Grateful to be _______

You love him. Every calculated word he speaks and every action he does you love. He spends long days at work, but never fails to come and wrap his arms around you as soon as he sees you for the first time in weeks. 

The relationship is still fairly new. Six months in, and you’ve been over to his house and he’s been over to your apartment both more than once. So many times in fact— you’ve given each other keys to one another’s homes and a personal message to come over whenever feels right. 

You’ve went on dates, you’ve held hands, Robby’s met your siblings and talked to your parents and while iffy at first, they swoon over him just about as much as you do. 

You’ve had sex on practically every surface of both of your homes. It’s great, and it’s amazing. Mind numbing with soft showers after. He never forces you to do anything you don’t want to, and the way he speaks with so much authority but control has you blushing countless times. 

Your relationship is perfect— at least you think Robby thinks so. 

Truth is? You’re aching. When he’s at work you fight yourself not to call, having to busy yourself just to not press on his contact. 

When you do drop by the ER to give him his lunch or bring in files he’s forgotten, you have to force yourself to leave. Without any lingering touches or one too many kisses. 

You don’t want to be the “needy little thing.” Or “youngster’s don’t understand that we’re too busy for false love like that.” You do understand. You understand how he can’t be bothered and how if you want to stay in this grownup relationship with him, you’ll need to act like an adult. 

And being an adult means you can’t put yourself in silly little fairytales. You can’t ask him to come stay with you every weekend, you can’t ask if he can grab a coffee with you right before work, you can’t ask for sex— because you have to be mature.

Sometimes, it feels like you’re just there. Standing on a cloudy platform in the sky waiting for the wind to whisk you away. Other times. When you’re in Robby’s arms, and he’s holding you tight, you soak in as much affection as you can get. 

Because you can’t ask for it. 

But it’s happening again. Robby forgot to pick up his stethoscope and it’s your job to bring it to him on your break. He’s been forgetting things a lot. It might be old age, it might be stress, it might be because he misses you. But you don’t let your mind think too hard on the last one. 

When you park your car, you use the back entrance with all the ambulances near it. You learned a long time ago that you have to act confident and not clueless while walking into the ER. 

You side step some of the EMTs at the entrance and the doors open quickly. You see Dana at the desk sitting quietly and she smiles when she sees you enter. Waving you over. 

“Hey Sweetheart, what do you have this time?” 

“Just something Robby left at home, tell him I brought it by?” 

With a pretty smile you put the stethoscope on the counter. Dana is really nice, yet you still get a little scared to be on her bad side sometimes though. 

“Yeah you can tell him yourself, he should be around here somewhere.” 

“No— no. I know he’s busy, just make sure he gets this.” You’re already stepping back and going for the door hesitantly. 

“you don’t wanna see him? Something going on between you two?” 

“No! No, Robby’s great I just— have to get back to work.” 

You’re about to bolt in the nicest way you know how, if you catch a glimpse of Robby you might get down on your knees and beg to stay. It’s been three days since you saw him last, and late night phone calls and sporadic texts weren’t doing it for you anymore. 

But before you can properly take another step back, you hear his voice before you even see him jogging towards you. 

“Hey! There she is, just the person I wanted to see.” 

Something inside you literally cracks. Like a volcano full of lava spilling into your intestines and making them warm just at the sight of Robby.

There are crows feet near his eyes as he smiles at you, and the way he stands so close like he has no idea what kind of turmoil you’re going through has your knees wanting to buckle. 

“You brought it? Gah you’re an angel.” 

“I know.” 

You smile as he takes your hand. You relish at the simplest touch. It aches to think that at a moments notice, he can just as easily take the touch away. 

“Careful with that one Robby, she was gonna leave without saying hello.” 

If Dana wasn’t one of Robby’s closest coworkers, and the woman who constantly checked in with everyone, you would be silently cursing her for even pointing out such a thing. 

“What? No, you weren’t gonna leave without giving me a kiss right?” His voice is low and just slightly raspy.

Robby does this little thing where he stands up taller when he teases. Gives him a confidence boost just to see you squirm under his gaze just as his hands rub up your arms. 

“No.” You lie softly. It’s a punishment that you won’t get to hear his voice for the next hour, or the hour after that, or maybe even a day. 

You miss him so bad. 

You push up on your tiptoes to press a achingly soft kiss to his lips, one that would be far too easy to pull away from. 

But it’s like the universe has a grudge against you. Because Robby’s hands grab at your waist and pulls you closer against him, deepening the kiss ten fold and enough to where you want to melt like putty in his hands. 

And he doesn’t stop at one, his head tilts to the side and he presses another kiss to your lips. Stealing away all your oxygen till you can’t breathe. But that’s okay, because feeling Robby kiss you, feels just as good as air flow going to your lungs. 

“I need help in here!” 

A door abruptly opens, and just as abruptly as he kissed you, he’s pulling away. When his touch leaves, it feels like ice grows cold on your skin. 

“I’m sorry— I have to go, but thank you! Thank you for bringing the stethoscope over.” 

His hands come together and he bows slightly with a cheeky little smile, like he is your knight and you are the queen. 

“You’re welcome.” 

You know there are people dying around you. People in pain of all different kinds that need help. Robby’s help. No matter how much you want Robby. A broken heart isn’t as important as the entire emergency room. 

With one strong smile to Dana, you start to walk back to your car. Feeling soft, moldable, empty, and undeniably needy. But clingy is not one of the things you can be while dating Robby. 

Work helps, driving and paying attention to the road takes your mind off how much your skin feels lonely without touch. 

The day comes and goes and soon, it’s sunset. You unlock the door to your apartment and there’s a pile of dishes that you’re too tired to do. 

A bundle of blankets not folded from the last time you sat down to watch a movie. Now that you think of it— the vacuuming hasn’t been done in a few days either, and yet, you hit the showers. 

The hot water doesn’t help, instead it makes your mind wonder to when the last time you showered with Robby was. He suggested it. Because you couldn’t ever do something so childish as to ask to shower with him. Afraid you’d get a retort back like, “there’s barely any room in there for us. You tryin’ to break my back?”

But when Robby asks— it’s fine. It’s grown up. It’s domestic. There’s no room to tease, it’s a simple yes or no answer. 

You remember the way Robby’s big hands went down your chest. Water running down your body and it was slick with soap. Both hands mirroring each other while he touched at the curve of your breast. 

You remember exactly how you leaned back into him. How his kisses at your neck were itchy, but now that you don’t have them you’d take itchy kisses any day. 

You missed how his fingers would smooth up and down your cunts lips before thinking about circling your clit, or adding a finger. He added a newfound attention to places you didn’t even know you liked to be touched. There was a lot of soft teasing, but in the end it was worth it. It was always worth it with Robby. 

You turn the shower to as cold as you can stand it for the time being. You shouldn’t be thinking about him in that way. He is your boyfriend, you can think about him however you want but— even the term boyfriend sounded stupid. Like that’s all you were. Just dating. No biggy. Like you might get caught up into some of that drama nonsense on tv if you didn’t just talk to each other. 

You finish the shower quickly after that, picking out your clothes and drying your hair. Leggings were a good choice along with a big shirt. Some kind of national park resort text that’s fading away. You fall onto the bed, and grab at your phone. It’s a good distraction in retrospect. Everything you can possibly imagine is on the internet, you have the whole wide web to look up anything. 

Yet every post you see, every news you hear, every destination you wish you could go to. All you want is to do it with Robby. 

You look at the clock. It’s getting late and he will just be getting out of work now, it’s not a smart choice to reach out. To bother him. It’s foolish to think you could just text “hey! Just thinking about you in the shower and I admire how you touch me and I wish you would come over now so that I could return the favor, please.” 

That’s nonsense. You were always warned that love isn’t like that. That it will be rough and nothing like how you expect it. With Robby it’s easy. At least when he touches you first, and he calls you first, and sends you long voice messages. 

You want to text him so bad there’s a rock sized hole in your heart just uncomfortable enough to feel. You go into the message app anyways, pulling up Robby’s contact. But instead of texting him. You skim over the past week of texts. 

He’s not even your ex and you’re acting like he’s moved to a different state. As long as he didn’t know you were longing for him, you wouldn’t be considered needy. 

There are copious amounts of “I love you’s,” and then there’s random comments about your day and his. Late into the night— if you’re lucky enough— Robby will send a voice message and you’ll send one back. 

For the sake of it, you press on one. Just to hear his voice because it wasn’t enough today when you went to see him. You turn the volume up high and as soon as the raspiness comes out over your speakers, you’re smiling. 

“I know you’re sleeping,” there’s a groan and shifting of blankets like he’s just getting out of bed. “And I don’t expect you to hear this until after I’ve already starting my shift.” 

You remember waking up on the weekend, sleeping in but wishing you hadn’t as soon as you saw the notification for this message. 

“But… I dunno. Just dreaming about you, thought I’d swing by later to see your pretty face. Even if it’s late.” 

He keeps talking and the entire time it feels like your bones are relaxing while your heart gets wound up. You wish for the familiar feeling of him beside you, to touch you just how you like without being asked. You almost wish you could ask. 

You chide yourself for it when he groans again you feel your clit pulse. The shower must have really worked you up because you didn’t realize how needy you really were. And what’s worse is you’re alone. Under your blankets with your legs already spread. 

Blood flowing downward to that little sensitive nub. Now that you think of it— it’s been a while since Robby touched you in this way. He does it so thorough too, his touch is precise in every way you want it. His thumb rubbing over the tight skin of your clit. You ache for him to be touching you. You can’t even remember the last time you initiated sex with him. 

Your hand slides down your body, first just over your clothes. Clit so needy you catch the bud quickly between your fingers. You hear Robby’s voice ring out mindless words, but you like it. You never want him to stop talking. 

You rub over your pussy a few times. The touch shocks you softly and you don’t know if it’s relaxing or tensing yet. 

The message ends with a soft “okay, love you.” From Robby. You huff in annoyance and fumble for your phone with one hand playing the message back that wasn’t even remotely sexy, yet you’re still rubbing off to it. 

You take a deep breath, in and out. Feeling that unmistakable desire in your core that just needs attention, just a little bit. It’s not like anyone is gonna murder you for playing with your pussy for a little while. Some might even argue you need this, just to tie you over until the next time you hang out with Robby. 

Two fingers rub over your clit, with the barrier of the stretchy fabric between your aching clit and your skilled hand making a dull pleasure. There’s only a slight doubt that you shouldn’t be doing this when your hand moves down into your leggings. 

The fabric that’s trying to bounce back— practically pushing your fingers onto that clit— is like forcing you to just give in to this one little fantasy. 

You gather wetness between the two fingers and pull it up to your clit. A soft sigh and a relaxed feeling spreads through your body as soon as you start rubbing at a comfortable pace. 

Now that the ache between your legs is being taken care of rapidly, you can focus on Robby’s voice. Deeper than usual and raspy, it’s like it’s morning and he’s rambling. You think about his neck, how lucky you are to bite hickeys onto his skin. 

His voice has the satisfaction of biting into an apple, it itches that one part of your brain that makes your fingers circle clumsily around your clit. 

You wanna kiss his lips. Thinking about how he grabbed you earlier in the day. Hands on your hips and just pushed softly against him, what if he pushed you against a wall? Could you feel his dick in those scrubs of his?

Your breath hitches when he groans again on the voice message. It’s so close to when you actually have sex, that you pick up your phone and rewind the recording. 

You rub harder, listening to that groan over and over and over. You’re determined to cum at how he groans in the recording. It feels gross at how you’re jerking off to just a regular old voice message. Something that used to be sweet, and now you’re perverting it. 

But it doesn’t matter. Because you’re close, close to getting a high you haven’t had in how long by just your fingers. You’re about to stick them into your neglected pussy, when there’s a sudden door opening.

“Woah— hey—”

To your mortification, Robby walks through the door. He turns his face so he can’t see for only a minute before he must have remembered that your his girlfriend. He’s seen it all already. 

You turn your phone off before anything, hitting that big button on the side so that he doesn’t hear his own voice getting you through an orgasm. After that, then you get your hand out of your leggings and close your legs in a hurry. Orgasm completely shattered and fading away. 

But it doesn’t matter how fast you turned the phone off. The messages keeps going for at least another three seconds. There’s no way he didn’t hear it. 

“Robby—” you breathe, frightened. This is your worst nightmare coming true. You got caught playing with yourself. That’s— the most teenager thing that could happen to you. So much for trying to be an adult. “I can explain.” 

“Oh you can?” 

Your heart drops as you see a smile on his face. You almost want to run for the hills and stick a knife in your heart just for the embarrassment to go away. 

Robby drops his bag by the bedroom door. He’s stepping closer to your bed, and he has his hands in his hoodie pockets. The amusement never fading.

“Then go ahead, tell me.” 

“I...”

It doesn’t matter. anything you say feels like it could be used against you for evil. There’s no way to explain this without giving away your biggest insecurity. 

“No no, I get it. Someone was feeling needy, right?” 

The way he says it a little mockingly doesn’t let you know if that makes you feel any better or worse. 

You swallow hard when he comes to sit down right next to you. Wanting to curl up in his lap like a baby and rub your hips around his thigh at the same time.

“Old man hasn’t been taking care of his girl, huh?” 

“No… that… that’s not it.” A lie. 

You sit up a little on the bed. He raises an eyebrow as if for you to continue but you can’t, there’s a blockage in your throat that won’t let any words pour through. 

When he sees your hesitation he nods. Does a once over your room before his eyes turn back to you, trying to find anything that could help understand why you’re so hesitant. 

“May I?” 

He points to your phone. You have an embarrassing suspicion that he already knows what’s on it, but you nod anyway. He gets close to you as he grabs at it. You can smell the hospital scents that linger on his jacket, but the smell of his sweat mixes in with the hospital scents. 

He unlocks your phone with ease. You trust him enough to share passwords but that doesn’t mean whatever he finds on there is any less embarrassing. 

