vesperine

She sighs softly, setting both glasses down on the floor beside you. "I figured something was wrong when you and Jeon disappeared. Then he came back alone, looking like someone had died."

You look up at her then, your vision blurred with tears. "He knows."

"Knows what, sweetheart?" she asks gently, sitting down beside you, careful of her expensive dress.

"Everything," you whisper, the word tasting like ash in your mouth.

Professor Kim is quiet for a moment, her expression thoughtful.

"I was so angry about the arranged marriage. I wanted to hurt him like he'd hurt me."

"And did it work?" she asks, though you both know the answer.

"Yeah," you whisper, fresh tears welling in your eyes. "He was going to choose me. He was going to fight his family for me."

Well, this was pathetic. Venting your personal issues to your teacher.

Professor Kim sighs, picking up one of the glasses and handing it to you again. "Love makes people do stupid things, Y/N."

You take the glass, "What am I going to do?"

"That depends," she says, her voice gentle but firm. "Are you sorry you did it, or are you sorry you got caught?"

"Both," you admit. "No. I'm sorry I did it. I was hurting and I lashed out in the worst possible way. I didn't think about how much I would regret it."

Professor Kim nods slowly. "Then you have two choices. You can either let this be the end, or you can try to fix it."

"He said there's nothing to fix," you say, your voice breaking.

"Men say a lot of things when they're hurt," she says, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. "But that doesn't mean they mean them. Not forever, anyway."

You look at her. "You think I should go after him?"

"I think you should give him some time," she says, standing up and smoothing her dress. "And then I think you need to be prepared for the possibility that he might not forgive you. Not right away, anyway, he is a man and men are complicated."

She offers you a hand, pulling you to your feet. "Come on. Let's get you cleaned up. You've got a reputation and a scholarship to maintain, even if it feels like your world is ending."

As you walk back toward the ballroom, you see Jungkook standing by the exit, talking to his father. The older man looks stern, his expression disapproving, and you can see the tension in Jungkook's shoulders even from across the room.

He catches your eye for a moment, his expression unreadable before he turns away, focusing back on his father.

"He's leaving," Professor Kim says beside you. "With his father, I assume."

You nod, your heart sinking. "I should go too."

"Are you sure you're okay to drive?" she asks, her brow furrowed with concern.

"I'll be fine," you lie, forcing a smile. "It's not far."

She gives you a look that says she doesn't believe you but doesn't push it. "Call me if you need anything."

You promise you will, then make your way toward the exit, keeping your distance from Jungkook and his father. As you step outside into the cool night air, you see Jungkook getting into a sleek black car with his father.  You slide into the driver's seat of your piece-of-crap car, the engine groaning in protest. As you drive away from the university, you pass Jungkook's car still sitting in the parking lot.

The drive home is a mess. You grip the steering wheel, your knuckles white. You just need to get home, to your tiny dorm room, to your ramen and canned beans, to the bed that has stopped smelling like him for a few weeks now.

You're about three blocks from campus when the check engine light lights up, and then the engine dies completely. The car rolls silently for another fifty feet before stopping in the center of the right lane. You try turning the key. Nothing. You try again. Still nothing.

Fucking amazing.

You start swearing at the dead and the living and every car manufacturer that comes to your mind. You can't afford a tow truck, like hell, you can't even afford a mechanic. You rest your forehead against the steering wheel.

You think about calling Jungkook. He would come. He would fix it, he knows how, he wanted to become a mechanic after all.

 Yeah, no. Dude just said we are over.

You fumble for your phone, your hands shaking so badly you can barely unlock it. Who do you call? Professor Kim? She’s just a teacher who wants to help her students and is nice, and right now it's after midnight. Your roomate Lisa? She doesn’t even have a car.

You scroll through your contacts, your thumb hovering over Jimin's name. The shame is a physical weight, pressing down on your chest. You can't call him, but he's the only one. The only one who might answer, the only one who might understand even a fraction of the mess you've made.

Before you start overthinking, you press the call button. It rings once, twice, three times. You're about to hang up, a wave of relief and disappointment washing over you, when he answers.

"Y/N? Is everything okay?"

"No," you whisper, "My car broke down."

There's a pause on the other end, “Where are you?"

“Across from the pretzel shop near the campus.”

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes," he says, "Stay in the car and lock the doors."

You do as he says, locking the doors and leaning your head back against the seat. Fifteen minutes. You have fifteen minutes to sit with your choices. True to his word, Jimin's car pulls up behind yours exactly thirteen minutes later. You unlock the doors as he approaches. He moves to the front of the car, lifting it and peering into the engine.

He comes back to your window a few minutes later.

"It's the alternator," he says, his voice calm. "It's completely shot. I can give you a jump, but it won't get you far. You'll need a new one."

"How much?" you ask, dreading the answer.

He names a figure that makes your stomach drop. It's more than you have.

"I don't have that."

"I can pay for it," he says, his voice soft. "It's no problem."

"No," you say, shaking your head, the word coming out more forcefully than you intended. "No. I can't let you do that."

"It's just money, Y/N," he says, his brow furrowed with concern. "Let me help."

"You've already helped enough," you say, the words tasting like poison. "More than enough."

He flinches, and you see the hurt in his eyes. "Okay," he says, his voice quiet. "Okay. Let's just get you home. We can figure out the car tomorrow."

You nod, too exhausted to argue. You grab your purse from the passenger seat. You get out of the car and into Jimin's. The ride to your dorm is silent, the air thick with unspoken words. He parks in the visitor's spot and walks you to the door.

"Thank you," you say, your voice barely a whisper as you unlock the door.

"Y/N," he says, his voice stopping you before you can go inside. "Are you okay?"

You turn to face him, the tears welling up in your eyes again. "No," you admit, your voice breaking. "I'm really not."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

You shake your head. "I don't think there's anything to say."

He nods, his expression sad. "Okay. Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me."

You're about to crawl into bed, when your phone buzzes. You ignore it, assuming it's a spam call. But it buzzes again, and again, and again. With a sigh, you pick it up, ready to block the number, but your heart stops when you see the name on the screen.

Jungkook.

You stare at his name, your thumb hovering over the decline button. You should ignore it. You should block him and delete his number and try to move on, just like he said. But you can't. You're a masochist, and you need to hear his voice, even if it's just to tell you he hates you.

You take a deep breath and answer, your voice shaking.

"Yeah?"

"Are you okay?" he asks.

"I'm fine," you lie, your heart pounding in your chest.

"You're not fine," he says, his voice flat. "I saw your car."

You freeze, your blood running cold. "What?"

"I drove by," he says, his voice quiet. "After I left with my father. I saw your car, dead in the middle of the road. And then I saw you get into someone else's car."

You close your eyes, the shame washing over you in waves. "Jungkook…”

“The car…was it Jimin's? Your boss? That’s who you cheated on me with?"

You can't speak or breathe. The air in the room feels thick, heavy with the weight of his unspoken accusation.

"Why?" he asks, his voice barely a whisper, but it cuts through you like a shard of glass. "Why him, Y/N?”

"I'm sorry," you whisper, the words useless and pathetic.

"Are you?" he asks, his voice rising with anger. "Are you really sorry? Sorry your car broke down and you had to call him for help?"

"I'm sorry for everything," you sob. "I'm sorry for what I did to you. I'm sorry for what I did to him. I'm sorry I ruined everything."

"I was going to come back for you," he says, his voice suddenly quiet, broken. "After I dropped my father off, I was going to turn around. I was going to come back and find you and tell you that I don't care. That I exaggerated.”

Your heart shatters into a million tiny pieces, the pain so intense it takes your breath away.

"But I saw you," he continues, his voice cracking. "I saw you get into his car, and I knew. I knew it was over."

"It's not," you cry, a desperate, pleading note in your voice. "It doesn't have to be."

"It does," he says, his voice flat, final. "It has to be."

"I love you," you whisper, the words a last, desperate plea.

"Don't say that now."

"Why not?" you ask, your voice trembling. "It's the truth."

"Because it doesn't matter," he says, his voice rising with frustration. "It doesn't matter if you love me. It doesn't matter if I love you.”

"No," you say, "No. That's not fair."

"What?" His voice is flat, confused by the sudden shift in your tone.

"You heard me," you say, "You are twisting this.”

"I'm not twisting anything," he scoffs.

"Aren't you?" you challenge, pacing the small length of your dorm room. "Let's review the facts, shall we? We were friends with benefits, Jungkook. That was the deal. You made that very clear from the beginning."

"That's not what we were!" he protests, his voice rising with indignation.

"Isn't it?" you shoot back, your voice dripping with sarcasm. "Because I seem to remember a lot of nights where you'd leave my bed to go back to your 'real life.' I remember you telling me over and over that this was just... temporary. That you texted me only when you needed me. And I accepted that. I lived with it."

"That was before—"

"Before what?" you cut him off. "Before you told me you were in an arranged 'union' with Park Minhee? Before you I found out and you informed me, not asked me, but informed me, that your future was someone else’s? You didn't come to me and say, 'Y/N, we have a problem, let's figure this out together.’”

"I told you I was handling it!" he yells "I told you I wasn't going to go through with it!"

"Oh, I'm sorry!" you exclaim. "You told me? After the fact?”

"That's not what I meant, and you know it!"

"Then what did you mean? I told you to leave me alone. I explicitly said, 'I don't want to talk to you.' I set a boundary. I did what you wanted! I gave you space!"

"Because I thought you were hurt! I was trying to give you time to cool down!"

"No, you were trying to control the situation!" you fire back, the accusation feeling true the moment you say it. "You were trying to control me! You can't stand that I didn't just wait around for you. You can't stand that I didn't fall in line with your grand plan. You can’t stand the fact that someone else touched me, someone that wasn’t you. "

"What grand plan?" he asks, his voice now laced with genuine confusion and hurt.

"This!" you scream into the phone "This whole 'I was going to burn my entire company to the ground for you' narrative! Did you ever, for one second, stop and think that maybe I don't want that? Did you ever ask me if I was comfortable with you destroying your relationship with your family for me? No! You just decided. You prepared this whole huge, dramatic sacrifice without my consent, and now you're angry at me because I didn't appreciate it? Because I didn't just wait patiently for my knight in shining armor to rescue me?"

"Y/N I swear to God don’t make me fucking angry, don’t put words into my mouth. It wasn't like that!" he insists.

“You wanted to be the hero. But you never stopped to ask the damsel if she even wanted to be saved. We weren't in a relationship. You made that clear. When you told me about Minhee, you ended whatever it was we had. I was a single woman. A hurt, angry, stupid single woman, but single, nonetheless. What I did... it was a mistake. It was impulsive and it was wrong, and I hate myself for it. But it was not cheating. I did not cheat on you."

"You knew how I felt about you," he whispers, "You knew I loved you."

"Did I?" you ask, a bitter, humourless laugh escaping your lips. "Or did I know that you loved having me in your life, as long as it was convenient and didn't interfere with your plans? There's a difference, Jungkook. A big one."

He doesn't answer. He can't. Because in your gut, you know you're right. You were a beautiful, secret escape for him. A rebellion. But when the rebellion threatened to become real, when it threatened to upend his entire world, he defaulted to what he knew: duty, family, obligation. He only came back to "save" you when he realized he might lose you for good.

"You're twisting it all," he finally says, his voice hollow. "You're blowing it out of proportion to make yourself feel better."

"Maybe I am. Or maybe you're finally hearing the truth, and you don't like it. You're not the victim here, Jungkook. We're both just two people who made a mess of things. The only difference is that you're trying to make me carry all the blame."

"I need to go," he says, his voice flat and empty.

"Yeah," you whisper, your own anger gone, leaving behind a vast, aching emptiness. "Me too."

He hangs up and you stand in the middle of your room, the phone still in your hand, and wait for the relief to come. Wait for the satisfaction of having won the argument, of having stood up for yourself. But it never comes.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

The days after the phone call are strange. You pick up your car from the shop. The mechanic hands you the keys, and you pay the bill with the emergency credit card you swore you'd never use. It's maxed out now, another debt added to the pile.

You fall into a new routine. You go to your classes, you sit in the library, you eat your sad meals. You apply for jobs desperately and miraculously, you get one.

The coffee shop. A part-time job you had before, right at this exact shop where you had met Jungkook for the first time.

The campus coffee shop was necessary. I was between meetings, and my father’s latest lecture on "corporate responsibility" had given me a tension headache that demanded caffeine.

I pushed open the door to "Oak & Bean," the little bell above it announcing my arrival. I was already composing the order in my head: Americano, black.

And then I saw her.

She was behind the counter, her back to me, a messy bun on top of her head, a few stray strands escaping to frame the nape of her neck. She was wearing a faded band t-shirt and an apron that was stained with coffee. She was humming along to the indie song playing softly from the speakers, her body swaying slightly as she steamed milk for another customer.

I found myself standing in line, not because I had to, but because I couldn't look away. She wasn't beautiful in the way the women I was usually surrounded by were. Her beauty was more real…the realest thing I had ever seen.

Finally, it was my turn. She turned around, and I saw her face for the first time. Her eyes were a deep, brown, and they were currently fixed on the register, a smudge of chocolate syrup on her cheek that she seemed completely unaware of. She looked up, and our eyes met.

For a split second, her professional smile faltered. I saw a flicker of recognition, then surprise, then something else. She knew who I was, of course. Everyone on this campus knew who Jeon Jungkook was. The name, the family, the reputation. I was used to it.

"Welcome to Oak & Bean," she said, her voice a little lower, a little huskier than I'd expected. "What can I get for you?"

"An Americano," I said, my voice coming out rougher than I intended. "Black."

She nodded, her fingers flying across the register. "Anything else?"

I wanted to say yes. I wanted to ask for a recommendation, to ask about the song that was playing, to ask what book was sitting on the stool behind the counter. I wanted to ask her if she was free tonight.  I wanted to say something, anything, to keep her looking at me with those unreadable eyes.

"No," I said instead. "That's all."

"Alright," she said, tearing the receipt from the machine. "That'll be three-fifty."

I handed her my card; she just finished the transaction and turned to make my coffee. I watched her. I couldn't help it. The way she moved, the way she focused, the way she tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. It was mesmerizing. She was a world away from the polished, perfect women I was used to. She was perfect and she would be mine.

She placed the cup and slid it across the counter to me. "Here you go."

"Thanks.”

I picked up the cup, my eyes lingering on her for a moment too long. She met my gaze again, and this time, there was a challenge in her eye, a silent question.

What are you still doing here?

I turned and walked away, feeling off-balance. I found a small table to observe without being seen. I sipped my bitter coffee. Sitting there, my attention drifted from the financial reports on my tablet to the girl behind the counter.

I watched her interact with a group of freshmen who were fumbling with their change. I watched her laugh with her coworker. I watched her sigh as she wiped down a spill, sound that made something in my chest tighten.

I didn't know her name. I didn't know anything about her, other than the fact that she made a mediocre Americano. But I knew that I was going to find out. I was going to see her again. I had to.

I finished my coffee and stood up to leave. As I walked past the counter, she was helping another customer. She didn't look up. But as I pushed the door open, the bell jingling its farewell, I risked one last glance. She was looking at me, her expression unreadable. And then she smiled, a small, private, knowing smile that was just for me.

"An Americano, please. And a blueberry muffin."

Your blood runs cold. Your hand tightens on the rag. You can't speak. Your throat feels like it's closing up.

"Y/N. An Americano and a blueberry muffin."

Jungkook.

Fuck

You force yourself to move, your body operating on autopilot. You turn to the espresso machine.  You can feel his eyes on you.

You place the muffin in a small paper bag and pour the coffee into a to-go cup. You slide them across the counter, your eyes fixed on the register. "That'll be six-fifty."

"Y/N," he says, his voice quiet.

You finally look up, and what you see in his eyes almost breaks you. It's not love. It's not hate. It's pity. A soft, condescending pity that is more humiliating than anything he could have ever said.

"I heard you got a job here, again,". he says. "I'm glad to see you're... getting back on your feet."

The words are meant to be kind, but they land like a slap in the face.

"I'm fine," you say, your voice tight, clipped.

"Good," he says, a small, sad smile playing on his lips. "That's good."

He picks up his coffee and his muffin, and for a moment, you think he's going to leave. But he hesitates, his eyes scanning the small, cluttered shop.

"He seems nice," he says, his voice casual.

You frown, confused. "Who?"

"The owner," he says, gesturing with his head toward the back office, where your new boss, an older man named Mr. Lee, is currently doing paperwork. "It's good to have a boss who treats you well."

The implication is clear, a subtle reminder of your “sin.” He's contrasting your new boss with Jimin, the boss you slept with.

"Is there anything else I can get for you, Jungkook?" you ask, your voice dripping with a false sweetness that you hope he can see right through.

He meets your gaze, and for a second, the mask slips. You see a flicker of the old pain, the old fire. But it's gone quickly.

"No," he says, his voice soft. "That's everything."

He turns and walks away, the bell above the door chiming his exit. You stand there, frozen, until you're sure he's gone. Then you turn, lean against the counter, and take a deep, shuddering breath.

You thought you were getting better. You thought you were healing. But seeing him, feeling his pity, has torn the wound wide open all over again.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

The encounter at the coffee shop becomes a ritual. Three times a week, Jungkook comes in. He always orders the same thing: an Americano and a blueberry muffin. He always pays with a card. He always says something that is, on the surface, perfectly polite.

He's not doing it for the coffee. The muffins are dry, a fact you know because you've tried one. He's doing it to remind you. The worst part is the information he shares, dropped like little bombs.

"Minhee loved the opera on Saturday," he says one afternoon, as you're handing him his change. "She has such a refined taste for the arts. It's refreshing."

You just nod, your jaw clenched so tightly you think your teeth might crack.

Another day, he leans against the counter, a casual, easy smile on his face. "My father was thrilled. We had dinner with her parents last night. They're already talking about a summer wedding in Jeju."

Your hand slips, and a splash of hot coffee touches your wrist. You hiss in pain, pulling your arm back.

He doesn't flinch. He doesn't ask if you're okay. He just watches you, his eyes unreadable.

 "Be careful," he says, his voice soft, almost gentle. "We wouldn't want you to get hurt."

You are hurt. You are bleeding out, right here in front of him, and he is the one holding the knife.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

The breaking point comes a week later. It's a slow day at the shop, and you're restocking the pastry case when the bell chimes. .

"The usual?" you ask, your voice flat.

"Actually," he says, his voice closer than usual. You look up, and he's not at the counter. He's standing by the pastry case, right next to you. "Not today."

Your heart starts pounding. "What do you want, Jungkook?"

"I wanted to give you this," he says, holding out a small envelope.

You stare at it, your mind racing. "What is it?"

"An invitation," he says, his voice maddeningly calm. "To the engagement party."

You feel the blood drain from your face. He can't be serious. He can't be this cruel.

"You can't be serious," you whisper, the words barely audible.

"Oh, but I am," he says, a small, cold smile playing on his lips. "Minhee insisted. She said it would be rude not to invite you, considering our... history. She's very thoughtful like that."

"I'm not coming," you say, your voice shaking with a fury you can barely contain.

"I know," he says, his smile widening. "But I wanted you to see it. To hold it. To know that this is real. This is my future."

He takes a step closer, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial whisper. "Do you want to know the best part?"

You just shake your head, your eyes fixed on the envelope, a symbol of everything you've lost.

"She knows," he says, his voice like silk. "About you. About us. I told her everything."

Your head snaps up, your eyes wide with shock. "You what?"

"I told her,” He repeats, his eyes looking into yours. "I told her how you and I met, how we were... involved. I told her how it ended. I believe my exact words were, 'a brief, regrettable entanglement with a scholarship student who couldn't handle the pressure of my world.'"

The words hit you like physical blows. Regrettable entanglement. Couldn't handle the pressure. He turned you into a footnote in his grand love story with Minhee.

"Why?" you choke out, the tears welling in your eyes. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because I want you to understand," he says, his voice losing its mocking edge, replaced by a cold, hard sincerity that is somehow even more terrifying. "I want you to understand that you were a mistake. A beautiful, intoxicating mistake, but a mistake nonetheless. You were a rebellion. A temporary lapse in judgment. Minhee... she's my destiny. She's my equal. She's the one I was always meant to be with."

He places the envelope on the counter in front of you. "The party is next Saturday. I don't expect you to come. But I wanted you to have this. As a reminder."

He pulls out his wallet. "Now," he says, his voice back to its normal, polite tone. His eyes scan the pastries, but you can feel his attention on you, a physical weight. "What do you recommend?"

The question is so casual, so normal, it's absurd. You want to laugh. You want to scream. You want to tell him that you recommend he go back to his perfect life and his perfect fiancée and leave you to your broken one.

Instead, you point with a trembling finger. "The chocolate croissant is fresh."

"Is it?" he asks, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. "Have you tried it?"

"No," you admit, your voice tight. "I don't eat here."

"Right," he says, the smile widening. "Of course not. I'll take one of those. And a latte this time. Almond milk."

You nod, turning away to prepare his order. Almond milk, probably for his little sad beige fiancée. You place the croissant in a bag and the latte in a cup, and you slide them across the counter, your gaze fixed on the register. "Seven dollars."

He pays and picks up his latte and his croissant and turns to leave. You watch him go, the bell above the door chiming his exit, and you're left standing there.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

The next few days are a special kind of hell. Your mind races, playing out a dozen different scenarios. In some, you go to the party. You're beautiful, and indifferent. You make polite conversation with Minhee, complimenting her ring, her dress, her life. In others, you make a scene. You throw a drink in his face, you tell everyone what he's really like, you burn the whole wedding thingy to the ground. In most, though, you just stay home, curled up in your bed.

The invitation sits on your small dorm room desk with elegant gold script, Jeon Jungkook and Park Minhee. Together. Forever. At first, you wanted to burn it, then you wanted to shred it. Now, you just want to understand.

You pick up the invitation for the hundredth time. The party is tonight. Saturday, 7 PM, at the Grand Hotel. A place you've only ever seen in magazines. You should throw it away. You should spend the night watching trashy TV and eating ice cream straight from the tub. You should forget Jeon Jungkook ever existed.

But you can't.

Because there's a tiny, irrational part of you that doesn't believe him. The Jungkook you knew—no, the Jungkook you thought you knew- wouldn't be this cruel. This sadistic. This feels like a performance to hurt you as much as possible. And if it's a performance, there has to be a reason.

You find a dress in the back of your closet, simple, black. You pull your hair back in a sleek knot and put on makeup. When you look in the mirror, you don't recognize yourself. You look like someone who belongs at a party at the Grand Hotel.

The Uber ride to the hotel is silent. You stare out the window, watching the city lights blur past, your heart a cold, heavy stone in your chest. You're not here to make a scene. You're here for answers. You're here to see the truth with your own eyes.

The Grand Hotel lobby is a sea of marble and crystal, filled with people who look like they were born here. You follow the signs to the Grand Ballroom, your heels clicking on the polished floor, a sound that feels too loud, too confident. You pause at the entrance, taking a deep breath. You can do this. You can walk in, see him with her, and finally, finally, let it go.

You push open the heavy doors and step inside.

And you freeze.

The room is decorated, but not for a party. There are no tables for hundreds of guests, no long buffet stations. Instead, there's a small table, draped in a deep navy cloth, set for two near the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the glittering city skyline. A single candle flickers on the table, and classical music is playing in the background.

There's no one else here. You are alone.

This is wrong. You check the invitation in your hand. Saturday, 7 PM, Grand Ballroom. You're in the right place, at the right time. But this isn't an engagement party. It's… something else entirely.

You take a hesitant step inside, the sound of your heels echoing in the quiet. As you walk toward the table, there's something on one of the empty plates, a single sheet of paper, folded in half. Your hand trembles as you reach for it. You unfold it, your heart pounding so hard you can hear it in your ears.

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking this is another one of my cruel games. Another way to hurt you.

You sink into the chair behind you, the paper clutched in your hand.

And you're right. The last few weeks… the coffee shop, the stories about Minhee, the invitation… it was all a performance. I was angry. I was so, so angry, and I wanted you to feel a fraction of the pain I felt when I thought you'd chosen him. It was petty, and it was cruel, and I am so, so sorry. But I couldn't go through with it. I couldn't stand on a stage and pretend to be happy with someone else when the only person I've ever wanted is standing on the other side of town, working at a coffee shop and hating me. I couldn't invite you to a party to celebrate a life without you, because the thought of a life without you is unbearable. So I changed the plan. This is not an engagement party. There is no engagement. There never was. My father and I had a very long, very loud conversation. He's not happy, but he's starting to understand. He knows I won't be happy without you. This is an apology. This is me, laying down my armor. This is me asking for a chance to explain everything, without the anger, without the pride, without any games. If you can find it in your heart to even listen, just stay for a little while. If you walk out that door, I will understand. But I hope you stay.

You finish reading, you're not crying. You're not even angry. You're stunned.  You stand up, your legs feeling unsteady. You smooth down your dress, your eyes scanning the room. And then you see him.

He's standing in the shadows by the windows, half-hidden by the heavy velvet curtains. He's in dark jeans and a simple black sweater. His hands are shoved in his pockets, his shoulders are slumped, and he looks more vulnerable than you've ever seen him.

He takes a step forward, into the candlelight, and his eyes find yours. They're filled with so much regret and hope it takes your breath away.

"You came," he says.

"I almost didn't," you admit.

"I wouldn't have blamed you," he says, taking another hesitant step closer. "What I did… it was unforgivable."

