip. Not hard enough to restrict your air, but just tight enough to send your head spinning—blood pounding in your ears, a delicious dizziness washing over you that only heightens the arousal flooding your system.

His thumb presses tight, perfect circles against your swollen clit, the pressure steady and maddening, pulling whimpers and sharp little gasps from your throat with every rotation. You’re close already, core clenching around his fingers, as your eyes shut closed, thighs trembling around his lap as the pleasure coils tighter and tighter—until he suddenly stops moving entirely, fingers buried deep but still.

You groan in pure frustration, brows pulling together as you open your eyes and stare at him with heavy-lidded eyes, face burning flushed and chest heaving with every desperate pant.

“I said eyes on me,” he murmurs, voice dark and commanding, one brow arched in that teasing challenge. “Don’t you dare look away or close your eyes, or else I stop, hm?”

You nod frantically, too far gone to argue back or do anything else, cheeks blazing even hotter.

He’s reduced you to this needy, dripping mess—embarrassingly aroused, hanging on every word and touch like he owns you. And right now, he absolutely does.

“Such a good girl for me,” he hums against your lips, voice thick with satisfaction and something darker, the praise sinking into your skin like a brand.

You don’t wait for more permission. You start moving your hips again, grinding down onto his fingers, fucking yourself on them with desperate little rolls that make obscene wet sounds fill the car. He matches your pace instantly, thrusting deeper, curling those long fingers against that perfect spot with devastating accuracy.

A few more relentless strokes and the coil inside you snaps violently. You clench hard around his fingers, orgasm ripping through you with a loud, broken cry that bounces off the tinted windows. Your whole body shakes, thighs clamping tight around his lap as wave after wave crashes over you, soaking his hand and the front of your sweatpants while your vision whites out for a second.

He doesn’t stop right away. He slows his movements instead, drawing out every last tremor and pulse of your orgasm with long, lazy strokes, milking you through it until you’re a trembling, whimpering mess in his lap, aftershocks still sparking through your oversensitive nerves.

You lean your forehead against his shoulder, still breathing hard, eyes closed, the aftershocks of your orgasm leaving your limbs shaky and your mind hazy. The solid warmth of him grounds you even as your pulse continues to hammer.

“Breathless already, baby? We just started,” he teases, the grin clear in his voice as he turns his head and drags his tongue slowly over your earlobe, teeth grazing the sensitive skin just enough to make you shiver.

Somehow, in the tight space of the driver’s seat, he manages to work your sweatpants the rest of the way off, the fabric sliding down your thighs with a soft rustle. His hands grip your hips firmly, angling them back so you’re positioned perfectly above him, the head of his still-hard cock brushing against your soaked entrance.

You open your eyes, swallowing hard, the lump in your throat thick, your breathing still uneven and your pulse racing under your skin. The cool air of the car hits your bare skin, contrasting with the heat rolling off his body.

He leans back, reaching down to recline the seat a little further so there’s more room, settling deeper into the leather. His dark eyes lock onto yours, voice low and rough with command as he murmurs,

“Now… ride me.”

Your eyes snap open wide the second the command hits your ear, a jolt of nervous heat racing through you. He raises a brow at your reaction, that cocky, knowing look already in place.

You gulp hard, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt as your fingers tighten against his shoulders for support.

“C’mon, baby. Don’t act all shy now,” he grins, clearly enjoying the deep flush that floods your cheeks. His hands grip your hips firmly, guiding you down slowly, letting you feel every thick inch as he sinks into you.

The moment you bottom out, a low, guttural groan rips from his chest at the same time a sharp gasp escapes your lips. He fills you so completely it borders on overwhelming—stretching, hot, and so deep it feels surreal after months of nothing. Your thighs tremble around him, the full, heavy pressure of him inside you stealing the last of your breath.

You stay still for a second, adjusting to the overwhelming stretch, forehead pressed to his shoulder again as you try to catch your breath. He’s thick and deep, filling every inch of you until it almost hurts in the best way.

His hands stay locked on your hips, thumbs stroking slow circles over your skin. “Fuck… look at you,” he rasps, voice rough. “Taking me so well.”

You start to move—small, tentative rolls of your hips at first, testing the angle. The friction is immediate and intense, every shift dragging him against that sensitive spot inside you. A soft moan slips out of your mouth before you can stop it.

“That’s it,” he encourages, guiding you into a steadier rhythm. “Just like that.”