He squints as he reads over the messages. Wrinkles under his eyes that you wouldn’t mind kissing at the moment until he plays the voice message and his own words ring out through the room. 

“You were listening to me while masturbating?” 

“I know! I know it’s gross I just—” 

You see his chest expand as he laughs. There’s a rush of blood that comes up to your cheeks as he shakes his head in amusement. 

“You didn’t want to call?” 

“I… I didn’t know if that was an option…” 

“You didn’t think you could call your boyfriend to tell him you wanted to have sex?” 

The way he says it, makes you sound silly. Like there wasn’t a whole other layer to unfold from that sentence. 

“You wanna tell me what’s going on here?”

You don’t. You really don’t. But at the same time you’ve been holding in all your needs and desires for him for six months, something has got to give. 

“I… I feel like I can’t ask for things with you because…” you lick at your lower lip, avoiding eye contact at all cost. “You’re so just so much older and more mature, and I don’t want to come off as some childish, young, needy girlfriend.” 

You hear Robby let out a scoffed laugh. You know it’s not meant to be mocking, but it kinda feels that way. 

“You’re crazy, you know that?” His voice is high pitched and it almost makes you want to smile. “I mean— you think you gotta change to act like some woman in her forties while I’m over here getting turned on like a teenage boy.” 

Your breath hitches. “You are?” You look up to meet his gaze, and it feels like cold water running down your throat when you’re parched, satisfied and smiling. 

“Yeah. It feels like I’m going stir crazy over here wondering why my girlfriend never asks for anything. I thought I was laying the love on you too much.” 

“No—” you swallow. “It could never be enough.” 

“Good.” Robby’s hand lays down on your thigh and he gives it a little squeeze, you don’t know if it’s meant to be sexual or not, but it sure feels that way with how he looks like he wants to devour you. 

“The same goes for me. You know you can ask for things. Affection, love, sex. We all need it.” 

“I know.” 

“You know big girls ask for things.” 

That lingering heat on your cheeks that started to feel like it might go away, comes back ten fold. Especially when he leans in closer, like he’s whispering in your ear and telling a secret. 

“Little girls keep things to themselves. You’re not a little girl, are you?” 

“No…” you shake your head softly, and reality comes crashing onto you. It feels like a wet dream coming true. 

“So how about you be a big girl, and tell me what you want right now.” 

His hand slides farther up your thigh and his thumb is reaching close to where your underwear lay under your leggings. You think maybe you know what he wants too. 

“I…” 

“Yeah…?” 

Robby moves closer to you, his hands moving to your sides to slowly pull your leggings down. He’s smiling like this is some inside joke between you two. 

“I want…” 

“Come on. Not that hard to speak, baby.” 

The leggings come off almost all the way, and you flick them off your feet. Robby moves down onto the floor and pulls your hips over the edge of the bed. 

“I want you.” 

You finally breathe. It’s like an elephant has sprouted wings and flown off of your chest. You spoke the three words you’ve been meaning to say for months that you just want him. 

“What part of me, baby? Gotta be more specific. I can’t read minds.” 

You’re pretty sure he can with the way he’s eyeing your clothed core. His hands are making soft patterns up and down the flesh of your thighs, sending rushed tingles to the heat of your belly. 

His touch is mesmerizing, distracting even.  You’re waiting for when he shoves his tongue down onto the fabric of your panties. Wanting your back to arch with every touch, but he seems too patient for that now. 

“Okay so,” his thumb hooks on the outside of your panties and you help by lifting your hip. “I’m gonna voice my opinion on what I wanna do right now.” 

The panties slide down your legs, and then he’s slotting himself between your knees, one thigh over his broad shoulder while he makes heart eyes at your pussy. 

“I really want to eat this fuckin’ cunt. Does that sound childish to you?” 

You shake your head. In fact it sounds sexy when he voices his desires like that, for a moment you think what has he been missing out on with no voicemails first thing in the morning.

“Good, Now be a big girl and say it back.” 

“Robby—”

“No, nuh-uh. Say it back. Come on you know how to take orders, right?” 

With a soft breath out, and an aching wet cunt, you don’t want him to be disappointed by not saying anything. So quick to get embarrassment over you mumbling. 

“I want you to eat me out—”

Before the sentence is even finished, he pulls your panties off and his tongue is drooping into your hole. The sudden intrusion makes your breath hitch, and there’s a warmth quickly flowing over your whole body. 

He sucks at one lip and then the other. It aches a little bit, but not before he starts licking at your clit. His hand comes up your body right above your pussy and he pulls the skin back, getting under the hood of your clit to lick at those sensitive nerves. 

It almost hurts, like fire racing up your legs every time his rough tongue licks at that spot. Your hand automatically comes down and into his hair. There’s not enough to grab onto tightly, so it more of a comfort than a guide. 

“s’what you wanted?” He mumbled while he dives back down into you. Gathering slick that had accumulated while listening to his voice earlier and bringing it up, and sucks softly at your sensitive bud, then goes back to pay attention to your hole. 

“Don’t stop— please.”

You’re breathless. Special attention like this just from him is exactly what you’ve wanted since you met him. It’s not like he hasn’t come to the choice of eating your cunt by himself. But it’s different in a way. Asking for it. Feeling in control. 

Robby’s nose curves down just a little. You don’t know how he breathes, but when your hips twitch, your clit catches on him and it’s a nice place to gain a little extra pleasure. 

Your head falls back and Robby’s other hand is urging the other thigh up on his shoulder. You’re practically suffocating him, but when you look down and his eyes are pinned on your pretty face, it seems he doesn’t care if he’s suffocating or not. 

Robby’s arm extends out and up under your shirt. Touching at your chest, he finds your tit quickly, his thumb gently brushes over your nipple. Pleasure courses through you and it’s like imagining a line connecting your nipple to your cunt with how the pleasure blooms down and throughout your body. 

The way Robby’s so near, or how he’s holding you. Every move he makes, it’s like it’s intended just for you. You feel the heat of your previous orgasm approaching. Low in your pelvis, small whimpers slipping from out your lips. 

“Robby—” you whine. 

He grunts, and it’s like even your ears find it pleasing with the way your pussy clenched softly at his hum. 

“Robby, I’m close...” 

His lips wrap around your clit while the hand that’s not touching your breast comes down under him. Two fingers gather at your hole, but instead of putting them in, he teases at the entrance, gliding up and down your puffy lips. His beard itching just the inside of your thigh making delicious friction. 

“You wanna cum?”

It’s not necessarily dirty talk. He’s just asking a question. But a dirty question none the less. That gets you even more excitedly embarrassed. 

“Yes— please...” 

“You gotta ask for it.”

His two fingers just gently prodding the inside of your hole is turning your brain into mush to which you can hardly speak. Trying to focus more on prolonging your orgasm that’s right there and ready to burst. 

“I… please make me cum. I want to. So bad, need you to make me cum—”

Your hips writhe under his touch, just a little more— just a little more with his warm tongue brushing over your taut bud and his nails exploring just the lips of your pussy, slick like velvet. 

With one harsh suck from his lips, your pussy convulses over the tips of his fingers. It empties your brain like a dam with a flood, head feeling cloudy, pleasure taking over you and blinding your vision as the orgasm you’ve been aching for all day washes over you. 

Robby soothes you as he plays and massages your cunt until you can’t possibly take it anymore. Overstimulated and tense as you try to relax your muscles.

“Feel like a big girl yet? Getting your cunt sucked?” 

The front of Robby’s shirt is drenched as he pulls back, which is slightly humiliating. But he’s taking off his jacket and his scrubs and throwing them on the ground, looking ready for a round two. 

“Yeah.” 

“Good.” He nods. 

You watch in awe as Robby takes off the shirt underneath his scrubs. Hairy chest out on display and his tummy sticking out just slightly over the waist of his pants. You want to nestle into his chest if you didn’t feel another ache in your core when you look down and see the tent in his pants. 

Cock hard and straining against the black of his scrubs, you know he’s needy, but so are you. 

“Robby…?” 

You ask softly. You see he’s about to slide off the scrub pants with his fingers hooked at the band, but he hesitates to look up at you. 

“Yup?”

“Can you… do that again?” 

The right side of his mouth tugs up in an amused smirk. 

“Little girl has found her voice and is using it for evil huh?” 

“Just once more, quick.” 

You climb up further on the bed, back hitting the headboard. Fingers coming down to play with the mess between your legs. 

You know as soon as Robby gets inside you he won’t last one— maybe two rounds. And you want more than that. So asking, talking, communicating that you wanted more before hand isn’t selfish, right?

“I’mmm… not complaining.” 

Robby climbs up onto the bed back between your legs. You watch as he shoves a hand down between his body and the bed before he dives with his tongue into you again.

The next day you really don’t know if it’s an accident or not when Robby leaves his jacket at your place. Right before work you make sure to drive by the hospital thirty minutes early, just feeling a little energetic today. 

You got your fill of Robby last night (literally). He hugged you till you were sweating and it didn’t feel like a crime anymore for you to start kissing fights first. 

In fact, you could get used to this feeling of not being shamed for wanting to be too loving with someone. Giving a smile, you walk past the EMTs at the front door. 

Dana is at the front desk again, hair perfectly up and you almost wonder why Robby doesn’t flirt with her more. 

“What did he forget this time, sweetheart?” 

“Just a jacket.” 

You place the neatly folded fabric on the counter before realizing how misleading that could seem. His jacket at your house meaning he took it off durning some time spent together. And while it doesn’t need to be sexual, that smile Dana has seems to mean she’s guessing the worst option. 

And she would be right. 

“Ah… I see. No wonder Robby’s in a good mood today.” 

“He’s not that moody all the time. Cut him some slack. His testosterone levels are coming down with age.” 

“Ha. That means you two done fighting?” 

“We weren’t—” 

Just when you were about to explain how you two weren’t fighting— it wasn’t even his fault. Just your insecurities whisked away in the wind now. You feel big hands squeeze on your hips. 

Turning quickly, you smile when you see Robby’s face. Those wrinkles on his forehead prominent with confusion.

“What about low testosterone?” 

“Nothing— hi.” 

You smile all pretty and innocent. Placing a hand on his chest, and you can see he likes it by how he relaxes under your touch. It’s almost the first time you’ve willingly touched him first. 

“You’re not racing to leave today.” 

“No I…” you shrug, looking around the ER before returning to his pretty eyes. “I thought I’d stick around for a while. I have thirty minutes before I have to get to work. I’ll Just wait until you have a break.” 

“Sorry in advance. That’s very rare—”

Robby side steps you to get his jacket, but his hand doesn’t leave your hip. For the first time you realize his hairy arms are on display. The soft muscles bulging just enough for you to remember how it felt to scrape lines down them last night. 

You look around. Everyone is entirely too busy doing their own job, which is a little overwhelming. But when you look back at Robby, everything around you calms. 

“No one’s calling you for your immediate attention right now…” 

Robby hears that slight lewd suggestion in your voice. His eyes narrow and he takes his jacket, forgoing putting it on with your suggestion. He knows what you’re hinting at with those bedroom eyes you’re giving him.

“Here? Now?” 

The way he says it has you doubting yourself, maybe this whole new asking thing has you coming off too strong. Showing your neediness too fast.

“No— well I mean— only if you want to.” 

“Uh huh…” 

Robby has the prettiest smile. Big and bright, his cheeks go up so high making crinkles around his eyes. It has butterflies building in your stomach as he takes your hand with his and leads you away.

“I think I can find an empty room.”

-> KNOCKED OUT LOVE - pt.01

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Guilt sits heavy in your chest from the moment you wake up.

It's not loud. Not dramatic. It's quiet, like a weight pressing down on your ribs, making it harder to breathe. Every time your mind drifts, it drags you back to the same place. The same morning. The same look in Jungkook's eyes when he walked out.

You keep telling yourself it was a mistake. A moment of weakness. That it doesn't define you. But the echo of it follows you through the apartment.

Namjoon comes home earlier than usual, keys jingling softly as he steps inside. He looks lighter today, almost hopeful. There's a warmth in his eyes you haven't seen in a while.

"Y/n," he says, slipping off his shoes. "I cleared my day."

You look up from the couch, startled. "Cleared... your day?"

"Yeah," he smiles. "No gym. No training. No boys. Just you and me. I thought we could go out shopping, maybe lunch somewhere nice. Then I'll cook for you at home. Properly this time." The sincerity in his voice makes your stomach twist.

This is what you wanted. Time. Effort. Him choosing you.

So why does it feel like a punishment?

You force a small smile. "You don't have to-"

"I want to," he says gently. "It's been a while since we've just... been us." You nod, because refusing would only make the guilt worse.

The mall is crowded, bright with noise and color. Namjoon walks beside you, close enough that your shoulders brush occasionally. He points at store windows, asking if you like this style, if you'd wear that color. He picks up a soft sweater and holds it against your arm.

"This would look good on you," he says. "You always look good in lighter colors." You hum in response, noncommittal.

He notices, of course. Namjoon always notices when you go quiet.

Inside a clothing store, he hands you a few outfits. "Try these. I'll wait."

You take them into the changing room, staring at your reflection in the mirror longer than necessary. The woman looking back at you looks the same neat hair, tired eyes but you feel like you're wearing a secret on your skin.

When you step out, he looks up, eyes lighting for a moment. "That suits you," he says softly. "Turn around."

You do, because he asked.

"Maybe we should get this one," he adds. "And that blue dress you wore last time it's still your size, right? We could get another color. You like green, don't you?"

"Mm," you reply.

He pauses, lowering the hanger. "You're really quiet today."

"It's just work stress," you say automatically, the lie slipping out too easily. "Deadlines. Meetings. The usual."

He studies your face, clearly not convinced but unwilling to push. "Then let's get you good food," he says, trying to sound cheerful. "What do you want for lunch? That place you like? Or the noodle shop near the river?"