"It was pretty close," you agree, a small, watery smile playing on your lips.

He stops a few feet away from you, giving you space.

"I was so lost after that phone call. I drove around for hours, just… angry. At you, at him, but mostly at myself. Because everything you said was true. I never asked you what you wanted. I just assumed. I made you the damsel in distress in my own stupid drama, and I never even stopped to think that maybe you didn't want to be rescued."

He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture you know so well. "My father found the engagement announcement I'd drawn up. It was a bluff, a stupid, desperate bluff to make you jealous, to make you see what you were throwing away. But he saw it, and he thought it was a brilliant idea. He started planning. He called her parents. It all spiraled so fast, and I didn't know how to stop it without admitting that it was all a lie built on a pathetic attempt to win you back."

"So the stories at the coffee shop?" you ask, your heart starting to beat a little faster.

"Lies," he says, his gaze unwavering. "All of it. There was no opera. There was no dinner with her parents. There was no summer wedding plan in Jeju. It was all just… to hut you. To see if you still cared."

"It worked," you whisper. "It hurt, and I cared."

"I know," he says, his voice cracking. "And I'm sorry. I am so, so sorry, Y/N. I love you. I think I've loved you from the moment I saw you standing behind the counter.”

He closes the remaining distance between you, his hands reaching out to gently cup your face..

"I'm not asking you to forgive me tonight," he whispers, his forehead resting against yours. "I'm not asking you to forget everything I've done. I'm just asking you to let me try. Let me prove to you that I can be the man you deserve. The man who puts you first. The man who asks. Always."

You lean into his touch.

"I'm an idiot," he murmurs against your forehead, "A complete, arrogant idiot."

"A pretty idiot," you whisper, your hands coming up to rest on his chest.

He lets out a shaky laugh, a sound you've missed more than you realized. "That's a start." He tilts his head, his eyes searching yours. "Can I kiss you?"

Instead of answering, you close the small distance between you and press your lips to his.

His lips are soft, hesitant at first, tasting of mint and regret. Then he deepens the kiss, one hand sliding from your cheek to the nape of your neck, his fingers tangling in the hair you so carefully pinned up. He pulls the pins free one by one, letting them fall to the floor with soft clinks, until your hair falls down around your shoulders. He groans softly into your mouth, a sound of pure relief, as his fingers comb through the strands.

"I missed this," he whispers against your lips. "I missed you."

He kisses you again. His tongue sweeps against yours, claiming, tasting, relearning the shape of you. His other hand trails down your spine. You can feel the arousal through his jeans.

"Jungkook," you breathe, breaking the kiss to gasp for air.

"Shh," he murmurs, his lips trailing down your jaw to the sensitive spot below your ear. "Let me worship you. Let me show you how sorry I am."

His words are a vow, a prayer. He nips at your earlobe, sending a jolt straight to your core. His hands find the zipper of your dress, sliding it down. The black fabric pools at your feet, leaving you in nothing but your lace bra and panties.

He takes a step back, looking at you. "You're always so beautiful. So fucking beautiful."

He closes the distance, grabs your hand, and pulls you toward the ornate, high-backed chair that was sitting in the corner. He sits down, pulling you to stand between his spread legs.

"On your knees," he commands, his voice leaving no room for argument.

It's not a request. It's an order, and the dominance in his tone makes your pussy clench with anticipation. You sink to your knees on the plush carpet, your eyes level with the straining bulge in his jeans.

"Good girl," he murmurs, his hand coming out to stroke your hair. "Now, unzip it, lucky you."

Your fingers tremble slightly as you obey; it’s been a long time. You pull down the zipper and free his cock. It springs out, thick and hard.

"Suck it," he commands. "Take me in your mouth and show me how sorry you are."

You lean forward, flattening your tongue against the underside of his shaft, licking a slow stripe from base to tip. He groans, his hand tightening in your hair, guiding you. You wrap your lips around the head, sucking gently, tasting the salty, musky flavor of him. You take him deeper, your mouth stretching to accommodate his girth, your tongue swirling around him.

"Fuck, yes," he grits out, his hips bucking slightly, fucking your mouth. "Just like that. Take all of me."

You relax your throat, letting him push deeper, until he's hitting the back of your throat. Tears prick at your eyes, but you don't care. You love the feeling of him taking control. You look up at him, your eyes wide and submissive, and the sight of you on your knees, his cock buried in your mouth, seems to undo him.

He pulls out suddenly, leaving you gasping. "Stand up and turn around," he orders.

You obey. He stands behind you, and he reaches around and unfastens your bra, letting it fall away. His hands cup your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your already-hard nipples.

"I've thought about these," he murmurs, rolling your nipples between his fingers, pinching them just hard enough to make you gasp. "Thought about how they'd look all pretty and pink for me."

He walks over to the table and picks up the velvet sash from the curtain tie-back. It's soft but strong. He comes back to stand in front of you.

"Hands behind your back," he commands.

You hesitate for a second, and his eyes darken. "Now, Y/N."

You slowly bring your hands behind your back, and he ties them together with the sash, the knot firm. The position thrusts your breasts forward, leaving you completely vulnerable.

"Perfect," he murmurs, his eyes roaming over your exposed body. He reaches out and hooks his finger in the side of your panties, pulling the fabric taut before letting it snap back against your skin. He does it again, and again, a teasing, stinging punishment that has you squirming.

"Please," you whimper, your need a desperate ache.

"Please what?" he asks, his voice a low growl. "Please touch you? Please fuck you? You don't get to make demands tonight. Tonight, you're going to take what I give you. And you're going to be grateful."

He pushes you down to your knees again, this time facing away from him. He kneels behind you, his hands gripping your hips. He leans forward, his breath hot against your ear.

"I'm going to eat this pretty pussy until you're begging me to stop. And then I'm going to make you come all over my face."

He dives in, his tongue lapping at your folds from behind. The angle is new, intense. He spreads your cheeks, his tongue circling your tight puckered hole before dipping down to your clit. The forbidden touch is electric.

"Jungkook!" you cry out, your body arching.

He chuckles, "You like that, don't you? You like me licking your tight little ass."

He does it again, this time pushing the tip of his tongue inside, and you see stars. Your hands are useless, tied behind your back, leaving you completely at his mercy. He eats you with a ferocious hunger, his tongue and fingers working in tandem, stretching you, filling you, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

Just when you're about to climax, he pulls away. You cry out in frustration, your body trembling with unfulfilled need.

"Not yet," he says, his voice stern. He unties your hands and helps you to your feet. He bends you over the small table, your cheek pressed against the cool tablecloth. He kicks your feet apart, leaving your legs spread wide.

"Stay there," he commands. He walks away, and you hear rustling. When he comes back, you risk a look over your shoulder. He's holding the champagne bottle, the neck of it glistening.

Your eyes widen in shock. "Jungkook, you can't be serious."

"Oh, but I am," he says, a wicked grin on his face. He kneels behind you, and you feel the cold, smooth glass of the bottle against your inner thigh. He slowly slides it up, the neck of the bottle teasing your slick folds.

"I'm going to fuck you with this," he whispers, his voice a dark promise. "I'm going to fill you up, and you're going to take it. And you're going to come for me like the good girl I know you are, understood, sweetheart?"

You nodded as he slowly pushed the neck of the bottle into your pussy. The stretch is intense, a strange, full feeling that's both uncomfortable and arousing. He works it in and out, twisting it, the cold glass a shocking contrast to your heated flesh.

"Look at you," he murmurs, his voice"...so fucking beautiful, taking this so well.”

He begins to move the bottle with a slow, deliberate rhythm, pushing it deeper, twisting it so the thick base stretches your entrance. Each movement sends a jolt of electricity through you. The pressure against your G-spot is relentless, a constant, deep thrum that builds the tension in your core to an almost painful level. You can feel your slickness coating the glass, your body betraying you.

"You're so wet," he observes, his voice laced with dark satisfaction. "Your pussy is sucking this bottle in, greedy for it. Tell me how it feels."

"It's... full," you gasp, your words muffled by the tablecloth. "So... cold... so deep."

"Is it better than him?" he asks, his voice dropping, the question a sharp, jealous edge to his lust. "Did he ever fill you like this? Did he ever make you feel this... claimed?"

"No," you cry out, the answer torn from your throat. "Never. Only you, Jungkook. Always you."

That's the answer he wanted. With a low growl, he pulls the bottle almost all the way out, only to slam it back in, harder this time. The force of it pushes you against the table, the edge digging into your hips. The pleasure is so sharp, so intense, it borders on pain.

He sets the bottle aside, leaving you feeling achingly empty for a moment before he replaces it with his fingers. He thrusts two, then three, into your soaked pussy, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing it.

"Come for me, Y/n.”

Your orgasm rips through you. Your vision whites out, your body convulsing as waves of ecstasy crash over you. You scream his name, a raw, primal sound of release, as your pussy clamps down on his fingers, gushing your release onto his hand and the floor below.

He doesn't give you a moment to recover. He's on his feet, pulling you up from the table and spinning you around to face him. His eyes are black with lust, his chest heaving. He tears open a condom wrapper with his teeth and rolls it on with practiced speed.

He lifts you as if you weigh nothing, your legs automatically wrapping around his waist. He pins you against the floor-to-ceiling window.

"You're mine," he says, his voice a possessive rumble against your lips. He lines himself up with your entrance, still fluttering from your orgasm, and slams into you in one brutal, deep stroke.

You cry out, the sudden fullness full in your oversensitive body. He's not gentle. He's not slow. The angle is perfect, the head of his cock hammering against your cervix, his pubic bone grinding against your clit with every stroke.

"Look at me. Look at me while I'm fucking you."

You force your eyes open, meeting his wild, possessive gaze.

"Say it," he pants, his thrusts becoming chaotic. "Say you're mine."

"I'm yours," you sob, your nails digging into his shoulders. "I'm yours, Jungkook. Only you."

"Forever," he grunts, his hips pistoning into you, chasing his own release. "Say you're mine forever."

"Forever," you promise.

With a final, guttural roar, he buries himself deep inside you, his cock pulsing as he spills into the condom. His body shudders against yours, and he collapses, his full weight pinning you to the glass.

When he finally pulls away, he's gentle. He carries you to a sofa.

He lies down beside you, pulling you into his arms, your head resting on his chest. The silence is comfortable, filled only by the soft music and the sound of your heartbeats, slowly returning to normal.

He kisses the top of your head. "Are you okay?" he asks.

You nod, snuggling closer.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, his fingers stroking your arm. "If I was too rough. I just... I lost control. The thought of you with him, of him touching you... it drove me insane."

"Don't be sorry," you say, looking up at him. "I liked it. I needed it.”

He smiles. "We have a lot to talk about," he says. "A lot to figure out. My father, your scholarship, everything."

"We will.”

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a/n: Well, hello there. I think it has been almost 2 months since I wrote a new chapter for this ff. Life happened, I graduated and I have my BA now. I signed up for a master's degree, and a second BA degree, yeah. Your girl is about to become Bridgit Mendler. ALSO I saw BTS in D2 in Paris!! Omg guys, it was so perfect. If you haven't seen BTS yet, I am giving you all my luck for the 2027 tour.

This was my first BTS concert in 10 years of being an ARMY and....Honestly, I felt like I finally completed my teenage dream. Ahem, you should have seen me going feral over each one of them.

Anyway, enough of that. If you have more questions about it, my messages and private chat box, or however you call it, are always open.

Now about this freaking story.

I HAVE DELETED THE ORIGINAL WORD DOCUMENT. Yes, I did. Hahah, when I cleaned and reorganized my laptop after graduation. You should have seen my reaction when I realized the outlines of the story were deleted.

Am I satisfied with this chapter? Nope, not really. I felt like I rushed things up, but hey, at least the smut scene was interesting. I have a feeling this story is getting really, really close to its end. What do you think guys?

divider masterlist

"Mhm, I will tell him you're studying… whatever," he said, a smirk playing on his lips. "He'll probably believe it. You're the smart one."

Then, the heavy oak doors of the library swung open, and a very specific brand of chaos walked in. Or more accurately, two brands.

Jeon Jungkook and Park Jimin. Slytherins. Pure-bloods.

"I'm telling you that it's a terrible idea," Jimin's voice was a strained whisper.

"All of my ideas are terrible, that's why they're fun," Jungkook said, his voice loud enough to carry.

You didn't need to look up. You knew that voice. Jeon Jungkook's eyes scanned the room until they landed on your little corner. He quickly looked away, a disinterest that was more telling than a stare.

"Besides, what else are we supposed to do? Study?" He snorted, leaning against a bookshelf, his arms crossed over his chest. He paused, a cruel smirk twisting his lips. "I heard Whitmore's new strategy involves trying not to fall off his broom this time. It's revolutionary, really."

Jimin let out an exasperated sigh. "Keep your voice down JK, for Merlin's sake."

Taehyung mumbled just loud enough for you to hear, "He has the emotional range of a teaspoon, I swear."

Jungkook's head snapped toward your table, his smirk widening. "What was that, Taehyung? Working on your NEWTs in stating the obvious?"

Jimin grabbed Jungkook's elbow. "Oh, we're leaving now, before you make a scene and Madam Pince bans us for life."

You finally looked up as Jimin was steering Jungkook toward the door, but not before Jungkook shot a sharp look in your direction and called over his shoulder, "Don't strain yourself, Y/n. It would be such a shame if a Ravenclaw Head Girl failed her exams."

The library door finally shut.

Taehyung closed his book with a soft thump. "That was so subtle."

You muttered, "What's his problem anyway?"

Taehyung laughed a bit. "His problem is about 5'10", wears red and gold, totally reminds him of a golden retriever, and he can't help but bring up Quidditch at the worst moments."

He gave the book cover a little tap. "But honestly, I'm more worried about into these books you’re getting. They read from bottom to top, you know."

You shut the book, a bit embarrassed. "Come on, quit it."

While you were packing up, Minjae burst into the library, his usual lively energy brightening the mood.

"There you are! I've been searching everywhere for you!" He waved from across the tables, completely unaware of the drama that just unfolded. "You won't believe the new formation I've come up with for the Hufflepuff game, it's genius, and I need your help to map it out."

"Oh, sure," you said, the words feeling hollow.

Minjae plopped down in the chair next to you, pulling out a crumpled piece of parchment from his robe pocket without even noticing the upside-down book or how flustered you were.

"Alright, picture this: instead of doing a regular starter formation, we flip it. Chasers fly in reverse! It’s a bit risky, but if we pull it off…"

Taehyung cleared his throat as he packed up his stuff. "I’m outta here. Try not to burn the library down with all this revolutionary brainstorming."

You nodded. "Catch you later." Then you looked back at Minjae. "It's a bold move..."

Minjae was grinning, totally wrapped up in his 'genius' idea, scribbling messy lines on the parchment with a quill that was leaking ink everywhere.

He was so focused on his plan that he didn’t see Jungkook come back into the library this time without his usual buddy, Jimin. Jungkook leaned against a bookshelf, not looking at you at first. He was too busy fixing the cuff of his green robes, his silver Slytherin tie just loose enough to seem a bit rebellious.

"A starter formation...? How ambitious of you. Did you come up with that all by yourself, Whitmore, or did you have help from a first-year's Quidditch practice picture book?"

Minjae was startled and turned to face him. "Jeon, we're in the library."

Jungkook pushed off the bookshelf and took a few steps closer. "I know, I can smell the desperation from here." His eyes flickered to you for a split second.

"Can you two take this somewhere else?" Your voice cut through the tension like a knife. Both boys turned to look at you, Minjae with surprise, and Jungkook with a mask of indifference that didn't quite reach his eyes.

Minjae held up his hands. "Sorry, you're right." He turned back to Jungkook. "This isn't the place."

"Don't sweat it, Y/n. We definitely wouldn’t want to interrupt your… studying," he said, giving you a pointed look at the upside-down book on the table.

Minjae let out a sigh. "What’s his deal? Seriously, he’s been acting like this for ages." He glanced at you, his expression softening. "Anyway, sorry about that. Let’s hit the Great Hall, I'm starving."

You nodded, grabbing your bag while Minjae quickly picked up his crumpled parchment.

"Lead the way, beautiful. I swear no more Quidditch talk for at least ten minutes," he said with a grin.

As you both headed out of the library, you noticed a quick shimmer of a disillusionment charm hastily casted . Next to where Jungkook had been standing was a small, crumpled piece of parchment. You bent down and snatched it up fast, folding it clumsily and shoving it into your robe pocket before Minjae noticed it.

The walk to the Great Hall was filled with Minjae chatting about random stuff, the upcoming Hufflepuff match, the treacle tart he was hoping would be dessert, and a funny story about a Gryffindor first-year. He didn’t mention Jungkook again, and he totally missed how often your fingers brushed against that folded parchment in your pocket.

Once you got to the Great Hall, it was loud and warm, buzzing with the usual dinner noise. Minjae walked you to your table and hung out with you for a moment. Across the hall, Jungkook sat at the middle of the Slytherin table, surrounded by a bunch of younger Slytherins who were clearly hanging on his every word. His eyes were locked on you.

Jimin elbowed him sharply. "You're staring, again."

Jungkook's gaze snapped back to his friend, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I'm observing; it's called strategy."

Jimin sighed. "Right. The only thing you're strategizing is how to not get another detention for hexing Minjae."

Jungkook's jaw tightened, his fingers drumming a restless rhythm on the table as he tried his best to look casual.

You sat down at the Ravenclaw table, Minjae next to you as he wanted to stay a little longer.

"Here, tart," Minjae said, pushing a small plate toward you.

You thanked him and took the food, trying to pay attention to his story about the team’s latest practice, but your mind kept wandering. A table over, Jungkook had his arm casually draped over the back of the bench, cracking up at something a seventh-year girl said, but his laugh didn’t reach his eyes.

He raised his voice just enough. "-think the best parties are the ones Filch doesn't find out about until the next morning, right, Jimin?"

Jimin stabbed a roasted potato. "I think the best parties are the ones where you don't set anything on fire."

Jungkook chuckled, his cocky grin showing. His eyes caught yours again, and he raised his goblet in a mock toast in your direction before returning to his friends.

Minjae finally noticed your distraction. "Oh, don't let him get to you. He's just trying to get a rise out of you. Out of everyone."

At the Slytherin table, Jimin whispered to Jungkook, "What do you think you're doing?"

Jungkook shoved him lightly away. "I'm having dinner."

Jungkook stood up suddenly, his chair scraping across the stone floor. The Slytherin side of the table went silent. He didn’t look at you again. Instead, he stuck his hands in his pockets and left the Great Hall. Jimin let out a sigh, rubbing his face in frustration, before getting up to go after him.

Minjae shook his head. "See? Drama. Everything is a performance with that guy." He cleared his throat. "More tart, pretty?"

You shook your head, your heart pounding. "No, thank you. Excuse me, I have to use the bathroom."

You quickly ducked into the girls' bathroom, hoping there wasn’t a ghost hanging around tonight. You leaned against the sink and pulled out the parchment you had in your pocket.

As you unfolded it, the writing was all over the place. It wasn’t a letter; it was a list.

• Charms essay (ask her for notes? Stupid) • Check broomstick polish • Tell Jimin to mind his own business • Don't look at her in the Great Hall • Don't look at her in Potions • Don't look at her. Period. • Yule Ball (who is she going with? Don't care.) • I care • Stop caring • Her hair is beautiful in the sun. • Merlin, I'm pathetic.

The last line was crossed out so violently that the quill had torn through the parchment in one spot. At the very bottom, written smaller, was:

• Tell her

Everything except one thing was crossed out, and that one thing was circled over and over, with the ink soaking through the paper. Suddenly, the door creaked open. You jumped, clenched the paper in your fist, and quickly shoved it back into your pocket.

And then Moaning Myrtle decided to make her entrance with a dramatic sob. "Oh, what's that in your pocket? Is it a secret? I love secrets!"

Myrtle swooped down, her translucent form passing close to your pocket. You clutched the paper instinctively.

"Nothing and nobody wants to hear you wail for the next hour," you said, your voice sharper than you intended. "Go bother someone in the prefects' bathroom. I hear they have better bubbles."

Myrtle let out a piercing wail and flew into a nearby toilet. You took a shaky breath, your mind racing. The list, the messy and crossed-out thoughts of the boy who tormented you at every turn. The boy who, it seemed, was just as tormented by you.

You stepped out of the bathroom, the crumpled paper crammed in your pocket feeling like a heavy rock. The Great Hall was still loud, but it all felt far away, like it was muffled. Minjae was still at the Ravenclaw table, chatting excitedly with one of your classmates. He noticed you and his face brightened up with a smile.

"Hey! Everything okay? You were gone a while," he asked, his brow furrowed with concern.

You forced a smile, the muscles in your face feeling foreign and stiff.  "Everything's fine. Just a headache." The lie tasted like ash in your mouth.

Minjae, bless his oblivious heart, accepted it immediately, his brow smoothing out as he wrapped an arm around your shoulders.

"Ah, the perks of being the smartest and the most beautiful witch in the room. Come on, let's get you back to the common room, you need rest."

You let him guide you, you couldn't bring yourself to glance at the Slytherin table to see if Jungkook had returned. You weren't sure you could handle it. The walk to the Ravenclaw tower was a blur of Minjae's comforting chatter. You murmured noncommittal and monosyllabic responses, your mind a thousand miles away, replaying the crossed-out words on the parchment.

Finally, you reached the bronze eagle knocker. Minjae waited patiently for you to answer

"I have cities, but no houses live there. I have mountains, but no trees. I have water, but no fish. What am I?"

"A map," you answered automatically.

The door swung open, revealing the circular common room. Minjae followed you in.

"Well," he said, dropping onto one of the blue sofas. "That was… eventful. Jeon really needs a hobby." He leaned back, lacing his hands behind his head. "You know, I sometimes wonder what his deal is. We could probably be friends if he wasn't so… Slytherin about everything."

You froze by the window, your hand tightening on the sill. The crumpled parchment in your pocket seemed to burn.

"He's not just 'Slytherin', Minjae," you said, your voice quiet but sharp. "He's cruel."

Minjae sat up, his easy-going expression replaced by one of confusion. "Cruel? He's just an arrogant boy who takes the house rivalry too seriously. It's not personal."

"It's always personal with him," you whispered, turning to face him. "Don't you see that? The hexes, the comments… It's all aimed at you."

"Because I'm the Gryffindor Captain and he is the Slytherin Captain! It's part of the game!" Minjae insisted, his voice rising slightly in frustration. "Why are you defending him all of a sudden?"

"I'm not defending him!" you shot back, "I'm just… I'm saying it's not just a game to him. Nothing with him is just a game."

The silence that fell between you was heavy and unfamiliar. Minjae was looking at you like he'd never seen you before, a flicker of hurt and confusion in his hazel eyes.

"What's going on with you, Y/n? You've been distant for weeks. And now you're defending Jungkook? Is this about that note he passed you in Potions? Because that was just him being a jerk as usual."

You stared at him, and he remembered the note Jungkook had "accidentally" dropped on your desk that simply said, "Your tie is crooked, Head Girl." You had seen the way Jungkook's fingers had brushed against yours, the panicked look in his eyes before he'd masked it. You had thought it was a strange moment, now you knew it was a desperate move.

"I'm tired," you said finally, turning away from him and heading towards the girls' dormitory. "I'm going to bed."

"Y/n, wait," Minjae called out, standing up.

 But you didn't stop and walked up the spiral staircase, leaving him standing alone in the middle of the common room.

You flopped onto your bed in your dorm, leaning back against the headboard. The room was quiet; your roommates were already out cold. You pulled the crumpled paper from your pocket, feeling your fingers shake as you laid it out on your lap. You read it over and over again.

Your eyes wandered to the bedside table, where a photo of you and Minjae was sitting. He had his arm around you, and that grin on his face was just full of happiness. It was a perfect snapshot of a couple in love.

You picked up the frame, tracing Minjae's smile with your thumb. You glanced back down at that frantic, ink-stained paper in your lap, and a scary thought crept in: maybe being safe just wasn’t enough anymore. Maybe it never was.

The prince in the dungeon

The decision was born of a desperate, reckless curiosity. For two days after you had found the list, the piece of parchment in your pocket felt like it was burning a hole through your robes.

 "You've been a million miles away,” Minjae said on Friday afternoon, wrapping his arms around you from behind as you stared out a window. "Is it NEWT stress? Because if it is, we can have a fun study session with snacks."

You forced a laugh, leaning back into his warmth. "Something like that, just tired."

It was always the same damn excuse, and he bought it every time.

That evening, as you sat in the Great Hall, the announcement came. Jungkook was throwing a party tonight in the Slytherin common rooms.

"He's going to get himself expelled," Minjae muttered “and probably take half his house with him."

Taehyung, sitting across from you, caught your eye. He gave you a small, almost imperceptible nod. He knew, he knew you knew, and he knew this was your chance.

"I think I'm going to skip the study session tonight" you said.

Minjae looked at you, surprised. "Oh? Okay, we can just relax then, maybe sneak up to the Astronomy Tower?"

"No," you said, a little too quickly, "I mean… I heard about that party in the dungeons."

Minjae's fork clattered onto his plate. "You want to go to Jungkook's party? Y/n, why? It's just going to be a bunch of Slytherins getting drunk and being… well, Slytherins."

"I'm curious," you lied, your heart starting to pound. "I'm Head Girl, maybe I should… make an appearance, show them I'm not afraid."

