pairing: jungkook x f!reader | rating: 18+ | wc: 8.3k | warnings: here
genre: e2l, fwb, gang au, angst with smut, slow burn, forbidden love
† the sound of almost †
"There’s a right choice, a wrong choice, and then there’s the one he almost made—and somehow, that’s the one that hurts the most."
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↪︎ author's note: Oh GOD. Oh my god. I’m actually a little emotional writing this and I do not like it. who allowed this. I genuinely don’t even know where to begin. This feels… surreal in a way that I wasn’t prepared for. Because this is it. This is the end of Book 1. My baby. Kkangpae. The fic that quite literally started everything for me online. The one that made me sit down one random day and go, “yeah, let’s ruin my sleep schedule and emotional stability for the foreseeable future.” And now I’m here. Posting the last chapter of its first arc. Hello???? I’m a little shaky, I’m not even going to lie. Like HAHAHA why are my hands doing that. This is insane.
But before any of you start spiraling—because I KNOW you—I need you to breathe. This is the end of Book 1 only. Not the end of Kkangpae. Not even close. Kkangpae: Gyori (yes, that’s the saga name, she’s fancy like that) is planned as a trilogy, so we are simply… turning the page to the next act of this very long, very unwell story.
And oh, this chapter. I need you all to be very normal about this one. I mean it. I am looking directly at some of you through the screen. Be normal. (You will not be normal.) This chapter is… a lot. There is tension—thick, suffocating, the kind that sits in your chest. There are soft moments that might make you lower your guard for approximately 0.5 seconds (mistake).
And then there’s… everything else. So please, I’m actually asking this seriously—find a small pocket of time for this. However long it usually takes you to read a Kkangpae chapter—thirty minutes, an hour, however you pace yourselves—give it that space. Read it somewhere you feel comfortable. Don’t rush it. Let it sit. Let it breathe. Because it’s heavy. And I don’t like spoiling anything (you know I don’t), but I like even less throwing you into a blender without at least looking you in the eye first and going, “hey. this might hurt a bit.” When I put warnings in my author notes, I don’t do it for decoration. I do it because this world—their world—is not kind. Sometimes things don’t turn out the way we expect them to. Sometimes there isn’t a clean resolution, or a neat emotional payoff, or the outcome you were quietly hoping for. And especially in a gang AU… the nitty-gritty? That’s not the exception. That’s the baseline. That’s how they survive. That’s how they’re shaped.
And I hope you understand that. I trust that you do.
Also—on a more logistical note before I start crying again for no reason—I mentioned this already, but I’ll be taking a short hiatus after this to work on Book 2 (Geumji). I want to build a proper backlog so I can post consistently without spontaneously combusting in the process. So I’ll see you very soon on the other side of that, or in any of my other fics if you decide to hang around with me while I spiral elsewhere <3 And as always… I’m extending my hand to you before you go in. Take it. We hold hands in this house. Kikizens, we suffer together.
Now go.
(And leave your hand-holding comments right here because I will be needing them too.)
Salt hits your nostrils while water slaps against pylons in a rhythm that’s anything but soothing.
You’re scanning left to right, taking note of shadows and shipping containers and too many places for armed assholes to hide, when Jeon’s hand lands on your hip.
It’s a firm pressure that says ’halt’ in a language your body apparently speaks fluently now. Four fingers pressed to the front of your hipbone, thumb anchored at the back, and you freeze like he's flipped some internal switch.
“Hold,” he murmurs, so close his breath hits the shell of your ear.
You feel him shift behind you, then beside you, then his chest brushes your shoulder as he leans in.
“We need to sweep first,” he murmurs, breath warm against your ear.
Goosebumps race down your neck, and you bite the inside of your cheek because Jesus, his voice does things when it’s pitched low like that.
His eyes are already moving. Methodical. Left sector, center, right. You watch his pupils dilate slightly as he processes everything, like his brain’s running equations you can’t see.
"Kaleido mentioned four men," he says, voice barely above a whisper. "But that's surface intel. Could be six. Could be eight. Depends on shift rotation and whether Fervio called for backup after the villa."
His fingers tap against your hip. Once, twice, three times. Soft little pulses that you feel more than hear.
"Wind's coming from the northeast at approximately four knots, which means sound carries toward the warehouses, not the water. Visibility's decent—maybe sixty percent with the fog rolling in. Moon's at seventy-two percent luminosity, provides enough light for visual confirmation without night vision but not enough for clean long-range shots without thermal."
You blink. "...What?"
His thumb shifts slightly, pressing into the small of your back like he's anchoring himself.
"The patterns," he continues, totally unbothered by your confusion. "They'll likely run standard perimeter checks—two mobile, two stationary. If they're smart, they've got overwatch on the ship itself, probably the bridge or the cargo deck. If they're really smart, they've got a counter-sniper positioned somewhere with elevation advantage, which means I need to map probable vantage points before we move."
"Jeon."
"Blind spots are—"
"Jeon."
He pauses. You feel it in the way his body goes still against yours, that tactical calculator brain of his grinding to a halt.
"Yeah?"
"I'm Seduction Division, not Tactical." You tilt your head just enough to catch his profile in your peripheral vision. "Translate for us mere mortals?"
His lips twitch. Not quite a smile, but close enough that it does something stupid to your pulse.
"Okay," he says, and his voice drops lower, softer, like he's letting you in on a secret. "See those three ships docked to the left?"
You nod.
"Two of Fervio's men are probably moving between them. They'll sweep the perimeter every fifteen minutes, maybe twenty if they're lazy. That gives us a window to move, but only if we time it right."
His fingers tap again, and you're starting to think it's not just tactical—it's nervous energy.
Or maybe focus.
Hard to tell with him.
"The other two are stationary. One's probably on the ship itself, keeping watch over Yunjin. The other..." His eyes scan the surrounding buildings. "Somewhere high. Watching the approach."
"So we can't just walk up there."
"No. We need elevation first. Higher ground means better sightlines, which means I can map their positions before we commit to an approach vector."
You process that. "You need to see them before they see us."
"Exactly."
There's something almost pleased in his tone, like you passed some kind of test.
It shouldn't make you feel as good as it does.
"That's the difference," he adds, and there's a shift in his voice—something darker threading through. "Between Tactical and Stealth."
You go still.
He brought it up.
He brought up V.
"V would already be moving," Jeon continues, matter-of-fact. "He'd use the fog, the shadows, the blind spots between ships. By the time they realized someone was there, he'd already be inside, and half of them would be dead."
His thumb presses harder against your back. Not painful, just... there.
Then his jaw tightens. Just a fraction.
“Stealth is about chaos. V would go in close, fast, loud when it counts. He’d use the first kill to draw the others out, then cut through them before they could process what’s happening. No corridor. No plan. Just”—he exhales sharply through his nose—“circles.”
“Circles?”
“I think in straight lines,” Jeon says, and there’s something almost bitter in his tone. “Point A to point B. Cause and effect. V thinks in circles. Loops. He’ll take the longest route if it means fucking with someone’s head first.”
You process that.
The way he knows V’s patterns down to the philosophy behind them.
The way he can predict every one of V’s moves despite the obvious hatred simmering between them.
You swallow. "You worked together though."
The words come out carefully. Not quite a question, but an opening. An invitation to say more if he wants.