"Anything's fine," you murmur.

"Anything?" He chuckles softly. "You always say that, but then you get upset if I pick the wrong thing."

You almost laugh. Almost.

At the restaurant, he orders for both of you, remembering your preferences without needing to ask. When the food arrives, he pushes the bowl a little closer to you.

"Eat properly," he says. "You've lost weight."

You take a few bites, more out of obligation than hunger. He talks about small things funny things one of the boys did, how the gym's AC broke again, how Seoul traffic is worse than Busan. You nod when appropriate, respond when he directly asks you something.

But most of the time, you're quiet.

Your thoughts keep drifting back to the things you're not saying. To the truth you're hiding between sips of water and forced smiles.

Later, walking home with shopping bags in his hands, Namjoon glances at you again. "You sure you're okay?" You look at him, at the man who planned this whole day just to be with you. At the husband who's trying, even if he doesn't always get it right.

"Yeah," you say softly. "Just tired."

He reaches out, lacing his fingers with yours. His grip is warm, familiar. Comforting in a way that only makes the guilt burn deeper. As you walk beside him, you close your eyes for a brief second and make a silent wish that nothing goes wrong, that this fragile peace lasts, that the truth stays buried where you've forced it to lie.

------

It's been a week since you last saw Jungkook. A week of carefully not thinking about him.

You don't pass by the places you used to. You don't linger near the gym when you know the boys might be around. You keep his name tucked away in a part of your mind you refuse to open.

Namjoon has been... there.

More than usual.

He comes home earlier on some days, cooks with you, complains about the seasoning but eats anyway. He tells you the boys will be staying in Seoul longer because the upcoming matches are crucial. Nationals are getting closer, and the pressure is building.

"They're training like crazy," he says one night, loosening his tie. "I'm staying back more at the gym these days. But I'll try to balance it out."

You nod, smiling faintly. "It's okay. I understand."

And you do. That's the worst part, you understand him so well it hurts.

But sometimes, late at night, when he falls asleep beside you, you lie awake staring at the ceiling. The silence presses in. Your thoughts wander where you don't want them to go. You shut them down before they take shape.

You can't afford to think about Jungkook. Not when you're trying so hard to fix what's right in front of you.

------

At the gym, things are unraveling. Jungkook punishes himself for every stray thought of you. He hits the heavy bag until his knuckles split, wraps his hands again, and keeps going. The pain is grounding. The ache in his muscles is easier to deal with than the ache in his chest.

He thought one night with you would be enough.

That it would burn the desire out of him, leave him empty and satisfied, let him move on like he always does. But it didn't.

It only made everything sharper.

Every time he closes his eyes, he remembers the way you cried. The way you looked at him like he was the only person in the room who saw you. The way your voice softened when you said his name.

He hates himself for wanting you more because you pushed him away.

At the dorm, the boys are loud as usual. Namjoon talks about you without realizing what he's doing, about how you've been cooking together, how you dragged him out for shopping, how you looked happier last weekend.

"She's been taking care of me," Namjoon says with a small smile. "I should've done this sooner." The boys tease him, cooing dramatically.

"Aww, Coach is finally being a husband."

"Hyung's whipped now."

Jungkook sits there in silence, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the floor. The words crawl under his skin. He doesn't laugh. Doesn't join in. The room feels too loud, too full of things he doesn't want to hear.

Namjoon notices the quiet. "You okay, Jungkook?"

"Yeah," he replies flatly, standing up. "I'm going back to train."

Jimin watches him go, frowning. "He's been like that all week. Training like he's trying to kill the bag."

Namjoon sighs. "He's under pressure. Big match coming up." But pressure isn't what's eating Jungkook alive.

It's the way he can't erase you from his head. The more he tells himself to forget you, the more he imagines you smiling at someone else. Laughing. Being held. Being cherished in the ways he thinks you deserve. And every time Namjoon mentions you, something dark coils tighter in his chest.

Because to Jungkook, it doesn't feel like he wants you anymore.

It feels like he needs you. And that realization scares him more than any opponent ever could.

-----

It's late when the knock comes.

Too late for comfort. Too late for visitors. The apartment is quiet, the kind of quiet that settles in when you already know you're going to be alone for the night. Namjoon's message still sits unread on your phone screen from earlier. Staying with the boys tonight. Don't wait up.

You don't expect anyone.

When you open the door and see Jungkook standing there, your heart drops straight into your stomach.

"What are you doing here?" you ask, voice sharp with shock. "It's late."

He doesn't answer you. Instead, he pushes the door open and steps inside like he belongs there. Like this is still something he has a right to. He drops onto the couch, spreading out, eyes dark, unreadable.

"Jungkook," you say, closing the door quickly, panic creeping up your spine. "This is inappropriate. You can't just show up here. If the neighbors see you-"

"So now you care about what people see?" he cuts in, a bitter edge to his voice. "You didn't care that night."

Your chest tightens. "You shouldn't be here. There's nothing to talk about."

"There is," he says calmly. Too calmly. "You used me. Then you pushed me away like I meant nothing."

"That's not true," you snap. "What happened between us was a mistake. It shouldn't have happened. We both know that."

"But you still let it happen," he says, eyes lifting to meet yours. "You chose it." The word chose hits harder than you expect.

"You're twisting this," you say, anger rising to cover the guilt. "You came into my life when I was vulnerable. I was hurt. I wasn't thinking straight."

"I was there for you," he replies quietly. "When you were breaking down. When you felt alone. And now you want to pretend I was just some mistake you can erase?"

You shake your head. "This isn't fair. You're my husband's trainee. This is wrong on every level." He lets out a hollow laugh. "Funny how you only remember that now."

You feel the argument spiraling, emotions clawing at your throat. "You need to leave."

He stands abruptly, closing the distance between you in two long steps. "You cheated on your husband," he says, low and deliberate. "You made that choice. Not me."

Your breath stutters. "Stop."

"And if Namjoon finds out," he continues, eyes boring into yours, "you think he'll be okay knowing it was one of his trainees? Someone he trusts?"

Your heart slams against your ribs. "Don't you dare bring him into this."

Jungkook's gaze flicks to the phone in your hand.

Before you can react, he reaches out and takes it from you.

"Jungkook, what are you doing?" you demand, trying to grab it back.

"Unlock it," he says.

"What? No-"

"Unlock it," he repeats, firmer this time. Your fingers hesitate, then move on instinct, the screen lighting up. He types in a number, hits call. His phone buzzes in his pocket.

A small, satisfied smirk curves his lips as he saves the contact under a name that makes your stomach churn something cocky, deliberately inappropriate, meant to mock the boundary you're trying to rebuild.

He hands the phone back to you. "Now you can't pretend I don't exist."

Rage floods through you. You snatch the phone from his hand, chest heaving. "Get out." He doesn't move.

For a second, you think he might actually listen. Then he takes a step toward you instead slow, deliberate, like he's testing how far he can go before you break. Your body stiffens on instinct. "Don't," you warn, palms lifting as if to keep space between you.

He stops an arm's length away, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the faint scent of soap and sweat clinging to his clothes. His eyes soften, just a little.

"I missed you, Noona," he says quietly. "I don't know why you're trying so hard to push me away."

You swallow. "You shouldn't be here. This is wrong. I'm happy with Namjoon." The words feel rehearsed, like something you've been telling yourself all week.

Jungkook lets out a low, almost amused chuckle. "Happy?" His hand lifts before you can react. His fingers brush your cheek, gentle, familiar. You flinch, turning your face away, but he still manages to trace the line of your jaw.

"If you were happy," he murmurs, "you wouldn't have cried in my arms like that." Your breath catches.

"You wouldn't have let me hold you. You wouldn't have let me kiss you. You wouldn't have let me in." His eyes flick briefly around the apartment. "Or into your head."

"That doesn't mean anything," you whisper. "I was drunk. I was emotional. It was a mistake." He leans in closer, voice dropping. "Then why do you look like you're trying to convince yourself?"

You push at his chest, creating space, even though your hands tremble. "Stop twisting this. You're crossing a line."

"I'm not mad that you used me," he says, the confession slipping out raw. "I get it. You were lonely. You needed someone."

His jaw tightens. "But I am mad that you're pretending I meant nothing. That you can just erase me and go back to smiling beside him like I never existed."

Your heart pounds painfully. "You're his trainee," you say, the words coming out broken. "You're younger than me. This is wrong. You're making it worse."

He finally steps back, but his eyes don't leave yours. "Maybe," he says quietly. "But don't lie to me and say you're fine. Because I saw you when you weren't."

Jungkook leaned in, his lips barely grazing yours just enough to make your breath catch. The way your body betrayed you, reacting despite everything, only pissed you off more. You needed to push him away but the moment his warm lips finally pressed against yours properly? Your own traitorous mouth trembled instead of resisting.

His kiss starts soft, almost tender but the second he feels your lips tremble under his, something shifts. A dark triumph flashes in his eyes.

"You feel that?" he murmurs against your mouth, "That's you losing."

He deepens the kiss without warning, all heat and hunger and quiet fury. One hand still pins yours above your head; the other slides down to grip your waist like he's claiming what was always meant to be his. And God help you do nothing. No shove. No protest. Just a broken little whimper when he bites gently on your lower lip, the same one already split from before and then soothes it with a slow lick.

------

His thumb traced the line of your lower lip, pressing just hard enough to feel the velvet texture, his gaze anchored to you. He was looking for a crack a flicker of pupils, a hitch in your breath anything to prove that his presence was a fire you couldn't put out.

"You're a liar," he breathed, his hand sliding to the nape of your neck, fingers tangling in the fine hairs there. "You act as if you're a thousand miles away, but I can feel your heart. It's thundering."

He leaned in, the scent of him sandalwood and a sharp edge of obsession filling your lungs. He pressed his forehead against yours, forcing you to stay in his orbit. Every point of contact was a provocation. The rough wool of his coat against your bare arms, the heat radiating from his chest, the rhythmic, heavy thud of his own heart.

He moved his hand down, his palm flat against the small of your back, pulling you flush against him until there wasn't a whisper of air between them. He wanted you to feel the sheer scale of his want. He wanted it to be an anchor.

"Don't look at me like I'm a chore," he snarled, his voice cracking.

He crowded your back against the desk until the wood bit into your spine, his body a heavy, suffocating weight. He wanted you to feel small; he wanted you to feel consumed. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling your floral soap and a chilling, untouchable calm and let out a sound that was half-growl, half-sob.

His hands moved with a frantic, messy rhythm now, no longer careful, no longer poetic. He was searching for the pulse point, for the sweat on your skin, for the friction that would force a moan out of those locked lips. He moved his mouth to hers, not in a kiss, but in a claim harsh, tasting of salt and heat, demanding entry to a place she had bolted shut long ago.

He pulled back just an inch, his eyes bloodshot, searching yours. "I could give you everything," he whispered, a desperate plea masquerading as a boast. He slid his hand up, his palm hot and damp, cupping your throat not to squeeze, but to feel the vibration of your indifference.

You let your head fall back, your hair spilling over the dark wood like spilled ink. Your eyes stayed open, fixed on the ceiling, distant and crystalline. You looked like a martyr who had already accepted the fire.

"You're making a lot of noise," you said, your voice steady even as he shook with a frustrated, primal energy. You reached up, slowly, and brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead with a tenderness that was more insulting than a slap. "But you're still just a man standing in a room that isn't yours."

"A room that isn't mine," he echoed, his voice dropping to a dangerous, vibrating husk. "And yet, here you are. Letting me ruin you. Letting me mark you."

"Jesus," he mutters. "This is what he ignores?" You're dripping down his wrist. Embarrassingly ready. You throws your head back, whimpering when he curls his fingers just right.

"Tell me," he says, watching your unravel. "When was the last time he made you this wet?"

You can't answer. You're too busy grinding down on his hand, chasing friction, chasing relief. That's answer enough. Takes his time this time mouth between your thighs, tongue slow and obscene, licking your open like he's savoring something stolen. He keeps one hand on your stomach, holding you down when you start to squirm.

"Stay," he orders lightly. "You've been neglected long enough. Let me take care of you."

You come on his tongue, thighs shaking, fingers buried in his hair, crying out his name like a confession you don't regret.

He doesn't let you recover.

He pushes into you while you're still twitching, thick and hard and unapologetic, filling you so deep making you gasps. He fucks you slow at first deep strokes, dragging it out making you feel every inch, every stretch.

"Feel that?" he says, voice low, teasing. "That's what it's supposed to feel like when someone wants you." Your legs lock around his waist. You meets every thrust, greedy, desperate, filthy. The bed creaks. The air smells like sex and bad decisions. He speeds up when you start begging for more.

------

You wake up to warmth that isn't yours. For a second, your mind is hazy, caught between sleep and reality, until your eyes fall on the unfamiliar curve of a bare back beside you. Jungkook is lying on his stomach, one arm tucked under the pillow, dark hair messily falling over his eyes. Faint marks stain his skin, scattered across his back and along his neck evidence of a night you desperately wish you could erase.

Your chest tightens.

It feels unreal, like your body is in the wrong place, in the wrong time. This isn't where you're supposed to wake up. This isn't who you're supposed to wake up beside.

You squeeze your eyes shut, hoping when you open them again, this will all dissolve into a nightmare.

It doesn't.

The guilt crashes into you all at once heavy, suffocating. Namjoon's face flashes in your mind. His voice. The way he trusted you. Your stomach twists as shame crawls up your spine.

I let this happen again.

You shift slightly, trying to slide out of the bed without waking him, your movements slow and careful. You just need to get away. Put distance between you and this mistake before it becomes something worse.

But before you can even lift yourself up, his hand shoots out.

Jungkook's fingers wrap around your wrist, firm, unyielding. In one swift movement, he pulls you back and suddenly you're beneath him, the mattress dipping under his weight.

Your breath stutters.