It was a flimsy excuse, and you both knew it, but Minjae wanted to believe it.

"Okay," he said slowly, "If you think that's a good idea, but I'm coming with you. I'm not letting you go down there alone."

Panic flared in your chest. This wasn't part of the plan. You needed to see him, to talk to him, alone.

"No, Minjae, it's fine, really. You hate that stuff anyway. I'll just pop in, make a scene, and leave. It'll be good for my reputation."

He looked unconvinced, but you gave him your most convincing smile, the one that usually made him agree to anything.

"Alright but be careful.”

You nodded, your throat tight. "I got it."

An hour later, you find yourself wandering down a dark, unfamiliar hallway, your footsteps echoing off the stone walls. . You're making your way to the dungeons, drawn in by the muffled music. As you reach the bottom of the last staircase, the noise hits you first, and the air is thick with the smell of Firewhiskey.

The password, told to you by a cheeky Slytherin, is "Pureblood."

When you step into the common room, it's like a whole different world. The place is packed with students, a sea of Slytherin green mixed with a few from other houses, all dancing, laughing, and drinking. You can’t help but feel like you stand out in your blue and silver colors.

And then you notice him.

Jungkook is up on a raised platform, drink in hand, looking like he owns the place. His gaze sweeps over the crowd. He definitely gives off the cocky pureblood prince vibe, and you think about bailing.

But then he spots you.

His eyes lock with yours, and the smirk he had disappears for a moment. He looks genuinely surprised, but then a slow, confident grin spreads across his face. He says something to Jimin, who’s next to him, and starts pushing through the crowd, still keeping his eyes on you.

"Well, well," he said, his voice low and raspy, just for you. "Look at you, come to bust the party, Head Girl?"

"I came to see what all the fuss was about."

"The fuss is about not caring. You should try it sometime." His eyes flickered down to your pocket. "Or maybe you already are."

Your breath hitched. He knew you'd taken the list, he had to. This was a game of cat and mouse. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Don't you?" He was so close now you could smell the Firewhiskey on his breath. "You're in my world, Y/n. You should learn the rules."

"And what are the rules?" you challenged him, your chin held high, your arms crossed.

His gaze dropped to your lips, and for a heart-stopping moment, you thought he was going to kiss you right there, in the middle of his own party, but then he smirked.

"The first rule is that you don't belong here."

He looked entirely too proud of himself. He was playing with her, treating the conversation like a Quidditch match where he already had the lead. He liked the way she crossed her arms, it was a defensive gesture, but it didn't hide the way she was still flushed.

"Besides, if you leave now, you're just proving me right. You're just a little bird who's too scared to stay in the dark for more than five minutes."

"Fine," Y/n said, the word defiant.

"Now that's more like it."

Your gaze shifted without meaning to a couple making out in the corner of the room. His eyes followed your line of sight to the couples, and Jungkook let out a low, mocking hum.

"Careful, Y/n. If you stare too long, you might actually learn something. What's the matter? Is the Gryffindor too gentle? Does he only hold your hand and kiss your forehead?"

Y/n felt the heat creep up her neck. "None of your business."

Jungkook chuckled sarcastically. He turned away from you and rejoined his friends. You didn't leave, and you grabbed a bottle of something that smelled like cinnamon from a nearby table and took a sip. It burned all the way down.

You spent the next hour watching him from across the room. You saw him charm a pretty sixth-year girl, saw him win a round of wizard's chess, saw him laugh with Jimin, and through it all, you felt his eyes on you, quick glances that he thought you didn't notice.

Finally, you'd had enough, you set your bottle down and pushed your way through the crowd towards the exit. You'd seen enough for tonight and you knew what you had to do.

You were almost at the door when a hand shot out and grabbed your wrist, pulling you into a small, dark alcove behind a tapestry. He slammed his other hand against the wall beside your head, caging you in. The noise of the party was suddenly muffled, replaced by the sound of your own breathing.

“What the-”

"Where do you think you're going?”

"Home," you said, your voice trembling.

He leaned in closer, his face inches from yours. "You shouldn't have come here," he whispered, his breath warm against your skin. "You shouldn't have seen that."

"Seen what? The perfect party?"

"This," he said, gesturing vaguely at the party beyond the tapestry. "This is all I have. This is all I am, a joke, a performance. Is that what you wanted to see?"

"No," you whispered, your anger melting away. "That's not what I see at all."

His eyes searched yours, desperately "Then what do you see?"

You saw the boy who wrote the list, the boy who was desperately lonely, the boy who thought he was unlovable.

"I see you-," you whispered, the words hanging in the charged air between you.

"You don't, you see him." He jerked his head in the direction of the party, in the direction of where Minjae would be. "You see the charming Gryffindor hero. You don't see this."

"This?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper. "What is this, Jungkook? This party? This… mask? Is this all you think you are?"

"It's all I'm allowed to be!" he said angrily, his eyes blazing.  "Do you have any idea what it's like? To be told, every single day, that your worth is tied to your name, your blood, your ability to be ruthless?”

He was so close, his body trembling with the force of his confession

"I look at you and I see everything I'm supposed to hate, everything I can't have. You're good, you're brilliant, you’re beautiful and kind, and you're with him, the perfect Gryffindor. It's a fucking fairytale, and I'm the monster in the dungeon."

"You're not a monster," you breathed, your hand coming up to rest on his chest, over the frantic beating of his heart.

He didn't pull away. "Aren't I?" he challenged, his voice a bitter whisper. "I hex your boyfriend in the corridors, I spread rumors about him, I do everything I can to make his life miserable because I'm jealous of him. I'm jealous of the way he gets to hold your hand, I'm jealous of the way you look at him, I'm jealous of the air he breathes because it's the same air you're breathing. If that's not a monster, what is?"

"Why?" you asked, your own voice shaking. "Why do you do it? Why not just… tell me?"

"And say what?" he laughed, a harsh, broken sound. " 'Hey, Y/n, I know I've been a bastard for the past seven years, but I'm secretly in love with you, please leave the wonderful, decent guy you're dating for the messed-up son of a Death Eater sympathizer who doesn't know how to feel anything without hating himself for it?' How well do you think that would go?"

"I would have listened" you said, your heart aching for him.

"No. You wouldn't have. You would have seen me as a joke. A pathetic Slytherin pining after something he can't have. It's better this way, the enemy part, at least that's real."

"It's not real," you insisted, your fingers curling into the fabric of his robe. "None of it is real. This…" you said, gesturing to the space between you, "…is real. This is the realest thing I've felt in years."

For a moment, you thought you had reached him. The wall of arrogance and cruelty crumbled, leaving just the boy who was lost and scared and so incredibly in love with you, it was destroying him. He leaned in, his eyes fluttering shut, his lips parting slightly. He was going to kiss you. And you were going to let him.

You licked your lips

You swallowed

Your stomach did the flip thing

But then, a loud cheer erupted from the party, followed by the sound of a shattering bottle, and Jungkook's eyes snapped open, everything you’ve tried to build tonight crashed down.

"No," he whispered, pulling back from you, running a hand through his hair, his eyes wild. "No, we can't, I can't."

"Jungkook, wait-” you reached for him, but he flinched away.

"Don't," he said, his voice flat "This was a mistake, a big stupid mistake.” He straightened his robes, the mask was back on. "You should go."

"Jungkook, please…," you begged, your heart breaking.

"Go back to your tower, Y/n." He didn't look at you, he looked at the stone wall behind you, as if you were no longer there. "Go back to your boyfriend.”

He turned his back on you and walked away, disappearing into the crowd of laughing, Slytherins. He had pushed you away, but not before he had given you everything.

You stumbled out from behind the tapestry. You didn't look back, you couldn't. The walk back to the Ravenclaw tower was a nightmare.

The rest of the weekend drifted by in a quiet silence. You stayed away from the Great Hall, saying you had a terrible headache at the NEWT level, and Taehyung kindly brought your meals to your room. Minjae kept sending owl messages, each one cheerier than the last, checking in on how you were feeling and letting you know he was thinking of you. But, somehow, you just couldn't find the words to reply to any of them.

By Monday, the bubble of your isolation had to burst. You had Charms with the Gryffindors, and you knew you couldn't avoid Minjae forever. Walking into the classroom felt like marching to your own execution.

"Hey! You're back!" he whispered as you sat down, his hand immediately finding yours on the desk. "I was so worried. Are you feeling better?"

"I'm fine," you lied, pulling your hand away to retrieve your wand. "Just needed some quiet."

"Right," he said, his smile faltering slightly. "Well, I'm glad you're here, maybe you can help me with the wrist flick, I always mess it up."

You tried to focus, you really did. You tried to listen to Flitwick and to perform the practiced flicks of your wand, but all you could think about was the way Jungkook's body caged you in, and the sound of his voice as he confessed everything.

He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a concerned whisper. "Y/n, seriously. What's going on? Is this about Jungkook's party? Did he say something to you? Did he hurt you?"

"I think we should talk, Minjae," you said, your voice barely audible over the chatter of the class. "Meet me by the Black Lake, after class."

He didn't know what, but he knew something was fundamentally wrong. "Okay, the Black Lake, after class."

The next twenty minutes were the longest of your life. When the bell finally rang, you packed your bag with shaking hands and walked out of the castle. He found you a few minutes later, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his shoulders hunched against the cold. He looked at you with those honest, hazel eyes.

"So, this sounds serious."

"Don't," you whispered, turning away from him to look at the water. "Please don't be kind right now."

"What? Why? Y/n, whatever it is, we can fix it. Just talk to me."  

"I am trying to talk to you! I'm breaking up with you."

"You're… what? No, you're not. You're just stressed."

"It's not that," you said, finally turning to face him. His face was pale. "This isn't working, Minjae."

"Not working?" he repeated, a humorless laugh escaping his lips. "What does that even mean? We've been working for years! We work!"

"We were," you corrected gently. "But we're not anymore."

"Is this because of him?" he demanded, his voice rising with anger. "Is this because of Jungkook? That party? What did he do to you?"

"He didn't do anything!" you insisted, the words feeling more and more like a lie. "This is about me. This is about… us. We're a fairytale, Minjae. We’re a lovely story, but it's not real."

"It is real!" he shouted, stepping closer. "What I feel for you is real! Is this a joke? Are you breaking up with me because you're bored? Because you've decided you want some drama in your life? Is that what this is?"

"No!" you cried, tears finally welling in your eyes. "It's because I don't love you! Not the way you deserve, not the way I should."

"You don't… but you said…"

"I know what I said," you whispered, the tears now streaming down your face. "And I meant it when I said it. But things change, and people change."

"So you've changed," he said, his voice flat. " You've changed so much that you just throw away two years? Don't I deserve a real reason? Don't I deserve the truth?"

"The truth is that I'm not the person you think I am. And you deserve someone who is, someone who can give you all of this, without hesitation." You gestured between you, to the life you had built together. "I can't. I’m sorry."

"So that's it," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "Just like that."

"I'm so sorry, Minjae," you choked out. "I am so, so sorry."

He shook his head, a sad, broken little smile touching his lips. "Don't be. Just… go. Please. Just go."

You didn't want to. You wanted to stay and explain, to take the pain away, but you knew you couldn't. You turned and walked away, leaving him standing alone; the perfect hero had just lost its heroine.

You skipped dinner that night and found yourself hiding in the back of the library, acting like you were researching some potion you already knew by heart. You felt like such a coward for breaking a good guy's heart, and now you were just avoiding the fallout. Every time the library doors opened, you freaked out, hoping it wouldn’t be Minjae or, even worse, Taehyung, showing up and wanting to know what the hell happened.

It was nearly curfew when a shadow fell over your book.

"Rough day, Head Girl?" He slid into the seat opposite you, his movements fluid and predatory. He looked rested, composed, a stark contrast to the emotional wreckage you had become.

"What do you want, Jeon?" you asked, not looking up from your book. Your voice was hoarse from crying.

He reached across the table and deliberately closed your book.

"I want to know why," he said. “I want to know why you did it."

"I don't know what you're talking about," you lied, your voice a pathetic whisper.

"Don't even think about lying to me. You dumped him, the so-called hero of your fairytale. So I'm gonna ask you again. Why?"

You had no answer. How could you explain that his confession changed everything?

"I… I had to," you stammered, looking away.

"Had to?" He laughed harshly. "No one has to do anything, Y/n. You wanted to end it. Why? Was it because of me?"

Your head snapped back to his. "What?"

"Was it because of me?" he repeated. "Did you see me on Friday night and decide your perfect little life wasn't so perfect anymore? Did my 'performance' finally get to you?"

"It wasn't a performance!" you shot back, your own anger rising to meet his. "I saw you, Jungkook. The real you."

"The real me?" he laughed again, that same broken, bitter sound. "You saw a pathetic, drunken mess in a dungeon who spilled his guts because he couldn't keep his fucking mouth shut. That's not the real me. The real me is the one who hexes your boyfriend and makes your life hell. That's the one you should be afraid of."

"I'm not afraid of you."

"You should be," he hissed, leaning even closer. "You took it, the list. The one thing, the one stupid, pathetic piece of parchment in the entire world that was just for me, and you took it. You read it, and then what? You decided to do what? Pity me? You felt so sorry for the monster in the dungeon that you threw away your prince?"

"No," you breathed, shaking your head.

"Then what?" he demanded, his voice rising in frustration. "Give me one good reason why you would throw away everything for… for this."

You couldn’t tell him the whole story. You couldn't admit that all those mean things he’d said now felt like love notes. You couldn’t say that his broken confession stuck with you more than two years of Minjae being all sweet and easygoing. So, you did the only thing you could think of: you dug into your pocket.

His eyes followed your movement, his breath catching in his throat. You pulled out the crumpled, worn piece of parchment, his list. You didn't unfold it.

"This," you said, your voice shaking. "This is why."

"I don't understand," he whispered.

"You told me to tell you what I see. You said I see the hero, and honestly, you’re right, I did. I saw that boy who was kind, good, and safe. But he wasn't really mine, not really." You glanced down at the parchment in your hand. "This… this is mine. This chaotic, messy, broken thing. This is real, and I'm over pretending it's not.

He looked at the paper, then back at you, his eyes wide with realization. He hadn’t pushed you away; he’d actually pulled you in.

“No,” he whispered, like it was both a prayer and a curse. “You can’t. You shouldn’t.”

“I already did,” you replied softly.

The days after the breakup blurred into a week. You were… on your own. The castle felt off. Minjae kept his distance, which was both good and bad. You’d catch sight of him in the Great Hall or outside on the lawns. Taehyung was always around, his sharp eyes catching everything, but he gave you your space.

And then there was Jungkook.

Nothing much happened, at least on the surface. He went back to being Jeon Jungkook, the cocky Slytherin prince, but it felt different now. You noticed the cracks, you saw how his eyes searched for you across a crowded room, not with his usual teasing. He was giving you space, which had to be tough for him. He was waiting, you realized. Waiting for you to make the next move. The ball was in your court.

However, things hit a boiling point on Friday morning.

The Great Hall was buzzing with the pre-weekend energy. You were picking at a piece of toast when Taehyung slid onto the bench beside you.

"You look like a dead pufferskin," he stated, not unkindly. "Have you even slept?"

"Shut it, Taehyung," you mumbled, pushing your plate away.

He sighed, pulling a bowl of porridge towards him. "Look, I know you're going through… whatever this is. But you can't just exist on air and angst forever.”

"I'll be fine."

"No, you won't," he said flatly. "And neither will he."

You didn’t need to ask who ‘he’ was. Your eyes automatically shifted to the Slytherin table. Jungkook was staring blankly at his plate, pushing food around like he was annoyed but didn’t have the energy to care. Jimin was chatting with him, looking worried, but Jungkook wasn’t really paying attention. He looked just as miserable as you felt.

Just then, the main doors of the Great Hall creaked open, Minjae. He wasn’t his usual bubbly self. He scanned the Ravenclaw table and finally locked eyes with you. For a moment, you could see a flash of something cross his face before it turned cold, and he focused on someone else.

Jungkook.

Before you could even wrap your head around what was going on, Minjae was confidently walking across the Great Hall.

Taehyung grabbed your arm under the table. "Oh no. Y/n, don’t just sit there."

But you were totally frozen. You could only watch as Minjae stopped right in front of the Slytherin table, staring straight at Jungkook.

"We need to talk, Jeon," Minjae said.

Jungkook slowly lifted his head. The tired look was gone. He leaned back in his chair, throwing an arm over the back in a way that showed he didn’t care.

"What’s up, Whitmore?" Jungkook said with sarcasm. "Your amazing new plan to lose tomorrow’s match?"

A few of the younger Slytherins laughed. Jimin looked like he was about to be sick.

"This isn't about Quidditch," Minjae said, his voice tight with restraint. "This is about Y/n."

At the sound of your name, Jungkook's entire posture changed. He sat up straight.

"Ah," Jungkook said, his voice now dangerously soft. "The Head Girl. What about her? Did she come crying to you, telling you the big, bad monster scared her in the dungeon?"

Minjae's fists clenched at his sides. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

"Don't I?" Jungkook stood up, towering over Minjae. "I saw you sulking around for a week. I know she finally got fed up with pretending to be happy with the perfect Gryffindor. She woke up and realized she wanted something real."

That last part hit hard. A gasp went through the students nearby. You felt your face go pale.

"You're lying," Minjae shot back, stepping closer. "You manipulated her. This is all your fault."

"My fault?" Jungkook chuckled, but it sounded nasty. "How's it my fault she finally realized you're just a boring, safe placeholder? I didn't even have to lift a finger. You messed up all on your own."

That was all Minjae needed to hear.

He charged at Jungkook, hands stretched out, ready to grab the collar of Jungkook's fancy robes. But Taehyung was quicker. "Immobulus!" A blast light hit Minjae mid-lunge, freezing him in a goofy pose.

Jungkook didn’t even blink. He ignored Taehyung, the professors rushing in. He locked eyes with Minjae. Slowly, he raised his wand.

“Finite Incantatem,”

The spell hit. Minjae stumbled forward, nearly losing his balance before he caught himself, breathing hard, embarrassment flaring in his eyes. Jungkook just saved him from making things worse.

“Don’t you dare touch me,” Minjae growled, his voice strained. “Don’t even look at me after what you’ve done.”

“What I’ve done?” Jungkook took a step closer, stepping into Minjae’s space, holding his wand loosely at his side like a casual threat. “I haven’t done anything. That’s the issue, right? I stayed out of it. I kept quiet. And she still left you.”

"You messed with her head!" Minjae shot back, his voice shaking. "You've been filling it with your garbage for years!"

Jungkook laughed, “Garbage? I told her the truth. I told her I was a wreck. I told her I was a monster. The only thing I’m guilty of is wanting her. What about you? You had her! You had everything anyone could want, but you were so boring that you let her slip away."

"I loved her!" Minjae yelled, fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, "I would have done anything for her!"

"Anything except what she actually needed," Jungkook shot back, his words hitting hard. "You loved the idea of her, the smart, pretty girlfriend to make you look good. Did you ever really see her? Did you notice how she bit her lip when she was deep in thought? Did you know she hates treacle tart but ate it every time you offered it because she didn't want to hurt your feelings?"

Each question was a fresh blow, and you watched Minjae's face crumble. He didn't know. He didn't know any of it. And Jungkook, the boy who supposedly hated you, knew everything.

"She was happy with me," Minjae whispered, a last, desperate defense.

"Was she? Or was she just comfortable? There’s a difference. She was settling for a life that was easy, safe, and a bit empty. I just… I gave her a reason to stop."

Minjae looked completely shattered. He locked eyes with Jungkook, pleading for him to deny it, to tell him it was all a lie. But Jungkook said nothing. Eventually, Minjae’s gaze slipped past Jungkook to you across the silent hall. The anger had faded from his eyes, replaced by deep sorrow. He understood now, he saw everything. With that final, heartbreaking look, he walked out of the Great Hall.

Jungkook's shoulders drooped for a moment, the weight of his victory pressing down on him. Every eye in the room was on you, judging silently. You were the reason for this chaos, the girl at the center of a storm you hadn't known how to stop.

In that crowd, his eyes found yours. His eyes locked onto yours, and in them, you saw not a question but a command. Come.

You pushed your chair back, the sound slicing through the quiet like a shout. Keeping your head up and your expression blank, you made your way over to him. You didn’t glance at Taehyung’s worried expression or Jimin’s cautious look. All that mattered was reaching him.

He met you halfway, right before the huge doors of the hall. He didn't say a word; just turned and brushed past you, and you fell in step beside him. Instead of dragging you down to the dungeons or some creepy hidden spot, he took you up on the moving staircases. As you climbed higher, the noise of the castle faded away, replaced by the sound of your own racing heartbeat. He was guiding you to a place filled with ghosts and memories, somewhere you hadn’t been in ages.

The Room of Requirement

"Are you happy now?" you finally asked, your voice barely a whisper.

He turned slowly. "Happy?" he repeated, the word a bitter taste on his tongue. "No. I'm not happy."

He closed the distance between you in two long strides.

"I'm furious. I'm furious at him for being so blind. I'm furious at you for being so stupid. And most of all, I'm furious at myself for thinking for one second that this could ever end well."

"You didn't have to do that," you shot back, he grabbed your wrist.

"Didn't I?" he chuckled. "What was I supposed to do? Let him keep living in his little fantasy? Let him keep looking at you like you were his trophy? I had to show everyone. You’re not his. You never were."

"And I'm yours?" you whispered.

His eyes grew dark as he lifted his other hand, fingers gently tracing your jaw, his touch surprisingly soft compared to the tight grip he had on your wrist.

"You've always been mine, little raven," he said quietly, his thumb brushing your bottom lip.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn't soft or sweet at all. His mouth was demanding, pushing against yours with an urgency that took your breath away. He pressed you back until your shoulders hit the cool stone of the wall, trapping you in.

He let go of your wrist and tangled his fingers in your hair, tilting your head to make the kiss deeper. His other hand moved down your back, pulling you against him so you could feel his arousal through your robes. A gasp slipped out, and he seized the chance, slipping his tongue inside to explore and claim you.

 Your hands flew around his neck, pulling him closer. You wanted to crawl inside his skin, to consume him, to be consumed by him.

He broke the kiss, both of you panting, your foreheads pressed together. The night air was cold on your swollen lips.

He leaned in again, but this time his kiss was softer. It felt different, almost like he was cherishing the moment after that intense passion from before. His lips moved against yours slowly, setting a rhythm that made your legs feel a little wobbly. One of his hands slid from your back to your hip, his thumb drawing little circles, sending shivers all over you.

"Y/n," he murmured against your lips, making your name sound almost sacred. "You’ve gotta tell me this is real."

"It's real," you promised.

That was all the permission he needed.

His mouth reclaimed yours with a renewed hunger, his hands growing bolder. He found the clasp of your school robes, his fingers fumbling with it for a moment before it came undone with a soft click. The heavy wool pooled at your feet, leaving you in the thin white blouse and skirt.

He reached out and slowly, deliberately, began to unbutton your blouse. His fingers were calloused from Quidditch, rough against your skin. One button. Two. Three. He took his time, his eyes never leaving yours, watching your every reaction.

When your blouse was open, he pushed it off your shoulders, letting it fall to the stone floor. You stood before him in your simple white bra and skirt.

"You're so beautiful, little raven." He reached out and traced the lacy edge of your bra with his fingertips. "Merlin, I've thought about this. About what you'd look like. In bed, under me."

His words sent a fresh wave of heat through you. He leaned down and kissed the hollow of your throat. His kiss felt warm and open, and he traced a line down your neck to your collarbone. You tilted your head back, letting him have better access, a soft sigh slipping from your lips. His hands were on your waist, holding you steady.He found the sensitive spot behind your ear, and you couldn't stop the moan that rose in your throat. He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound against your skin.

"I knew you'd be sensitive here," he murmured. "I spent an entire Transfiguration lesson once just watching the way you'd twist your hair when you were concentrating, wondering if you'd make that same little sound if I put my mouth right… here." He punctuated his words with a sharp nip of his teeth, and you jolted, a gasp torn from your lips.

"Jungkook," you breathed.

"Tell me what you want, pretty," he commanded, his mouth moving back up to claim yours in a searing kiss. "Tell me, Y/n."

You couldn't form the words.  All you could do was hold on tighter, arching against him, a silent, desperate plea for more.

He seemed to understand. He broke the kiss, breathing heavily, "Can't talk? That's okay. I can do all the talking."

His hands moved from your waist to the small of your back, tracing the curve of your spine before sliding down to grab your ass through the fabric of your skirt. He squeezed, pulling you tight against him, and you gasped as you felt his hard cock pressing into your stomach.

"You feel that?" he said, his lips close to your ear. "That's what you do to me. You've been doing it for years. Every time you walked into a room, every time you answered a question in class, even when you just breathed in my direction."

His hands were restless now, roaming over your body, learning the shape of you. He slid one hand up your side, his thumb brushing against the side of your breast. You whimpered, pushing into his touch, needing more.

"Patience, I've waited too long for this to rush it."

But his own patience was running out. He let out a frustrated groan, reached behind you, and struggled a bit with your bra's clasp. It clicked open, and he tossed it aside with the rest of your clothes. The night air hit your bare skin, and your nipples instantly got hard.

Jungkook stilled, his gaze fixed on your chest. "Fuck, you're perfect."

He reached out, his hand lingering for a second before he grabbed one of your breasts, his palm warm and heavy. He ran his thumb over your already hard nipple, and you let out a gasp.