You plant your hands on his chest and push yourself upright, finding a better angle. The new position lets you sink even deeper, and you both curse at the same time. Your thighs burn already from the effort, but the pleasure is sharper now, building fast as you start to ride him properly—rising up until only the head remains inside, then dropping back down in one smooth motion.

The wet sound of your bodies meeting fills the car, mixing with the low bass still thumping from the speakers. Jungkook’s head falls back against the seat, eyes half-lidded as he watches you, jaw tight, every muscle in his abdomen flexing under you.

“God, you’re so tight,” he groans, hips lifting to meet your downward thrusts. “Missed this pussy so fucking much.”

You lean forward again, bracing yourself on his shoulders as you pick up the pace, chasing the heat coiling low in your belly. His hands slide up your back under your shirt, then down to grip your ass, helping you bounce harder on his cock. Every time you take him to the hilt, a broken little sound escapes you—half moan, half whimper—and he drinks every one of them in like he’s starving.

The pace turns messier, more desperate. You bounce harder on him, the wet slap of skin against skin echoing in the sealed car. Sweat starts to dampen the back of your shirt; his palms slide over it as he grips your ass tighter, helping lift you up only to drag you back down harder each time.

“Fuck—just like that,” he groans, the words punched out of him every time you sink all the way down. His hips snap up to meet yours, driving deeper, making your breath hitch on every thrust. The fullness is almost too much, stretching you open in a way that makes your thighs shake and your nails dig into his shoulders.

You drop your forehead to his again, panting against his mouth. He captures your lips in a messy kiss—open, wet, all tongue and teeth.

“Come on, baby,” he murmurs against your lips, voice wrecked. “Let me feel you come around me.”The underside of your thighs burns from the strain, muscles trembling as your pace starts to slow. Jungkook notices immediately. His hands clamp down on your thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he thrusts his hips up hard whenever you lag, forcing himself deeper.

“Keep going,” he orders, voice rough and breathless.

Every time you sink back down, a loud, broken moan spills from your lips, the sound echoing in the small space of the car. He’s so deep it steals the air from your lungs, stretching you open with every downward roll of your hips.

You try to obey, bouncing on him again even as your legs shake. The friction is relentless—wet, hot, and perfect. His grip on your thighs stays firm, guiding your rhythm when your body starts to give out, using his strength to keep you moving.

“That’s it… fuck, look at you,” he groans, eyes locked on where your bodies meet. “Taking every inch like you were made for it.”

You drop forward, bracing your hands on his chest, forehead pressed to his as you keep riding him through the burn. The new angle makes him hit even deeper, and another loud moan rips out of you, louder this time. His hands slide up to your waist, holding you steady while he starts thrusting up to meet every downward motion, the wet slap of skin filling the car along with your shared, ragged breathing.

One of his hands slides down between your bodies, thumb finding your clit with unerring accuracy. He rubs tight, firm circles over the swollen bud while continuing to thrust up into you, the dual stimulation so intense it makes your vision blur.

You’re seeing stars almost immediately.

Your hips stutter, a high, broken moan tearing from your throat as the pressure builds at a dizzying speed. Every deep thrust combined with the relentless circles of his thumb pushes you higher, the pleasure sharp and overwhelming. Your thighs shake violently around him, walls fluttering and clenching around his cock as you race toward the edge.

“That’s it—come for me,” he growls against your ear, voice rough and strained.

The command snaps the last thread of your control. Your orgasm crashes through you hard, ripping a loud, choked cry from your lips as you clamp down around him. Your whole body seizes, trembling violently in his arms while wave after wave of pleasure tears through you. Your hips jerking weakly as he keeps thrusting up into you, dragging out every pulse until you’re oversensitive and gasping against his shoulder.

He groans deeply when you clench around him, the tight, rhythmic squeeze of your walls pulling a raw, broken sound from his chest. His hips stutter for a second as he feels every pulse of your orgasm, forehead dropping against yours while he rides it out with you.

“Fuck—just like that,” he rasps, voice strained and breathless. His hands grip your hips harder, holding you down as he thrusts up through the aftershocks, chasing his own release now that you’re fluttering and dripping around him.

You cling to his shoulders, still trembling, oversensitive but not pulling away. Every deep stroke sends little sparks of leftover pleasure through your body. His breathing turns ragged, muscles tensing under your palms, the wet sound of him moving inside you growing louder and more desperate.

“Gonna fill you up,” he warns through gritted teeth, the words punched out between thrusts. His pace turns short and hard, burying himself as deep as he can go with every snap of his hips.