His eyes are open now, dark and intense, burning with something that makes your chest ache. There's no sleepiness in them. Only possession. Hurt. Anger.

"I'm not going to let you walk away from me like this," he says, voice low, edged with resentment. "You can't just use me and leave like I'm nothing, Noona."

That word.

It hits differently when he says it twisted, intimate in a way that makes your skin crawl. You've never minded being called that before. From him, it feels wrong. Like a reminder of every line you crossed.

"Get off me," you whisper, turning your face away. "This was a mistake. We shouldn't have-"

"A mistake?" His jaw tightens. "Then why did you let me stay? Why did you let me touch you? Why are you still here?" You don't have an answer. That's what hurts the most.

Your hands press weakly against his chest, creating distance. "I'm going to take a shower," you say, forcing steadiness into your voice. "You can leave after that."

The words sound colder than you feel, but you cling to them like a shield. For a moment, he just stares at you, eyes searching your face as if trying to find the truth you're refusing to say out loud. The room feels too small, the air too heavy.

And in that silence, you realize this isn't just a mistake you can wash away. It's something that's already begun to fracture everything around you.

------

Ever since Jungkook walked out of your apartment, your phone hasn't stopped buzzing. Message after message lights up your screen.

Jungkook: Reached safe.

Jungkook: Did you eat?

Jungkook: What are you doing now?

Jungkook: Are you at work?

You leave every single one unread.

You tell yourself ignoring him is the right thing to do. That distance is the only way to fix the mess you created. But the silence doesn't bring you peace it only makes your chest feel heavier, your thoughts louder.

Then one notification breaks through your resolve.

Jungkook: Jihoon saw the marks you left on me, Noona.

Your breath catches.

Your fingers go cold around the phone.

Jungkook: He thinks I'm seeing someone. What should I tell him?

Panic flares hot in your chest. Your mind jumps to Namjoon, to rumors, to whispers that can spiral out of control before you even realize what's happening.

You type back without thinking.

You: Don't you dare.

The reply comes almost instantly.

Jungkook: You do you text.

Jungkook: Should I let him know I spent a memorable night with an older woman... my Noona?

Your heart starts pounding.

Jungkook: Or maybe I should be clearer. With someone else's wife.

Your throat tightens as if someone has wrapped their fingers around it. Your hands shake as you type.

You: Stop it, Jungkook. Why are you doing this to me?

The three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

Jungkook: Because you're ignoring me, Noona.

Jungkook: And that hurts.

You can almost hear his voice in your head soft, wounded, but carrying an edge beneath it.

Jungkook: I'm not asking for much. Just don't pretend I don't exist.

Jungkook: You used me when you were lonely. Now I'm lonely too. Isn't that unfair?

Your chest tightens. Guilt coils around your heart, sharp and unforgiving.

Jungkook: Relax. I won't tell anyone. I'm not that cruel.

Jungkook: But you don't get to disappear on me like this, Noona. That's cruel too.

You stare at the screen, trapped between fear and remorse. He isn't shouting. He isn't threatening. He's doing something worse twisting your guilt into a leash, wrapping his hurt around your conscience until you can't tell where your responsibility ends and his control begins.

------

By the time you get home, the sky has already turned dull and heavy, clouds hanging low like they're about to spill everything they've been holding in. You drop your bag by the couch, kick off your shoes, and head straight to the kitchen. The sink is full, the room smells faintly of detergent from the morning. You busy yourself with chores washing a cup that's already clean, wiping a counter that doesn't need it. Anything to keep your hands moving. Anything to keep your mind from drifting.

You keep glancing at your phone. No missed calls from Namjoon.

You hesitate, then check. A message from him finally comes in.

Namjoon: I thought I could come over tonight, but something came up. I'll be late again. Eat properly, okay?

Your shoulders sag a little. You tell yourself not to be disappointed. This is normal. This is how it's always been. You type back a simple Okay, take care, even adding a small smiley you don't feel.

The apartment feels too quiet after that. Your eyes drift back to your phone and that's when you notice it.

One unread message.

From Jungkook.

Your thumb hovers over his name. You tell yourself not to open it. That you already know it's a bad idea. That nothing good ever comes from giving him even an inch of your attention. But curiosity wins Or maybe weakness.

You tap it. The photo loads first. Your breath stutters.

He's flushed, hair damp with sweat, shirt half pushed aside as if he couldn't stand the heat. The marks you know you left are faint but visible against his skin. It's too intimate, too intentional. Like he wanted you to see exactly this version of him.

A message follows.

Jungkook: I'm sweating like hell and can't even take my shirt off in front of everyone... just because my pretty Noona marked me all over.

Jungkook: Not that I'm complaining though.

Your fingers tighten around the phone. Another message pops up.

Jungkook: I keep catching your scent on me. It's driving me insane.

Jungkook: I miss you.

Your heart thumps hard against your ribs. This is wrong. You know it's wrong. You're married. You shouldn't be reacting to this. You shouldn't feel that strange, unwelcome pull in your chest. You should block him, delete the chat, pretend none of this ever happened. But the image is already burned into your mind. The words already under your skin.

You type before you can stop yourself.

You: Maybe if you focused on your training instead of sending nonsense, you wouldn't be so distracted.

The reply comes almost instantly, like he was waiting with his phone in his hand.

Jungkook: Nonsense?

Jungkook: You're the one who made me like this, Noona. Now you're pretending you don't know the effect you have on me?

You swallow.

You: Don't flatter yourself. You'll forget about it soon enough.

There's a pause this time. Just long enough to make your stomach twist.

Jungkook: You really think so?

Jungkook: Funny. Because I'm pretty sure you're the one who won't forget.

Jungkook: If you were over it, you wouldn't be replying to me at all.

Your chest tightens. He's right and he knows it.

Jungkook: You can keep telling yourself this is nothing, Noona.

Jungkook: But you opened my message.

Jungkook: And you're still here with me.

You stare at the screen, conflicted, your reflection faint in the dark glass of your phone. You wanted to avoid him. You told yourself you would.

------

You sit alone in the quiet of the apartment, phone face-down on the table like it might burn you if you look at it again. You force yourself to breathe. Stop thinking about him. Jungkook's words, his picture, the way he knew exactly where to press, they linger at the back of your mind like an ache you can't rub away. You press your palms to your temples, eyes squeezed shut.

This isn't about him.

Not really.

It's about you. And Namjoon.

The truth you've been avoiding curls up in your chest, your marriage hasn't been working the way it should. Not because you don't love Namjoon, but because both of you stopped trying in the same way. Two busy lives, two separate schedules, too many "later"s and not enough now.

The distance didn't happen overnight. It happened quietly. Slowly and somewhere in that quiet, you let someone else slip in.

The guilt weighs heavy on your shoulders. No matter how lonely you felt, no matter how empty the house became, it was still your choice. Your mistake.

So when Namjoon texts that he'll be home early tonight, something in you stirs with a desperate need to fix things. To try. To reach him before the distance grows any wider.

You cook dinner yourself. Properly this time. Not reheated food, not rushed meals eaten on opposite sides of the table. You open a bottle of wine, set the table with care, light a candle you've been saving for "special days" that never seemed to come.

Then you go to the bedroom.

You stand in front of the mirror longer than you want to admit. The red lace feels unfamiliar against your skin too bold, too vulnerable. You almost change your mind. Almost. But you don't. When you hear the door open, your heart stutters.

Namjoon's voice drifts in from the living room, tired but warm. "I'm home." You step out.

The moment he sees you, he freezes. For a second, he just stares. His breath catches in his throat, eyes widening, color rising faintly to his cheeks. He actually chokes on his own breath, hand coming up to his chest as if he needs to remind himself to breathe.

"...You," he says quietly. "You look..."

You walk toward him slowly, every step deliberate. The air between you feels charged, thick with something that's been missing for far too long. You reach up, fingers brushing the collar of his shirt.

"Is it too much?" you ask softly.

His eyes drop, then lift back to yours, dark and conflicted. "No. It's just... unexpected." You lean in and kiss him before he can overthink it.

At first, he kisses you back. It's familiar. Warm. Comforting. The kind of kiss that carries years of history in it. His hand finds your waist, pulls you closer, and for a brief moment, it feels like you're back to how you used to be, before the long nights, before the missed calls, before the silence.

But then he pulls away. Just slightly. Enough for the air between you to rush back in.

"...Why are you doing this?" he asks.

You blink. "What do you mean?"

His brows knit together, uncertainty flickering across his face. "Is this because you want a baby?" The words hit you like a slap.

"What?" you whisper.

He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. "You know how I feel about that. I'm not ready. I don't know if I ever will be. We're both busy. Our lives are already complicated. I can't—" He trails off, then looks at you again. "Is this you trying to convince me?"

Your chest tightens. Of all the things he could have said this?

The room suddenly feels colder.

Your mind flashes back to a memory you've tried so hard to bury, the sterile white of a hospital room, the way your hands trembled, the way you nodded when he said he wasn't ready, that it wasn't the right time, that it would ruin everything. You had respected his choice. You told yourself love meant compromise.

You swallowed your pain back then.

You carried it alone.

And now, years later, he still looks at you like this, like wanting closeness must mean wanting something more from him. Like intimacy is a trap.

"You really think I'd do all this just to trick you into having a child?" Your voice shakes despite your effort to keep it steady. "Is that all you see when you look at me?"

Namjoon frowns. "That's not what I meant. I just-"

"I respected your choice," you interrupt, the words finally spilling out. "I respected you when you weren't ready. I respected you even when it broke me. I never forced you. I never blamed you." Your eyes sting.

"But don't you dare assume that every time I reach for you, it's because I want something from you," you continue, voice rising. "Maybe I just wanted you. Maybe I wanted my husband to look at me like I still matter." Silence falls between you, heavy and uncomfortable.

For the first time, you see something flicker in Namjoon's eyes guilt. Regret. Maybe even fear. You step back, suddenly feeling exposed in ways the lace never could.

"I wasn't trying to trap you into a future you don't want," you say quietly. "I was trying to hold onto the present we're already losing." And in that moment, standing there in red lace and unspoken hurt, you realize how far apart you've drifted, even when you're standing right in front of each other.

------

You push him away. Not hard, just enough to put space between your bodies, enough to breathe again. "I need... I need some time alone," you whisper, voice cracking under the weight of everything you're holding back. Namjoon's hands hover mid-air, unsure where to go now that you've stepped away. He looks at you like he wants to fix this, like he's searching for the right words that never seem to come when you need them most.

"Hey... hey," he says softly, stepping closer again when he sees the tears you've been fighting finally spill over. "Come here."

You shake your head. When he reaches out, you flinch not because you're scared of him, but because you're tired of being comforted only after you break. His arms come around you anyway, tentative, careful, like he's afraid you'll shatter in his hands.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs into your hair. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I just... I don't know how to do this right." That's the problem, you think bitterly. You've both stopped knowing how to do this right. You don't lean into his chest. You don't return the hug. You stand there, stiff and hollow, tears soaking silently into the fabric of his shirt while your heart feels like it's falling apart piece by piece.

"I don't want comfort right now," you say quietly. "I just... want to be alone." Namjoon hesitates. You can feel him fighting the urge to stay, to say something that might make it better. But in the end, he steps back.

"Call me if you need anything," he says. You nod, even though you know you won't.

The door closes behind him with a soft click that sounds louder than it should. The apartment falls silent.

You sink onto the edge of the bed, then let yourself fall back onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling you've memorized over the years. Your chest tightens, and suddenly you're crying harder than you were before ugly, quiet sobs that shake your shoulders.

Five years. Five years of trying. Five years of loving someone who feels like he's slipping through your fingers no matter how tightly you hold on. It hurts because you still love him It hurts because you don't know how to fix this anymore.

Your hand moves on its own.

You don't even remember picking up your phone. You just realize it's in your grip when the screen lights up your tear-blurred vision. Jungkook's name sits there in your recent chats, unread messages still waiting like a temptation you swore you wouldn't touch again.

You know you're being unfair. You know you're being selfish. You know you're reaching for him because he's easy comfort in a moment where your husband feels impossibly far away. But right now, you don't want to be strong. Your fingers type before your mind can stop them.

'Can you come over?'

The reply comes almost instantly.

'I'm on my way.'

Your heart sinks and lifts at the same time.

You wrap the robe tighter around yourself, hiding the red lace beneath like it's evidence of a hope that died tonight. You pace the living room, wiping at your cheeks, trying to smooth out the mess of your emotions before the doorbell rings.

When it finally does, you freeze for a second.

Then you open the door.

Jungkook stands there, hair slightly messy, jacket thrown on like he didn't even think twice. The moment his eyes land on your face, his expression changes. The cocky edge you're used to is gone. What replaces it is raw concern. Your eyes are red. Your lashes are clumped with dried tears. Your nose is pink, your lips trembling no matter how hard you try to steady them.

"Noona..." he murmurs.

Before you can say anything, he steps closer and cups your face in both hands, thumbs brushing gently under your eyes as if he's afraid you might disappear if he doesn't hold onto you.

"What happened?" he asks softly. The way he says it low, careful, almost tender makes something inside you crack all over again. You hate how easily he reads you. You hate how comforting his voice feels when it shouldn't.

"I'm fine," you lie, but your voice gives you away.

Jungkook's brows knit together. "You're not."

His hands stay warm against your skin, grounding in a way you didn't realize you were craving. And for a moment, you just stand there in the doorway, caught between the life you're trying to hold together and the person you're using to keep yourself from falling apart.

------

"You called me for this?" his voice was a low growl, vibrating with a cocktail of irritation and something much darker. "To see the aftermath of your catastrophic taste in men?"

"I called you because I didn't want to be alone," you whispered, your voice cracking. You stood up, your legs unsteady, and took two steps toward him.