"Shh," he murmured, leaning down to take the other into his mouth. "We don't want to bring the whole castle up here, do we?"

His mouth was hot and wet, a shocking contrast to the cold air. He swirled his tongue around the sensitive peak, then sucked, hard. Your hands flew to his hair, your fingers tangling in the soft strands, holding him to you.  He gave attention to your breasts, alternating between them, his mouth and hands working in rhythm.

Just when you thought you couldn't take anymore, he pulled back, his breathing ragged.

"I need to see all of you," he said, his voice a raw, rough command.

He dropped to his knees before you, He looked up at you from his position. He reached out and placed his hands on your hips, his thumbs hooking into the waistband of your skirt. You nodded.

Slowly, he peeled your skirt down your legs, his fingers tracing the path of the fabric as it went. He followed it with his mouth, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to your hips, your stomach, the tops of your thighs. You were trembling.

When your skirt was around your ankles, you where in nothing but your simple cotton underwear.

"You're shaking," he observed, his voice soft.

"You're doing this to me," you managed to say, your voice barely audible.

"I haven't even started yet."

He hooked his fingers into the sides of your panties and slowly pulled them down. You stepped out of them. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss under your navel, his lips soft and gentle. You gasped, your hands flying to his shoulders to steady yourself.

"Jungkook," you pleaded, not even sure what you were begging for.

"I know," he murmured against your skin. "I know."

He shifted, settling between your thighs. He looked up at you one last time, and then he lowered his head.

The first touch of his tongue against your clit was a lick and it sent a shockwave of pleasure through you so intense your knees buckled. He held you steady, his hands gripping your hips, while his mouth working its magic.

He didn’t hold back. He explored you with his. He circled your clit, then flicked it, then sucked it into his mouth. Your world was just the sensation of his mouth on you, the rough slide of his tongue, the desperate sounds of your own breathing.

You were babbling now, a stream of incoherent pleas and praises. "Please, Jungkook, yes, don't stop, please, please, please…"

He didn't stop. He increased his pace, his movements becoming more urgent, more demanding. He slid one hand from your hip, his fingers finding your entrance. He teased you for a moment, circling the opening, before sliding one long finger inside you.

You cried out, your inner walls clenching around him. He began to move his finger in time with the movements of his tongue while you were closer to the edge. He added a second finger, stretching you.

"Come for me, Y/n, let me feel it, let me taste you."

With a final, desperate cry, you orgasmed. It left you breathless and shaking, and he held you through it, his mouth and fingers milking every last drop of your slick.

Once the shaking finally stopped, he stood up and wrapped his arms around you. You sank against him, your head on his chest, listening to his heart. He just held you for a while, gently running his fingers through your hair.

"You're gorgeous," he murmured.

You looked up and kissed him. You could taste yourself on his lip, his tongue sliding into your mouth. He was still fully dressed, and the rough texture of his robes felt amazing against your bare skin. All you could think about was wanting to feel him fully, wanting to see him.

You pulled back, your hands going to the front of his robes. "Your turn."

He watched you as you fumbled with the clasp of his robes. Your fingers were clumsy with urgency, but you finally managed to get it open. You pushed the heavy fabric off his shoulders, and it joined yours on the stone floor.

He was wearing a simple black shirt underneath. You made quick work of the buttons, your hands brushing against the warm, hard plane of his chest. He was lean and muscular, his body a testament to years of Quidditch training.

Your fingers trembled as they traced the lines of his chest, feeling the steady, rapid beat of his heart beneath your palm. You pushed the black shirt off his shoulders, and it joined the growing pile of discarded clothing on the cold stone floor. You reached out, your fingers tracing the lines of his abs, feeling them tighten under your touch. He sucked in a sharp breath, his hands coming to rest on your waist.

"Your hands are cold," he murmured, a low rumble in his chest.

"Sorry," you whispered, but you didn't stop touching him.

"Don't be," he said, his voice thick.

His skin was warm, and you could feel the fine tremor running through him, a mirror to your own. He was magnificent, and he was all yours.

Your gaze drifted downward, to the very obvious bulge straining against the fabric of his trousers. You swallowed hard.

"Like what you see, little raven?" he asked, his voice a low, husky rumble.

Instead of answering, you leaned forward and pressed your lips to his chest, right over his heart. You could feel it thumping against your mouth. You kissed your way across his chest, your tongue darting out to taste the salty skin, to trace his collarbones. His hands came up to rest on your back, his fingers digging into your flesh as if he needed to anchor himself.

With a surge of confidence, you let your hand drift lower, palming him through his trousers. He groaned. His hips jerked forward instinctively, seeking more friction.

You knelt before him, just as he had done for you, your gaze fixed on the button of his trousers. Your hands shook as you undid it, the sound of the zipper loud. You looked up at him, your eyes wide, and saw the raw, naked hunger on his face.

You hooked your fingers into the waistband of his boxers and slowly pulled them down. His cock sprang free, hard and thick. It was bigger than you'd imagined, the head flushed, a bead of moisture glistening at the tip.

Your breath hitched in your throat. You'd seen boys before; you’d seen Minjae, but this was different.

You reached out a trembling hand and wrapped your fingers around him. He was hot and hard in your grasp, the skin velvety soft over the rigid core. He let out a harsh groan, his hips bucking forward instinctively.

"Fuck, Y/n," his head falling back. "Don't… don't tease."

You weren't teasing. You were exploring. You ran your thumb over the head, smearing the bead of pre-cum over the sensitive skin. He shuddered, a full-body tremor that ran through him like a wave.

"You don't have to."

“Shut up, Jeon, I want to.”

You leaned in and flicked your tongue against the tip, tasting the salty, slightly bitter flavor of him.

He hissed, his hands flying to your hair, his fingers tangling in the strands. "Y/n," he warned, his voice strained. "I'm serious. If you… if you do that…"

You looked up at him, your lips hovering just a breath away from his cock. "If I do what?" you whispered boldly.

"Gods," he groaned, his eyes squeezing shut. "If you put your mouth on me, I won't be able to control myself. I'll… I'll fuck your mouth. And I don't want to do that. Not yet."

His words sent a fresh wave of heat to your core. He wanted you so much he was afraid of his own reaction.

You took a deep breath and made your choice. You wanted to taste him, to feel him, to give him the same mind-blowing pleasure he had just given you. You wanted to see him lose control.

You wrapped your lips around the head of his cock, swirling your tongue around the sensitive tip. He cried out, his fingers tightening in your hair, his hips jerking forward. You took more of him into your mouth.

 You couldn't take all of him, not at first, but you tried. You relaxed your jaw and took him deeper, your hand working the base of his shaft in time with the movements of your mouth. He was breathing heavily now, his head thrown back, his eyes closed. The sounds he was making were driving you crazy.

He was right. He couldn't control himself. His hips began to move, a slow, shallow rocking at first, then faster, deeper, his cock hitting the back of your throat.

"Y/n, fuck, your mouth… so good… gods.”

"Fuck, yes, just like that. Your mouth is so fucking good."

You hollowed your cheeks, sucking harder, and he cried out, his whole body tensing. You could feel him getting closer, his thrusts becoming more erratic.

“Y/n, I'm gonna…"

He tried to pull back, to warn you, but you held on. With a final groan, he came, his hot, salty release flooding your mouth. You swallowed, your throat working, milking him for every last drop.

“You crazy little witch,” he murmured against your lips, his voice hoarse.

You chuckled softly.

He shifted, his body covering yours. He was already hard again, his cock pressing against your thigh.

"I need to be inside you. Are you ready for me, little raven?" he murmured against your lips.

You nodded frantically. He reached between your legs, his fingers finding your clit. You were still wet from your earlier orgasm, and his fingers slid easily through your folds. He circled your clit, then slid two fingers inside you, testing your readiness.

"Mhm, You're so wet for me," he said.

"All for you," you echoed.

His fingers stroked and teased you until you were squirming beneath him, begging. He reached between you, guiding his cock to your entrance.

"Look at me, clever girl," he commanded, his voice low and intense.

You forced your eyes open, and he held your gaze as he slowly, deliberately, pushed into you.

There was a brief, sharp sting as he stretched you, and you cried out, your nails digging into his shoulders. He stilled.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

You took a deep breath, the pain already starting to fade. "I'm okay," you said. "Don't stop."

He began to thrust slowly and deeply at first, then faster, harder. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the silent room.

"Harder," you gasped, your voice a raw, desperate plea. "Jungkook, harder."

His movements becoming almost brutal, his cock pounding into you, driving you closer and closer to the edge.

"You're so tight, sweetheart," he gritted out, his fingers digging into your thighs. "So fucking perfect."

He reached between you again, his fingers finding your clit. He rubbed it in time with his thrusts, and you felt your orgasm building again. Your entire body tensed, your muscles locking up as the pleasure increased.

"Come for me, Y/n," he commanded, his voice strained. "Come with me."

With a final, brutal thrust and a hard pinch of your clit, you orgasmed. You screamed his name, your body shaking underneath him, your inner walls clamping down on his cock in a series of powerful, rhythmic spasms.  He fucked you through it, his thrusts becoming erratic, his control finally breaking as your body milked him. With a loud, guttural groan, he buried himself to the hilt inside you, his own orgasm crashing over him, and you felt the hot, powerful pulse of his release as he spilled into you.

He collapsed on top of you, his face buried in the crook of your neck. You were both panting, your bodies sweaty and trembling. He didn't move for a long time, and you didn't want him to. You wrapped your arms around his back, holding him close.

“Hi," he whispered, a small, crooked smile playing on his lips.

You laughed, a breathy, soundless puff of air. "Hi," you whispered back.

He leaned down and kissed you gently. "Are you okay?" he asked again, his thumb gently stroking your cheek.

"I'm more than okay," you whispered.

He smiled, a genuine, brilliant smile that lit up his entire face. He kissed your forehead, your nose, your lips.

“Me too," he murmured against your skin.

With a soft sigh, he carefully withdrew, the loss of his warmth making you shiver. He grabbed the heavy wool of the discarded school robes and draped them over you both.

"You’re going to have bruises," you murmured. "I'm sorry," you said, your voice thick with regret. "I got... carried away. I didn't hurt you, did I? Truly?" You shifted, propping yourself up on your elbow to look down at him.

He reached up and cupped your cheek, his thumb stroking his skin. "No, little raven. You didn't hurt me. Plus, I like them, they're a reminder."

"A reminder that you’re mine?" you asked.

"Mhm, always," he confirmed. "So. What do we do now, Y/n?"

"We walk out of here, and tomorrow, we sit together at breakfast. And I’ll sit at your table, and you’ll hold my hand, and we won't care who sees."

"Just like that? You know…Y/n, my father-"

"Just like that," you confirmed.

He buried his face in your hair, his arms tightening around you like he was afraid you might disappear.

"I love you," he whispered, the words muffled against your skin. "I think I've loved you since the 4th year.”

You laughed, "I thought you were an arrogant, Quidditch-obsessed boy. and I love you too."

"I am," he said, pulling back to grin at you. "But I'm your arrogant, Quidditch-obsessed boy."

Eventually, you knew you had to move, because the night couldn't last forever, but this time you risked it for the biscuit and walked down with him in the dungeons. Jimin had luckily gone somewhere, maybe also dealing with his little secret.

When morning came, Jimin's jaw practically hit the floor, his eyes darting from Jungkook's smug face to the copper hair peeking out from the duvet.

Jungkook pulled the duvet higher over the still asleep Y/n, shielding her, and looked at Jimin with a look of absolute, smug triumph. His voice was a low, morning rasp.

"Morning, Jimin. Close the door."

"Close the door? JK, you have a Ravenclaw, a Head Girl, in your bed!" He gestured wildly with one hand. "Do you have any idea what happens if a Prefect walks in? Or a professor? Or the entire school?"

Jungkook yawned lazily, not moving an inch, his arm remaining locked around you. His voice was thick and rough, devoid of any guilt.

"Then they'll know." He looked down at you, his gaze softening into something sweet, before he looked back at Jimin. "Now, I said, close the door, Jimin. Unless you want to be the one to tell the Gryffindor Golden Boy that his ex-girlfriend spent the night in the snake pit."

Jimin scoffed and left the room.

Jungkook didn't move to get up. Instead, he shifted, his chest vibrating as he chuckled. He leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear, his voice a teasing, low vibration. "Wake up, little monster. We have an audience."

Y/n groaned and buried her face deeper in his chest. "Five more minutes. Are we doomed?"

"We're not doomed," he said, his eyes soft. "We're just beginning." He leaned in and kissed you. When he pulled back, he was smiling. "Now, get dressed, Head Girl. You have a castle to run. And I have a rumor to start."

You looked at him, "What rumor?"

He grinned, "The one that says Jeon Jungkook finally got his girl."

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a/n: I hope you guys enjoyed this. i have been obsessed with H.P. and Hogwarts Legacy lately, and I couldn't bring myself to not write something, even if I'm graduating next month and my mind is everywhere ;-;

You resigned from your job at the university bookshop three days after... well, after the incident. The incident being that moment of temporary insanity where you slept with your boss, Jimin. You'd walk into the shop, and the memory would hit you like a physical force: his surprised eyes, his gentle hands, the way you'd used him, used his kindness and his attraction to you as a weapon to make yourself forget and mostly because you wanted to hurt Jungkook as much as he had hurt you with the news of his arranged “union” to Park Minhee.

The irony isn't totally lost on you, trying to get back at someone by sleeping with your boss, then quitting your job because you are too ashamed to meet that boss afterward. It is the sort of decision that makes you wonder if you should really be trusted to make adult choices without any supervision.

The bookshop job had been your lifeline, the steady income that keeps your piece-of-crap car from turning into a permanent lawn ornament, like someday soon. Your grocery shopping is now mostly ramen, canned beans, and whatever thing is on the deepest discount, at the back of the store. It’s fine. You’re fine. Everything is fine.

That’s what you keep telling yourself, anyway.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

Right now you're standing in front of your mirror, trying to do your hair into something that doesn’t totally scream, “I probably just fucked up my entire life and my boss.”

Tonight is the Scholar’s Dinner, the ridiculously fancy thing the university hosts every semester. You've been invited three times now, and each time it feels like a mistake. The food is always amazing, the wine flows freely, and you spend the entire evening feeling like an imposter who somehow slipped past security.

Your dress is a rental, a deep emerald green silk, and you hope it makes you look sophisticated, not like you’re playing dress-up in your mom’s closet like you did when she went to her overnight shifts at the hospital. It was the kind of dress that you could barely rent, but tonight you need armour, even if it’s borrowed.

The venue is the university's historic ballroom, all crystal chandeliers and marble floors, which makes you paranoid about slipping and making a scene, y’know. Inside the room is buzzing, conversation everywhere, glassware clinking in waves, and those expensive laughs that always make you feel like rolling your eyes so hard they basically get stuck. You haven’t spoken to Jungkook in a week, not since you learned about Park Minhee and the possible engagement, not since you sort of hissed at him to leave you alone.

He has no idea about Jimin. And honestly, the thought of him finding out makes you feel sick. He would be hurt, sure. But he would also be… possessive. The frightening jealousy kind, the one that makes him do absolutely unhinged things. And you'd deserve it, you would deserve every single bit of his anger, even if it burns and even if it scares you, even if it feels like coming apart.

The thing is… you’re not even as mad as you should be. I mean, you know Jungkook, you know that look his jaw does when he’s really digging his heels in about something. You remember what he said too: he told you he’ll handle it, that he doesn’t want to get engaged with her, and that he wants you. And you believed him, which somehow just made the guilt feel even heavier. You basically tossed your job and your dignity into a revenge plan against a man who still wasn’t technically guilty.

You arrive at the dinner late, you need something to take the edge off, you make a beeline for the bar, because liquid courage is your preferred social lubricant, and you're pretty sure you're going to need a double…or a triple…or maybe more.

"You look like you're planning that bartender's demise," a familiar voice says beside you.

You turn to see Professor Kim, your English Literature advisor, a kind woman with glasses perpetually perched on the end of her nose.

"Just thinking about my thesis," you lie, forcing a smile. "It's a natural state of being."

She chuckles. "Well, try to look a little less murderous. There are donors here." She pats your arm and moves on, leaving you to your miserable thoughts and your expensive drink

Your shoulders tense, and you suddenly find the condensation on your glass hypnotizing. You can hear his voice now, low and smooth, greeting some dean. You risk a glance, and of course, he looks infuriatingly good. His black suit is tailored, stretching across his broad shoulders and muscular frame that you know way too well. His dark hair is slightly tousled, and his jaw is clenched in that way that means he's either annoyed or trying to control himself. Or both. It's usually both with Jungkook. He’s not here for the free food or the grand academic posturing, because this man has them all, and unfortunately you know exactly why he’s here.

You take a deep breath and another sip of your drink, telling yourself that you can absolutely handle this. You're mature, you're composed, you're…oh, who are you kidding? You're a mess, and he's going to know it the second he gets within ten feet of you.

He spots you a moment later, and his eyes lock onto yours, and your heart starts beating a little too fast. He says something to the person he's talking to and starts making his way toward you.

You take a large gulp of your drink, your mind racing. What do you say? How do you act? Do you bring up Minhee? Do you ignore it? Do you confess everything and beg for forgiveness? The guilt is a sour taste in your mouth, and you have to fight the urge to turn and run.

"There you are," he says when he reaches you, his voice low and intimate despite the crowded room. "I've been looking for you."

You raise an eyebrow, taking another sip of your drink to buy yourself a moment. "I'm not exactly hiding, Jungkook. I'm at a mandatory scholarship event. You're the one who usually skips these things. It’s the first time I've seen you here."

His eyes darken slightly at your tone, and you feel that familiar pull that usually drags you right into his arms, naked, in his bed, in his penthouse. "I came because I knew you'd be here. We need to talk."

"We've talked," you say, maybe a little too sharply. "I believe my exact words were 'leave me alone,' which in most cultures translates to 'I don't want to talk to you.'"

"You've been ignoring my calls," he says, his voice flat.

"I've been busy," you reply, not looking at him. Your voice sounds thin, a lie.

"Busy," he repeats, and you can hear the disbelief, the edge of anger in his tone. "Is that what we're calling it?"

Oh-uh…he's pissed, and he's hurt.

"What do you want me to say, Jungkook?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. "Congratulations? Because I believe I have already said that to you."

“Don't start with that."

"Start with what?" you challenge, your own anger rising to meet his. "The truth? Or would you prefer I pretend I don't know that your parents are selling you off to the highest bidder?"

"I told you,” he says, his voice tight with frustration. "It's not a done deal. I'm handling it. I'm trying to talk to you, but you won't let me. You've been hiding from me all week."

"Well, the moment has passed," you say, finishing your drink and setting the glass down with perhaps more force than necessary. "And so have we. I think it's best if we just-"

"Don't say it," he cuts in, his voice low and warning. "Don't you dare say what I think you're about to say."

"Say what?" you ask, feigning innocence. "That I think we should go our separate ways? That I think it's time for both of us to move on? That I think-"

He grabs your arm, not roughly but firmly enough to stop you from walking away. "Not here," he says, his eyes scanning the room. "We're not doing this here."

"Then where, Jungkook?" you demand, pulling your arm free. "Your Ducati? Your penthouse apartment? Some other location that reminds me of how different our worlds are?"

For a moment, you think he might actually lose his temper. His shoulders are tense, but then he laughs, a short, humorless sound that's more ironic than amused.

"You think that's what this is about?" he asks, shaking his head. "You think I care that your car is a piece of crap or that you live in a dorm and off a scholarship?"

"I don't know what you care about anymore," you admit, and the vulnerability in your voice surprises you both." And maybe…maybe I have my reasons," you shoot back, your heart pounding in your chest.

"Reasons? Did something else happen? Are you okay? Are you sick?"  The concern in his voice is like a knife twisting in your gut. He's worried about you. He's fighting his family for you. And you... you betrayed him in the most calculated, petty way imaginable.

"I lost my job," you say, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. It's not the real confession, but it's a piece of it.

He's quiet for a moment, processing this. "The bookshop? Why?"

"Doesn't matter," you say, shaking your head. "It's fine. I'll figure something out."

"Of course it matters," he says, his brow furrowed. "You need the money. What happened? Did they fire you?"

"No," you say quickly. "I... I quit."

"You quit?" he repeats, clearly confused. "Why would you quit? You were there for two years."

You can't answer. You can't look at him. You stand there, staring at the ugly painting, your heart pounding in your chest. The guilt is overwhelming.

"Hey," he says, his voice gentle now. He reaches out, tilting your chin up so you have to look at him. His thumb brushes against your jaw, and you flinch at the contact. He notices, of course, he notices, and his hand drops away. "What's wrong? Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like you're afraid of me," he says, his voice barely a whisper. "Like you think I'm going to hurt you."

And that's it; that broke you because you're not afraid of him hurting you. You're afraid of him finding out that you've already hurt him, that you've already ruined the very thing he's trying so hard to protect.

Tears well up in your eyes, hot and humiliating. You try to blink them back, but one escapes, tracing a path down your cheek. "I'm not afraid of you," you choke out.

"Then what?" he asks, his frustration mounting. "God, just talk to me. Whatever it is, we can fix it. Just tell me what's wrong."

You take a deep, shuddering breath, the words caught in your throat. You have to tell him. You can't let him keep fighting for you when you've already given up. You can't let him keep looking at you with that unwavering devotion when you know you don't deserve it.

"I don't know what you're talking about," you say, but your voice is shaky, unconvincing.

"Don't you?" he asks, his voice dropping to a dangerously low register. "You've been acting weird for a week. You quit your job out of the blue, you won't look me in the eye." He takes another step closer, invading your personal space, his eyes boring into yours. "What did you do?"

"Nothing," you lie, your voice trembling.

"Don't lie to me," he says, his voice dangerously quiet. "I've always known when you're lying. Now, I'm going to ask you one more time. What. Did. You. Do?"

You can't breathe, you can't think. The walls are closing in, and all you can see is the fury in his eyes, the betrayal etched onto his face. You have to get out of here. You have to get away from him.

"I need some air," you say, turning to flee, but he's faster.

He grabs your arm, his grip like iron, stopping you in your tracks. "You're not going anywhere," he says, his voice cold and hard. "Not until you tell me what you did."

"Let go of me," you say, trying to pull away, but his grip only tightens.

"Tell me," he demands, his eyes flashing with anger. "Who was it?"

The implication hangs in the air between you, and you already know…you know it's over. You know he knows. You don't have to answer; he sees it in your eyes, the confirmation, the guilt, the truth.

His face goes blank, all the emotion wiped away, replaced by a cold, terrifying emptiness. He releases your arm like he's been burned, taking a step back.

"You slept with someone," he says, his voice flat.

You can't speak. You can only stand there, tears welling up in your eyes, as you watch the man you love shatter into a million pieces right in front of you.

"After everything," he says, his voice cracking, just barely. "After I told you I was handling it. After I told you I was choosing you, after I said I wanted you, only you. You... you did that."

"It was a mistake," you choke out, the tears now streaming down your face. "I was angry, and I was hurt, and I wasn't thinking and I-"

"A mistake?" he laughs, a short, sharp, humorless sound that's more painful than a shout. "Don't you dare call it a mistake; a mistake is forgetting to buy groceries. This... this was a choice, you chose to do this, you chose to hurt me."

"I'm sorry," you whisper, but the words are useless, meaningless.

"Sorry?" he asks, his voice dangerously quiet. "You're sorry? You're sorry that you slept with God knows who to get back at me? You're sorry that you betrayed me in the most personal way you possibly could? You're sorry that you let me stand here and fight for a future that you already destroyed?"

"I didn't mean to-" you start, but he cuts you off.

"No, Y/N, " he warns, his voice cold and hard. "Don't you dare stand there and tell me you didn't mean to when you knew exactly what you were doing. You wanted to hurt me, and congratulations, you did.”

A pause

“You know," he says, his voice so calm it's terrifying. "I spent this week planning. I had meetings with lawyers. I was going to draw up a new will, I was going to cut my father off at the knees if I had to, I was going to burn the entire fucking company to the ground before I'd let him make me marry her." He lets out a short, sharp breath that's not quite a laugh. "All for you, I was ready to walk away from my entire life for you."

You flinch, his words like physical blows. "Jungkook, please-"

"No," he cuts in, his voice like ice. "You don't get to stand there with tears in your eyes and expect me to comfort you."

He runs a hand through his hair, his movements sharp, agitated. "Do you have any idea what this feels like? You got mad at me because of an engagement I didn’t want, and then you do this? Y/n. What the fuck, I never touched Minhee; just the thought of me touching someone else that’s not you makes me sick. How could you do this, Y/N? I wanted to take you back to your place tonight, and I was going to try to make you see that I’m still here, all yours, devoted to you. I bought my car so you can be comfortable. I bought flowers that are sitting on my back seat. I was going to tell you I was sorry, that I was an idiot, that I'd do whatever it took to fix this." He shakes his head, a bitter smile twisting his lips. "And you do this to me?”

You reach out a hand, a silent plea, but he takes another step back, out of your reach.

"Don't touch me," he warns, his voice low and dangerous. "I swear to God, if you touch me right now, I don't know what I'll do."

You drop your hand, your heart breaking into a million tiny pieces. "I'm sorry," you whisper, the words useless, inadequate. "I was so angry. And I was hurting. I just wanted to make you feel the way I was feeling."