"Before," you add, watching his face in the reflection of the water.
Before.
Jeon’s silent for a long moment. Long enough that you think he’s going to shut down completely, ice you out like he does when anyone gets too close to whatever history’s carved into his bones.
But then he sighs.
It's barely audible, just this small exhale that sounds... tired.
"We did," he admits. The fingers on your hip go still. "We were—"
He stops. Recalculates. You can practically hear the gears turning as he searches for the right word.
"Effective."
That's not what he wanted to say.
You can tell by the way his jaw tightens, the way his thumb twitches against your back like he's physically holding something in.
"Effective how?" you venture, keeping your voice light.
Curious but not pushy, make it his choice to share, not like you're digging.
His hand shifts on your hip. Not leaving, just adjusting. Getting more comfortable, maybe. Or bracing himself.
"I'd clear the approach," he says finally. "Long-range. Silent. By the time targets knew something was wrong, V was already inside, cleaning up. Zero survivors. Zero witnesses. Perfect operational efficiency."
Past tense.
Your chest tightens. You want to ask what happened, want to dig into the wound and see what made two of Kkangpae’s best stop being a team.
But you know Jeon. Know that pushing too hard means he’ll shut down completely.
So you aim as soft as you can.
“What happened?”
Jeon’s quiet again. You feel his chest expand against yours as he takes a deeper breath, scanning the pier one more time before his gaze drops to you.
For a second, you think he’s going to pull away and insist you move forward.
But his hand doesn’t move.
“We need to get to higher ground,” he says instead, nodding toward a stack of containers to the north. “I need line of sight. Need to map where Kaleido’s four men are, plus any extras he didn’t mention.”
He’s avoiding the question.
But his hand’s still on your hip.
And he’s looking at you like he wants to say more but doesn’t know how.
His fingers then hesitate, and there’s no missing it—the moment where he realizes his hand’s been resting there this whole time, anchoring you, keeping you close when tactically there’s no reason for it anymore.
The hesitation stretches.
One second.
Two.
Then his hand drops.
Cool air rushes in where his palm used to be, and you resist—barely—the urge to grab it and put it back.
“Come on,” he says, voice back to business. “Stay low. Follow my lead.”
He moves forward, fluid and silent, and you follow. But you’re still thinking about his hand.
About the way it felt.
About the word he didn’t say when he described working with V.
You try to match his rhythm anyways, the way he distributes his weight so his boots barely whisper against the concrete.
The shipping container looms ahead—rusted red steel stacked two high, perfect cover from whatever’s waiting on the ship. Jeon reaches it first, dropping into a crouch so fluid it looks choreographed. His head tilts back toward you, and then—
His right hand opens in the air.
Palm up. Fingers spread. Waiting.
You blink. Once. Twice.
Oh.
Oh.
He wants you to use his hand as a step. To boost yourself up onto the container.
Your eyes flick upward, taking in the second container stacked on top, the way it creates a perfect concealed pocket where you can move without being spotted from the ship.
Your gaze drops back to his outstretched palm.
One hand.
Just—one hand.
Is he seriously planning to not only support but propel your entire body weight up there with just his right arm? Like you’re a fucking feather instead of a full-grown woman in tactical gear?
You press your lips together, biting back what is definitely not a smile because this is absolutely not the time to be thinking about how stupidly strong he is. How those forearms that you’ve been trying very hard not to stare at aren’t just for show.
But Jesus.
The man’s hand doesn’t even waver. Just stays there, steady and sure, like boosting people several feet into the air is something he does on a weekday.
You take a breath. Deep and measured, the way Flower taught you before high-stakes ops.
Trust the plan.
Trust your partner.
Trust that Jeon’s physics-defying upper body strength won’t let you, you know, crash face-first into rusted steel.
You step forward, right foot lifting to settle into his palm. His fingers close around your boot, grip firm but careful, and you feel the coiled tension in his arm as he prepares to—
“Up,” he whispers.
His arm extends in one smooth, powerful motion, and you reach out instinctively, hands slapping against the steel rim, but you’re moving too fast, momentum carrying you forward and—
You wobble.
Shit. Shit.
Your balance tilts sideways, weight shifting wrong, and for a split second you’re certain you’re going to topple right off the edge and land in a very loud, very ungraceful heap.
But then his left hand catches your hip.
Warm. Steady. Anchoring you as he finishes the movement, pushing you up and over until you can get your elbows on solid steel and haul yourself the rest of the way.
You roll onto the container’s surface, staying low like he showed you, heart hammering from the adrenaline rush. When you turn back to look down, he’s already moving.
Jeon jumps, plants both palms on the container’s edge and pushes himself up.
And fuck, you should look away. Should focus on scanning for threats or checking sight lines or literally anything else that isn’t the way his forearms flex as he lifts his entire body weight like it’s nothing.
But you don’t look away.
Can’t, really.
Because watching Jeon move is like watching engineering in action. Every muscle coordinated, every motion efficient, no wasted energy or unnecessary effort. His shoulders bunch as he pulls himself higher, biceps straining against the black thermal fabric, and then he’s swinging one leg over the edge with liquid grace.
He lands in a crouch beside you, settling against the container wall without even breathing hard.
Show off.
Not that you’re complaining.
“You good?” he asks, voice pitched low.
“Yeah.”
The word comes out steadier than you feel. Because you are good—better than good, actually. There’s something about moving with him like this, matching his rhythm, trusting his strength, that makes every nerve ending feel sparked.
He nods once, already shifting into surveillance mode. His eyes sweep the pier below, noting shadows and movement, building that tactical map in his head.
You try to focus on the mission. Really, you do.
But you’re still thinking about his hands.
The way his right palm felt solid and sure beneath your boot. The way his left hand found your hip without looking, pure instinct guiding him to steady you when you needed it most.
The casual display of strength that probably didn’t even register to him as anything special.
Focus.
Right. Focus on the job. On finding the four men Kaleido mentioned. On mapping exit routes and identifying threats.
Not on the man beside you whose presence feels increasingly magnetic with every passing minute.
You shift slightly, trying to find a comfortable position against the steel, and accidentally brush his shoulder with yours.
He doesn’t move away.
Neither do you.
And maybe—maybe that’s a problem you’ll worry about later.
When Yunjin’s safe.
When the mission’s complete.
When you can afford to think about the way Jeon’s body heat seeps through your thermal top and makes your skin tingle.
You breathe steady as he shifts beside you, body angling for a better view of the pier.
He peers over the container’s edge, just enough to scan without exposing himself. Makes this soft humming noise, like he’s reviewing information in real time.
“I need a higher vantage point,” he murmurs, eyes tracking upward to the container stacked above you both.
Then he tilts his head toward you, beckoning with the slightest nod.
You scoot forward until you’re pressed against his side, close enough to follow his line of sight. The proximity sends heat crawling up your neck, but you ignore it. Mission first.
His arm extends, finger pointing toward the far right side of the pier. “See that first container?”
You nod.
“One man there.” His neck stretches as he adjusts his angle, scanning further. “Another one on the container after that. They’re both carrying HK416s 5.56, effective range about found hundred meters with those optics, though given the modifications I’m seeing…” He catches himself, throat clearing slightly. “Right. So, rifles.”