Jungkook didn't move, but his jaw set so hard you heard his teeth grit. "He left you dressed like that. And you're standing here, shaking, waiting for what? For me to tell you it's okay?" He stepped into your space, the scent expensive scotch clinging to him. He was terrifyingly close. "It's not okay. It's pathetic."

Despite his words, his hand reached out, his thumb catching a stray tear on your cheek with surprising, calloused heat. You didn't flinch. Instead, you leaned into his touch, pulling him closer until your lace-covered chest brushed his starch-white shirt.

"Then make me forget," You challenged, your eyes searching his. Jungkook's hand moved from your jaw, sliding back into your hair, his fingers tangling in the strands to tilt your head back at a punishing angle.

He didn't kiss you, not yet. He hovered inches from your mouth, his breath coming in ragged, uneven hitches. "He's a fool," Jungkook hissed, his gaze dropping to the swell of your breasts constrained by the red lace. "To leave this. To leave you like this."

He moved with a sudden, violent grace, his hands catching your waist and hoisting you upward. You wrapped your legs instinctively around his hips, the silk of your robe falling away completely, leaving nothing but the friction of your skin against the rough cloth of his jacket. He slammed your back against the heavy mahogany door of the dining room, the room you had set for Namjoon

The impact drew a sharp gasp from your lungs, but you met his mouth halfway. The kiss was messy, desperate, and tasted of salt and suppressed longing. It wasn't soft.

Jungkook's hands were everywhere mapping the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist, before his palms flattened against the door on either side of your head. He tore his mouth away to bury his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there.

"You smell like him," he muttered darkly, his voice vibrating against your pulse point. "I'm going to scrub every inch of him off you."

He reached down, his fingers hooking into the delicate edge of the red lace. The sound of the fabric straining was loud in the quiet room. He didn't care for the craftsmanship; he only cared about the skin beneath. With a sharp tug, he moved the lace aside, his mouth following where his hands had cleared the path.

The sensation of his stubble against your chest, the heat of his tongue, and the sheer strength of him holding you up made your world tilt. You arched into him, your nails digging into his shoulders, tearing at the fabric of his expensive blazer.

He couldn't wait for a bed. He lowered you slowly, his body pinning you against the wood until your feet touched the plush carpet, but he didn't let go. He dropped to his knees, his eyes dark and fixed on you as he made quick work of his own shirt, buttons flying as he stripped it away to reveal the hard, tensed planes of his chest.

"Look at me, Noona" he commanded, his voice a low, rough rasp. When you looked down at him, he reached up, his hands sliding under the lace once more, his thumbs grazing you. The slow burn was over; the fire had taken hold.

Jungkook didn't give you a chance to breathe. He stayed on his knees, his hands sliding up your thighs, pushing the red lace higher until it was nothing more than a memory of a bad night. He looked at you with a raw, terrifying hunger.

He pulled you closer, his face pressing against the soft skin of your stomach, his hands gripping your hips with a bruising intensity. "He never touched you like this, did he?" he growled, his voice muffled against your skin. "He didn't know what he had."

He didn't wait for an answer. His tongue traced a path of fire upward, swirling around your navel before his mouth found the center of your heat. The contact was electric. You cried out, your head thumping back against the door, your fingers threading through his dark hair to hold him there. He was relentless, using his tongue with a calculated precision that mirrored how he ran his boardroom thorough, aggressive, and aimed at total surrender.

You were falling apart, your body arching off the door as the tension coiled tighter and tighter. Every flick of his tongue made your toes curl into the carpet, your breath coming in short, shattered sobs. You weren't thinking about Namjoon anymore; you were consumed by Jungkook, by the friction, and by the sheer, overwhelming sensation of being wanted this fiercely.

When you were right on the edge, your body trembling and slick, he stood up abruptly. He didn't let the momentum die. He stripped out of his trousers in one fluid motion, his eyes never leaving yours. He looked powerful, primal, and entirely focused on you.

He grabbed your thighs, lifting your back up to his waist. You locked your legs around him, your arms draped over his broad shoulders as he stepped forward, driving you back against the door again.

"Jungkook," you choked out, his name a plea.

"Say it again, Noona" he whispered, his nose brushing yours. He positioned himself at your entrance, the heat of him pressing against you, a physical promise of what was coming. "Tell me who's here. Tell me who's taking you."

"You," You gasped, your eyes fluttering shut as you felt the first deep, sliding push. "It's you."

He let out a low, guttural sound and buried himself inside you in one heavy, deliberate thrust. The fullness of him was staggering. He didn't move for a second, letting your body adjust to his size, his forehead resting against yours as you both panted. Then, he started a slow, rhythmic grind pulling nearly all the way out before driving back in, deeper each time.

The sound of their bodies colliding, the scent of your perfume mixed with his musk, and the raw friction of skin on skin filled the room. He was holding you so tightly you felt like you might break, but you only wanted him closer. You met every thrust, your hips rocking against his, your voice rising in a crescendo of desperate moans that echoed off the cold walls.

------

The gym smells like sweat and metal and ambition. The moment you step inside, the familiar sounds hit you gloves thudding against punching bags, shoes squeaking against the mat, Namjoon's deep voice cutting through the chaos as he corrects stances and footwork. This is his world. The place where he feels most alive. The place you always feel like a visitor in.

"Hey," you say softly from the entrance. Namjoon turns, surprise flickering across his face before it melts into a smile. "You came."

You nod. "You said we'd go for lunch."

His eyes soften, a little guilty. "Yeah. We will. Training's almost done."

The boys notice you then. Jimin waves dramatically. Jihoon grins. A few of them tease Namjoon about bringing his wife to practice, and you feel that familiar warmth of being acknowledged, of being seen.

Then there's Jungkook.

He's in the middle of training, sweat glistening along his jaw, breath heavy from exertion. The moment his eyes land on you, something shifts. His stare lingers too long. Bold. Unapologetic. And then he winks. It's subtle enough that only you notice but not subtle enough to be innocent.

Your heart stutters. Heat creeps up your neck, and you hate how quickly your body reacts to something so small. You look away, pretending to be interested in your phone, but you can feel his gaze on you even when you're not looking.

Namjoon claps his hands, calling the boys back into formation. "Ten more minutes. Then we're done." Before you can respond, Namjoon's phone rings. He frowns at the screen. "I have to take this," he says, already stepping away. "I'll be back in a minute."

And just like that, you're alone with the boys. Jimin and Jihoon return to light training on the other side of the gym, laughing among themselves. The space between you and Jungkook feels suddenly too small, charged with things neither of you should be thinking.

Jungkook rolls his shoulders, then says loudly, "Coach, I'm done for today. I'm going to shower."

Namjoon raises a hand in acknowledgment without turning back. "Yeah, go." Jungkook's eyes flick back to you. He jerks his chin toward the hallway. A silent signal. Your stomach tightens. You don't move at first. He waits.

Then, in a low voice only you can hear, he says, "Come on, Noona. It's just a minute. I won't steal you for long." Your heart pounds, loud in your ears. You glance at Namjoon, still busy on the call, then at the boys who are too distracted to notice you.

------

You waited thirty seconds, your heart hammering against your ribs, before slipping away. You found him in the narrow, tiled hallway of the locker room. The sound of Namjoon's whistle echoed faintly from the main floor, a distant reminder of the life you were betraying.

Jungkook didn't wait for you to speak. He grabbed your arm and hauled you into the last shower stall, slamming the door shut and locking it in one motion. The space was cramped, the air immediately turning humid as he turned the shower on not to wash, but to drown out the sound of their voices.

"You're going to lunch with him after this, aren't you?" Jungkook hissed, pinning you against the wet tiles. His hands were still hot from the workout, his palms branding your waist.

"He... he expects me to," you breathed, your pulse jumping in your throat.

"Let him focus on his 'boys,'" Jungkook growled, his face inches from yours. He looked lethal, his possessiveness radiating off him in waves. "He doesn't know how to cherish what he has. He looks right through you. I'm the only one who actually sees you. I'm the only one who knows exactly how you tremble when I touch you."

He didn't give you a chance to argue. He reached down, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your pants and pulling them down just enough. He was already hard, the silhouette of his desire straining against his gym shorts.

"You don't need a lunch date," he muttered, his mouth descending on your neck, marking the skin right where Namjoon would see it if he bothered to look. "You need this. You need to remember who you belong to when the lights go out."

He lifted you, your back sliding against the cold, damp tile as he entered you with a single, sharp thrust that made your vision go white. It was a "quickie" born of pure desperation and spite. He moved with a frantic, punishing pace, his hands gripping your thighs so hard his fingerprints would leave marks.

The sound of the water hitting the floor masked your ragged moans. Jungkook was a force of nature, his breath hitching as he claimed you over and over, his movements possessive and deep. Every time his hips collided with yours, it was a silent declaration of war against the man standing just fifty feet away.

"Tell me, Noona," Jungkook gasped, his eyes burning into yours as he neared his limit, his pace becoming a blur of friction and heat. "Tell me you're mine."

"Yours," you sobbed, your fingers digging into his sweat-slicked shoulders, your body tightening around him as the climax hit you like a physical blow. "Jungkook, I'm yours."

He let out a low, triumphant groan, burying his face in your shoulder as he poured himself into your, his entire body shuddering with the force of his release. 

--------

You don't meet Namjoon later. Not because you didn't want to. But because Jungkook never gave you the chance to.

By the time you realize what's happening, you're already outside the gym, the noise and heat left behind, the city air cool against your flushed skin. Jungkook walks a little ahead of you, hands in his pockets, like this was decided long before you even stepped into the gym.

"Jungkook," you call, slowing down. "I was supposed to have lunch with Namjoon."

He glances back at you, expression unreadable. "Lunch with him is never really lunch with him, Noona. It's you listening to him apologize between calls and messages."

"That's not fair," you say, though your voice lacks conviction.

Jungkook stops walking. He turns fully now, eyes dark, serious. "Then tell me I'm wrong." You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

He exhales, softer this time. "You don't need to keep choosing the thing that keeps hurting you." Your phone vibrates in your hand. Namjoon.

Training's done. Where are you?

Your chest tightens. Guilt presses in, heavy and familiar. You type back with trembling fingers.

I'm out with some friends. Can we do lunch later?

The lie feels too easy. That's what scares you most. Jungkook watches you as you send the text. A small, almost victorious smile tugs at his lips not smug, not cruel, just relieved.

"Come on," he says, more gently now. "Let me steal you for a bit."

He takes you somewhere simple. A quiet café tucked between tall buildings, sunlight spilling in through wide windows. The kind of place people go when they want to feel normal for a moment.

You sit across from him, stirring your drink without really drinking it. Jungkook talks about small things, how Seoul still feels too big, how training's been exhausting, how he hates the way Namjoon pushes them sometimes. You find yourself smiling despite everything, laughing at a dumb joke he makes, feeling lighter.

It scares you how easy it is.

At one point, you're both walking along the sidewalk, your shoulders brushing. The city hums around you, strangers passing by, none of them knowing how wrong this is. Jungkook buys you something sweet from a street vendor because you mentioned once that you liked it. The small thoughtfulness hits harder than it should.

"You remember things," you murmur.

He shrugs. "I remember you."

The words sit heavy between you. You hate that your heart responds to him. Hate that you don't pull away when he walks closer. Hate that for a few moments, you forget about the ring on your finger, the life waiting back at home. Somewhere between shared glances and quiet laughter, you realize something that makes your chest ache:

With Jungkook, you don't feel like someone who's always waiting. You feel chosen. Your phone buzzes again. Namjoon, probably wondering why you disappeared. You turn the screen face down and Jungkook notices.

------

Namjoon brings it up the next morning. Not during breakfast. Not with any buildup. Just suddenly, as he's tying his shoes near the door.

"You wouldn't mind if I stay late again today, right?" he asks, eyes still on the floor. "There's a lot on my mind. The boys need me." The words land quietly. Too quietly.

You pause mid-sip of your coffee, the warmth turning bitter on your tongue. You nod, even though your chest tightens.

"It's fine," you say.

Your voice sounds distant to your own ears. Namjoon looks up, searching your face for something understanding, reassurance, permission. You give him a small smile you don't feel. He exhales, relieved, as if that settles everything. As if your silence is agreement, not surrender.

When the door closes behind him, the apartment feels too big. Too quiet.

Your phone vibrates.

Jungkook: Morning, Noona. Did you eat?

Jungkook: Training was hell today. Coach is in a mood.

Jungkook: I miss you already. Is that weird?

You stare at the screen longer than you should. By lunchtime, there are more messages. Pictures of his sweaty hoodie tossed over a bench. A blurry shot of the gym floor. A voice note of him complaining about sore knuckles, his voice soft when he says your name.

He tells you about his day in fragments, like you're woven into it now and somehow you let yourself be.

After work, you find yourself waiting outside again. Jungkook's already there, leaning against his bike, helmet tucked under his arm like he's been counting minutes. The way his face lights up when he sees you makes something twist painfully in your chest.

"You took forever," he says, grinning.

"You're dramatic," you murmur, but you're smiling too.

Dinner turns into laughter over shared plates, him stealing food from your side just to tease you, your knee brushing his under the table. He talks too much when he's with you about training, about his past, about dumb things that don't matter. He listens when you talk too, like your words weigh something.

"You should smile more, Noona," he says at one point, softer. "You look lighter when you do."

On the ride back, the city lights blur past. The wind tugs at your hair, the world shrinking down to the space between you and him. When he drops you off, he lingers, hands in his pockets like he's resisting the urge to reach for you.

"Text me when you're inside," he says. "I worry."

You nod, heart thudding.

When you finally unlock your door, the apartment is dark. Namjoon's shoes are by the rack. He's asleep already, turned away from your side of the bed, exhaustion drawn into every line of his body. You stand there for a moment, the night clinging to you, the scent of street food still on your clothes, Jungkook's laughter still echoing in your ears.

Guilt settles in slow and heavy. You slide into bed quietly, careful not to wake him. The space between you feels wider than the mattress itself.