"Oh, you did," he says, his voice dripping with a cold, bitter sarcasm. "You definitely did. Congratulations. You got your revenge. Was it worth it? Was he worth it?"

"No," you sob, the tears now flowing freely. "It was the worst mistake of my life. I swear."

"Don't minimize it, don't you dare. You didn't trip and fall into his bed; you made a conscious decision to betray what we had. You wanted to humiliate me, to throw away everything we had," he scoffs, shaking his head. "You know what the worst part is? It's not even about him; it's about you, it's about the fact that when things got hard, when you were angry, your first instinct wasn't to talk to me, it wasn't to trust me, it was to run to someone else. To use someone else to hurt me."

He turns to leave, and you panic, grabbing his arm.

"Don't go," you beg, your voice desperate. "Please, Jungkook. We can fix this. I know we can."

He stops, but he doesn't turn around. He stands there, his back to you, his shoulders rigid. "There's nothing to fix," he says, his voice flat, final. "You broke it, you broke whatever we had, and I don't think we can put it back together."

He pulls his arm free, and without another word, he walks away, leaving you alone in the dimly lit corridor, the sound of his footsteps echoing. You slide down the wall, your dress pooling around you, and you bury your face in your hands, the sobs wracking your body. You've lost him.

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masterlist

The first time he drives to your parents' house, he almost turns the car around.

Three times… scratch that…actually, four.

The fourth time is especially embarrassing because he has already parked. The engine is off. The keys are in his hand. He's committed, and yet his hand keeps drifting toward the ignition like it has its own agenda, like it wants to go home.

He sits behind the steering wheel, staring at your childhood home. The house itself isn't scary. It's just a house with white walls that need repainting. A small garden where your mother has beautiful flowers. A blue mailbox that has your last name on it with faded stickers that are peeling at the edges. Normal things.

Unfortunately, your father lives inside, and your father is terrifying. Not in a dramatic movie way, he doesn't threaten people or is part of the mafia, and he definitely doesn't own weapons or has a scar across his face.

It’s the fact that he looks at people the way professors look at exam papers, as if he's found three mistakes in the first paragraph and is debating whether he should continue reading or just fail you now and save him some time.

Jungkook swallows. His palms are sweating against the steering wheel. This is ridiculous… What if your father hates him? What if he laughs? What if he says no?

Then you'll ask again.

He grabs the box of pastries from the passenger seat and gets out before his courage disappears completely.

The door opens, and your father appears. For a moment, nobody says anything. The silence stretches and Jungkook becomes suddenly, painfully aware of every part of his body. He bows politely. The low and respectful kind of bow that says I come in peace, I mean no harm, please don't destroy me.

The silence grows longer, and our dear Jungkook begins wondering if people can die from awkwardness. If that's a medical condition, and if he should have written a will. Your father stares, Jungkook bows a little deeper. His back protesting.

Finally, your father speaks. "Did my daughter send you?"

"No, sir." Jungkook's voice comes out steady.

A pause. Your father's eyes narrow slightly, scanning him like he's reading a label. "Did something happen to her?"

"No, sir."

"Then why are you here?"

Jungkook suddenly forgets every sentence he prepared during the drive. All those carefully constructed arguments inside his overthinker mind, all those practiced phrases…gone, evaporated.

Wonderful

He manages a nervous smile. It feels crooked on his face, too big, too desperate. "I wanted to talk to you."

Your father doesn't move. "About?"

For a fleeting second, Jungkook considers pretending he came to discuss the weather. The weather is safe, but unfortunately for him, that would make even less sense than his actual reason, and also, he's pretty sure your father can smell lies the way other people smell smoke.

"Sir, I love your daughter."

Your father blinks a few times. "Oh."

Jungkook nods. Encouraged. Maybe this is going well. Maybe the hard part is over. Maybe…it is not going well.

"That's unfortunate," your father says, and steps aside to let him in.

⏔⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ♡ྀི ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔⏔

Five minutes later, they're sitting at the kitchen table.

Jungkook has never seen such an intimidating kitchen before. Everything is clean and organized. He is afraid to touch anything. Your father places a cup of tea in front of him. The gesture is kind, but the expression on your father's face is not kind. Not in a malicious way, it’s the expression of someone who has watched young men come and go from this exact house, who has learned that most of them are not worth the time it takes to memorize their names. Jungkook suddenly understands where you inherited your stubbornness from.

"So," your father says.

"So," Jungkook echoes, and he immediately hates himself for echoing. He's not a parrot. He's a grown man. He has tattoos. He pays taxes, and he should be able to handle a conversation without turning into a robot.

"You love my daughter."

"Yes, sir."

"Why?"

Why? Because you're funny, because you laugh with your entire body, throwing your head back, because you cry during movies and then deny it, because you pretend not to like affection and attention and then complain when he stops giving it, which is confusing and annoying and completely endearing, because loving you happened so naturally he didn't notice it until he was already too deep in love with you.

He clears his throat. All of this is too much to say to your father. "She's amazing," Jungkook says.

Your father's face remains unreadable. "That's your argument?"

Jungkook panics. His brain, which had just started working again, shuts down completely. "No, sir."

"Good."

⏔⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ♡ྀི ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔⏔

An hour later, Jungkook has somehow been interviewed more thoroughly than a job applicant for a position that requires government clearance.

Career plans. Finances. Future goals. Emergency savings. Apartment size. Life insurance. Retirement planning. Your father asks about his parents, his siblings, his thoughts on home ownership versus renting, his opinion on private schools versus public schools for hypothetical future children that Jungkook is definitely not ready to discuss but finds himself discussing anyway because when your father asks a question, answering feels mandatory.

At one point, your father asks what kind of husband he intends to be. Jungkook answers honestly. It's the only answer he has, the only one he's sure of. "The best one I can."

Something shifts in your father's expression, only for a second. Maybe it was approval…or pity…or maybe even indigestion. Who knows…Then comes the final question and the most important one.

The reason Jungkook is here, sweating through his nice shirt

His heartbeat speeds up. He sits straighter, tries to look like the kind of man who deserves what he's about to ask for.

"Sir."

Your father waits. He knows what's coming. Jungkook can see it in the set of his shoulders and the slight tilt of his head.

"I want to marry her."

Your father folds his hands and looks directly at him.

And says:

"No."

Like he was declining extra napkins. Like Jungkook had offered him a flyer for a kebab place he wasn't interested in. Like this whole hour meant absolutely nothing.

Jungkook stares. Surely there's more, surely there's a ‘but’ or an ‘unless’ or a ‘however’ waiting in the air, ready to step on stage and save this moment from being exactly what it sounds like.

There isn't.

Your father takes another sip of tea.

Jungkook blinks. His mouth feels dry. His ears are ringing. "Sir?"

"No."

"I understand, but—"

"No."

"Can I ask why?"

Your father nods. "You can."

Jungkook waits. Your father waits too.

Nothing happens.

"...Why?"

"Because I said no."

Jungkook nearly laughs. Not because it's funny, but because otherwise he might cry, and he's pretty sure crying in your father's kitchen would be the final nail in a coffin that's already been nailed shut, buried, and had a parking lot built over it.

⏔⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ♡ྀི ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔⏔

The drive home feels longer. His pride aches took, his heart too…everything aches, actually, in a way that makes him wonder if this is what adulthood feels like. He should probably be upset, and angry, and embarrassed that he poured his heart out to a man who responded with a single syllable.

But Jungkook finds himself smiling, a small smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth while he waits at a red light because beneath the frustration is something unexpected.

Your father didn't laugh or mock him or send him out, and he didn’t tell Jungkook to find someone else’s daughter to love and cherish. He didn't say Jungkook wasn't good enough, wasn't successful enough, wasn't worthy. He just said 'no', and then he said it again, and then he kept saying it until Jungkook ran out of questions.  He smiles because for two whole hours, he listened.

And Jungkook overthinks about it… a man doesn't spend two hours questioning someone he doesn't care about. A father doesn't interrogate a future son-in-law candidate unless the answer matters… unless the person sitting across from him is a real possibility.

‘No’ wasn't the end.

Jungkook glances at the road ahead, next Friday isn't far away. Five days, six hours, maybe less if he leaves work early. He can survive five days. He can survive anything if there's a chance at the end of it.

That evening, you're both sprawled across his couch, casually stealing fries from his plate. Your own plate sits untouched, still full, but you keep reaching for his anyway. Not because they're any different, just because they're his. This is the thing that you always do, and Jungkook loves it; it’s predictable and is exactly what he wants to come home to, exactly what he's fighting for.

Jungkook watches you. You glance up, caught, a fry halfway to your mouth.

"What?"

"Nothing."

Suspicious. Very suspicious. You narrow your eyes, and he sees your father in you for just a moment.

"What are you smiling about?"

He shakes his head. He can't tell you. Not yet. Not until he has something real to offer, something earned, something that proves he's serious. "Nothing."

You throw a fry at him. It bounces off his forehead and lands in his lap. You look proud, as if you've accomplished something significant, and your boyfriend laughs. Suddenly, the rejection doesn't feel so heavy anymore, because at the end of the day, every difficult conversation leads back to this. To you, to the future he's trying to build, one Friday at a time.

Jungkook picks up another fry. You steal that one too, quick as a cat, and he lets you. He doesn't even try to stop you. He watches you eat it, watches you chew, and for now, he lets you.

After all, he has bigger battles waiting for him next Friday. And the Friday after that. And however many it takes until your father finally says yes.

Now, 6 Months later

You are folding laundry when your phone buzzes against the coffee table, skittering like an insect that can't decide where to die. It's a text from him.

jk: Still at work, might be late for dinner, don't wait up

 You smile because, of course, he is. He's always at work, or the gym, or somewhere building his body while you eat instant noodles in sweatpants that have a hole in the left thigh. (no shame)

What you don't know is that your boyfriend is not at work. Your boyfriend is currently sitting in his car in front of your parents' house. He's been here before. Many times. 6 months of Fridays, to be exact, which is 24 Fridays, which is 24 times he's climbed out of this same car with his heart hammering against his ribs.

Jungkook checks his reflection in the rearview mirror. He looks good. He looks great, actually, black sweater, hair styled in that particular way that took him 45 and 3 YouTube tutorials. He looks like a man who deserves a ‘yes.’ He looks like a man who is about to get another 'no', but hope, as they say, is a stupid and beautiful thing that dies slowly.

"Okay," he whispers to himself. "Okay. This time."

He reaches into the backseat for the flowers, peonies this week, because last week your mother mentioned she liked them and Jungkook remembered. He bought pastries again from that French place across town that requires a reservation three days in advance. Your father sees him coming up the walk through the living room window, and he doesn't move.

"Who is it, dear?" your mother calls from the kitchen.

"Nobody," your father says, which is technically true because, as far as he's concerned, Jungkook hasn't earned the right to be somebody yet.

"Nobody" rings the doorbell. Your father counts to ten before he stands. He opens the door.

"Sir," Jungkook says.

"Jungkook," your father says, like he's surprised, like he hasn't been watching the car sit in the driveway for fifteen minutes. "Again?"

"Yes, sir. If you have a moment."

"I suppose I have a moment."

This is their ritual. Your father steps aside to let him in, and Jungkook enters your childhood home. He can smell your mother's cooking from the kitchen. Something with garlic. His stomach growls, which is embarrassing, but your father pretends not to notice because even he has limits to his cruelty.

"Flowers," Jungkook says, holding them out. "For Mrs. … he clears his throat…for your wife."

"She'll appreciate them."

"And these are from Maison Blanc. The almond croissants you mentioned."

"You remembered."

"I remember everything, sir."

This is the part where your father should feel bad. This is the part where a normal person would see the earnestness in this young man's face. Your father is not having any of it. "Sit," he says. "I'll make tea once again."

They sit in the living room. The couch is old, and Jungkook sinks into it the way he always does, while your father sits in his armchair. The tea is green and bitter. Jungkook hates green tea, but he drinks it anyway.

"So," your father says.

"Sir," Jungkook begins, and he sets down his cup because his hands are shaking again and he doesn't want to spill on the carpet. "I know I've asked before. Many times. But I'm here to ask again."

"Mhm."

"I love your daughter. I have loved her for…" He pauses, does the math "…two years, four months, and sixteen days. Not that I'm counting. I mean, I am counting. I have a calendar. That sounds creepy. It's not creepy. It's —"

"Jungkook."

"Yes, sir?"

"Deep breath, son."

Jungkook takes a deep breath. Your father watches him.

"Sir, may I have your blessing to marry your daughter?" The question hangs in the air between them.

Your father takes a sip of tea. He thinks about you,  his daughter, his only child, the person who once cried for three hours because her goldfish died and then forgot about it by dinner time. He thinks about the way you looked at Jungkook the first time you brought him home, like he was made of magic and promises. He thinks about the way Jungkook looks at you, like you are the only thing in the world that matters, like he would burn down every building between here and the sea if you asked him to.

He thinks, good.

Then he says: "No."

Jungkook nods. He expected this, but something in his chest still sinks, still curls up small and wounded. 25 rejections. 25 times he's asked.

"Can I ask again why, sir?"

"Because," your father says, and he leans forward, and Jungkook recognizes this posture. This is the posture of a man about to deliver a lesson. "You still flinch when I say no."

"I … what?"

"You flinch. Your shoulders go up, your eyes go down. You look like a dog that's been kicked." Your father's voice is not unkind, but it is firm. It is the voice of a man who has spent thirty years teaching high school English and knows exactly how to make a point land. "If you want to marry my daughter, you need to be able to hear 'no' without breaking. You need to be able to hear 'no' and keep standing anyway."

Jungkook stares at him. "You want me to… you're testing me??"

"I'm teaching you," your father corrects. "There's a difference."

"How long?"

"Until you stop flinching."

"And if I never stop flinching?"

Your father smiles. "Then you're not the man I thought you were, and my daughter deserves better."

They sit in silence. From the kitchen, your mother's voice rises in a question about dinner, and your father calls back that they'll be a while.

"You can go," your father says. "Unless you want to stay. Daeun made enough for three."

Jungkook should go. He knows he should go. He's supposed to meet you in two hours, and he needs to shower, and he needs to practice his smile so you won't know that he's been here again, that he's been rejected again, but the smell of garlic is making him dizzy with hunger, and your father's face has softened in a way it never has before, and something in Jungkook makes him stay.

"I'd like to stay," he says. "If that's okay."

Your father nods. "Set the table, then. You know where the plates are."

He does. He knows where everything is. He's been here enough times to have memorized the layout of your childhood home. He knows your father takes his coffee black and your mother hums when she cooks.  He knows these things because he loves you, and loving you means loving where you came from, even when where you came from keeps telling him no.

⏔⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ♡ྀི ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔⏔

You just got out of the shower when he texts again.

 jk: “omw saved you some dumplings. It was a coworker's bday today.”

Y/n doesn’t question anything. You don't know about the tea, or the conversation, or the way your father's eyes went soft when Jungkook finally laughed at one of his jokes. You have no idea that somewhere in your childhood home, there's a drawer where your father keeps the cards Jungkook has brought. And you definitely have no idea that your father talks about Jungkook to his friends, calls him "that persistent kid" with something like pride in his voice. You don't know that your boyfriend is learning how to be the kind of man who doesn't flinch. You don't know that his heart that's been broken so many times and still beats hopeful.

He thinks about you. He thinks about the way you look when you first wake up, he thinks about the way you laugh, he thinks about getting down on one knee and offering you everything he has, which is not much, which is everything. Because many months ago, he made a promise to himself that he would do this right, that he would have your father's blessing.

You text him

You: hurry up, I'm hungry, and the TV show just started!! <3

Three socks and a suspicion

You are standing in front of your open sock drawer when you realize something is wrong with your boyfriend. Not wrong-wrong, not cheating-wrong or lying-wrong or has-a-secret-family-in-a-whole-different-country-wrong.

Jungkook has been... off.

Not distant, if anything, he's been more present than usual, texting more, calling for no reason, showing up at your apartment with food he claims is "leftover from the guys" but is clearly freshly bought because since when does Namjoon eat salmon with lemon dill sauce? Since when does anyone in that dorm eat vegetables that aren't covered in cheese? (again, no shame)

You hold up three socks. None of them match.

"You're thinking loudly," Jungkook says from your bed, where he's sprawled on his stomach, scrolling through his phone. He always knows when you're thinking. It's one of his most annoying qualities as a boyfriend.

"I'm not thinking," you lie.

"Your forehead does this thing." He finally looks up, and his eyes… those big, dark eyes that you fell into like a well you never wanted to climb out of… crinkle at the corners. "It wrinkles. Right here."

"Maybe I'm just getting old."

"You're 23."

"24 in three months."

"Ancient," he agrees, solemn as a funeral. "Should I buy you a cane? Or maybe one of those chairs that lifts you up?"

"Jeon Jungkook."

"Yes, my elderly girlfriend?"

You giggle and throw a sock at him. "You've been weird lately," you say.

"Weird how?" he asks, and his voice is casual, perfectly casual, too casual.

"I don't know. Distracted. Happy distracted. Like you're not telling me something."

Something flickers across his face. Something that looks almost like panic, or maybe hope, or maybe a little bit of both.

"Maybe I am," he says, and then he smiles and pats the space on the bed next to him. "Come here. I'll tell you, angel."

You go because you've always been weak when it comes to him. After all, he could ask you to follow him into a burning building, and you'd follow. The bed dips under your weight.

"Tell me," you say.

"I can't."

"Jungkook."

"I literally can't. It's not my secret to tell…But I promise it's a good secret. The best secret, and when you find out." He stops and swallows… "when you find out, I hope you'll say yes."

Your heart does something complicated in your chest, a backflip, a small, confused seizure. "Say yes to what?"

"Everything," he whispers.

You should push. You know you should push, but he's looking at you like you're the only thing in the world, and you forget how to form words. You forget your own name. You lean in to kiss him because that's the only thing your brain will allow, you kiss him and he kisses you back.

Your mother knows.

She's known since week three, when she came home early from her book club and found Jungkook washing dishes in their kitchen while your father dried. They were arguing about baseball, and your father was laughing. She stood in the doorway and watched them.

"Mrs. Y/L/N" Jungkook had stuttered when he saw her, dropping a plate back into the sink with a splash that soaked his shirt. "I can explain."

"Can you?" she'd asked, one eyebrow raised.

"Not really. No. I'm sorry."

She'd looked at your father, who was doing a terrible job of looking innocent. Your father, who had told Jungkook ‘no’ 13 times at that time, showed no signs of stopping.

"How long?" she'd asked your father.

"13 weeks," he'd said, like he was proud of it. Like this was an accomplishment.

"And how many more?"

"We'll see."

Your mother had sighed then, it's the sigh of a woman who has been married to this man for 22 years and has learned that some battles are not worth fighting. She'd picked up a towel, started drying the plate that Jungkook had abandoned, and said: "He likes the almond croissants from Maison Blanc. But the chocolate ones are better."

Jungkook had stared at her. "You're not... mad?"

"Oh, I'm furious," she'd said, and smiled. "But I'm also hungry, and you two have clearly been eating without me, so you're taking me to dinner. Somewhere expensive."

That was week 13.

⏔⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ♡ྀི ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔⏔

Now it's week 27, and your mother has become Jungkook's accomplice. She texts him recipes your father likes. She has, on two occasions, lied to you about where Jungkook is on Friday afternoons, which makes her feel slightly guilty, but she's never seen your father have this much fun. Not at your graduation, not at your sister's wedding, not when he finally beat his brother at golf after 15 years of losing. This ridiculous ritual of weekly interrogation is the most fun he's had in decades.

"He's coming today," your father says now, not looking up from his newspaper. It's Friday. It's 3:30. He checked the clock four times in the last hour.

"I know," your mother says.

"He's bringing those almond things."

"You love almond things."

"I tolerate them," he corrects.

She sits down across from him. "You know you're going to ahve to say ‘yes’ eventually."

"Do I?"

"Yes. Because, despite your best efforts, you like him. You like him more than you liked Minji's husband, and you liked Minji's husband enough to cry at their wedding."

Your father sniffs. "I had allergies."

"You had feelings." She reaches across the table and touches his hand. "When are you going to tell her?"

"Who?"

"Your daughter. The person this actually concerns."

Your father is quiet for a long moment. Outside, Jungkook's car pulls up, and your father straightens his shoulders and puts on his mask of indifference to become the man who says ‘no.’

"When he stops flinching," your father says. "Or when she figures it out. Whichever comes first."

"And if she never figures it out?"

Your father smiles. It's a small, complicated smile, the smile of a man who has spent his life teaching other people lessons they didn't know they needed to learn. "Then she's not as smart as I raised her to be," he says, "and Jungkook will have to keep coming forever."

The doorbell rings. Your mother gets up to answer it, leaving your father to his newspaper and his anticipation and his strange, stubborn hope.

⏔⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ♡ྀི ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔⏔

Jungkook is not flinching today.

He's thought about it all week, actually, ever since your father said those words like a challenge.

He's practiced in the mirror. He's practiced in the shower. He's practiced saying ‘no’ to himself, which felt ridiculous but also necessary.

He stands on your parents' porch with lilies-of-the-valley in one hand and chocolate croissants in the other. He switched because he suspects your father is tired of pretending to like almonds.

I will not flinch, he thinks.

Your mother opens the door. "Chocolate," she says, looking at the box. "Smart boy."

"I have it on good authority that almonds are overrated."

"Your authority is correct. Come in. He's in his usual spot."

The living room is the same as always. The couch is waiting to swallow him. The armchair is waiting to judge him. Your father is waiting to break his heart, gently.

"Sir," Jungkook says. He doesn't sit. Not yet.

"Jungkook." Your father folds his newspaper. "You're early."

"I couldn't wait."

"Eager to be rejected?"

"Eager to try."

They sit. The tea is prepared, black today, not green, which Jungkook takes as a good sign, or maybe just as your mother intervening on his behalf. The chocolate croissants are placed on a plate.

"So," your father says.

"Sir," Jungkook says, and he sets down his cup, and he looks your father directly in the eyes, and he does not look away. "May I have your blessing to marry your daughter?"

Your father opens his mouth to say ‘no.’

Jungkook does not flinch or move, and your father notices. Your father notices, and something shifts in his expression like seeing a student finally understand the lesson.

"No," your father says.

Jungkook does not flinch.

"Okay," Jungkook says. "I'll ask again next week."

Your father leans forward. "Why?"

"Because I love her. Because I want to do this right. Because… because you saying ‘no’ doesn't change what I want. It just changes how long I have to wait."

Your father is very still. From the kitchen, your mother is listening, holding her breath, ready to intervene if necessary.

"And if I never say yes?" your father asks. "If I keep saying ‘no’ until you're old and gray and she's moved on to someone else?"

"Then I'll keep coming," Jungkook says, and he means it. "I'll keep coming because this isn't about you. It's about her. And she deserves someone who doesn't give up just because it's hard."

Your father looks at him for a long time. "You're not flinching," your father says quietly.

"No, sir. I'm not."

Your father sits back. He picks up his tea. He drinks it, slowly, thoughtfully, like he's tasting something new. "The chocolate croissants are better," he says finally. “Do you think I’m being cruel to you?”

"No, I understand you’re being careful."

"Do you?"

"I have a sister," Jungkook says. "She's younger, if someone wanted to marry her, I'd want them to work for it. I'd want to know if they were serious." He pauses, chooses his words carefully. "I don't think you're cruel, sir. I think you're scared. And I think that's okay. Because I'm scared too."

Your father laughs. It's a short, surprised sound, like a cough that turned into something better. "You're scared? Of what?"

"Of not being enough. Of messing up. Of all of it…marriage, forever, being someone's whole world. What if I'm bad at it? What if I hurt her? What if I try my best and my best isn't good enough?"

Jungkook realizes he's said too much, but your father doesn't attack. He just nods, slowly, like he's hearing an answer to a question he didn't know he was asking.

"So that's why you flinched," your father says. "Not because of me. Because of the fear."

"Yes, sir."

"And now?"

Jungkook thinks about the fear, which is still there; it will always be there, he knows that now. He thinks about the future, which is uncertain, which is terrifying, which is beautiful because it contains you.

"Now I'm scared," he says, "but I'm here anyway."

"Next week," your father says. "Bring the almond croissants. I changed my mind. I like them better."

"Yes, sir."

"And Jungkook?"

"Yes?"

Your father turns around and smiles, "Stop calling me sir. My name is Seojun."

⏔⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ♡ྀི ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔⏔

You are eating a salad when Jungkook finally shows up, two hours late.

"Sorry," he says, dropping onto your couch with the boneless grace of a man who has been through something and survived. "A meeting ran long."

"Liar," you say, but you're smiling because he's here. He's always here, because even when he's keeping secrets, he's keeping them with such obvious love that you can't really be mad.

"Am I?"

"You're wearing a hoodie. You don't wear a hoodie to meetings."

He looks down at himself, surprised, like he hadn't noticed. "Huh. Guess I'm caught."

"Guess you are. Where were you, really?"

"I was," he says slowly, "learning how to be brave."

"Jungkook…”

"And I think," he continues, "that I'm almost there, almost ready., my love." He reaches out, tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers are warm. "Soon," he promises. "Soon you'll know everything.”

"Okay," you say. "But if this secret is bad, if you're secretly a criminal or you have a twin, I'm going to be mad."

He pulls you close, rests his chin on your head, and you can feel his heartbeat against your cheek. "I love you," he says, like it's a promise, like it's a prayer, like it's the only true thing in the world.