You bite back a smile. Only Jeon would start rattling off weapon specifications during a stealth operation and then remember he’s talking to someone who doesn’t need the technical breakdown.
His gaze moves upward again.
“I’ll be your eyes up there.” He points to the container above you both, then shifts back to scan the containers near the boats. “You handle close range, I’ll cover distance.”
And just like that, you realize what he’s saying.
He trusts you.
Trusts you to handle yourself without supervision.
Trusts your training enough that he can focus on what he does best—long-range precision—instead of worrying about babysitting a rookie through close combat.
The weight of that trust hits you square in the chest, making something flutter behind your ribs. Not butterflies exactly. Something bigger. More significant.
He believes in you.
You nod, and his mouth curves into the faintest smile.
Then his expression shifts, brows drawing together as he studies the layout ahead. His lips press into a thin line.
“The problem now is how to get you there.”
You follow his gaze, mapping the route.
There’s the container you’re on, then the massive one balanced on top of both yours and the adjacent container. The gap between them is wide—maybe four feet of empty air with concrete waiting below.
You can’t climb the bridging container. Being on top would leave you completely exposed, visible from the ship. And you can’t scale it while pressed against the side because there’s no foothold, nothing to grip except smooth steel.
But there might be another way.
You reach down, fingers finding the knife strapped to your ankle. The blade slides free with barely a whisper of steel on leather.
“Think I got an idea,” you whisper.
Jeon’s eyes drop to the knife, then flick back to your face. One eyebrow quirks up, curious but not doubtful.
His fingers suddenly catch your chin.
Thumb and index, firm but careful, turning your face toward his. The movement’s so quick you don’t have time to process it before you’re looking directly into those stormy eyes.
“What—”
But his other hand’s already moving. He reaches into the pocket of his tactical pants and pulls out two earpieces—yours and his. Must’ve pocketed them both back at the gravel lot.
He holds yours up, eyebrow raised.
You tilt your head without thinking, offering your ear, and his fingers brush the shell as he fits the piece back in. Careful. Precise. Way more gentle than the situation calls for.
Your skin prickles.
He fits his own in with his free hand, taps it twice, then goes back to yours—adjusting something, fingers working the tiny device with that little furrow between his brows.
“What are you doing?” you whisper.
“Chief’s override,” he murmurs back. “Private channel.”
Oh.
Just you and him. No V. No main frequency. No one listening.
He finishes whatever technical magic he just performed and his hand drops. But his eyes stay on yours, scanning your face like he’s checking something important.
“That plan of yours is reckless, sunshine.”
Sunshine.
There it is. The nickname he’s been holding back all night, the one that only comes out when you’re alone and his guard drops just enough to let it slip through.
Bet he’s been wanting to call you that since you stepped foot in that palazzo.
His gaze drifts past you, tracking the route you’re thinking of taking without you having to explain a damn thing. Like your brain and his are running on the same frequency.
Container. Gap. Knife point. Swing. Left turn. First target. Straight line. Second target.
He sees it all in maybe three seconds.
“But then again,” he continues, and something that might be amusement tugs at the corner of his mouth, “your brand of recklessness tends to be refreshing.”
His head tilts slightly, one eyebrow quirking up. That little silver barbell catches the moonlight, and combined with the barely-there smirk playing across his lips, he looks almost… fond.
Fond.
Of your recklessness.
You can’t help but smile back. “I’ve got you, chief.”
The words come out easier than they should. Confident. Trusting. Like there’s no question in your mind that he’ll be exactly where you need him to be, when you need him there.
His expression shifts. Something unreadable flickers across his features before settling into that familiar mask of professional calm.
But his eyes stay soft.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “You do.”
You turn your attention back to the route, mind already working through the mechanics.
The distance between containers. The angle you’ll need. The momentum required to clear the gap without making noise.
It’s doable. Risky as hell, but doable.
Cross to the bridging container. Wait for cover noise—ship horns work perfectly, loud enough to mask any sound you might make. Embed the knife deep enough to support your weight. Use it as an anchor point to swing yourself across the gap with enough momentum to land silently on the adjacent container.
Then it’s just following the inverse L formation. Left turn, drop down to take out the first guard. Straight line to the second container, quick jump, neutralize the second target.
All while Jeon provides overwatch from his elevated position, ready to take out any sniper that might have you in their sights.
Simple. Clean. Effective.
The kind of plan that blends stealth and tactical precision in a way that shouldn’t work but does.
Seduction Division at its finest.
A low horn echoes across the water. Deep, resonant, the kind of sound that carries for miles and drowns out everything else for those few precious seconds.
Perfect.
You grip the knife handle, testing the weight. The blade’s perfectly balanced, sharp enough to bite deep into steel if you hit it right.
You wait for the next horn.
When it comes, you move.
The knife leaves your hand in a clean arc, spinning once before sinking into a corrugated seam with a solid thunk—wedged deep between the steel panels like a piton.
The horn’s still echoing when you’re already moving, hands reaching for the knife handle, body coiling to make the swing.
Got it.
The swing carries you across the gap with perfect momentum. Your boots hit the adjacent container with barely a whisper, knees bending to absorb the impact.
Nailed it.
You stay low, pressing against the steel as you catch your breath. The knife’s still embedded in the bridging container behind you—you’ll have to retrieve it later. For now, you need cover.
You sprint across the container’s surface, staying crouched until you reach the far edge. Drop behind it, back pressed to the metal wall. Your heart hammers against your ribs, but your breathing stays controlled.
Focus.
A quick peek around the corner shows nothing. Empty pier stretching ahead, shadows dancing between stacked containers. No movement. No glint of weapons or boots.
Good.
You move left, following the route you mapped out earlier. The inverse L formation that’ll take you to the first target, then straight across to the second.
There’s another container stacked on top of the one ahead—perfect cover for what you’re planning. You reach the end of your current position and stop, pressing your hand to your earpiece.
Jeon’s voice comes through immediately, low and steady.
“Hold position, sunshine.”
Sunshine.
Even in the middle of a tactical operation, hearing that nickname makes something warm unfurl in your chest.
“He’s on my right,” Jeon continues, “so your left. Take the right side of the container, stay pressed against it. Walk slow—no rushing. When you reach the corner, wait for my signal.”
You nod even though he can’t see you. “Copy.”
“And remember—he’s got height on you. Use that. Get under his line of sight, come up from below. Arms up when you make contact.”
You move right, keeping your back flush against the container wall, weight distributed to minimize sound.
Slow and steady.
Your fingers brush the spare knife at your hip—backup plan if things go sideways. But you’re hoping it won’t come to that. Clean and quiet is the goal.
The container’s corner approaches. You can hear something now—faint shuffling, the scrape of boots against concrete.
He’s close.
Very close.
You press yourself tighter against the wall, hand finding your earpiece again.
Jeon’s voice is barely a whisper. “He’s lighting a cigarette. Distracted. You’ve got maybe thirty seconds before he starts moving again.”
Perfect.
Cigarette means his hands are occupied. Means his attention’s split between keeping watch and getting his nicotine fix.
“On my mark,” Jeon continues. “Three… two…”
You coil your muscles, ready to spring.
“One. Go.”
You round the corner fast but controlled, staying low like he taught you.
And there he is—tall guy with a rifle slung over his shoulder, lighter held up to his face. The orange glow illuminates his features for just a second.