Your phone buzzes one last time.

Jungkook: Did you reach home safe, Noona?

You type back in the dark.

Yes.

Another message follows instantly.

Jungkook: Good. Sleep well. Dream of me if you can.

You close your eyes, torn between the man sleeping beside you and the one who won't leave your thoughts and the emptiness in your marriage feels louder than ever.

-------

The screen flickered to life. Jungkook was slumped on the floor of his hotel shower, back against the tile, still in his boxing trunks. Water droplets rolled down the ink on his chest, but his eyes were fixed on the camera dark, dilated, and dangerous.

"There she is," he murmured. His voice was a low growl that made the hair on your arms stand up. "I’ve been sitting here for ten minutes just staring at your name, wondering if you'd pick up. Don't look away, Noona. Keep your eyes on me."

You shifted on your bed, pulling your silk robe tighter, your face flushing. "You should be icing that eye, Jungkook. Not calling me at 2 AM."

"I don't want ice," he snapped softly, his gaze dropping to your lips. He leaned his head back against the tiles, exposing the thick line of his throat. "I want you to tell me I did good. I want to hear it."

You bit your lip. "You won. Everyone saw it. You don't need me to tell you."

"I don't care about 'everyone,'" he rasped. He reached out, his thumb stroking the camera lens right over where your cheek was on his screen. The intimacy of the gesture, despite the miles between them, made your legs tremble beneath the sheets. "I fought like a dog just so I could come back here and get a reward from you. Be a good girl and tell me you’re proud of me. Please, Noona."

The title hit you like a physical weight.

"Jungkook..." you breathed, your voice trembling.

"Say it," he commanded, his hand moving lower, disappearing off-camera as his expression tightened into something pained and needy. "Tell me I'm yours. Tell me what you're going to do to me when I get there. I’m exhausted, I’m hurting, and I just need you to take care of me. Please."

He reached out, his thick, scarred fingers tracing the edge of his phone screen as if he could feel the curve of your jaw.

"You’re playing so shy for me," he growled, his voice dropping into a raspy, guttural crawl. "Sitting there with your legs tucked tight, trying to pretend you don't feel exactly what I’m feeling. But I see your pulse jumping in your neck, sweetheart. I see how hard you’re breathing."

He shifted, the movement fluid and powerful, settling back against the shower wall with his knees spread wide. He gripped the hem of his boxing trunks, his knuckles white against the dark fabric.

"I’m the one who just went ten rounds, but you're the one trembling," he taunted softly, a predatory smirk ghosting his lips. "Why don't you show me? Move the camera. Let me see where you're hiding all that tension."

"Jungkook, I-" you started, your voice breaking.

"Don't 'Jungkook' me," he snapped, the command sharp and sudden, making your breath hitch. Then, his expression crumbled into something raw, something desperate. He leaned his forehead against the cool tile, his eyes closing tight. "Please, Noona. I’ve been a good boy all night. I stayed focused. I took the hits. Now I’m back here, and I’m aching, and I just need to see you. Please... let me see."

The way he used that word Noona mixed with the raw authority of a man who knew exactly how to take what he wanted, was your undoing. Your fingers shook as you propped the phone up, shifting back so he could see the curve of your hips, the way your silk robe had fallen open just enough.

Jungkook's eyes snapped open. He let out a low, choked sound, his hand immediately dropping to his lap, gripping himself through the fabric of his trunks. He didn't move his hand yet; he just squeezed, his jaw locking so hard the muscles in his neck stood out in sharp relief.

"Fuck," he hissed, his gaze devouring you. "Look at you. So soft. So perfect. Now, put your hand right there... yeah, right where I want to be. Slowly."

You obeyed, your own eyes fluttering shut as you followed his low, guided instructions.

"That’s it," he groaned, his voice a rhythmic, hypnotic lure. "Rub it for me. Think about my hands, how rough they are, how much bigger they are than yours. Think about me pinned under you, letting you do whatever you want to me as long as you don't stop. Tell me you like it. Tell me you're taking care of your boy."

"I'm... I'm taking care of you, Jungkook," you whispered, your voice thick with a heat you couldn't hide anymore. "You're such a good boy for me."

Jungkook's head hit the wall with a dull thud, his eyes rolling back as he finally began to move his hand in earnest, his rhythm frantic and heavy. "Yes... fuck, yes. Again. Say it again while I watch you. Don't stop. Don't you dare stop until I tell you."

The tension snapped like a frayed wire. Jungkook's breathing was no longer rhythmic; it was a jagged, desperate sound that filled the silence of your room. He was staring at you through the screen with a look of pure, unadulterated worship, his hand moving in a blurred, punishing rhythm that made the muscles in his forearm cord and flex.

"You’re killing me," he choked out, his head thumping back against the tile again. "Looking at me like that... all shy and flushed while you do exactly what I say. You have no idea how much power you have over me, do you?"

He shifted his grip, his knuckles white, his eyes never leaving yours. "I’m so close, Noona. I’m right there. I need you to tell me. Tell me I can let go. Tell me I’m yours."

You were trembling now, your own breath coming in shallow hitches as you watched him unravel. The sight of this massive, lethal man reduced to a pleading mess by your voice was too much. "You're mine, Jungkook," you whispered, your voice finally breaking. "You’re my good boy. Let go for me. Do it now."

Jungkook let out a sound that was half-sob, half-growl a raw, guttural release that echoed through the phone. His eyes rolled back, his entire body racking with the force of it. He gripped his thighs so hard his fingerprints would surely leave marks, his chest heaving as he stared at the ceiling, his jaw locked in a silent shout.

For a long minute, the only sound was the static of the call and the heavy, wet thud of his heart against his ribs.

Slowly, he slumped forward, his forehead resting against the cool glass of his phone screen. He looked completely spent, his dark hair damp and messy, his expression softened into something vulnerable and sweet.

"Fuck," he breathed, his voice a mere shadow of its former grit. He looked up at you, his gaze hazy and full of affection.

------

The other day, the call stretches longer than it should. The screen glows softly in the dark room, Jungkook’s face framed by the dim light of wherever he is in Busan. You tell him about Namjoon coming home how he called, how he said he’d be back for a while this time.

Jungkook’s jaw tightens.

“So he’s really coming back,” he says, voice low. There’s no teasing in it tonight. No playful grin. Just something sharp, restrained. “Guess that’s it for us, huh?”

You bristle at the tone. “Don’t talk like that. He’s my husband, Jungkook. You don’t get to act like you own a say in this.”

He laughs, but it’s humorless. “Your husband,” he repeats. “Funny how you only say that when it’s convenient.”

“That’s not fair,” you snap, heart thudding. “You knew from the start-”

“Yeah, I knew,” he cuts in. “I knew I was the wrong choice. I knew you’d go back to him the moment he showed up. And I still stayed.” His eyes search your face through the screen. “Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me you’re not just using me to fill the space he leaves behind.”

The words hit too close to the truth. Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

He scoffs softly. “See? All words, Noona. If you really wanted me gone, you would’ve pushed me away months ago. You would’ve blocked me. You would’ve stopped answering my calls.” His voice drops. “But you didn’t. You let this happen.”

“That doesn’t mean-” you start, then falter.

“It means you wanted me there,” he says. “You still do.”

Silence stretches between you, thick and heavy. The city noise from his side of the call hums faintly in the background.

“You can walk away,” you finally whisper. “No one’s holding you here.”

His eyes harden. “Yeah? And yet you’re still looking at me. You’re still here on this call.” He leans closer to the camera, voice turning possessive, certain. “You’re mine. You’ve been mine in all the ways that mattered. And whether you like it or not… I’m yours too.”

Your chest tightens. “Don’t say that. It’s not-”

“It is,” he insists. “And I’m not giving up. Not after everything.” His gaze softens just a fraction. “All those late nights. The messages. The way you looked at me like I was the only person who saw you. You don’t get to tell me that meant nothing.”

Your fingers curl around your phone, knuckles whitening. You feel exposed, seen in ways you don’t want to admit.

“Tell him,” Jungkook says quietly. “Tell Namjoon the truth. About us. About what you’ve been doing. I’ll wait.”

Your heart stumbles. “You’re asking too much.”

“I’m asking for honesty,” he replies. “For once.” His voice steadies, resolute. “I’m not going anywhere, Noona. Not until you stop pretending this was just a mistake. Not until you stop lying to yourself.”

------

The gym smelled of sweat and iron, the familiar rhythm of gloves hitting leather echoing through the space. Jungkook moved like a machine jab, cross, hook his body working on instinct, muscles remembering what his mind couldn’t focus on.

Because his mind was somewhere else.

With you.

You weren’t ready to leave your husband. He knew that. He told himself he’d accepted it. Namjoon had already gone back, back to his life, back to the routine that had always put space between you and him. Jungkook shouldn’t be worrying about it. He shouldn’t.

But knowing your relationship wasn’t good didn’t mean you were his.

That was the part that gnawed at him.

He hit the heavy bag again, harder this time. The chain rattled violently from the impact.

“Jungkook- hey, slow down,” Jimin called from across the mat, towel draped over his shoulders. Jungkook didn’t hear him. Or maybe he did and chose not to. He drove another punch into the bag, knuckles burning, breath coming out rough.

Jimin walked over, watching him with a frown. “You’re gonna mess up your wrist if you keep going like that.”

Jungkook finally paused, chest heaving, sweat sliding down his temples. He flexed his hand once, ignored the sting, and went right back at it.

Jimin grabbed the bag, steadying it. “Enough. You’re overdoing it.”

That made Jungkook snap his gaze up. “Let go.”

“What’s wrong with you lately?” Jimin asked, quieter now. “You’ve been off. One day you’re all smiles, joking around, acting like you’re on top of the world. The next day you’re like this, angry at nothing. You barely talk to us anymore. You’re always on your phone, or on calls, disappearing for hours.”

Jungkook clenched his jaw. He didn’t answer.

Jimin studied him, worry etched into his face. “Look, I don’t care if you’re seeing someone. That’s your business. But whatever this is… it’s messing you up. You’re not training like you used to. You’re punishing yourself.”

“Drop it,” Jungkook muttered.

“That’s not an answer.”

He finally stepped back from the bag, frustration simmering under his skin. “You wouldn’t get it.”

“Try me.”

Jungkook let out a short, bitter laugh. “You want me to explain how it feels to want something you can’t have? To be close enough to touch it and still know it’s not yours?”

Jimin blinked, caught off guard by the edge in his voice. “Is that what this is about?”

Jungkook looked away. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It clearly does.” For a second, it looked like Jungkook might say more. His shoulders tensed, then slumped, as if whatever was stuck in his chest was too heavy to let out. He grabbed his towel, turned away from the bag, and started walking toward the lockers.

“Jungkook,” Jimin called after him. “Don’t shut me out like this.” Jungkook didn’t stop. He didn’t turn back. He just left the gym, the echo of his footsteps fading down the hallway leaving behind a friend who could see he was hurting, but couldn’t reach him anymore.

------

Namjoon sat across from you at the small dining table, the steam from his tea curling lazily into the air. The house smelled faintly of the dinner you’d forced yourself to make, even though your appetite had vanished the moment you heard his key in the door.

He’d come in with that familiar tired smile. Pulled you into his arms. Pressed a kiss to your temple and murmured, “I missed you.” And you?

You smiled back. But it didn’t reach your eyes. All you felt was guilt.

The kind that sat heavy in your chest, making every word he spoke feel like a lie you were letting him believe. You watched him lift the cup to his lips, the way he always did after long days, as if home was just a pit stop before the next thing that needed him. Something inside you snapped quietly.

“Do you ever get tired of this?” you asked suddenly.

He looked up. “Of what?”

“Of us living like strangers,” you said, voice steady but brittle. “Of me waiting. Of counting days until you come back and pretending everything is fine for the few hours you’re actually here.”

Namjoon frowned. “I came back, didn’t I?”

“You come back for a day,” you shot back, “and then you leave again for weeks. Months. I can’t keep living in a relationship where I’m always waiting for my husband to come home like he’s some guest.”

He set the cup down slowly. “You know why I have to do this.”

“Do I?” You laughed softly, humorless. “Because sometimes it feels like you choose them over me. The boys. The gym. Nationals. Everything else comes first.”

“That’s not fair,” he said, irritation creeping into his voice. “This is my job. My responsibility.”

“If you love your job so much, then why don’t you just find one here?” you snapped. “Why can’t you stay in Seoul and actually be here with me for once? Or am I asking for too much—to want my husband to come home every night?”

He stood up. “You think I can just leave everything behind? The team depends on me. I’ve built something there.”

“And what about us?” you demanded. “What have you built here, Namjoon? Because all I see is an empty house and a marriage that runs on phone calls and apologies.”

“That’s not true,” he said, voice tightening. “I’ve been trying. I come whenever I can.”

“Whenever you can,” you echoed. “And I’m just supposed to be grateful for the scraps of time you throw at me?”

His jaw clenched. “I came here to see you. To be with you. And you’re here turning this into a fight.”

“Because I’m tired of pretending I’m okay with this,” you said, tears stinging your eyes. “I’m tired of being the one who adjusts. The one who understands. The one who waits.”

“You think I don’t sacrifice anything?” he shot back. “You think this is easy for me? I can’t just drop everything because you’re lonely for a few weeks.”

“A few weeks?” you repeated, incredulous. “It’s been years, Namjoon. Years of you choosing work over us and calling it sacrifice.”

Silence crashed between you, heavy and suffocating.

He dragged a hand down his face. “I came here because I missed you. Because I wanted to feel like I still had a home here. And all you’re doing is making me regret it.”

The words cut deeper than you expected.

“Maybe you should,” you whispered. “Because I’m starting to regret staying.”

------

Jungkook tried to drown it out in sweat. The gym was loud, the boys’ shouts and the dull thud of gloves against pads filling the space, but none of it reached him. His mind was elsewhere stuck in Seoul, stuck on you, stuck on the silence you’d left him in.