"I love you too," you say..

The Blessing

You are standing in the middle of your apartment holding a spoon when the world changes. Your mother calls, and her voice, when you answer, sounds strange.

"You need to come home," she says. "This Friday. Four o'clock."

"Mom, I have work-"

"Four o'clock," she repeats, "And honey? Don't tell Jungkook."

"Mom...?," you say slowly, "what's going on...?"

But she already hung up.

⏔⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ♡ྀི ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔⏔

Jungkook knows something is different. He's known since Tuesday, when your mother texted him with instructions for this Friday that were more specific than usual.

Daeun: Wear the blue shirt, and bring the small box, not the big one. She's suspicious enough already.

He's been carrying the small box for four months. It lives in his gym bag, wrapped in an old T-shirt, tucked between his protein powder and his backup headphones. He's taken it to work, to the convenience store at 2 am, when you wanted ice cream. He checks his reflection in the rearview mirror. The blue shirt, your favorite.

Today feels different. Today feels like the last time, one way or another. He drives across town with the box in his pocket and his heart in his throat. He doesn't know you're already there. He doesn't know that your mother finally broke, finally told you everything, finally couldn't stand keeping the secret for one more day. He doesn't know that you're sitting in your childhood bedroom right now, listening to your mother's rushed explanation to you, “Every Friday, for 6 months, he…” with your hands shaking and your eyes filling with tears that you can't quite name.

Are you angry? You should be angry. He kept a secret. A big one. A secret that involved your father and pastries and some kind of ongoing test that you apparently needed to pass without knowing you were taking it. But underneath the anger is something else that feels like being chosen, over and over again.

"Why didn't you tell me?" you ask your mother, and your voice sounds small, like a child's.

"Because he asked us not to. Because he wanted to do it right. And because your father was having too much fun to stop."

"He's been rejecting him? For 6 months?"

"29 times," your mother says. "This will be 30."

"That's…" you stop, because you don't know what that is. Cruel? Romantic?  "Where are they?"

"Living room…waiting."

You stand up. Your legs feel unsteady, and you walk to the door, opening it and hear:

"You're late," your father says.

"Traffic," Jungkook replies, and his voice is steady.

You walk slowly and silently down the hall. You can see them through the doorway. Your father in his armchair, the throne, Jungkook on the couch.

"So," your father says. "This is 30."

"Yes, sir."

"You know what I'm going to say."

"I think so," Jungkook says. "But I'd like to hear it anyway."

"You stopped flinching," your father says. "Week 26. Do you remember?"

"I remember."

"I thought that would be it. I thought I'd say ‘yes’ then, and we'd be done with this." Your father leans forward. "But then I realized… flinching was just the first test. The easy one. The real test is what you do after."

Jungkook is very still. "And?"

"And you've shown up," your father says. "29 times. Through my bad moods and my stupid questions and that week where I made you help me clean the garage because I wanted to see if you'd complain."

"I didn't complain, sir."

"Yes, that's right."

You are holding your breath. You realize this only when your lungs start to hurt, when the edges of your vision go blurry. You let it out, slow and silent, and you watch your father's face.

"Jungkook," your father says.

"Yes, sir?"

"Do you love my daughter?"

"More than anything."

"Will you keep loving her? When is she difficult? When she's tired? When she's been your wife for 20, and the newness has worn off, and you're left with just, with her ordinary flaws?"

Jungkook doesn't hesitate. "Yes."

"Will you keep showing up?"

"Every day," Jungkook says, and his voice breaks slightly, but he doesn't flinch. He doesn't look away. "Every Friday. Every Tuesday. Every day that ends in Y, I'll keep showing up until you believe me, and then I'll keep showing up so you don't forget."

"Jungkook," your father says.

"Yes, sir?"

"My name is Seojun."

"I know, sir. I mean — I know, Seojun."

Your father stands up. He walks to Jungkook, who stands too, automatic, respectful, ready for whatever comes next. He puts his hand on Jungkook's shoulder.

"Yes," your father says.

Jungkook's face crumples for a blink…the relief, the exhaustion, the pure happiness of finally being enough.

"Thank you," Jungkook whispers. "Thank you, sir. Thank you-"

"Seojun," your father corrects, but he's smiling. "And you're welcome. Now…" he steps back, clears his throat "…you have a question to ask, don't you? Might want to get to it. She's standing right behind you."

Jungkook turns.

You are crying. You didn't realize you were crying, but your face is wet, and your hands are shaking, and you can't seem to make your mouth form words. You look at him. at your boyfriend, at this stubborn, persistent man who loved you enough to endure 29 rejections just for the chance to propose properly.

"You…" you start, and your voice breaks. "You idiot. You absolute…why didn't you tell me?"

"I wanted to- " he starts, and then stops, because you're walking toward him, and then you're in his arms.

"I would have said yes," you mumble into his shoulder. "Week one. I would have said yes."

"I know," he says.

"Ask me," you say.

"What?"

"Ask me. You came here thirty times to ask him, now ask me."

Jungkook's hands are shaking. He reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out the small box. It's worn from being carried, from being hidden.

He gets down on one knee. Your mother appears in the doorway, raising the phone to record this, to capture it, to prove that it really happened.

"Okay," Jungkook says, and he's crying now too; you realize the tears tracking down his face in the most undignified, most beautiful way. "Okay. I've been practicing this. In the car. In the shower. In my head, about a thousand times." He opens the box. The ring is simple, exactly right, exactly you. "I love you. I've loved you for two years and four months and thirty days. Your father told me I wasn't ready. But I think- I hope- I'm ready now. Will you…" He stops, swallows, starts again, " …will you marry me? Will you let me keep showing up? Will you be my family, officially?"

You look at him. You look at your father, who is wiping his eyes with the back of his hand and pretending he's not. You look at your mother, who is crying, who has been waiting for this for weeks when she first saw Jungkook washing dishes in her kitchen.

You look at Jungkook.

"Yes," you say. "Yes, you idiot. Yes, I'll marry you. Yes to all of it. Yes, forever."

He puts the ring on your finger.  He stands up, and he kisses you.

⏔⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ♡ྀི ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔⏔

Later, after the crying and the laughing and your father insisting on opening the good wine that he's been saving for something important, you sit on the porch with Jungkook, your hand in his, the ring catching the light.

"30 Fridays," you say. "You came here 30 times."

"29 rejections," he confirms. "One yes."

"Was it worth it?"

He looks at you. He looks at you like he looked at you the first time, like he'll look at you when you're old and gray and arguing about whose turn it is to take out the trash.

"Every single one," he says. "I'd do 30 more. 300. However many it will take."

You lean your head on his shoulder.

Inside, your father is telling your mother that he knew Jungkook would make it, that he never doubted, that he was just testing him to be sure. Your mother is rolling her eyes and pouring more wine and smiling in a way that says she knows exactly what really happened. That her husband has already accepted your boyfriend somewhere around week twelve, and has been pretending otherwise ever since.

But that's their story.

This is yours.

The future is waiting.

It's going to be exhausting and beautiful and completely worth it.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▱▰▱▰▱

a/n: i might have cried a little

hope you enojyed !! >.<

Tall and slender, with delicate features and an expensive-looking cream gown that probably cost more than your entire tuition. Her dark hair was styled in an elegant updo, and she wore diamonds at her ears and throat. She was looking up at Jungkook with an expression of adoration that made your stomach clench.

You snatched the magazine from the rack, your hands trembling as you flipped to the article inside. There were more pictures-Jungkook and the woman talking to an older couple who looked important, Jungkook's hand resting possessively on the small of her back, Jungkook leaning in to say something in her ear that made her laugh.

The caption read: "Jeon Jungkook, heir to the Jeon business empire, attends the annual Seoul Children's Charity Gala with Park Min-hee, daughter of Park Sung-hoon of Park Pharmaceuticals. Sources close to the families suggest an announcement may be imminent, marking the union of two of Korea's most powerful business dynasties."

You felt sick. An announcement? Union? He'd told you he just went to a gala, he'd never mentioned anything about an announcement, about a union.

You paid for your coffee and the magazine with shaking hands. Outside, the morning air felt cold against your skin, and you suddenly couldn't breathe. You stumbled to a nearby bench and sat down, your heart pounding.

Why hadn't he told you? If this was just business, as he'd claimed, why hide it? Why lie by omission?

You pulled out your phone, your fingers fumbling as you searched for his name. You needed to hear his voice, needed him to explain away the pictures and the captions, needed him to tell you it was all just a misunderstanding.

The call went straight to voicemail. You tried again, with the same result. Third time, same.

jk: Can't talk right now. In a meeting. Everything okay?

You stared at his message, anger and hurt warring inside you. A meeting? Was that what he was calling it now? A meeting with his suitable future wife?

You: No. Everything is not okay.

You: I saw the pictures.

You: Is there something you want to tell me?

You hit send before you could lose your nerve, then immediately regretted it. You sounded jealous and possessive...everything you'd agreed not to be. But you couldn't help it.

Your phone buzzed ten minutes later, and you answerd .

"Hello?" you said, your voice tight.

"Hey…Sorry about the meeting. My father can be... intense."

"I'm sure," you said, your tone clipped. "Busy day of business?"

"Something like that." He paused. "You saw the magazine?"

"I did," you said. "It was quite the spread. You and your... associate looked very happy together."

He sighed, and you could hear the frustration in his breath "It's not what you think."

"Really? Because it looks like you're standing next to your future fiancée at a charity gala, smiling for the cameras while the world speculates about your union."

"It's not like that" he said, his voice sharp. "It's just business. My father wants me to make connections, to be seen with the right people. It doesn't mean anything."

"Doesn't mean anything?" You couldn't keep the disbelief out of your voice. "Jungkook, they're talking about an announcement, that sounds like it means something to someone."

"To my father," he corrected. "To my mother. Not to me."

"And what about me?" you asked, your voice trembling. "Where do I fit into this business arrangement? Or don't I?"

"Of course you do," he said, but his words lacked conviction. "This is just... something I have to do. For my family."

"Your family or your business empire?"

"There's a difference?" he asked, and you could hear the weariness in his voice. "Look, I don't have time for this right now. I'm in the middle of something important."

"More important than explaining why you lied to me?"

"I didn't lie," he said, his patience clearly wearing thin. "I just didn't tell you everything because I knew you'd react like this."

"React like what?" you demanded, your anger rising. "Like a person who's hurt to find out the guy she's sleeping with is apparently getting engaged to someone else in a business transaction?"

"It's not a business transaction," he snapped. "And I'm not getting engaged to anyone. You shouldn't worry about things you don't understand!"

"Things I don't understand?!" You repeated, incredulous. "Oh, I'm sorry. I guess my simple scholarship brain can't comprehend the complexities of arranged marriages disguised as romance."

"It's complicated…family politics, business obligations, things that have nothing to do with us."

"Then why did you hide it from me?" you asked, your voice softer now, more pleading. "Why didn't you just tell me the truth?"

"Because I knew you'd overreact," he said, and his words landed like a blow. "Because I knew you'd make it about you when it's not."

"Make it about me?" You felt tears stinging your eyes. "Jungkook, you're standing next to another woman in a magazine article about your impending engagement, and you're telling me I'm making it about me?"

"I have to go," he said abruptly. "My father is calling me into another meeting."

"Of course you do," you said, your voice flat. "Wouldn't want to keep the future head of the Jeon empire waiting."

"Don't be like that," he said, his voice softening slightly. "I'll call you when I get back to the hotel tonight."

"Don't bother," you said, and hung up before he could respond.

You sat on the bench for a long time, the magazine open on your lap, your coffee growing cold beside you. Students passed by, laughing and talking, oblivious to the storm raging inside you.

Lisa found you there twenty minutes later, her expression concerned when she saw your face.

"What's wrong?" she asked, sitting beside you. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Worse," you said, pushing the magazine toward her. "I've seen the future."

She scanned the article, her eyes widening. "Oh, honey. I'm so sorry."

Lisa's arm wrapped around my shoulders, pulling me into a side hug that felt both comforting and suffocating. I could feel her gaze on me, heavy with pity, and I hated it. I hated being the girl who needed pity.

"I'm so stupid," I whispered, the words barely audible past the lump in my throat.

"You're not stupid," Lisa said firmly, her voice a low anchor in the storm of my thoughts. "You're human. You kinda fell for a guy who happens to come with a multi-billion-dollar empire and a society-approved fiancée.”

Your words hit home with painful accuracy. The ride with Jungkook had been exhilarating. The late-night texts, the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the room, the feeling of his hands on your skin, the sex. It had been too good to give up.

"What do I do?" you asked, looking at her, your vision blurred with unshed tears. You felt lost, and hurt, every part of you screamed to run, to delete his number and pretend these 4 weeks weeks never happened. But another part, a weaker and more foolish part of you wanted to hear his explanation, wanted to believe him when he said it meant nothing.

"First," Lisa said, standing up and pulling you with her, "we're going back to the dorm. You're going to take a shower, and I'm going to order us the greasiest, most comforting pizza known to man."

"And after that?" you asked, letting her lead you back toward the dorms, your feet dragging.

"After that," she said, her voice gentle, "you're going to decide what you want. And then you're going to tell him."

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

The pizza arrived, but you couldn't eat. Lisa put on some ridiculous show about wealthy housewives fighting over dinner party invitations, but you couldn't focus.

Your phone sat on the nightstand, silent and dark, a monument to your own foolishness. Every time it buzzed with a notification, your heart leaped into your throat, only to sink when it was just an email from a professor or a group chat notification.

Around midnight, as Lisa was dozing off beside you, your phone finally lit up with his name. You stared at it, your thumb hovering over the green accept button. Part of you wanted to answer, to scream at him, to demand an explanation. Another part wanted to let it ring, to let him feel a fraction of the uncertainty you'd been feeling all day.

In the end, you did neither. You let it go to voicemail.

A minute later, a text came through.

jk: Are you there? Please pick up.

Another minute passed.

jk: I know you're angry. Just... let me explain.

You turned your phone over, face down on the nightstand, and pulled the covers over your head. You weren't ready to hear his explanations. You weren't ready to be placated with pretty words and empty promises. You needed time to think, to figure out what Lisa had asked you to figure out: what did you want?

The answer came to you in the quiet hours of the morning, long after Lisa had fallen asleep and the only sounds were the hum of the mini-fridge and the distant chirping of crickets. You wanted to be seen. Not as the scholarship girl, not as the temporary distraction, not as the unsuitable secret. You wanted to be seen as someone who mattered, you wanted to be more than just business.

Monday was a blur of classes you couldn't focus on and professors whose words blended into meaningless noise. You moved through the day like a ghost, your body present but your mind somewhere else, replaying his words in your mind. You shouldn't worry about things you don't understand.

By the time your last class ended, you were exhausted, emotionally and physically. All you wanted was to go back to your dorm, crawl into bed, and pretend the world didn't exist.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

But fate, it seemed, had other plans.

As you left the lecture hall, you saw him leaning against the wall near the exit. He was wearing dark jeans that hugged his muscular thighs and a simple black t-shirt that did little to hide the powerful lines of his chest and arms. His dark hair was slightly messy, falling over his forehead in a way that made your stomach clench. He was smoking his usual clove cigarettes.

Students glanced at him as they passed. He ignored them all, his eyes fixed on you. For a moment, you considered turning around, walking back into the lecture hall and hiding until he left, but then your eyes met, and you knew you couldn't run forever, and especially not from him, the man whose penthouse you knew with your eyes closed, the man who made you feel seen.

"Hey," he said, pushing off the wall and stubbing out his cigarette. "I've been looking for you."

"Congratulations," you said, your voice colder than you intended. "You found me."

He didn't back away. "Can we talk?"

"I think we said everything we needed to say on the phone."

"No," he said, his voice low. "We didn't. I shouldn't have said what I said. I was... stressed. And angry. But that's not an excuse."

You crossed your arms over your chest, a defensive gesture you couldn't help. "What do you want, Jungkook?"

"To explain," he said, stepping closer. "To apologize. To make you understand."

"Make me understand what?" you asked, your voice rising slightly. "That I'm just a distraction? That when you're done playing with me, that you'll go back to your world and marry someone suitable, just like I told you would at the diner?"

"That's not it," he said, his voice urgent. "It's not like that at all."

"Then what is it like?" you demanded, your frustration boiling over. "Because it looks to me like you're living a double life. And I'm the part you keep hidden in the shadows."

"Because I'm trying to protect you!" he burst out, his voice louder than intended. Several students turned to look at us, and he lowered his voice, his eyes pleading. "My father... he's not a good man, Y/N. He's ruthless."

"He'd what?" you challenged, though a part of you was terrified of the answer. "Have me expelled? Ruin my scholarship? Have me disappeared?" you say sarcastically.

"I don't know," he admitted, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

"So what?" you asked, your anger softening slightly. "You're just going to marry this girl? Play the part of the dutiful son? Hm? You're going to be my Archer, and I'm your Ellen Olenska?" (ifykyk)

"No," he said, reaching for your hand, then stopping himself. "I want you without hiding from anyone, but I'm trying to figure out how to have that... without destroying you in the process."

"Destroying me? By lying to me? By letting me find out from a gossip magazine that you're apparently engaged to someone else?"

"It's not an engagement," he said, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "It's a possibility. Something my father and her father are discussing. Something my mother is encouraging. But it's not a done deal. And it's not what I want."

"What do you want?" you asked, echoing the question you'd asked yourself the night before.

"You."

You looked over at him and noticed that conflict in his eyes, like the weight of the world was sitting right on his shoulders. He felt stuck between the life he was born into and the life he craved with you, and honestly, he didn't know how to stitch the two together, not even a little.

"I need time," you said finally, your voice soft. "I can't... I can't just pretend this didn't happen. I can't just go back to your apartment and pretend everything is normal."

"I know, just... don't shut me out. Let me prove to you that I'm not the monster you think I am."

"I don't think you're a monster," you admitted. "I think you're a man who's in way over his head. And I'm not sure I'm not sure I'm strong enough to survive it."

The words hung between us, fragile and honest. You hadn't meant to say them, hadn't meant to reveal the depth of your fear, but there they were, out in the open, vulnerable and raw.

Jungkook’s expression sort of softened; the sharp edges on his jaw just… relaxed a bit as he moved another step closer.

“You’re the strongest person I know,” he said, and his voice was low. “You work a job while keeping a scholarship that half the students here can’t manage, not even with private tutors. You take care of yourself; you don’t really ask for help; you don’t complain. You make it through each day in a world that wasn’t built for you. Don’t tell me you aren’t strong enough.”

"Strong enough to survive, maybe," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "But not strong enough to be your secret. Not strong enough to be the other woman."

"You're not the other woman," he said, his frustration evident. "There's no one else. There's only you."

"Then what is she?" you asked, your voice trembling with suppressed emotion. "The woman in the magazine? The one your parents approve of? The one they're planning your future with?"

"She's the past," he said, his voice firm. "Or would be, if I had any say in-"

"I need to go," you said, turning away before you could change my mind. "I have a paper to finish."

"Y/N," he called after you, his voice pleading.

"I'm just... taking a step back. I need to think, to figure out what I want."

"And if what you want isn't me?" he asked, his voice barely audible.

"Then I guess we'll both have to live with that," you said, though the thought sent a sharp pain through your chest.

You walked off before he could even answer, your heart going crazy with each step. You didn’t look over, didn’t allow yourself to catch sight of the expression on his face, you didn’t let your guard down and turn around to fall back into his arms again. You just kept moving, util you finally reached your dorm room safely, with the door shut and sort of right there between us.

Lisa looked up from her textbook, her expression concerned. "You okay?"

"I will be," you said, dropping onto your bed and burying your face in your pillow. "Eventually."

"Did you talk to him?" she asked, setting her book aside.

"I did," you said, your voice muffled by the pillow. "It didn't help."

"What did he say?"

"The usual," you said, rolling onto your back and staring at the ceiling. "That it's not what it looks like, that he's trying to protect me, that it's all just business."

"And do you believe him?"

"I want to," you admitted. "I really, really want to. But I'm not sure I can."

"Then don't," she said simply. "Not until you're sure. Not until he's sure."

You nodded, though you weren't sure what that meant. How could he be sure of anything when he was caught between two worlds, two lives, two versions of himself?

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

The next few days just slid by like time was stuck. Jungkook didn’t call or text, and you didn’t really reach out either. You threw yourself into your studies, spending these long hours in the library, trying to dodge everything by drowning in the Modernist poetry. Still, even there it didn’t feel like you could get away from him. Every single time you saw the Jeon name engraved on the library, the Art building, and the business school, it would snap you back to the world he came from.

On Wednesday, as you were leaving the library, your phone buzzed.

jk: still mad ?

you: what do you think?

jk: fair enough.

Then the chat went silent for a few minutes.

jk: i’m gonna call you now

You didn’t even have time to process the message when your phone already buzzed. You didn’t answer, and he called multiple times- way too many times for just a hookup, for just a fwb situation, and you replied with a simple “I think it’s for the best if you leave me alone for now.”

The next morning, you woke up with a headache and a heart full of regret. You'd pushed him away, and part of you wondered if you'd ever find your way back. But then you remembered the magazine, and you knew you'd made the right choice. Even if it hurt, even if it broke your heart, and maybe his too. You deserved more than that. And if he couldn't give you more, then you had to walk away, no matter how much it hurt.

You got out of bed, showered, and dressed for your shift at the bookstore. You needed the distraction, needed the routine, needed the comfort of familiar faces and predictable tasks.

When you arrived, Jimin was behind the counter at your job. He was your boss, and he was a little older than you, but he was always so nice to you, giving you extra money if you stayed over the working hours, and giving you as many days as you needed to have to recover if you were sick.

"Rough night?" he asked, his expression softening with concern as he took in your appearance.

"You could say that," you said, forcing a smile. "Just... personal stuff."

"Anything I can help with?" he asked, leaning against the counter.

"Unless you can magically make you forget your own name, probably not," you said, your voice dry.

He laughed, though his eyes were still full of concern. "Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me. I make a mean cup of hot chocolate, and I'm an excellent listener."

"Thanks, Jimin," you said, your smile genuine this time. "I appreciate it."

"Anytime," he said, his eyes lingering on yours for a moment before he turned to help a customer.

You spent the next few hours stocking shelves and helping customers, trying to lose yourself in the familiar rhythm of the bookstore. But even there, you couldn't escape your thoughts. Every time you saw a couple browsing together, every time you looked at the stockroom, it reminded you of Jungkook; you were pulled back into the storm of your emotions.

When your shift ended, you were so tired, but Jimin had other plans.

"Hey," he said, catching you as you were about to leave. "I was thinking... since you've had a rough day, maybe you'd want to grab a drink? My treat."

You hesitated, torn between your desire to be alone and your need for distraction. "I don't know, Jimin. I'm not really in the mood to be social."

"That's okay," he said, his smile gentle. "We don't have to talk. We can just sit and drink in companionable silence. Or we can talk about books. Or we can talk about anything but the reason you're upset. Your call."

And in that moment, you made a decision, a reckless, impulsive decision that would change everything.

"Okay," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "But just one drink."

His smile widened, relieved and pleased. "Great. There's a place just around the corner. They have the best soju in town."

"Lead the way," you said, forcing a smile you didn't feel.

The bar was small and dimly, you found a booth in the corner, and Jimin ordered a bottle of soju and two glasses.

"To forgetting," he said, raising his glass in a toast.

"To forgetting," you echoed, clinking his glass before downing the contents in one go. The soju burned a trail down your throat, a welcome distraction from the ache in your chest.

Jimin refilled your glass without a word, his eyes full of understanding. You drank in silence for a while, the alcohol dulling the sharp edges of your pain, softening the memories of Jungkook's voice, his face, his touch.

"So," Jimin said finally, breaking the silence. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not really," you said, shaking your head. "But I think I need to."

He nodded, his expression encouraging. "I'm listening."

"It's just... I trusted him," you began, your voice trembling slightly. "I thought what we had was real, even if we never defined it. I thought he cared about me, you know? Really cared."

"And he doesn't?" Jimin asked gently.

"I don't know," you admitted, staring into your glass. "I think he does, in his own way. But it's not enough. It's never enough."

"Because of…?" Jimin guessed, and you looked at him, surprised.

"Family, I guess."

"I'm so sorry," Jimin said, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. "You don't deserve that. You deserve someone proud to be with you, someone who isn't afraid to show you off to the world."

Tears pricked your eyes, and you blinked them back, refusing to cry in the middle of a crowded bar. "I thought he was that someone," you whispered, your voice breaking. "Stupid, right?"

"No," Jimin said, his voice firm. "Not stupid. Hopeful. There's a difference."

You drank in silence again, the alcohol loosening your tongue, lowering your inhibitions. You found yourself telling him things you hadn't told anyone—not even Lisa—about the way that person made you feel, the way he looked at you, the way he touched you, the rare moments of vulnerability when he'd let you see the man behind the reputation.

"He's intense," you said, swirling the soju in your glass. "Possessive. Jealous. But also surprisingly gentle, you know? In those rare moments when he lets his guard down, when he's not trying to be… whatever…and I think I might be in love with that boy."

"Then you deserve to have him," Jimin said, his voice soft. "All of him, not just the parts he's willing to share."

"I don't think that's possible," you said, shaking your head.

"Then maybe you deserve someone else," Jimin suggested, his eyes meeting yours. "Someone who can give you all of himself, without reservation."