Now.
You surge upward, arms coming up exactly like Jeon said. Your forearm catches the guy’s throat, cutting off any sound he might make. Your other hand goes for his weapon, yanking it away before he can react.
He’s bigger than you, stronger, but surprise is on your side. He stumbles backward, hands clawing at your arm, but you’re already shifting your weight, using his momentum against him.
Basic Seduction Division training. Get close, get control, get it over with.
The rifle clatters to the ground as you adjust your grip, cutting off his air supply completely. His struggles get weaker, more desperate, but you hold on.
Sorry, dude. Wrong place, wrong time.
He goes limp after what feels like forever but was probably only twenty seconds. You lower him carefully, making sure he doesn’t hit the ground too hard.
One down.
“Target neutralized,” you whisper into your earpiece.
“Clean work.” There’s something that might be pride in Jeon’s voice. “Second target’s moving. Straight ahead, next container over. Same approach—he’s scanning left, so come from his right side.”
You’re already moving, adrenaline singing through your veins.
This is what you trained for. What you’re good at.
And knowing Jeon’s watching, that he trusts you enough to let you handle this alone?
That makes you feel unstoppable.
You move right along the container wall. The steel feels solid against your back as you inch forward, listening for any sound that might give away the second guard’s position.
Your breathing stays controlled despite the adrenaline singing through your veins.
The corner approaches. You can hear him now, footsteps pacing back and forth. Restless energy. Good—means he’s not fully focused.
You coil your muscles, ready to spring around the corner and catch him off guard like the first guy.
But then you hear it.
Beep. Beep.
Some kind of notification. Radio chatter, maybe. Or a phone.
Shit.
You round the corner anyway, hoping to catch him while he’s distracted, but his head snaps up the second you move into his line of sight.
Fuck.
His eyes go wide—surprise, then immediate calculation. He’s bigger than the first guy, broader shoulders, and his hand’s already moving toward the rifle strapped across his chest.
You launch yourself at him anyway.
Your forearm catches him in the throat, but he jerks backward just enough that the hit doesn’t land clean. He staggers but doesn’t go down, and his hand closes around your wrist with crushing force.
Strong. Really fucking strong.
He twists your arm, trying to throw you off balance, but you go with it instead of fighting it.
Your legs come up, thighs clamping around his neck in a move Flower drilled into you until you could do it in your sleep. Perfect positioning—if you can just get the pressure right, cut off his blood flow, he’ll be unconscious in seconds.
But he doesn’t panic like most people do when they suddenly can’t breathe.
Instead, his fists start slamming into your thighs.
Ow. Fuck. OW.
Each hit sends spikes of pain up your legs, but you squeeze harder, trying to finish this before he can break free. The angle’s good, you’ve got leverage, just need to—
His hands find your ankles and he yanks.
You lose your grip around his neck and suddenly you’re airborne, the world spinning as he swings you around and releases you like you’re a fucking rag doll.
You hit the container floor hard, pain exploding through your shoulder and hip. Stars dance across your vision, but training kicks in before panic can.
Move. Get up. Fight back.
You roll onto your back just as he lunges toward you, probably planning to pin you down and finish this with his hands around your throat.
But you’re already lifting your leg, boot aimed straight at his descending face—
CRACK.
The sound echoes across the pier like thunder. The guard’s head snaps backward in a spray of red, his body crumpling to the side before he can complete his lunge.
Headshot. Clean. Instant.
Jeon.
“That gave away my position,” his voice comes through your earpiece, calm as if he just hadn’t turned someone’s skull into abstract art. “Listen carefully, sunshine. Point to your left.”
You push yourself up to sitting, wiping blood from where your lip split when you hit the container. Your thighs throb from where the guard’s fists connected, but nothing feels broken.
“My left?” you ask, getting your bearings.
“Your left. See that crane about two hundred meters out?”
You scan the pier until you spot it—massive industrial crane silhouetted against the pre-dawn sky, all steel beams and cables.
“Yeah.”
“There’s a sniper nest on the platform. Third level up, northwest corner. He’s got eyes on us now.”
Your stomach drops. “How do you know?”
“Because I would.” Matter-of-fact, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “He heard my shot, knows there’s a counter-sniper in play. He’s acquiring me now, setting sights on my last position. You’ve got maybe thirty seconds before he realizes I’m moving and decides to focus on you instead.”
“Comforting.”
“Grab the rifle. The one that just dropped.”
You look around, spotting the weapon that fell when the now-headless guard went down. It’s splattered with blood and bits of brain matter, but at this point you’re past being squeamish.
“Got it.”
“Good. Now—you’re going to take the shot.”
You nearly drop the rifle. “What?”
“You heard me. I need you to neutralize the sniper while I relocate. He’s focused on my last position, doesn’t expect you to be armed with anything more than a handgun. Won’t see it coming.”
“Jeon, I’m not—I don’t have sniper training—”
“You have training. Different training, but the fundamentals apply. Breathe, sunshine. Trust me.”
His voice is steady, confident. Like there’s no question in his mind that you can do this.
Okay. Okay.
You grip the rifle properly, checking that the safety’s off. It’s heavier than you expected, built for stopping power at distance.
“Sight picture first,” Jeon continues, voice patient and sure. “Look through the scope, find the crane platform.”
You bring the rifle up, awkward at first until you find a comfortable position. The scope’s magnification makes everything swim into sharp detail.
“I see it.”
“Northwest corner. Look for movement, reflected light, anything that doesn’t belong.”
You scan the platform methodically, the way Flower taught you to observe targets during intelligence gathering.
There—a glint of metal catching the pre-dawn light.
Definitely artificial. Definitely a weapon.
“Got something. Metallic reflection, northwest side like you said.”
“Perfect. Now listen carefully—you need to adjust for distance and elevation. See that shipping container directly below the crane?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s your reference point. Target’s approximately three meters above that container, maybe fifteen meters back from the platform edge. You need to account for windage too—there’s a crosswind coming off the water. Adjust two meters to the right.”
Two meters right, three meters up.
You move the crosshairs, trying to apply everything he’s telling you while your heart hammers against your ribs.
“When I say fire, squeeze the trigger smooth and steady. Don’t jerk it, don’t second-guess. Just like target practice, except this target shoots back.”
“Jeon, what if I miss?”
“You won’t.” No hesitation in his voice. Zero doubt. “You’re steady under pressure, sunshine. I’ve seen it. This is just another target.”
Just another target.
Sure. A target that could kill both of you if you fuck this up.
“On my mark,” he continues. “Take a deep breath, let half of it out, hold the rest. Find your natural respiratory pause and squeeze through it.”
You do exactly what he says.
Deep breath in. Half out. Hold.
The crosshairs settle on where you think the sniper should be, accounting for all the adjustments Jeon gave you.
“Three…” His voice is calm, steady. “Two…”
Don’t think. Just shoot.
“One. Fire.”
You squeeze.
The rifle kicks against your shoulder, and through the scope you watch the sniper’s body jerk backward before crumpling behind the crane platform.
Got him.
A satisfied hum crackles through your earpiece, low and pleased.
“That’s my girl.”
Something hot and violent flutters in your stomach at the words before you can stop it. You squash that feeling down hard, focus on the mission, but jesus—the way he said it.
Like he’s proud of you.