A few more powerful strokes and he comes with a low, guttural groan, head snuggled against your neck. His body jerks with each pulse, holding you tightly against him while he spills everything he’s got, cock twitching deep as he rides out the last of his orgasm.

You both stay locked together for a long moment afterward, chests heaving, bodies slick with sweat. His arms stay wrapped tightly around you, keeping you pressed against him while he softens slowly inside you. The car is quiet except for the fading bass of the music and your shared, uneven breathing.

Jungkook presses a soft kiss to your temple, then another to the side of your neck, the earlier intensity melting into something gentler. His hands stroke up and down your back in slow, soothing motions, grounding both of you.

“You okay?” he murmurs against your skin, voice still rough but softer now.

You nod weakly against his shoulder, too spent to form words yet. Your thighs are still trembling, the dull ache from riding him mixed with the pleasant, heavy fullness of him still inside you. He doesn’t rush to pull out. Instead he holds you there, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head while the other rests warm on your hip.

Outside the heavily tinted windows, the empty lane remains dark and still. Inside, the air is thick with the scent of sex, smoke, and the faint cologne clinging to his skin. He shifts just enough to press another lingering kiss to your lips—slow this time, unhurried, tasting of gratitude and leftover hunger.

“Missed this,” he whispers against your mouth. “Missed you.”

“Thank you so much for taking care of Jae,” you say with a bright smile, glancing between Yuna and the baby now settled in your arms. He’s wide awake, tiny fingers already tugging curiously at the neckline of your shirt.

“Of course,” Yuna replies, looking proud of herself. “I was gonna stay up all night anyway, so it wasn’t a problem if you left him here a bit longer. Feel free to drop Jae off whenever you want—I honestly believe a couple deserves some time alone too.”

She worked as a babysitter for about six months back in high school, but you hadn’t expected her to be this good with kids.

“Oh, surely… only if Jae doesn’t cause you too much trouble,” you offer with a soft laugh.

“Nah, he’s chill. One of the nicest kids I’ve seen. Barely troubled me at all.” Yuna tilts her head, smiling. “But I hope you and Jungkook had a great time. Where did y’all go, though?”

Your smile drops instantly. You look down at Jae, suddenly very interested in adjusting his little onesie, trying to fight the flush you can already feel creeping up your neck and cheeks.

Of course you can’t exactly tell her that Jungkook fucked your brains out in the car.

“Somewhere,” Jungkook answers for you, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest, eyes fixed on you.

You know better than to look at him right now. One glance and the heat already crawling up your neck will turn into a full-blown flush that Yuna will definitely notice.

She frowns slightly at Jungkook, then shifts her attention back to you, waiting for a better answer.

“We—… we went to a cinema,” you say quickly, forcing a casual tone as you bounce Jae lightly in your arms.

Yuna’s frown disappears, replaced by an easy smile. “Oooh. That’s great.”

At least she buys the lie. You risk a tiny glance toward Jungkook and catch the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s fighting a smirk. You immediately look back down at Jae, pretending the baby’s tiny fist has suddenly become the most interesting thing in the room.

“Alright, I’ll take a leave then. Good luck for your exam, yeah?” you say to Yuna with a smile.

She nods and walks you both out to the car, standing on the curb and waving until the vehicle pulls away and her apartment building disappears from view. Jae remains nestled in your arms the whole time, tiny and warm against your chest.

The car is quiet for a few minutes as Jungkook drives, the city lights sliding across the windshield. You glance over at him, catching the soft, satisfied look on his face, one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting casually on the gear shift.

Jae makes a small cooing sound, pulling your attention back down. You adjust him carefully, brushing a thumb over his soft cheek.

“You think she bought it?” you ask quietly, keeping your voice low even though the baby can’t understand.

Jungkook’s mouth curves into a small smirk. “Cinema, huh? Cute.” He glances sideways at you, eyes dark and amused under the streetlights. “You’re a terrible liar, by the way. Your ears were bright red.”

You huff, looking out the window to hide the fresh heat crawling up your neck. “Shut up.”

He chuckles low, the sound warm and familiar, then reaches over to rest his hand lightly on your thigh—nothing heated this time, just steady and present. “You good?”

You nod, leaning your head back against the seat, still cradling Jae. The ache between your legs is a quiet reminder of everything that just happened, but the contentment sitting in your chest is stronger. For the first time in months, the exhaustion feels lighter.

You see, perverted or not, life just feels better when you’ve got a capable—actually insane—sex partner. Like, hell yeah. Fuck anyone who claims sexual frustration isn’t a real need.

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𝒮.𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒 : : closed and finished. (Oneshot)