"Like who?" you asked, your voice challenging.

"Like me," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

You leaned across the table and kissed him.

It was a clumsy, desperate kiss, fueled by spite and loneliness and the burning need to forget. The cheap wooden table pressed into your ribs, a stark reminder of the public nature of this moment, but you didn't care. Let them watch. Let them see. Let the whole damn world know that you were not some possession to be hidden away, some secret to be ashamed of. You were a person with desires and needs and the right to act on them, even if those actions were born from a place of pain.

Jimin was surprised at first, his body tense with shock, his lips unyielding against yours. For a horrifying second, you thought he would push you away, would reject you, would add to the ever-growing pile of hurts that had accumulated in your heart over the past few weeks. But then he relaxed, his lips parting under yours, his hand coming up to cup the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair. The gesture was so gentle, so accepting, that it almost made you cry.

The kiss deepened, your tongues tangling in a slow, exploratory dance. It was different from kissing Jungkook, softer, gentler, less demanding. There was no intensity, no possessiveness, no desperate need to consume and be consumed. With Jungkook, every kiss was a battle, a war for dominance, a declaration of ownership that both thrilled and terrified you. He would bite your lower lip, his hands would grip your hips hard enough to leave bruises, his tongue would invade your mouth with a confidence that bordered on arrogance. It was exhilarating and intoxicating.

Jimin's kiss was none of those things. It was nice, pleasant, but it didn't set you on fire the way Jungkook's kisses did. But it was enough to distract you, enough to make you forget, if only for a moment, the ache in your chest. The ache that had been there for weeks now, ever since you'd discovered the truth about Jungkook's other life, the life he had kept hidden from you, the life that didn't seem to have room for you in the light of day.

"Let's get out of here," Jimin whispered against your lips, his breath warm and sweet with the smell of soju and something uniquely him—mint and vanilla. It was a comforting smell, a safe smell, and you found yourself nodding before you'd even fully processed his words.

He paid the bill, ignoring the bartender's knowing smirk, and led you out into the cool night air. The streetlights cast long shadows as you walked in silence to his apartment, a small but tidy space above a bakery. The air was thick with the smell of sugar and yeast, a comforting aroma that reminded you of childhood mornings, of a time when your world was simple, and your heart was unbroken.

His lips were on yours again the moment the door closed, his hands roaming your body, exploring curves and hollows with a gentle curiosity that was both comforting and unsettling. You responded in kind, your fingers tangling in his soft hair, your body pressing against his, your mind a blur of alcohol and hormones. His hands traced the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist, the swell of your hips, each touch sending shivers through your body despite the warmth of the room.

He led you to the bedroom, his lips never leaving yours, his hands never ceasing their exploration. You fell onto his bed, a tangle of limbs and desperation, your clothes discarded in a heap on the floor—his shirt, your dress, his jeans, your panties—each piece removed with a tenderness that contradicted the urgency of your actions.

Jimin's eyes darkened with appreciation as he revealed them, his fingers tracing the delicate patterns of the lace before carefully unhooking your bra. His touch was gentle, almost reverent, as if he were afraid you might break. He kissed every inch of your skin, his lips soft and warm, his hands caressing and soothing. He took his time, mapping your body with his mouth and hands.

It was nice, pleasant, but it wasn't enough to fill the void inside you, to quiet the voice in your head that kept whispering Jungkook's name. You tried to lose yourself in the moment, to focus on the sensations, the feel of Jimin's hands on your body, the taste of his lips, the sound of his breathing, but your mind kept drifting back to Jungkook, to the way he touched you, the way he possessed you, the way he made you feel alive and desired and completely, utterly his.

Jimin must have sensed your distraction because he pulled back, his expression concerned. "Are you okay, angel?" he asked, his voice soft.

The pet name, so simple, so sweet, almost broke you. Jungkook had never called you anything like that, never a pet name.

"I'm fine," you lied, forcing a smile. "Just... a little drunk."

"Me too," he admitted, his smile sheepish. "Maybe we should slow down…?"

"No," you said, your voice more forceful than you intended. "I don't want to slow down. I don't want to think. I just want to feel."

He nodded, his expression understanding, and leaned in to kiss you again. This time, you tried harder to focus, to lose yourself in the moment, to forget about everything and everyone but the two of you, in this room, on this bed.

His hands roamed your body, exploring and caressing, his lips following the path his fingers had taken. You responded in kind, your hands exploring his body, your lips tracing patterns on his skin. It was pleasant and enjoyable, but it wasn't the all-consuming fire you felt with Jungkook. It was a gentle flame, warm and comforting, but it didn't burn away the pain, didn't scorch away the memories.

He positioned himself above you, his knees between your thighs, his body hovering over yours. He entered you slowly, carefully, his movements gentle and controlled. You closed your eyes, trying to lose yourself in the sensation, to focus on the feeling of him inside you, the rhythm of your bodies moving together. But it wasn't enough. The pleasure was muted, distant, overshadowed by the memory of Jungkook's intensity, his possessiveness, his desperate need to claim every part of you.

You tried to push the thoughts away, to focus on the present, on the man above you, on the pleasure you were supposed to be sharing. But your mind kept drifting, kept comparing, kept finding Jimin lacking.

It wasn't his fault. He was doing everything right, everything a lover was supposed to do. He was gentle, attentive, and considerate. He was trying to give you pleasure, to make you feel desired, to make you forget.

But he wasn't Jungkook. And in that moment, that was all that mattered.

You felt a surge of guilt and of shame. You were using him, using his kindness, his affection, his desire, to dull your own pain. You were betraying him, betraying Jungkook, betraying yourself.

And then you felt something else: anger, defiance, spite. Jungkook had lied to you, hidden you, treated you like a dirty secret. He had no claim on you, no right to be angry, no right to feel betrayed. You were free. Free to do what you wanted, free to be with who you wanted, free to forget about him and the complicated mess he'd made of your life.

With that thought in mind, you focused on the present, on the man above you, on the pleasure you were supposed to be sharing. You arched your back, meeting his thrusts, your hands gripping his shoulders, pulling him deeper. You moaned his name, Jimin's name, trying to make it sound real, trying to convince yourself as much as him. For a moment, it almost worked, the pleasant friction coiled highly low in your belly. You closed your eyes, focusing on the physical sensations, the warmth of his skin, the weight of his body, the sound of his soft groans in your ear.

He shifted slightly, changing the angle, and a jolt of pleasure shot through you. You gasped, your hips rising to meet his, your body responding instinctively. "Right there," you breathed, and he obliged, his movements becoming more deliberate, more focused.

The pleasure built, slow and steady, a wave rising from the depths of the ocean. You could feel yourself getting closer, your body tensing, your breath catching in your throat. Jimin sensed it too, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, more demanding.

"Come for me," he whispered against your ear, his voice husky with desire. "Let go, baby. I've got you."

But then his hand slid up your side, his fingers tracing the curve of your ribs, and your mind betrayed you. It wasn't Jimin's touch you felt, but Jungkook's—his possessive grip, his demanding caress, his knowing touch that could unravel you with a single stroke. The phantom sensation was so vivid, so real, that it stole the air from your lungs. It was the way Jungkook's thumb would press into that specific spot between your ribs, a silent, proprietary gesture that always made your heart race with a mixture of fear and exhilaration.

The wave receded, leaving you empty and aching. You could feel Jimin still moving inside you, still trying to bring you to the peak you'd been so close to reaching, but it was no use. The pleasure had faded, replaced by a hollow ache that had nothing to do with physical satisfaction and everything to do with the man who wasn't there. The gentle, rhythmic friction that had been building so beautifully now felt abrasive, a constant reminder of what was missing, of who was missing.

"Stop," you said, your voice barely audible, cracked with the effort of holding back tears. "Jimin, stop."

He froze, his body tense above you. He immediately withdrew, his concern for you overriding his own desire. He rolled to your side, propping himself up on an elbow, his face a mask of worry in the dim light filtering through the window. "What's wrong?" he asked, his voice laced with concern. "Did I hurt you?"

"No," you said, shaking your head, tears finally escaping and tracing hot paths down your temples into your hair. "It's not you. It's me." The words were a cliché, a pathetic excuse, but they were also the truest thing you'd said all night.

Jimin's expression softened further, his hand coming up to gently wipe away a tear with his thumb. "Hey, angel, it's okay," he murmured, his voice gentle. "We don't have to..." He trailed off, misunderstanding completely, thinking it was a matter of discomfort or disinterest.

You shook your head again, more forcefully this time. "No, that's not... I want this. I do. It's just..." How could you explain it? How could you tell this kind, gentle man that you were using him as a human shield, a warm body to hide behind while you fought a war with a ghost? "I'm messed up," you finally settled on, the words feeling inadequate and childish. "I'm sorry."

He didn't press. He just lay down beside you, pulling the covers up over both of your naked bodies, and gathered you into his arms. It was a purely platonic gesture, one of comfort, not desire. He held you against his chest, your head tucked under his chin, his hand stroking your hair in a slow, rhythmic motion. You felt safe.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰

lmk what you guys think !! <3

𝘵𝘢𝘨 𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵: @mar-lo-pap, @junqkooknim @tatamicc @jksusawife @rkive994 @bambijuicee @thedelulusafespace @mokkaccinnos @pung3 @focusonkayjay @prxdajeon

(y'all are so cool and i hope i didn't disappoint)

You're currently restocking the campus bookstore's supply of overpriced organic chemistry textbooks, which weigh approximately ten pounds each and smell like fresh debt. Your shift started at noon. It's now 4:30 PM. Your feet hurt. Your scholarship requires twenty hours of work-study per week, and this shit right here, hauling boxes of knowledge you'll never afford to keep is what your Tuesday afternoons look like when you're not being corrupted by tattooed billionaires.

Your phone buzzes in your back pocket. You ignore it. It buzzes again. And again. A morse code for I'm bored and I want your attention.

jk: where are you

jk: your dorm room is empty

jk: your car is in the lot

jk: are you avoiding me

You shove another textbook onto the shelf with more force than necessary.

you: working

jk: where

jk: tell me

jk: fine. i'll find you.

You stare at the message. You should tell him not to. You should tell him to respect your boundaries, your space, your minimum wage sanity. You type:

you: don’t

But you don't hit send. You delete it and stare at the blank text field for ten seconds, hating yourself a little, and then you shove the phone back into your pocket and go back to stacking boxes.

He finds you in fourteen minutes.

You know he's there before you see him, you feel it in the sudden hush that falls over the textbook section, in the whispered holy shit from the freshman chicks browsing the philosophy aisle.

“You’re wearing the wrong shoes for breaking and entering.”

He looks down at his boots, designer, obviously, probably cost more than your rent. “What are the right shoes?”

“Steel toes. Less… whatever those are.”

“Chelsea boots.”

“They look expensive.”

“They are.” He looks up, and the vulnerability is gone, hidden behind the smirk. “Everything I own is expensive. Including my taste in women.”

“That’s a terrible line.”

“It worked on you.”

You roll your eyes. God, why does he have to be so infuriating? "You're not supposed to be in the stockroom."

"And yet," he replies, "here I am."

He's leaning against the doorframe, all black denim and attitude. He looks ridiculous here, among the cardboard and the price scanners, like a Ferrari parked in a Walmart lot.

"I have two hours left on my shift," you say.

"So?" He takes a sip of his coffee. "I'll wait."

"You can't just-" you gesture at the narrow aisle, "-loiter in a bookstore."

"I'm not loitering." He pushes off the doorframe, crosses to you in three strides. He's close now. Close enough that you can smell his cologne."I'm researching."

"Researching what?" you scoff, as if the great Jeon Jungkook would ever touch a dusty book.

He reaches past you, pulls a random textbook from the shelf. Introduction to Behavioral Neuroscience. He flips it open, reads a line, closes it. "Boring," he declares.

"Some of us need that boring to graduate."

"Some of us don't need to graduate." He says it casually, like it's not a loaded grenade of privilege. Like he didn't just admit that his future is already secured by bloodline and bank accounts. He catches your expression, though, and something flickers across his face. Regret? No. It can't be. "I mean-"

"I know what you meant," you say flatly, turning back to the boxes. "You should go. I can't have visitors back here, I’m working."

He doesn't move. Just watches you wrestle with a box labeled Volume 12: Advanced Thermodynamics. "When do you get off?"

"Six."

"I'll wait."

"Jungkook-"

"I'll be upstairs," he interrupts, already backing toward the door. "Pretending to read magazines. Don't rush on my account."

He vanishes before you can argue, and then you hear his boots on the stairs, heavy, deliberate, and kind of slow, and after that there is the murmur of voices from the main floor as the customers spot him. You spend the next hour and twenty minutes trying to focus on barcode scanners while your heart performs an unauthorized drum solo against your ribs.

﹍﹎﹎﹍

At 6:03 PM, you clock out, grab your jacket, and go upstairs expecting to find him surrounded by admirers, holding court like he usually does.

Instead, you find him alone in the magazine section, reading National Geographic with his back to the window, completely oblivious to the three girls at the coffee counter who are taking photos of him with their phones.

"You're still here," you say.

He looks up. His expression does that thing, that soft, terrifying thing that makes your chest ache. "I said I would be. Are you hungry?"

Your shift is over and as usual you should say no. You should go back to your dorm, eat your sad cup of ramen, and study for the exam that's going to determine whether you keep your scholarship. You should maintain the walls you've spent three years building.

"Starving," you hear yourself say.

He smiles, sharp and pleased. "Good. I'm buying."

"You don't have to-"

"Where do you want to go?" he said as if he already knew you would say that.

You think about the places he probably frequents. The rooftop restaurant downtown. The steakhouse where reservations require a credit check. The bars where bottles of wine cost more than your rent.

"There's a diner," you say. "Off campus. Route 9. It's… not fancy."

"Perfect."

You look at him, suspicious. "You don't even know where it is." "I'll follow you." He holds out his hand. "Keys."

"What?"

"Your car. I'll drive."

"You want to drive my Honda Civic?" You said it as if it was an insult, which probably to anyone who would have Jungkook’s social status it would be.

"I want to drive you," he corrects, and the way he says it makes your face burn. "The car is just transportation."

The drive takes twenty minutes. You sit in the passenger seat of your own car which smells like vanilla air freshener. You watch him adjust the seat, frown at the cracked dashboard, handle the shaky steering wheel with careful hands.

"The transmission is dying," he says, shifting gears with more gentleness than you expected.

"I know. I can't afford to fix it."

"How much?" he asks finally.

"How much what?"

"To fix it."

You stare at him. "I'm not telling you that."

"Why not?"

“Because you’re rich and rich people slove problems.” A pause. “And I’m not a project.”

He doesn't answer. Just drives, his jaw tight, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. You watch the campus disappear in the rearview mirror, replaced by strip malls and gas stations.

The diner appears on the right-a squat brick building with neon lights that buzz and flicker, advertising pie and coffee and breakfast all day. He pulls into the lot, gravel crunching under tires, and he kills the engine.

"You come here a lot?" he asks.

"When I can afford to."

"Let's go," he says quietly.

The diner is exactly what you promised. Vinyl booths and laminated menus, a waitress named Darlene who calls everyone 'hon.' It smells like grease and coffee. You slide into a booth by the window, and Jungkook slides in across from you, too tall for the bench, his knees knocking against yours under the table.

"So," you say, opening your menu. "This is my territory."

"I like it," he says, and you can't tell if he's lying.

Darlene appears, pen ready. "What can I get you, hon?"

"Coffee," you say. "And the grilled cheese. With fries."

"Same," Jungkook says, not looking at the menu. "And pie. Whatever's fresh."

When she leaves, you stare at him. "You didn't even look."

"I don't care what I eat."

"You care about everything. I've seen you send back wine because it was breathing too long."

He almost smiles. "I care about quality. This…" he gestures at the diner, at you, at the cracked vinyl seat "…this is different."

"How?"

"Because you're here." The words hang between you, heavy and unplanned. He looks as surprised as you feel, his eyes widening slightly, his mouth pressing into a line like he's trying to take it back.

"Jungkook-"

"Tell me something," he interrupts, desperate to change the subject. "Tell me why you work twenty hours a week at a bookstore when you could be… I don't know. Doing whatever scholarship kids do. Studying."

"Because I have to," you say. "The scholarship covers tuition. It doesn't cover rent. It doesn't cover food. It doesn't cover the car you just drove here."

"Your parents?"

"Single mom. Works nights at a hospital. She sends what she can, but…" You shrug. "It's not enough. It was never enough.”

He goes quiet. Darlene brings the coffee, pours it black and hot, and still he doesn't speak. When she leaves, he wraps his hands around his mug-tattooed fingers against cheap ceramic-and looks out the window at the empty parking lot.

"My grandfather built the first Jeon building," he says quietly. "In 1978. My father added two more. My mother is a model. I was born with a name that opens doors and a trust fund that could buy this diner fifty times over."

"I know," you say. "Everyone knows."

"What they don't know-" he stops, takes a breath. "What they don't know is that I spent my entire childhood being told exactly who I had to be. Perfect grades. Perfect image. Perfect heir. You know…I wanted to be a mechanic.”

You stare at him. This is the most he's ever said about himself.

“You could still-“ you start.

“No.” He cuts you off, sharp. “I couldn’t. I’m Jeon Jungkook. I have responsibilities. Buildings to inherit. Boards to sit on. Women my mother approves of to-” He stops. Looks at you. “Never mind.”

The silence stretches. You want to ask about the women his mother approves of. You want to ask about the responsibilities. You want to ask why he’s telling you this, here, in the place where you hide from the world.

"So you became a disaster on purpose," you say.

"I became a disaster because I didn't know how to be anything else." He meets your eyes. "The tattoos were rebellion. The bike was rebellion. The reputation-" he laughs, joyless "-the reputation was just me being too tired to pretend anymore."

"And me?" you ask, your voice quiet. "Why me? I'm not rebellious. I'm not interesting."

A pause and then…“The coffe is too bitter.”

Ouch. He changed the subject.

Of course he did.

Darlene returns with the food-grilled cheese sandwiches that glisten with butter, fries piled high, pie that steams with cinnamon warmth. You eat in silence for a while.

"Tell me something else," he says, wiping his mouth with a paper napkin. "Something stupid."

"I cried when I got the scholarship," you say. "In the financial aid office. In front of three strangers. I couldn't stop."

"I got my first tattoo at sixteen," he counters. "A skull on my ribs. Hurt like hell. My mother didn't speak to me for a month."

"I still have a stuffed animal from childhood. A rabbit. It's missing an eye."

"I failed calculus on purpose sophomore year. Just to see if my father would notice. He didn't."

"I want to travel," you say, surprising yourself. "Someday. I want to see Tokyo.”

He looks at you, serious now. "I'll take you."

"Don't make promises."

"Why not?"

"Because…" you set down your fork "…because promises break. Because you're used to getting what you want, and I'm used to wanting things I can't keep. Because this…" you gesture between you "… this has an expiration date, and we both know it."

You continue. "I think you're a tornado. And I'm a house made of straw."

"Then I'll rebuild you," he says, and his voice is fierce, sudden, desperate. "I'll rebuild you in brick. I'll-"

"Stop." You say determined.

He pays the bill despite your protests-leaves a hundred dollar bill on a twenty dollar check, tells Darlene to keep the change. She stares at the money, then at him, then at you with an expression that says she knows exactly who he is and exactly what this is and exactly how badly it's going to end.

You walk out into the cooling evening. Your car waits by the curb, faithful and broken.

"I'll drive," you say, holding out your hand for the keys.

﹍﹎﹎﹍

When you finally pull into the campus lot, it's past nine. The stars are out. The buildings loom dark and silent. You walk across the quad, past the library, past the building with JEON carved into the marble facade. He doesn't look at it. He looks at you.

"Three years," he says quietly. "Three years you were here, and I never saw you."

"You weren't looking."

"I should have been."

You stop under an oak tree, its branches heavy with summer leaves. The moon filters through, dappling the grass in silver.

"Jungkook," you say, and your voice is shaking. "What are we doing?"

"I don't know," he admits. "But I know I don't want to stop."

"You will," you say. "Eventually. You'll get bored. Or I'll get too real. Or your mother will find out about the scholarship girl and-"

"Stop." He steps closer, close enough that you can feel his heartbeat. "Just… stop planning the ending. Let me have this. Let me have you. For now."

This time you’re the one who’s not answering.

"Come on," he murmurs. "I'll walk you home."

He doesn't try to come up. He doesn't push. He just stands in the doorway of your dorm, his hands in his pockets, looking at you with an expression you can't name.

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

"I'm already inside."

"Text me anyway."

"Jun-"

"Please."

"Fine," you say.

You climb the stairs, unlock your door, and when you text him inside, your phone buzzes immediately. Your phone buzzes as you’re kicking off your shoes.

jk: you’re not home yet

jk: i’m counting

jk: 3…2…

You smile a little, despite whatever the fuck just happened today.

you: i’m home

you: stop counting

you: you creep

jk: too late

jk: already obsessed

jk: remember?

He’s terrifying, this boy. Not because of the motorcycle or the money or the tattoos. Because he’s paying attention. Because he’s learning you. Because he’s making it impossible to remember why you were supposed to stay invisible.

Your phone buzzes again.

jk: sleep well

jk: dream of me

You don't reply. But you do dream of him.

When you wake up, there's a text waiting. Sent at 3:47 AM.

jk: i meant what i said

jk: about rebuilding

jk: i meant it

You don't know what to say. So you say nothing. You read it three times. You let yourself hope, just for a second, that maybe, maybe, the tornado and the house made of straw can learn to coexist.

Maybe...

Or maybe not.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

The first Tuesday of October showed up. You’d pulled an all-nighter at the library, powered by cheap coffee and this very loud, desperate need to keep your scholarship. The 3.7 GPA you’d sweated for was starting to slide, and you really couldn't afford to lose the financial aid that kept you here.

jk: When are you done today?

You chewed on your pen cap, considering. You had a shift at the bookstore from 2-6, then dinner with your roommate Lisa.

You: Late. Probably not free until after 6.

jk: I'll pick you up.

Your heart did that little flip it always did when he said things like that-casually, as if you weren't just the scholarship girl who'd been invisible for three years before he'd noticed you.

jk: Text me when you're done.

You slid your phone back into your bag, feeling that same old mix of excitement. It had been about three weeks since that first night at the diner, and you still couldn’t really sort out what you were doing. Friends with benefits, he said, like that was it clean and simple but his behavior, um well, it didn’t match the story. It was something more tangled. So your friends started side-eyeing the whole thing, and you were left there, like standing at the edge of a cliff, drawn to jump anyway, even though you already knew you would probably get hurt.

The lecture dragged on, your mind drifting between supply chain management and memories of Jungkook's hands on your skin, his voice in your ear, the way he looked at you sometimes-like you were something precious he'd discovered in the dirt.

After class, you grabbed a quick lunch at the dining hall, where Lisa found you and slid into the booth across from you.

"You're glowing," she said, narrowing her eyes. "Don't tell me you're still seeing Mr. Moneybags."

You pushed your salad around with your fork. "We're just hanging out sometimes."

"Uh-huh." She stole a cherry tomato from your plate. "And by 'hanging out,' you mean letting him ruin you for all other men while simultaneously ruining your academic career?"

"He's not ruining anything," you protested weakly, though you'd been thinking the same thing about your grades. "And we're keeping it casual."

Lisa snorted. "Nothing about Jeon Jungkook is casual. Have you seen the way he looks at you? It's like a wolf that's just found its favorite lamb."

"That's a terrible analogy."

"Is it though?" She leaned forward, lowering her voice. "My cousin's friend  had a thing with him last year. Said he was possessive as hell. Got jealous if she even talked to other guys. And the sex…" She waggled her eyebrows "...apparently it's life-ruining."

You felt your face heat up. "I have to get to work."

"Just be careful, okay? The Jeons don't play games with people like us."

You waved her off, but her words followed you to the bookstore, where you spent four hours pricing textbooks and helping freshmen find overpriced course materials. At 6:05, your phone buzzed again.

jk: Done yet?

You: Just finishing up.

jk: I'm outside.

You peered through the glass doors, and yeah, there he was, leaning against his Ducati, a black helmet tucked under his arm. He was breathtaking broad shoulders, straining against the fabric of his black jacket, dark hair just falling over his forehead, that effortless confidence, that made people stop and stare.

You said goodbye to your coworker and stepped outside into the cool evening air.

"Hey," he said, straightening up as you approached. His eyes scanned you from head to toe, a small smile playing on his lips. "You look tired."

"Thanks," you said dryly. "That's exactly what every girl wants to hear."

His fingers found yours, intertwining them. "You know what I mean. You need to rest more." He handed you the helmet. "Come on. I'm taking you somewhere."

"Where?"

"Somewhere you can actually relax."

The ride through campus was kinda a blur,  autumn color everywhere and that cool wind hitting your skin all at once. You kept your arms a little tighter around Jungkook’s waist, pressing your cheek against his leather jacket, and somehow it made everything feel quieter. You could feel the muscles in his back moving under you.

And instead of heading toward his apartment complex, he took this other exit, and it brought you to a secluded lookout point over the city. The sun was going down, painting the sky with orange and pink shades.

"I come here sometimes," he said, cutting the engine.

You removed the helmet and shook out your hair. "It's beautiful."

"Beautiful things are easy to find," he said, turning to face you. "It's the rare ones that matter." His thumb traced your jawline, sending shivers down your spine. "Like you."