Two days.

Two days since Namjoon left. Two days since you stopped answering him.

It felt like something was tightening around his throat the longer the hours passed without a reply. He checked his phone between rounds, after showers, in the dead quiet before sleep. Nothing. No read receipts. No missed calls returned. Just the same blank screen staring back at him.

Did you forget him the moment your husband walked back into your life?

The thought made his blood boil. The image of you in Namjoon’s arms your head tucked into that familiar shoulder, your lips curving into a smile he believed should belong to him, twisted something ugly in his chest. He had no right. He knew that. Legally, morally Namjoon had every claim over you.

And yet Jungkook couldn’t sit there and swallow it.

His messages turned sharper, more desperate with each hour you didn’t respond.

Pick up.

Don’t ignore me.

I know you’re with him.

When that didn’t work, the words turned darker.

You think he’d like to hear your voice in those audios?

All those late nights… those pictures you sent me… I can make sure he sees them.

Don’t make me do something we’ll both regret.

Most of the time, that fear was enough. You’d cave, even if it was just a short reply. Even if it was just to tell him to stop. But now? Nothing. The silence gnawed at him. It felt like being erased. Like you were choosing to pretend he’d never happened.

His chest tightened, breath turning shallow. He paced the length of the locker room, phone clutched in his hand, jaw clenched so hard it hurt. The boys’ voices blurred into noise behind him.

“No,” he muttered to himself. “You don’t get to disappear like that.” Waiting was unbearable. Waiting meant losing you.

So he made up his mind. He grabbed his jacket, shoved his phone into his pocket, and walked out of the gym without a word to anyone. The night air hit him like a slap, cold and sharp, but it did nothing to cool the storm inside his head. If you wouldn’t come to him. He’d go to you. Because Jungkook wasn’t built to sit quietly while the one thing he wanted slipped through his fingers.

-------

You reach for the door half-asleep, heart already bracing for another round of silence or distance. For a split second, you think it might be Namjoon finally back, finally ready to talk after days of cold space. The thought makes your chest tighten with equal parts hope and dread.

You open the door.

It’s Jungkook.

The air seems to leave your lungs. Before you can even process his presence, he’s stepping forward, crowding your space, his hands finding your arms as his lips crash against yours. The kiss is desperate, messy, like he’s been starving for it, like he’s been holding his breath for days and finally lets himself breathe.

Your mind blanks. Surprise freezes you in place, your body betraying you with that familiar flutter in your stomach, the warmth rushing to your cheeks. For a few seconds, you let it happen. You hate yourself for it even as you feel how badly he wants this, how tightly he’s holding onto you.

Then reality slams back into you.

You push at his chest, breaking the kiss. “What are you doing?” you demand, voice shaking, anger mixing with fear. “Why are you here? You can’t just show up like this!”

“I missed you, Noona,” he says, breath uneven, eyes dark with emotion. “You wouldn’t answer my calls. You just disappeared.”

He leans in again, but you press your palm to his chest, stopping him. “You have to leave. Namjoon could come back any moment.”

For a second, something ugly flashes across Jungkook’s face. “That’s why I did it,” he says, bitter. “So he can see. So he can finally understand that you’re not just his.”

Your heart drops. “Don’t say things like that. You don’t get it. This is wrong. We need to stop.”

He laughs hollowly. “There you go again. ‘We should stop.’ You say that every time like it means something.”

Then his expression shifts anger melting into something raw and cracked. “Do you think this is easy for me?” His voice wavers. “Do you think I’d be here if I didn’t love you?”

The word hangs heavy between you.

“I’d do anything for you,” he says, stepping closer, softer now. “Anything. I’d stay hidden. I’d be your secret if that’s all you can give me. But I can’t pretend this doesn’t hurt anymore. I can’t pretend I’m fine being the one you come to when you’re lonely.”

His hand trembles as he takes yours, pressing your knuckles to his lips. The gesture is gentle, almost reverent. He leans his cheek into your palm, eyes glassy, lashes wet. “Please,” he whispers. “Don’t push me away like I don’t matter.”

He breaks in your arms like he’s been holding himself together for too long.

His shoulders shake, breath uneven against your collarbone as he clutches at your clothes, forehead pressing into you like you’re the only solid thing left in his world. The strength you’re used to seeing in him is gone in this moment no cocky grin, no sharp words just raw, aching vulnerability.

“It hurts,” he murmurs, voice muffled against you. “It hurts watching you go back to him like I never mattered. Like I was just… nothing.”

Your chest tightens. You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be letting him this close. But the way he’s holding onto you, the way his fingers tremble as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he loosens his grip, makes your resolve crumble.

“Please,” he whispers, lifting his head just enough to look at you. His eyes are wet, shining in the low light. “Just… kiss me. I need to feel like this is real. Like I’m real to you.”

You hesitate. Every part of you knows this is another line you shouldn’t cross. Still, your heart aches for him. You lean in and press a soft kiss to his lips brief, almost chaste, meant to be a comfort more than anything else.

But he exhales a small, broken sound, almost a whine. “Not like that,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours. “Don’t treat me like I’m something you’re scared to touch.”

You know what he’s doing. You recognize the pull, the way he frames himself as the one who needs, who aches, who’s been deprived. You see the game even as your pulse betrays you, quickening at the way he looks at you like you’re wanted, like you’re desired in a way you haven’t felt in a long time.

He cups your face gently, thumbs brushing your cheeks as if memorizing you. “I just want you to choose me,” he whispers. “Even if it’s just for a moment.”

Your breath stutters. The way he says it makes your stomach flutter, makes something warm and dangerous coil low in your chest. Being wanted like this, being needed feels intoxicating when you’ve felt invisible for so long.

You lean in again, slower this time, the space between you charged with everything you’re not saying. The kiss lingers a second longer than it should, heavy with all the things you’re trying not to admit to yourself.

------

The door clicks open behind you. The sound is so ordinary, so harmless, that it takes a second too long to register. You’re still close to Jungkook, the air between you heavy with everything unsaid, when a familiar presence fills the room. Your heart drops straight to your stomach.

Namjoon.

For a split second, the world freezes. His eyes move from Jungkook’s hand still curled around your wrist to your flushed face, to the way you’re standing far too close. The silence stretches, thick and suffocating.

You flinch first.

You pull away from Jungkook so fast it almost hurts, stumbling back a step as if distance could undo what was just witnessed. Jungkook’s jaw tightens, irritation flashing across his face at how quickly you slipped from his hold.

“Namjoon—” your voice comes out small, fragile. “It’s not what it-”

He cuts you off with a hollow, disbelieving laugh. “Not what it looks like?” His eyes don’t leave yours. “Y/n, it’s exactly what it looks like.”

The words hit harder than a shout. There’s no rage yet- just hurt, raw and exposed, the kind that makes your chest ache to look at. His voice trembles despite how calm he’s trying to be.

“You’ve been cheating on me,” he says quietly, as if saying it out loud finally makes it real. Then, softer, more broken, “How long?”

You can’t meet his eyes.

The silence that follows is answer enough, but he doesn’t accept it. “How long?” he repeats, louder now, the control slipping. “How long, Y/n?!”

Your body reacts before your mind does. You flinch at the sudden volume, shoulders curling inward, fear crawling up your spine.

Jungkook steps forward immediately, instinctive and possessive, wrapping an arm around you as if to shield you. “Don’t yell at Noona like that, hyung,” he snaps. “It’s been a few months. She wanted to tell you, but you were never around.” His grip tightens. “Now that you know, just end it. Get a divorce.”

Namjoon stares at him.

Really stares, like he’s trying to recognize the boy he once trained, the kid he once pushed to be better, stronger. The betrayal lands twice as hard when it comes from someone you trusted to stand beside you, not behind your back.

“You,” Namjoon breathes, disbelief giving way to something darker. “I took you in. I trained you. I treated you like family.” His voice cracks. “And this is what you do?”

Jungkook doesn’t look away. If anything, he looks defiant. Claiming.

You feel yourself shrinking between them, the weight of it all finally crushing down. There’s no excuse left to cling to. No justification that makes this less ugly.

Namjoon turns back to you, eyes glassy. “Did you ever think about me,” he asks, voice low and wrecked, “when you were with him?” Your throat tightens. Every memory, every moment of guilt you tried to bury, comes rushing back all at once. You open your mouth, but nothing coherent comes out.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, the words thin, useless against the damage already done. Namjoon lets out a breath that sounds like something breaking inside him.

------

When Jungkook returned to Busan, the gym didn’t feel the same. The air was heavier. Quieter. The usual jokes and loud banter died the moment he walked in. He didn’t need anyone to say it out loud, he could see it in their faces. The way conversations stopped. The way eyes followed him with something between judgment and disappointment.

So Namjoon told them.

He expected that.

What he didn’t expect was how little he cared.

Namjoon had finally agreed to the divorce. You were his now, at least that’s how Jungkook saw it. That should’ve been enough. The only thing that bothered him was you. The way you cried when he tried to touch you, the way you asked for space, time. Like he was some mistake you needed to recover from.

Still, he gave you that space. Barely.

The boys didn’t.

Jihoon was the first to confront him. He didn’t come in yelling, his disappointment was worse than anger.

“Did it feel right to you?” Jihoon asked, arms crossed, eyes sharp. “Doing this to our coach? To someone who built you up from nothing?”

Jungkook scoffed, tying the wraps around his hands with more force than necessary. “I didn’t ‘do’ anything to him. I fell in love. You guys wouldn’t get it.”

Jihoon shook his head. “You could’ve had anyone. Literally anyone. And you chose her. A married woman. Our coach’s wife. Why her?”

“Because I love her,” Jungkook snapped, finally looking up. “And she loves me.” The room stirred.

Jimin, who’d been quiet till now, spoke up, voice low but heavy with disappointment. “Love doesn’t look like this, Jungkook. This looks like you breaking everything around you and calling it destiny.”

Taeyong let out a bitter laugh. “You really think this is some movie? You ruined a man’s home. Our coach’s home. And you’re standing here acting like the victim.”

Jungkook’s jaw clenched. “Don’t act like you know what was happening in their marriage. You weren’t there. You didn’t see how lonely she was. How he kept choosing his job over her.”

“So that gives you the right to crawl into his house and into his wife’s bed?” Jihoon shot back. “You’re a homewrecker, Jungkook. Own it.” That word hits a nerve.

Jungkook steps forward. “Say that again.”

Jihoon doesn’t back down. “You heard me. You’re selfish. You betrayed him. You betrayed all of us-”

The punch lands before anyone can react.

A sharp crack echoes through the gym as Jungkook’s fist collides with Jihoon’s jaw. Jihoon stumbles back, crashing into the mats. Chaos erupts instantly—hands grab Jungkook’s arms, voices shouting his name, trying to pull him away as he thrashes, eyes wild.

“Get off me!” Jungkook snarls. “He doesn’t get to talk about me like that!” By the time they manage to separate them, Namjoon is standing at the entrance.

No one noticed him walk in.

The room falls silent. Jungkook is breathing hard, chest heaving, knuckles red. Namjoon’s eyes take in the scene, the boys holding Jungkook back, Jihoon on the floor, the tension thick enough to choke on. Namjoon says nothing at first.

Then, quietly, “Jungkook. I need to talk to you.”

The boys hesitate, but Jungkook shrugs them off, straightening his jacket like nothing happened. He follows Namjoon into the empty corridor outside the gym. The door shuts behind them, cutting off the noise.

Namjoon finally looks at him. Really looks at him. “You’re done,” he says, voice steady but cold. “With me. With my team. You don’t train here anymore.”

Jungkook laughs under his breath. “That’s it? You’re kicking me out because you couldn’t love your wife enough and I did?” The words are meant to wound. They do. Namjoon’s hand moves before his mind catches up. The punch is heavy, fueled by months of bottled hurt and humiliation. Jungkook’s head jerks to the side, but he doesn’t fall. He slowly turns back, a smear of blood at the corner of his lip.

And then he smiles.

A slow, taunting smirk. “You hit like you train,” he mutters. “All strength, no control.”

Namjoon’s fists clench. “Don’t you dare talk about her like she was some prize you won.”

“She was meant to be with me,” Jungkook says calmly. “You were just a mistake she tried to make work.” The words are cruel. Deliberate.

“And if you want to throw me out?” Jungkook shrugs. “Go ahead. I’m not like you, choosing a career over my woman. At least I had the guts to fight for her.”

Namjoon stares at him, eyes burning, chest rising and falling. “Get out,” he says. “Before I forget who you used to be.” Jungkook turns to leave, the smirk still on his lips. But the truth lingers in the silence he leaves behind this wasn’t just a betrayal of Namjoon. It was the moment Jungkook burned every bridge he had left, all for a love that was already slipping through his fingers.

------

Jungkook didn’t know how long he’d been staring at his phone waiting for your reply, phone clenched in his hand, the screen dark and unforgiving. No calls answered. No texts read.

The city lights blurred in his vision as frustration coiled tight around his chest. He didn’t want to go back to the dorm. Not after what happened. Not after the way the boys looked at him, like he was something rotten they’d stepped on by accident. He definitely didn’t want to go to his parents’ place, not like this. Not when everything inside him felt like it was falling apart.

But night was getting colder, and he had nowhere else to go.

So he went home.

The familiar gate creaked as he pushed it open. The house lights were still on. Warm. Too warm for the storm brewing inside him. The door opened before he could knock.

His mother’s face lit up instantly. “Kook-ah? You’re home early.”

Her smile was soft, the kind that made his chest ache. He forced one back, small and tired. “Yeah… thought I’d come by.”

She stepped aside to let him in, already fussing over him. “You didn’t call. Are you hungry? I made-” She stopped mid-sentence when she noticed the faint bruise blooming along his jaw, the way his knuckles were scraped raw. Her smile faltered. “What happened to your face?”