“Moving to your position now,” Jeon’s voice continues, all business again. “Stay put until I—”
“Negative.” You’re already shifting, scanning the pier below. “I’m dropping down. We need to get to that ship.”
“Sunshine, wait—”
But you’re already moving, slinging the rifle over your shoulder and dropping to the edge of the container.
The jump down to ground level isn’t bad—maybe six feet—and you land in a crouch, absorbing the impact through your legs.
Sea level now. The smell of salt water and diesel fuel hits you immediately, stronger down here where the waves slap against the pier supports.
You straighten up, checking your surroundings.
Empty shipping containers stretch in both directions, creating a maze of steel and shadow. The ship’s probably fifty meters ahead, past the next row of—
An arm snakes around your throat from behind.
Fuck.
Pure instinct kicks in. You bite down hard on the bicep pressed against your neck, tasting blood and sweat and something chemical—antiseptic, maybe. Medical supplies.
The arm jerks away with a sharp curse, and you spin around to face—
Fervio.
How the fuck is he still standing?
The last time you saw this asshole, V was turning him into modern art.
He should be unconscious. Should be dead.
But here he is, very much alive and apparently ready for round two.
Blood seeps through his jacket where V’s knives found their mark. His face is a mess of cuts and bruises, one eye swollen nearly shut. But his remaining eye burns with something that makes your skin crawl.
Hunger.
“Hello again, little dove,” he says, voice rough like gravel.
He lunges forward, faster than someone that injured should be able to move. You dodge left, but his hand catches your shoulder, spinning you around.
The rifle slides off your back and clatters across the concrete.
Shit.
You go for the knife at your hip, but Fervio’s already there, his hand closing over yours with crushing force.
“How the fuck are you still standing?” you grunt, trying to wrench free.
He laughs, and the sound makes your stomach turn. “You don’t know what adrenaline injections can do, do you? Black market pharmaceuticals are fascinating these days.”
Great. A psycho hopped up on experimental stimulants.
His grip tightens until you feel bones grinding together. You twist your body, use the momentum to drive your knee toward his ribs, but he shifts at the last second.
Your knee hits solid muscle instead of wounded flesh.
He uses your off-balance moment to grab the rifle and heave it across the pier. It skitters under a shipping container, completely out of reach.
“No, no,” he tsks, still holding your wrist. “That would be too quick. Too easy.”
Sadistic fuck.
He pulls a knife from somewhere—not the curved one from before, this one’s smaller, sharper. Built for precision cuts, not killing blows.
Torture.
You wrench your arm free and stumble backward, putting distance between you and that blade. Your hand finds the backup knife, fingers closing around the handle.
“Come now,” Fervio says, advancing slowly. “I promise to make this educational.”
The way he says it makes your skin crawl. Like he’s planning to take his time. Like he’s got all night to work.
Fuck that.
You feint left, then dart right, trying to get behind him. But he’s ready for it, pivoting to match your movement.
The knife flashes toward your ribs. You block with your forearm, feel the blade slice through fabric and skin, but it’s not deep.
Keep moving.
You circle each other, looking for openings. He’s bigger, stronger, probably more experienced with close combat.
But you’re faster. And you’re pissed.
You dart in low, aiming for his wounded side where V’s knife work left him vulnerable. Your blade finds flesh, slides between ribs.
Fervio grunts but doesn’t go down. Just grins wider, like pain is exactly what he was hoping for.
Psycho.
His knife arcs toward your face. You duck, feel steel whistle past your ear, and drive your elbow up into his chin.
His head snaps back, but he recovers faster than he should. Grabs your wrist and twists until your knife drops.
Then his blade is moving again, too fast to track, and suddenly there’s fire in your thigh.
You look down and see steel buried deep in muscle, blood already soaking through your pants.
Motherfucker.
Pain explodes through your thigh, white-hot and immediate.
You scream—can’t help it—as steel bites deep into muscle. But the sound cuts off when Fervio’s hand clamps over your mouth, muffling everything into a pathetic whimper.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
Blood seeps around the blade, warm and sticky, soaking through your tactical pants. The knife’s still embedded, and every movement, as tiny as it is, sends fresh waves of agony radiating up your leg.
“Shh, shh,” Fervio whispers against your ear, voice sickeningly gentle. “Save your energy, little dove. We’re just getting started.”
You try to elbow him in the ribs, aim for one of V’s wounds, but he anticipates it. Shifts his weight and suddenly you’re spinning, your back slamming against his chest.
No no no—
His arm snakes around your ribs, pinning your arms to your sides. The other hand moves to your throat, fingers pressing just hard enough to remind you how easily he could crush your windpipe.
You’re trapped. Completely fucking trapped.
“Much better,” he purrs, and you can feel his smile against your temple. “Now we can have a proper conversation.”
He tilts his head toward the maze of shipping containers, voice rising to carry across the pier.
“Jeon!” he calls out, theatrical and mocking. “Come out and play with the grownups!”
Silence. Just the slap of waves against pylons and the distant hum of ship engines.
Your eyes scan the shadows frantically, looking for any sign of movement. Any hint that Jeon’s positioning himself for a shot.
Come on. Where is he?
Fervio waits maybe ten seconds before clearing his throat, the sound vibrating through his chest against your back.
“No? Nothing?” He chuckles, low and pleased. “How disappointing.”
Then his hand moves to the knife buried in your thigh.
“No, don’t—”
But he’s already gripping the handle, and when he yanks it free, the scream that rips from your throat echoes across the entire pier.
Jesus fucking Christ—
Blood gushes from the wound, soaking your leg, dripping onto the concrete in steady plink plink plink sounds that make your stomach lurch. The pain is incredible—like someone’s driving a hot poker through your muscle with every heartbeat.
“Jeon!” Fervio calls again, voice bright with satisfaction. “Come out now, or the next thing that’ll gush blood apart from her thigh is her throat. Hands visible and up.”
Please. Please just shoot this motherfucker.
But even as you think it, you know Jeon can’t take the shot.
Not with Fervio using you as a human shield.
Not when one wrong move means your blood painting the pier.
Movement in your peripheral vision. A shadow detaching itself from behind a shipping container.
Jeon.
He emerges with his hands raised, jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscle jumping in his cheek. His eyes find yours immediately, and what you see there makes your chest tight.
Fury.
Pure, cold, calculating rage barely held in check.
“There he is,” Fervio purrs against your ear, sounding delighted. “The famous sniper. The ghost of Seoul. The man who never misses.”
Jeon’s gaze flicks to the knife in Fervio’s hand, then to the blood pooling beneath your feet. His nostrils flare.
“Let her go,” he says, voice flat and deadly calm. “Your issue’s with me.”
“Oh, but she’s so much more fun,” Fervio replies, pressing the blade against your throat. Not cutting—not yet—but the threat’s crystal clear. “The gun. Drop it.”
Jeon doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink.
The knife presses harder. You feel the sharp edge bite into skin, feel blood start to trickle down your neck in warm rivulets.
Shit. He’s actually cutting—
“Do it slowly,” Fervio continues when Jeon hesitates, dragging the blade sideways just enough to open a shallow cut. “Any sudden movements and… well. You understand.”
Jesus Christ that hurts.
You bite back a whimper, focusing on staying perfectly still. Any movement could drive that blade deeper, turn a shallow cut into something permanent.