"Smooth talker," you rolled your eyes, but your heart was pounding.

He leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear. "Only with you."

His lips found yours, and you melted into him. Into the taste of mint and the faint spice of clove cigarettes that always clung to him.

"I've missed you," he murmured against your mouth. "These days felt like forever."

"It's only been six days," you said, though you'd felt it too.

"Too long." His teeth grazed your neck, making you gasp. "I've been thinking about you constantly."

"Is that so?" you teased, though your voice was breathy. "And what exactly have you been thinking about?"

His response was to deepen the kiss, his tongue exploring your mouth with a familiarity that still surprised you. One hand slid under your shirt, his fingers tracing patterns on your lower back.

"I have to go to Seoul this weekend," he said suddenly, pulling away slightly.

Your stomach dropped. "For what?"

"Family stuff." He avoided your eyes. "Some business thing my dad wants me to attend."

"Oh." You tried to keep your voice casual. "For how long?"

"Just Friday night. I'll be back Saturday." He tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. "I'll call you every night."

"You don't have to do that."

"I want to." He kissed you again, softer this time. "Unless you don't want me to."

"No, I-…it’s okay…" You hesitated. "I'd like that."

You stayed at the lookout until the last bit of light faded from the sky, talking about nothing and everything, kind of at once. You told him about that paper you were struggling to write, and he listened with this intensity that made you feel like the most important person in the world. When he started talking about his classes, you could hear the frustration in his voice, the same dissatisfaction he’d shown that night at the diner.

"Sometimes I wonder what it would be like," he said, staring out at the city lights. "To just... disappear. Start over somewhere no one knows my name."

"Like where?"

He shrugged. "Anywhere. A small town by the beach. Maybe somewhere in the countryside."

"You'd last about five minutes without your motorcycle and designer clothes," you teased.

He laughed, the sound genuine and carefree. "Maybe. But it's nice to think about."

On the ride back to your dorm, you held him tighter, trying to memorize the feeling of his body against yours, the way he smelled, the sound of his laugh. Lisa's words echoed in your mind, the Jeons don't play games with people like us. But you pushed them away, for now.

He walked you to your door. "Text me when you're up tomorrow," he said, his thumb stroking your cheek. "And don't forget to eat something.”

"I'll try," you promised. "Have a safe trip."

He leaned in for one last kiss, brief and sweet. "I'll miss you."

"I'll miss you too," you admitted, and the way his eyes lit up at your words made your chest ache.

You watched him walk away until he disappeared into the night, then slipped into your dorm room, where Lisa was waiting with raised eyebrows.

"Well?" she asked. "How was your not-date?"

"It was fine," you said, dropping onto your bed. "He has to go to Seoul this weekend."

"Ah, the rich people business trips." She sat beside you. "What are you going to do while he's gone? You know, besides moping around like a lost puppy?"

"I'm not going to mope," you retorted, though the idea of a weekend without Jungkook's texts or unexpected appearances felt hollow. "I'm going to catch up on all the studying I've been neglecting. That paper on supply chain logistics isn't going to write itself."

Lisa sighed, flopping back on your bed. "Just be careful, okay? I saw his mother on campus yesterday. She looks like she was carved from ice and disapproval."

You froze. "His mother was here?"

"Yup. Giving some kind of tour to prospective donors. She had this entourage with her, all dressed in beige. And she looked right through me like I was a smudge on the window." Lisa sat up, her expression serious.

"You know what they say about her, right? That she's the one who really runs the Jeon family. Mr. Jeon is the face, but Mrs. Jeon is the one pulling the strings."

Your stomach twisted. You'd seen pictures of Jungkook's mother, a former model. The idea of her being on campus, breathing the same air as you, felt like a bad omen.

"She probably doesn't even know I exist," you said, trying to sound casual.

"Not yet," Lisa said ominously. "But she will. And when she finds out her precious heir is slumming it with a scholarship girl, she's not going to be happy."

You threw a pillow at her. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"Just looking out for you," she said, catching it easily. "Now, are you going to tell me what's really going on with you two? Because 'just hanging out' doesn't usually involve midnight motorcycle rides to pretty overlooks."

You hesitated, then decided to confide in her. "He said he'd call me every night while he's in Seoul."

Lisa's eyes widened. "He what?"

"He said he wants to," you added quickly. "And he's been... different lately. More attentive. He asked about my classes, he listened to me complain about my professors."

"That's what people who are dating do," Lisa pointed out gently. "Not people who are 'just hanging out'."

"I know," you admitted, picking at a loose thread on your comforter. "But we agreed to keep things casual. He's not looking for anything serious, and I can't afford to get distracted right now."

"Too late for that," she said softly.

﹍﹎﹎﹍

Friday came with a gray sky and a persistent drizzle that matched your mood. You hadn't heard from Jungkook since Thursday night, when he'd texted to say he was packing for his trip. You told yourself it was normal. He was probably busy with his family, preparing for whatever important event he had to attend. But a small part of you couldn't shake the feeling that something was off.

Your phone buzzed during your afternoon lecture, and you discreetly checked it under your desk.

jk: Just landed in Seoul. The weather here sucks.

You: Sorry to hear that. Try not to have too much fun without me.

jk: Impossible. Already thinking about when I can see you again.

You: Focus on your family stuff. Don't get in trouble.

jk: Too late for that. I'll call you tonight.

You spent the rest of the day in a state of nervous anticipation. What would you say to him on the phone? What would we talk about? It felt strangely intimate, more so than your text exchanges or even your encounters.

Lisa noticed your distraction when you got back to your room. "You're practically vibrating with anxiety. What's wrong?"

"He's going to call me tonight," you said, collapsing onto your bed.

"And?"

"And what if I have nothing to say? What if it's awkward? What if-" You broke off, realizing how ridiculous you sounded.

Lisa laughed. "Oh, honey. You've already had his tongue down your throat and other parts of your anatomy I don't even want to imagine. I think you can handle a phone call."

She had a point, but it didn't stop your hands from sweating when your phone rang at 9:30 that night.

"Hello?" you said, trying to sound casual.

"Hey." His voice was deeper over the phone, rougher. "Did I wake you?"

"No, I was just studying." You lay back on your bed, closing your eyes. "How's Seoul?"

"Rainy. And full of old men in suits who want to talk about mergers and acquisitions." You could hear the faint sound of traffic in the background. "I'd rather be there with you."

Your heart fluttered. "Yeah? What would we be doing?"

He chuckled, a low, intimate sound that made your toes curl. "I can think of a few things."

"Are you for real?," you asked, though you were smiling.

"Sorry. I'll behave." He paused. "Seriously, how was your day?"

And just like that, you were talking about your classes, his family obligations, the ridiculous things your professors had said, your favorite movies. It was easy, natural, like you'd been having these conversations for years instead of weeks.

"I have to go to this gala thing tomorrow night," he said, his voice dropping slightly. "Some charity event for my father's company."

"Sounds fancy."

"It's going to be boring as hell." You heard a door close, and the background noise faded. "I'd rather be doing anything else."

"Like what?"

"Like taking you to that diner again."

You felt a pang of longing. "That does sound better than a gala."

Few minutes later said you said your goodbyes, and you lay awake for a long time, staring at the ceiling. Something still felt off, but you couldn't put your finger on it. Maybe it was just the distance between you.

The next morning, you decided to treat yourself to coffee and a pastry from the campus café, a rare indulgence that usually meant you'd skipped breakfast and was running late. As you waited in line, you noticed a stack of glossy magazines near the register-Seoul Society, a publication you usually ignored.

But then you saw him.

There on the cover was Jungkook, and you could swear he looked more handsome than you'd ever seen him. And you have seen him many times, naked, in the shower, above you, under you, between your legs. Anyway, he was in a tailored black tuxedo that highlighted his shoulders and his muscles. His dark hair was styled away from his forehead, revealing the sharp angles of his face and the intensity in his eyes. He was smiling politely, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

And beside him stood a woman who was everything you weren't.

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lmk what you guys think !! <3

He rides this matte black Ducati, purring like some kind of threat, and honestly the sound sticks to your nerves. He smokes clove cigarettes outside the engineering building.

His biceps strain against the seams of his clothes, and his back narrows into a waist you’ve shamefully dreamed about grabbing, like it’s personal. His mouth only does that curl when he’s unimpressed, like you’re supposed to feel it, and it’s weird, because for reasons you cannot explain, he’s started looking at you.

It starts at the coffee shop, him sliding into the booth across from you like you were already there, like it was already decided. Tattooed fingers tap the table while he studies you, not with curiosity exactly...

He doesn’t flirt but he asks questions you don’t know how to answer and somehow you always end up answering anyway. He stares at your mouth when you speak, and then he leaves, and you’re breathless, because the attention feels predatory and protective at the same time, like he’s hunting you but also making sure nothing or no one touches you.

You’re not his type, you know that. You’re soft where he’s hard, careful where he’s chaotic. You live on scholarships while he throws cash at problems like it’s confetti, like money is just another kind of weather.

But Jungkook has decided to collect you, like he collects everything that catches his eye. He’s got the university wrapped around his finger or whatever, and his reputation should’ve made you bolt, like, years ago. He’s got ink under his skin and smoke in his lungs, plus a motorcycle that could take him anywhere, but somehow he keeps parking it right outside your dorm.

Tonight it starts with a meme.

You’re lying in bed at 11:30, scrolling, half-asleep, when your phone buzzes against your chest. The vibration kinda startles you, and you nearly drop your phone on your face.

jk: this you?

Below that text is a pic (a raccoon, in a trash can, very poetic, i know). You squint at your screen, confused. It’s not a flattering comparison, and you don’t understand the reference at all.

you: ??

Three dots show up right away, meaning he’s typing. You picture him somewhere, probably in that ridiculously expensive apartment his parents pretend not to brag about, sprawled on some leather couch that costs more than your tuition, with a bottle of something expensive sitting on the table like it’s totally normal.

jk: the trash panda thing

jk: reminded me of you

You sit up, blanket pooling around your waist. The air in your dorm is cool, but there’s this heat creeping up your neck like you’re being slowly judged by the universe.

Three weeks ago you wouldn’t have had the faintest clue what to even say. Three weeks ago, Jeon Jungkook was just a distant, moving figure on campus, someone you sometimes spotted across the quad.

Now he’s the reason your underwear is missing from your laundry basket, the reason you’ve started checking your reflection more often, and the reason your heart does that ridiculous little flutter thing whenever you hear a motorcycle engine.

you: i’m not a raccoon.

jk: no but like

jk: you’d live in a trash can if you could

you: that's not a compliment

jk: it is tho

jk: raccoons are hot

You stare at the ceiling for a second. This is your life now. Debating whether raccoons are hot with a guy who has your underwear in his pocket from three days ago.

you: are you drunk?

jk: kinda

jk: come over

you: it's tuesday

jk: and?

jk: my bed's big and i'm lonely and i wanna touch you

You shouldn't. You have class at 9 AM and he lives twenty minutes away and your car is making that weird noise again. But you're already sitting up, looking for your jeans.

you: omw

You knew his address by heart now. The towering high-rise downtown, where the doorman recognizes you, and how there’s a toothbrush in his bathroom now.

You grab your keys, slip on your shoes, and take a moment in front of the mirror. Your hair is a wild mess, your face is bare, and you’re still in that same old hoodie from high school. You think about changing, maybe putting on some makeup, trying to look like someone who fits into his world. But then you remember the way he looked at you a week ago, on his bike, behind a random gym, his hands trembling as he unzipped your pants, his soft whisper of "fuck, you're perfect" against your throat.

You leave as you are

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His apartment is different at night. Darker. More intimate, only the lamp by the couch casting long shadows across the floor, it feels like a den, a cave.

He's wearing sweatpants that hang low on his hips. His chest is bare, tattoos sprawling across his pecs and shoulders, the ink dark against his skin. His hair is messy, falling into his heavy-lidded eyes.

"Hey," he says, and his voice is rough, deeper than usual. He doesn't wait for you to answer before he's pulling you inside, kicking the door shut with his foot, and kissing you against the door before it even closes.

His hands are on your waist, thumbs pressing into your hip bones, you wrap your arms around his neck, fingers tangling in the soft hair at the nape of his neck, and kiss him back.

"You taste like beer," you mumble against his mouth when you come up for air.

"You taste like mint." He bites your lip, not hard, just enough to make you gasp. "Missed you."

You saw him in the library yesterday, where he'd cornered you between the stacks, his body pressed against yours, his hand sliding up your thigh under your skirt while his friends waited for him outside. But you don't say that, because he's already kissing down your neck, teeth scraping against your pulse point, hands sliding under your shirt, and your brain is short-circuiting.

"Bedroom," he says, not a question, and lifts you like you weigh nothing. You yelp, grab his shoulders, and he laughs into your collarbone, carrying you down the hall while you protest weakly about being able to walk.

"I know you can walk." He drops you on the mattress, follows you down, caging you in with his arms. " But I like carrying you. You're small."

"I'm average."

"You're small. I like it." He's kissing you again, deeper, and his hand is sliding down your stomach, slipping into your waistband without taking them off. "Can I?"

"You asked last time."

"Wanna make sure." His fingers brush over you, light, teasing, through the thin fabric of your underwear. "Wanna hear you say it."

"Yes," you breathe, and he makes this sound, this low growl in his chest that vibrates through you, and then his hand is moving and you're arching into it.

He's learned you even better since the bike. That first time, pressed against the leather seat of his Ducati in the back of that deserted gym, had been frantic and desperate, all teeth and hurried touches in the dark. Now, he knows exactly how you like it, slow at first, teasing, tracing patterns over the fabric until you're squirming, then faster when you're panting, then slowing down again when you're close, keeping you on the edge until you're whining, grabbing onto him like a lifeline.

"Please," you say, and you hate how desperate you sound, but he loves it, you can tell by the way he watches your face with hungry eyes.

"Yeah?" he murmurs, thumb pressing just right through the now soaked fabric. "Wanna come for me?"

"Jungkook—"

"Say my name again. Like that. Fuck."

You come with his name in your mouth,

of course you do

you love how his name sounds from your lips

back arching off the bed, he doesn't stop, drawing it out, until you're shaking and pushing at his wrist because it's too much, too sensitive, too good.

"Good?" he asks, smug, bringing his hand to his mouth to lick his fingers clean while you watch, cheeks burning.

"You're so-" You can't find the word. "Obnoxious."

"Yeah." He grins, leaning down to kiss you, and you can taste yourself on his tongue, which should be weird but isn't, not with him. "Your turn."

He rolls onto his back, pulls you on top of him, and you can feel how hard he is through his sweatpants, pressing against your thigh. You sit up, straddling him, and he looks up at you with this expression that's half lust and half something softer, something that scares you.

"What?" you ask, a little embarrassed under his gaze.

"Nothing." He runs his hands up your thighs "Just...you look good. Up there."

You pull your shirt off, drop it on the floor, and his eyes darken, hands coming up to cover your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they pebble under his touch.

"Fuck," he breathes. "Every time. Every time I think I imagined how you look and then I see you and it's...better."

"Stop talking."

"Can't." He sits up, mouth finding your neck, your shoulder, the slope of your breast. "I wanna tell you everything. I wanna say-" He stops, bites down on your collarbone, sucks a mark there. "Never mind."

"Jungkook-"

"Shh." He flips you, sudden and smooth, and you're on your back again with him between your legs, and he's kissing down your stomach, fingers hooking in your waistband. "Can I?"

"Yes."

He pulls your pants off, your underwear too, and he just looks at you for a second. You want to cover yourself but his hands are on your knees, pushing them apart, and then his mouth is on you and your head falls back, hands gripping the sheets.

He's good at this. Embarrassingly good. Knows exactly how to use his tongue, when to suck, when to press, when to slide fingers inside and curl them just right. You're making sounds you don't recognize, high and broken, and he's making these noises too, these satisfied rumbles that vibrate against you.

"So good," he mumbles against you, and you feel it, the vibration. "Taste so good. Could do this all night."

"Don't-" You're panting, close, so close. "Don't stop, please-"

He doesn't. He works you through it, fingers and mouth, and you come harder than you have in your life, crying out, back bowing off the bed. He eases you through it, gentle now, pressing kisses to your thighs, your hip, your stomach.

"Okay?" he asks, chin resting on your belly, looking up at you with dark eyes.

You thread your fingers through his hair, God he's so beautiful like this.

"Yeah." You're wrecked. "Yeah, I'm- come here."

He crawls up, kisses you slow and deep. He's still hard, pressing against your hip, and you reach for him but he catches your wrist.

"Not yet," he says. "Wanna take my time."

"Since when do you take your time?"

"Since I want to." He kisses your wrist, the pulse point, then your palm.

And that was weird, because he never did that.

"I need be inside you. Ok?"

Your stomach flips. You nod.

He reaches over, grabs a condom from the drawer, rolls it on while you watch. He's beautiful like this, ink, muscles and lust, and you don't let yourself think about how many girls have seen him like this. You're here now. That's what matters.

He settles between your legs, guides himself in slow, so slow, watching your face for any sign of discomfort. You gasp at the stretch, the fullness, and he stills, breathing hard.

"Good?" he asks, strained.

"Yeah. Move."

He does. Slow at first, deep strokes that hit something inside you that makes your vision blur. He keeps his eyes on yours, which is almost too much, too intimate, and you try to look away but he catches your chin, makes you look at him.

"Stay with me," he says, and you don't know if he means right now or forever, and you're scared to ask.

He speeds up, hips snapping harder, and you wrap your legs around his waist, heels digging into his lower back. He's hitting that spot every time now, and you're already close again, which is ridiculous, which is unfair.

"Touch yourself," he pants.

You obey, fingers sliding between you, and he groans, watching, and the sound sets you off. You come clenching around him, and he follows, burying his face in your neck, groaning long and low as he spills into the condom.

For a minute, neither of you moves. He's heavy on top of you, but you don't mind. You can feel his heartbeat against your chest. His hand finds yours, fingers threading together on the pillow beside your head.

"Stay," he says, muffled against your shoulder.

"That's the second time you've said that tonight."

"Mean it both times." He lifts his head, looks at you with dark, serious eyes. "I want to wake up with you."

You should say no. You have class. You have rules about this, about not sleeping over, about not making this real.

"Okay," you say.

He smiles, rare and soft, and kisses your forehead, your nose, your mouth. "Okay."

He gets up, deals with the condom, brings you a towel and a t-shirt to sleep in. His shirt.

"Pretty," he says, and you roll your eyes, but you're smiling.

You crawl into his bed, under the black sheets, and he follows, wrapping himself around you from behind, arm heavy over your waist.

"Night," he murmurs against your hair.

"Night."

You're almost asleep when your phone buzzes from the floor where your pants are. You ignore it. He doesn't.

"Your alarm or something?"

"No." You're drifting. "Probably mom."

He goes still behind you. "You tell her about me?"

"She knows I have friends."

"Friends." He says the word like it's funny. Like it hurts. "Yeah. Okay."

You should clarify. You should say something. But you're tired, and he's warm, and you let yourself fall asleep instead.

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In the morning, he's already awake when you open your eyes, propped up on one elbow, watching you.

"Creepy," you mumble.

"Can't help it." He traces your jaw with his finger, light. "You're pretty when you sleep."

"Stop."

"Can't help that either." He leans in, kisses you soft, morning breath and all. "Wanna shower with me?"

"Your hot water lasts five minutes."

"Then we'll be fast." He's already pulling you up, hands on your waist, and you let him lead you to the bathroom, let him wash your hair, let him press you against the tile and take you again with water running down your back.

After, wrapped in his robe while he makes coffee in the kitchen, you check your phone.

“You look good in my shirt.”

You look up. He's leaning against the counter, watching you, phone in his hand.

“You're ridiculous.”

“And yet you're still here.”

You don't have a reply to that.

"Class at 9?" he asks.

"Mhm."

"I'll drive you."

"You don't have to."

"I want to."

You look at him over the rim of your mug, at his messy hair and his bare chest and his tattoos, at the way he's looking at you like you're something precious, something he wants to keep.

"Okay," you say.

He smiles, small and real, and you don't let yourself name the feeling in your chest.

Not yet.

When he pulls up to the liberal arts building, cutting the engine, the sudden silence is jarring, you climb off.

"Text me after your class."

"I have a study group."

"Text me after that."

You roll your eyes, but you're smiling. "I'll see you later, Jungkook."

He catches your wrist before you can turn away, pulls you closer. "Hey." His other hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek. "Be good."

"I'm always good."

"No, you're not." He grins, sharp and wicked. "That's why I like you."

He kisses you then, right there in front of everybody, a claiming kiss that leaves you breathless and blushing. When he pulls away, he's still smiling, and you can feel the eyes of passing students on you.

"Go," he says, smacking your ass lightly. "Learn something."

You flip him off over your shoulder as you walk away, but you're still smiling when you push through the doors to the building.

Your study group is in the library, in one of the glass-walled rooms on the third floor. You're late, and they're already deep into discussion about postcolonial theory. You slide into a chair and try to focus, but your mind keeps drifting back to Jungkook and his hands on your skin, his mouth on yours, the way he'd looked at you this morning.

"Earth to Y/N," says Mia, waving a hand in front of your face. "Where'd you go?"

"Nowhere," you say, shaking your head. "Sorry. What were you saying?"

"We were talking about Fanon's concept of violence as a cleansing force," says David, pushing his glasses up his nose. "But you seem more interested in whatever, or whoever, has you smiling like that."

"I'm not smiling."

"You are," says Sarah, grinning. "And you're wearing a guy's shirt under your hoodie. Spill."

You look down at the collar of the black t-shirt peeking out from under your hoodie.

"It's nothing," you say, but they're all looking at you, and you know they won't let it go.

"Is it that guy?" asks Mia, leaning forward. "The one you were with at the coffee shop three weeks ago ?"

You'd forgotten they'd seen you together. Jungkook had insisted on buying you coffee, sliding into the booth across from you, his tattooed fingers drumming the table as he studied you. Your friends had been sitting two tables away, watching with wide eyes.

"Maybe," you say, noncommittal.

"Oh my god," says Sarah. "It is. What's his name? Is he a student here?"

You hesitate. You know his name, of course, everyone on campus knows his name, but saying it out loud feels like acknowledging something real, something that you're not sure even exists.

"Jungkook," you say, quietly.

"Jeon Jungkook?" asks David, his eyes widening behind his glasses. "As in, the Jeon Jungkook? The guy whose family donated the new science building?"

You nod, feeling a flush creep up your neck. You'd forgotten about the fact that there were 3 buildings with his family name engraved for everyone to see.

"Holy shit," says Mia. "How did you-?"

"I don't know," you say honestly. "He just... noticed me."

God, that sounded a bit depressing,

"Girl," says Sarah, reaching across the table to squeeze your hand. "That's not 'noticing.' That's 'hunting.' Be careful."

You want to laugh, but you can't. Because she's right, and the terrifying part is how much you're enjoying it.

Your phone buzzes during your next class, a subtle vibration against your thigh. You pull it out discreetly, hiding it under your desk.

jk: bored

jk: thinking about you

jk: specifically thinking about you in my bed

You feel a flush creep up your neck, and you cross your legs, pressing your thighs together. Professor Davies is droning on about Lacanian psychoanalysis, and you're supposed to be taking notes, but all you can think about is Jungkook's hands on you, his mouth, the way he'd looked at you this morning.

you: i'm in class

jk: so?

jk: touch yourself

You almost drop your phone. You look up, but Professor Davies is still writing on the whiteboard, his back to the class. You type back with shaking fingers.

you: i'm not doing that

jk: why not?

jk: bet you're wet right now

jk: bet you're thinking about this morning

jk: i am

You are, you’re thinking about the shower, the water running down your back, his hands on your hips. The way he pressed you against the tile, and took you from behind, one hand wrapped around your throat, the other between your legs.

you: stop

jk: make me

jk: come over after class

you: i have to study

jk: i'll be quiet

jk: mostly

You can't help but smile, even as your cheeks burn. You're saved by the bell, literally, as the class ends and students start packing up their things.

you: maybe

jk: not maybe

jk: i'll be outside

You grab your stuff, mumble a quick goodbye to your classmates, and you head straight for the door. Sure enough, there he is, leaning against his Ducati, sunglasses on, looking like he walked out of some glossy Vogue cover. People are staring, whispering, but he acts like none of it matters. His focus is stuck on you, and only you.

“Took you long enough,” he says, like it’s a joke, while you’re still getting closer.

“I was in class,” you reply, but you can’t really stop the smile from showing up.

”Missed you,” he answers, and before you can think too hard, he pulls you into this kiss right there in the middle of the quad. It’s not as deep as the one you had this morning, but it’s got the same hold on you. When he finally eases back, he’s already grinning.

“Wanna get out of here?” he asks.

“I have to study,” you say, but it comes out soft, almost thin, and we both know it.

“Study later,” he says, and he presses a helmet into your hands. “Live now.”

You grab the helmet, strap it on , and hop up on the bike behind him.

When you finally reach his place, it’s empty, which is odd. Usually his dog is right there at the door, tail going a mile a minute, but now there’s nothing, not even a trace.

“Where’s your dog?” you ask, while Jungkook locks the door.

“At my parents” he says, and he pushes the door open. “They’re spoiling him.”

You step in, and he comes after, kicking the door shut behind you

“Come here,” he says, and he tugs you in close, kissing you slow and deep, like he has all the time in the world. “God, I’ve been thinking about this all day.”

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