“It’s nothing,” Jungkook said quickly, slipping off his shoes. “Just training.” His father looked up from the living room, eyes sharp even behind his glasses. “Nationals are close. Bruises are normal when you’re serious about winning.”

The words should’ve comforted him. Instead, they twisted something inside his chest.

Nationals. He swallowed hard.

His mother wasn’t convinced. She reached for his wrist, guiding him to sit at the table. “Come here. At least let me clean it.” Her fingers were gentle as she dabbed ointment over the split skin of his knuckles, then carefully pressed a warm cloth to his jaw. “You’re overworking yourself again, aren’t you?”

He stared at the floor, jaw tight. “I’m fine.”

The room felt too small. Too quiet. Every tender touch from his mother made the weight in his chest heavier. He wanted to really cry, like he used to when he was younger and scraped his knees. But he couldn’t. Not now. Not in front of them. He’d learned long ago how to swallow pain whole.

His father glanced at him again. “You should rest tonight. Big days coming.”

Jungkook nodded, even though the words burned. There were no big days coming. Not anymore. The contracts were gone. The gym doors closed to him. His career everything he’d built with his own blood and sweat had slipped out of his hands in a single afternoon.

Dinner was quiet. Familiar dishes, familiar smells. His mother kept sneaking worried glances at him, asking small questions, if he was eating enough, if he was sleeping well. Then, carefully, like she didn’t want to spook him:

“So… is there a girl these days?” He froze, chopsticks hovering mid-air. Heat crept up his neck. His ears burned. And just like that, your face filled his mind the way you smiled at him when you thought no one was watching, the way you used to scold him for being reckless, the warmth of your hand in his.

His mother noticed the flush immediately. She sighed softly, a knowing sound. “So there is someone.”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

She smiled, hopeful. “I’d like to meet her one day.”

The words landed like a quiet ache.

He lowered his gaze. “Things… aren’t good right now.”

His mother didn’t push. She just reached out and squeezed his hand, as if to say she understood more than he could ever explain.

Later that night, in his old room, the one that still had posters on the walls and trophies on the shelf, Jungkook lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. The house was quiet. Safe. And yet he felt more alone than ever. His phone vibrated in his hand.

No new messages from you.

He scrolled through his contacts until he found the name he’d been trying not to look at. The one offer he’d ignored when his life still felt solid. The one door he’d been too proud to walk through. His thumb hovered over the screen.

Then he typed.

“I’ll be taking your offer.”

Send. The click of the message going through echoed in the silence of his room, final and heavy, like the sound of something breaking, even as something new began to take shape.

-------

The arena buzzed with a restless kind of electricity, the kind that settled into your bones and made your heart beat faster even when you were standing still. Banners fluttered high above, lights glaring down on the ring like judgmental eyes. The National Ranking Matches had finally begun, the stage where months of blood, sweat, and quiet desperation would either mean something or nothing at all.

Namjoon stood with the boys near the edge of the mat, arms crossed, jaw set. He’d trained them hard, pushed them harder than they thought they could go. And today, at least one of them had made it.

When Taeyong’s name was called, the noise of the crowd swelled. Namjoon felt a familiar tightness in his chest as he watched Taeyong step into the ring focused, steady, the way Namjoon had drilled into him day after day. Every punch, every dodge, every calculated step felt like a reflection of his own work.

The bell rang.

The match was brutal but clean. Taeyong fought with discipline patience over panic, strategy over rage. When the final hit landed and the referee raised Taeyong’s arm, Namjoon exhaled a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

You did well, kid.

The boys cheered, clapping Taeyong on the back. Namjoon allowed himself a small, rare smile. Pride warmed his chest solid, earned. But the warmth didn’t last. The announcer’s voice rang out again, introducing the next team stepping into the arena.

Yoon-cheol’s team. Namjoon’s brows furrowed. He hadn’t seen Yoon-cheol’s star fighter this entire tournament. The man had kept his ace hidden, rumors swirling about some prodigy who’d crushed not just local matches, but international ones too. Someone who’d come out of nowhere.

The crowd shifted as the opposing fighter walked into the light. Namjoon’s breath hitched.

Jungkook.

For a split second, the noise of the arena faded into a dull hum. It had been months since he’d last seen him, months since contracts were torn, words were thrown like knives, and lines were crossed that could never be redrawn. Jungkook looked different. Sharper. Broader in the shoulders. The reckless edge in his stance had been replaced with something colder. More controlled.

When the match started, Namjoon couldn’t look away.

Jungkook didn’t fight like he used to.

His style had changed less raw aggression, more precision. Every movement was deliberate, almost surgical. He read his opponent like an open book, countering before the other man even realized he’d made a mistake. It was terrifyingly beautiful to watch. The boy Namjoon had trained was still there but layered now with something darker, something honed by loss and anger.

And then Jungkook won.

The referee raised his arm. The crowd erupted. Namjoon’s chest tightened, a bitter mix of pride and resentment twisting together. He’d helped shape that foundation once. And now he was watching someone else reap the results.

That’s when it happened. Jungkook’s gaze lifted past the ring, past the crowd, straight to the front row. Namjoon followed his line of sight.

You were there.

Seated near the front, eyes bright, hands clasped together as you leaned forward like the world narrowed down to the man in the ring. When Jungkook looked at you, your face lit up. You jumped to your feet, clapping, unable to hide your happiness. And Jungkook shameless, unapologetic blew you a flying kiss.

Your lips curved into a smile you didn’t even try to suppress.

So that’s it, Namjoon thought.

A few months had passed since the divorce. Months where he’d swung between anger and regret some days blaming you, some days blaming himself. Nights where your name crept into his thoughts when the gym went quiet and the boys had gone home. He’d told himself he was moving on. That work and training were enough.

Seeing you here, here for Jungkook proved how little control he really had over any of it.

The announcer’s voice cut through the noise again.

“Final match! Taeyong versus Jungkook!”

The crowd roared.

Namjoon’s gaze shifted from you back to the ring, where Jungkook rolled his shoulders, eyes already locked onto Taeyong. The boys stirred behind him, tension rippling through the group. Taeyong swallowed, glancing at Namjoon for a fraction of a second.

Namjoon gave him a short nod. “Focus. This is your moment.”

But as the two fighters stepped forward, gloves brushing in a brief, tense acknowledgment, Namjoon couldn’t shake the weight in his chest. This wasn’t just a match anymore. It was the past facing the present. It was everything he’d built standing against everything he’d lost.

-----

The noise in the arena swelled again as Jungkook rolled his shoulders, eyes flicking back to you like he needed to anchor himself before stepping into the storm. He lifted his gloved hand, blew you another kiss, then added a quick wink for good measure. The gesture was so him cocky, reckless, intimate in a way that made your cheeks warm even now. You laughed, shaking your head at his theatrics, heart doing that stupid little flutter it always did when he looked at you like that.

It hadn’t always been easy between you two but somewhere between guilt and chaos, Jungkook had taught you what it felt like to be chosen. To be wanted without conditions. When he’d moved to Seoul after getting kicked out, you’d blamed yourself for everything that happened. He never once threw it in your face. Never once called you the reason his life derailed. He just showed up, day after day, stubborn in his devotion, living close enough that his presence became a constant in your life.

And Jungkook grew.

He didn’t just get stronger he got sharper. More focused. Training under Yoon-cheol in Seoul had carved him into something dangerous in the ring. The boy who fought with raw emotion was gone. This Jungkook fought like he had something to prove.

“Oi,” Mark muttered, elbowing him lightly. “Stop flirting with the audience. You’re embarrassing.”

Jungkook snorted, eyes still on you. “What? I just love my woman too much. You guys can’t handle it.”

Mark rolled his eyes. “Save the romance. Think about the final match.”

Jungkook’s jaw tightened just a little at that. His gaze finally left you and snapped forward, to Taeyong standing across the ring. The kid looked focused, determined, the kind of fighter who’d earned his place here. Jungkook cracked his neck once, the playful edge melting into something colder.

The bell rang.

The world narrowed.

Taeyong came in fast testing distance, throwing a quick jab meant to gauge Jungkook’s timing. Jungkook swayed back, barely moving, eyes locked onto Taeyong’s shoulders, reading the tension before the punch even landed. The second hit came harder Taeyong’s knuckles grazing Jungkook’s jaw.

A murmur rippled through the crowd.

Jungkook smiled.

Not a happy smile. The kind that meant he’d found your weakness.

He stepped in close, too close, cutting Taeyong’s space. A sharp hook to the ribs forced the air from Taeyong’s lungs. Jungkook didn’t let up his movements fluid, brutal in their precision. Taeyong tried to regain footing, throwing a wide swing that Jungkook ducked under easily.

The impact that followed echoed through the arena.

Jungkook’s fist connected with Taeyong’s cheek, snapping his head to the side. The crowd erupted. Taeyong stumbled back, shaking it off, forcing himself to stay upright. He was strong, resilient. He pushed forward again, desperation bleeding into his movements now.

But Jungkook was already inside his guard.

Every strike Jungkook threw was calculated, like he’d memorized the rhythm of Taeyong’s breathing. A feint. A step. Another hit clean, ruthless. Taeyong dropped to one knee, the referee stepping closer, counting.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you watched, hands clenched together in your lap. You knew Jungkook was capable. But seeing him like this dominant, unyielding made something twist low in your stomach. Pride mixed with a faint, uncomfortable fear.

Taeyong forced himself back up.

The final exchange was fast, too fast to follow. Taeyong lunged. Jungkook sidestepped, pivoting on his heel, and drove his fist forward with everything he had left in him.

Taeyong went down.

The bell rang.

The referee raised Jungkook’s arm.

For a moment, Jungkook just stood there, chest heaving, sweat glistening under the harsh lights. Then his eyes found you again. The tension in his face softened, replaced by that familiar, dangerous grin. He pointed at you from the ring like you were the only thing that mattered in the entire arena.

He won. And as the crowd roared his name, you felt it settle in your chest heavy, inescapable.

He hadn’t just won the match. He’d claimed this moment.

-------

The noise of the arena slowly began to thin, cheers fading into a dull roar as fighters were escorted out and medics hovered near the ring. Sweat still clung to Jungkook’s skin, his chest rising and falling with the aftershock of the fight. He rolled his shoulders once, then looked up to see Taeyong standing a few steps away, helmet tucked under his arm, eyes unsure, guarded.

For a second, it felt like time folded back on itself. Like they were just two kids again, sharing bruises and cheap energy drinks after brutal training sessions.

Jungkook broke the silence first.

“You might see me as someone who did wrong,” he said quietly, voice low so only Taeyong could hear. “And maybe you’re right. But I still see you as my friend.” His gaze softened. “I haven’t forgotten the time we trained together. The nights we were dead tired but still sparring. You were good out there. Really good.”

Taeyong swallowed, jaw tightening. He didn’t fully smile but he nodded. A small, reluctant acknowledgment that despite everything, some part of the bond between them still existed. The bitterness hadn’t erased the years they’d grown together.

Jungkook stepped back, then his eyes shifted, to Namjoon. It wasn’t a hateful look.

It wasn’t smug.

Just a brief, complicated glance. Gratitude tangled with regret. Respect mixed with defiance.

Namjoon met his eyes and understood, maybe for the first time, what Jungkook wasn’t saying out loud: You made me what I am. But I chose my own path. The heart wants what it wants and Jungkook had wanted you. He had fought for you. He had paid for it in every way possible.

As Jungkook turned to leave, movement in the crowd caught his attention.

You were coming toward him.

Not walking jogging, weaving past people with a breathless laugh on your lips, eyes bright with adrenaline and pride. For a second, Jungkook just stared, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real. Then instinct took over. He broke into a jog too, meeting you halfway.

Before you could even say his name, he scooped you up off the ground, spinning you once as laughter burst from your chest. His lips found yours in a kiss that was unrestrained, reckless, and very much public. The world around you seemed to blur the cameras, the crowd, the noise until it felt like it was just the two of you, hearts still racing in the aftermath of the fight.

Somewhere behind you, Namjoon watched.

There was no anger left in his face. No fire. Just a quiet ache, and an understanding that settled heavy in his chest. Maybe he had loved you in the only way he knew how. Maybe it hadn’t been enough. Watching Jungkook hold you like that like you were his victory, not the medal, not the title Namjoon finally let himself admit it.

Maybe I could never love her the way he does and maybe you deserved that kind of love.

The night air felt lighter as Jungkook carried you a few steps away from the chaos, setting you down gently, his forehead resting against yours. His breath was still uneven, but his eyes were steady on you.

“I told you I’d win,” he murmured, a crooked smile playing on his lips.

You smiled back, fingers curling into his sweat-damp shirt. The future was still uncertain. Messy. Built on choices that couldn’t be undone. But in that moment, with the echo of the crowd behind you and the weight of everything you’d survived between you both.

You chose each other.

END

The way he sucks on your clit it has you seeing stars, you cry, moan but he doesn’t stop because he’s so fucking deranged. He will fuck his tongue deeper into your walls like his life depends on it.

He laps at your nectar, the most disturbing fact about him is that he doesn’t even care if you’re clean or not. because to him you’re always so clean so fuckin perfect.

He can and will eat you out for hours, nibbles at your sensitive clit so harshly but it only sends jolts of pleasure through your burning body.

Yandere man who could DIE between your legs, his mouth on your cunt, sucking and lapping, who sighs into your heat like he’s found water after being thirsty.

Yandere man who will always make the most unholiest, nasty dirty noises like “mhmm— nghhh ohhh fuck, yn..”

yandere man who will force your legs apart to dive deeper into your pussy and continue to eat you out.

Yandere man who say the most obscene bullshit while making your legs quiver and at the same time he will praise the fuck outta you.

“Y-Yn you are the most beautiful woman ever. I fuckin love you so much. Goodness this pussy is heaven. You got heaven between your legs baby.”