Jeon’s eyes meet yours for just a second. You see the calculation there—the tactical assessment running through his head at light speed.
But also something else.
Panic.
He crouches slowly, placing his gun on the concrete carefully.
“Kick it away.”
Jeon complies, sending the weapon skittering across the pier until it disappears under a shipping container with a metallic clang.
“Good boy,” Fervio grins, and you can hear the satisfaction dripping from his voice. “Now. Where’s your psychotic little boyfriend? V didn’t come to our reunion party?”
“He’s busy,” Jeon says, voice still that deadly flat. “Keeping your boyfriend Kaleido company.”
Fervio laughs—actually laughs—like this is the funniest thing he’s heard all night.
“Aw, but I was so looking forward to seeing him again. I wanted him to watch when I take one of his precious dolls.” His grip on your throat tightens slightly, fingers digging into your pulse points. “Just like he did to me in Venice. You remember that, don’t you, Jeon? Or were you too busy playing hero from your little perch?”
Venice.
Something passes between them—some shared history you’re not privy to. But the way Jeon’s face goes completely blank, like a mask slamming down, tells you it’s not good.
“That was different,” Jeon says quietly. Too quietly.
“Was it?” Fervio’s voice turns mocking, theatrical. “Seemed pretty similar to me. V taking something I cared about. Making me watch while he—”
“She was a target,” Jeon cuts him off, words sharp as glass. “A legitimate military target.”
“She was mine.”
Fervio’s voice goes ice cold, all pretense of amusement dropping away like a discarded mask. The blade presses harder against your throat—you feel more blood start to flow.
“And he made sure I knew exactly what he was doing when he slit her throat. Made it slow. Made it artistic. Made me watch every. Single. Second.”
Oh.
The picture’s starting to come together now.
Some girl in Venice, years ago. Someone Fervio cared about—loved, maybe? if he’s capable of love on the first place. Someone V killed while Fervio watched.
And now he wants payback.
Fantastic.
“So here we are,” Fervio continues, voice returning to that sick tone. “Full circle. Except this time, I’m the one holding the blade.”
The knife moves against your throat—not cutting deeper, but promising. A preview of what’s coming.
“And when I get back to that sweet little princess on my ship, I’m going to take my time. Hours and hours. She’s going to learn every technique I’ve perfected over the years. Every way the human body can experience exquisite agony before it finally shatters.”
Your blood turns to ice. Because he’s not just talking about cutting or stabbing.
He’s talking about torture. Real, prolonged, sadistic torture.
“I’m going to make her scream until her voice gives out. Then I’ll wait for it to come back, just so I can make her scream again. And when I’m finally done playing, when there’s nothing left of that pretty little mind except fear and pain…”
He leans closer, breath hot against your ear.
“…I’m gonna send what’s left of her back to V in a pretty pink bow.”
The image he’s painting makes your stomach turn to acid.
Yunjin—sweet, bubbly Yunjin who makes cotton candy seem sophisticated—in the hands of this s̶a̶d̶i̶s̶t̶i̶c̶ monster.
No. No no no.
“But enough about future plans,” Fervio continues, voice shifting back to that mock-reasonable tone. “Let’s discuss present arrangements. I’m willing to make a deal.”
Jeon’s eyes narrow. “What kind of deal?”
“Simple. I leave with my little pink princess, and in exchange…” The knife presses just a fraction deeper against your throat. “I give you my word that this beauty here won’t be hunted down by my team. Clean slate. Fresh start.”
You feel Jeon’s entire body go rigid at the suggestion. Even from here, you can see his hands clenching into fists.
“Your word?” Jeon’s voice is flat, dangerous. “You think I’d—”
“Ah ah ah.” Fervio cuts him off with a tsk. “We both know words hold no value in our line of work. Which is why I’m prepared to make this… official.”
He shifts slightly behind you, and you hear the soft clink of metal against metal.
What the fuck—
“Personal binding coins,” Fervio explains, like he’s discussing dinner plans instead of human trafficking. “You know how it works. I give mine, you give yours. Physical proof of the contract. Break it, and both our organizations know exactly who can’t be trusted.”
Oh shit.
Personal binding coins are serious business in the underworld.
Not like the neutral coins used for transactions—these are about honor, about binding agreements between high-ranking operatives. When someone gives you their personal coin, it’s their word made tangible. Break that agreement, and your reputation is d̶e̶s̶t̶r̶o̶y̶e̶d̶ gone.
And Fervio knows Jeon has one. All Council of 9 members do.
You watch Jeon’s face go through a series of micro-expressions—calculation, fury, disgust. His jaw works silently, like he’s biting back words that would probably get you killed.
“You sick fuck,” he finally says, voice low and deadly. “I don’t bargain with—”
HOOOOOONK.
The ship’s horn blares across the pier, deep and resonant and perfectly timed to mask the sound of—
CRACK.
Jeon staggers forward, red blooming across his shoulder like a flower. His eyes go wide—not with pain, but with pure shock.
He got shot.
Someone fucking shot him.
Everything slows down.
You watch the impact ripple through his body, see his knees buckle slightly as his brain processes what just happened. Blood seeps through the black thermal fabric, spreading outward in a pattern that looks almost artistic if you ignore the fact that it’s Jeon’s blood.
The man who never gets caught off guard.
Who always has a plan.
Who sees everything coming from a mile away.
Just got shot in the fucking back.
Fervio doesn’t waste the opportunity.
His arms release you suddenly, and then you’re flying through the air, thrown like a rag doll straight at Jeon’s chest.
You collide hard—ribs against ribs, shoulder against wounded shoulder. Jeon grunts in pain but catches you anyway, his good arm wrapping around your waist to keep you both upright.
“Move!”
His voice cuts through the chaos, sharp and commanding despite the blood loss. His hand clamps around your wrist like a vice, and suddenly you’re being dragged, stumbling, behind the nearest shipping container.
You hear Fervio’s laughter echoing across the pier, already fading as he makes his escape.
“Yunjin!” you scream, trying to wrench free from Jeon’s grip. “They’re leaving! They’re fucking leaving with—”
“Sit the fuck down.” His voice is ice cold, furious, as he forces you down behind the container wall.
His good hand presses against your shoulder, pinning you in place.
“You’re bleeding, I’m bleeding, and we are unarmed,” he continues through gritted teeth, breathing hard. “Sit. Down.”
His head tilts back against the steel, face pale but eyes still sharp.
Blood seeps steadily from the wound where the bullet tore through muscle and sinew, staining his thermal top crimson.
But he’s not letting go of your wrist.
Can’t. Can’t just sit here.
“Let me go.” Your voice cracks on the words, panic making everything feel razor-sharp. “Let me fucking go!”
You try to push yourself up, try to get to your feet, but Jeon’s hand clamps down on your wrist.
“They got Yunjin—”
“Do you think I don’t fucking know that?” The words explode out of him, voice cracking like a whip.
His eyes snap open, and jesus—you’ve never seen him look like this.
Wound tight enough to snap, fury and something that looks like despair warring across his features.
“Then why are we still here?” Your voice rises to match his. “We need to—!”
“We need to what?” He turns toward you, and there’s blood smeared across his mouth where he bit his tongue. “Run onto that ship unarmed? Let them cut us both down?”
“We can’t just sit here!”
“Yes, we fucking can!”
“She’s my best friend!” The words tear out of your throat, and you don’t care that you’re screaming, don’t care that your voice is cracking. “She’s my—”
“You think I don’t want to go after her?” His voice drops to something quieter but no less vicious. “You think I don’t want to tear that ship apart board by board until I find her?”
His breathing’s gone harsh and uneven, like he’s fighting for air.
“Then why—”
“Because I fucking considered it!”
The words explode between you like a grenade, sharp and devastating.
What.
Your mouth falls open.
You stare at him, at the self-loathing written across every line of his face.
“For a fucking second,” he continues, voice breaking on every word, “I considered it. Considered trading your fucking life for Yunjin’s.”
The silence that follows is deafening.
Your tongue feels completely, utterly, absolutely useless inside your mouth.
“When he offered that deal—when he wanted to trade my coin for his—” Jeon’s head falls back against the container with a dull thunk. “For one second, I thought about it. Weighed the options. One life versus another.”
You can’t breathe. Can’t think past the rushing in your ears.
“And that makes me no better than him,” he whispers, staring up at the gray pre-dawn sky. “No better than the piece of shit who just walked away with her.”
Jesus christ.
He actually considered it. Actually stood there and considered your life was worth more than Yunjin’s.
Part of you wants to hit him. Wants to scream until your voice gives out.
But a bigger part—the part that knows him, knows how his brain works—understands exactly why that thought would destroy him.
Because Jeon doesn’t make emotional decisions.
He weighs variables and chooses the most tactically sound option, and the fact that he even considered sacrificing Yunjin means—
Means you matter to him.
More than just professionally. More than just as a team member or a responsibility.
“Jeon,” you start, but he cuts you off.
“Don’t.” His voice is flat again, empty. “Just—don’t.”
The sound of the engines gets lost in the distance.
Yunjin is gone. The microchip isn’t secured. The mission has been a catastrophic disaster.
And you’re both sitting here bleeding onto concrete, having the worst possible revelation at the worst possible time.
if you've enjoyed this chapter please consider buying me a coffee!! ☕️ ♡´∀｀♡
synopsis : you’re freshly heartbroken watching your influencer ex boyfriend yeonjun move on like it’s his full time job, so obviously you start a chaotic little series called house of me and rope your hot, tattooed neighbor into fake dating you for content, except the kisses and touch feel a little too real, he keeps calling you “ pretty girl ” off camera, and now you you’re left asking yourself are you rebuilding your heart, or just setting the whole house on fire. so yeah do you want the house tour ?
pairings : tattoo artist!jungkook x youtuberf!reader
genre : fake dating + neighbours to lovers
rating : MDNI | 18+ ( explicit )
warnings : jungkooks an absolute simp, lots of sexual tension, dirty talking, unprotected sex, dry humping, recording sex tapes, tit play, overstimulation, creampie, semi-public sex, possessiveness, choking, multiple orgasms, slight voyeurism, hair pulling, spitting, praise kink, thigh riding, jealous/territorial jk, cockwarming, pussy slapping, edging, cockwarming, squirting, crying from pleasure, body worship
status : to be released
taglist : open
INDEX
00 — teaser
01 —
02 —
03 —
04 —
05 —
more to come
you kick off your shoes and pad farther inside, eventually lowering yourself onto the floor with your back against the couch still wrapped in plastic, still not quite yours yet. your phone buzzes in your hand.
ten minutes that’s how long it’s been since house of me the first episode went live.your screen lights up nonstop.you unlock it, breath hitching as comments flood in faster than you can read them.
im so proud of you
this feels so real, thank you for trusting us
healing looks good on you already
WE’RE HERE ALWAYS
your chest tightens, emotion swelling until it feels too big to contain.you smile, blinking hard, liking comment after comment. your thumbs move on instinct more than thought. “thank you,” you whisper, barely audible, like a prayer like maybe the walls could carry it back to them.
but when you lock your phone and set it down beside you, the quiet rushes back in again. you stand and you begin unpacking slowly.
a sweater tossed onto the couch books stacked crookedly on the floor. small pieces of your life placed without any real order, like you don’t yet know where anything belongs and then you freeze.
at the bottom of a box labeled MISC / CLOSET, you find it yeonjun’s hoodie folded and soft.Still carrying the faintest trace of him your throat closes instantly.
you sink back onto the floor, clutching the hoodie in both hands like it might disappear if you loosen your grip. the ache comes fast sharp and unexpected.
another box gives you more proof you’re not as finished as you pretended to be an old concert ticket tucked inside a notebook, a polaroid of you both laughing, careless and happy.
your phone lights up again when you accidentally brush the screen you unlock it scroll and find his contact
jjunnie : did you eat ?
jjunnie : i miss you already 😣
jjunnie : come over
a broken laugh slips out of you “God, i hate this.”the words echo back at you, swallowed by the empty apartment.
“ i hate pretending im okay,” you say aloud, voice cracking. “i hate being strong on camera i hate that he gets to move on like it didn’t wreck me.”your fingers hover over the keyboard one word.
you : hey
that’s all it would take. you stare at it for a long moment heart racing, hope and humiliation tangled together. then you delete it and exhale.
“no,” you whisper firmly to yourself. “not again.”your phone buzzes once more, a new comment. you open it without thinking.
honestly ? best revenge is living well or bagging someone hotter.
you snort through your tears, a surprised laugh breaking free.“bagging someone hotter,” you repeat softly, shaking your head. your gaze drifts upward to the door.
then to the door across the hall you blink. “…i have a hot neighbor.” the thought doesn’t hurt. it lands lightly not a plan, not a promise. Just a tiny spark of something easier than grief.
you smile to yourself, wiping your cheeks. “yeah,” you murmur “that might be enough.”you stand, folding the hoodie neatly this time. outside, the hallway stays quiet then, across the hall, a light flicks on.
and for the first time since the breakup, standing in the middle of your new apartment, you don’t feel completely alone in your new house. you stare at your reflection in the dark screen of your phone.
what am I doing ? the thought comes too late. you slip on your slippers, wipe your cheeks one last time, and step out into the hallway. the lights are dimmer here, quieter, like the building itself has settled in for the night.
you stand in front of 1406 jungkook’s door. your heart thuds loudly in your ears. okay breathe you’re just being friendly. this is normal neighbor behavior totally normal not unhinged at all. you lift your hand pause take a deep breath and knock.
immediately, you hear movement inside footsteps, something being dropped, a muffled “fuck” your eyes widen slightly the lock clicks and the door opens.
jungkook stands there with messy, sleep tousled hair like he’s run his hands through it one too many times. he’s dressed down now grey sweatpants sitting low on his hips, black hoodie hanging loose, sleeves pushed up just enough to show inked forearms.
he looks unreal like you’ve accidentally walked into a very specific fantasy. “hi,” you say, suddenly very aware of how small your voice sounds. he blinks at you once, twice.
“…hi?” he replies, confusion laced with amusement. you shift your weight, hands fidgeting. “sorry, i —this is random i know but i just wanted to say thank you again for helping earlier.”
“oh,” he says slowly, expression softening. “you didn’t have to do that now.” “i know,” you nod quickly. “ i just my manager left and i was unpacking and then i thought about it and—” You stop yourself, exhaling. “i promise im not this chaotic usually.”
a corner of his mouth lifts “could’ve fooled me.” uou laugh, relieved. “ i also promised id treat you so consider this me officially not forgetting.” he leans against the doorframe, arms folding loosely. “you offering food or emotional compensation?”
“both?” you offer. hs eyes flick over your face like he’s really looking this time. “…okay,” he says. “come in for a sec.” your heart skips. you step inside, the door clicking shut behind you. jungkook’s apartment feels nothing like yours yet.
the lights are low and warm, casting a soft amber glow across the space. it smells faintly of laundry detergent and something deeper beneath it coffee, maybe, or the lingering comfort of someone who lives here fully not boxed up not in transition.
you perch on the edge of his couch, spine straight, hands folded tightly in your lap like you’re waiting to be interrogated. your knees bounce once before you force them still.
jungkook sits beside you, close but careful not touching just near enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him, steady and grounding and incredibly distracting.
“so,” he says casually, leaning back into the couch. one arm draped along the backrest behind you, not quite around you. “shat’s the exact reason you came over here?” he raises an eyebrow.
your stomach drops okay now or never. you hesitate, lips parting, closing again. your eyes flick to the floor, then back to him. “i —um i kind of need your help.”
he doesn’t interrupt doesn’t rush you just waits, patient and attentive, like he has all the time in the world.“with,” you continue, the words spilling faster now, “making my ex jealous.”
there, the truth hangs between you. jungkook blinks once then twice. you don’t give him time to respond.
“he started dating someone literally one month after we broke up,” you say, frustration slipping through despite yourself. “like he didn’t even wait for the emotional dust to settle. he’s posting her everywhere and i know i shouldn’t care, but i do, and i hate that i do.”
something shifts in jungkook’s expression subtle, but there. his jaw tightens just a fraction.“and,” you rush on, “im not trying to ruin his life or anything i just want to look like im thriving like i moved on like im fine.”
your hands start moving now, gesturing helplessly as your thoughts tangle. “and I have this series, right? and people love tropes neighbors to lovers soft launch casual flirting nothing obvious but also very obvious?” you finally look at him, eyes wide, hopeful, terrified.
“ I need you to act like my love interest,” you blurt. “but also like my friend just flirt with me hold my hand sometimes maybe a back hug lingering touches stuff that looks natural real but not too real except maybe a little too real.”
you suck in a breath, realizing you’re spiraling. “ i don’t want to give away too much but also i want to give away enough and—” you stop yourself abruptly. your face burns. “…did i yap too much?” silence.
just long enough for regret to creep in then jungkook laughs. warm and low, filling the room as he shakes his head, eyes crinkling with genuine amusement.“whatever you say,” he says easily.
then, softer slower “pretty girl.” your brain promptly shuts down. “…really?” you blurt. “really really? you’re agreeing to this?” he shrugs, still smiling, utterly unfazed. “Sounds fun.”
your gasp comes out before you can stop it, and suddenly you’re leaning forward, arms wrapping around his torso, pressing into him without thinking.
“oh my god, thank you—” you freeze mid hug reality slams into you oh, you’re hugging him. you pull back instantly, eyes wide, cheeks flaming. “ i — sorry — i didn’t mean to—” then you stop narrow your eyes.
“…what did you just call me?” you demand, pointing at him. “you can’t just drop that and pretend you didn’t.” jungkook tilts his head, clearly enjoying this far too much. his smile turns slow dangerous“hmm?”
“you called me something,” you insist. “you don’t get to do that without consequences.” he tilts his head, lips twitching. “did I?”
“yes” he leans in just enough to make your breath hitch, lifts his hand, and gently taps your nose with his finger.
“pretty girl,” he repeats.
EXTRAS
spotify playlist — imma add more songs soon 😛
masterlist
🗯️ JO’s NOTES : hiii pookiesss !! <33
finally starting a new series and i’m actually so excited for this one 😭 HOUSE TOUR has a really special place in my heart, so i hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as i loved writing it. taglist is open, just comment if you want to be added <3
also wdym mark isn’t in nct anymore 😭 he was literally the reason i became a czennie i’m actually baffled ??? but i respect his choice anyways his contract was ending on 8th april. i really wonder who the next one is. the kpop industry is in shambles, an industry which is literally built on lies is ought to fall some day and i can feel that the days are near
anyways pookies, hope you all have an amazing day / night <33 take care of yourselves and stay hydrated 💗
pairing: jungkook x f!reader | rating: 18+ | wc: 9.6k | warnings: here
genre: e2l, fwb, gang au, angst with smut, slow burn, forbidden love
† at gunpoint †
"You’re racing dawn, chasing a trafficker, refereeing V and Jeon's most homicidal reunion yet, and discovering that nothing is more dangerous than a mission where Jeon starts wanting more than he can control."
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↪︎ author's note: SO. Before we start—let me tell you right now—I need you all to be NORMAL about this one. HAHAAHAAHAHA. I am actually vibrating typing this because there is SO MUCH going on in this chapter and I am actively restraining myself from spoiling anything like I am Jimin gripping onto sanity. OHHHH MY GOD. This one is PACKED.
We have the V / AD / Jeon dynamic lowkey simmering in the background (and if you’ve been paying attention… you know that dynamic is NOT just surface-level banter), and at the same time we are finally—FINALLY—seeing actual, tangible progress in the Y/N and Jeon relationship. After thirty chapters. Thirty. We clap. We rejoice. We ascend.
But what I really need you to focus on here is Jeon. Because this chapter is important for him in a way that isn’t loud, but it is very, very revealing. Jeon feels. Intensely. That has never been the issue. The entire Sylvia situation did not explode because he is emotionless—it exploded because of how violently he feels. But what's shaped him is that now, he does not process. He contains. He compresses. He locks it down so hard that when it leaks, it does damage. And in this chapter, you get a prime example of that.
The interrogation? Insane. Controlled. Efficient. Slightly unhinged in a way that should concern you but also—let’s be real—was hot as hell. The helicopter decision? Also telling. Because Jeon does not bend easily. He does not concede unless something underneath forces him to.
And then… the helicopter scene. Listen. I KNOW how it might look from the outside. I know. But this is an adult story. My characters are adults. They are attracted to each other. They are in high-stress, high-adrenaline environments, and yes—they are horny. I like plot, and I like porn, and I am not going to sacrifice one for the other. Everything balanced as it must be (yes, that was a Thanos reference, I will not apologize). But that scene is not just there for tension or heat. It is there to show you something breaking. Because if you have learned anything about Jeon so far, it is that he does not slip. Except… he already has. The stall. The sniping moment. And now this. Three times. That is not a coincidence. That is a pattern. And patterns, in this story, are never accidental.
Also—can we TALK about Taekook here for a second because I had the time of my LIFE writing their dialogue. They are so Loki and Thor coded in this chapter it’s actually ridiculous. The bickering? The history? The underlying respect buried under ten layers of annoyance? Oh, pre-Sylvia Taekook… how I miss you. I was giggling the entire time writing them, I won’t even lie.
Anyway. Point is: this chapter is chaotic, layered, slightly unhinged, a little horny, a little painful, and very, very important. So hold on tight. And pet your cats. You are going to need emotional support for this one—and for the next.
Because next chapter… is the last of Book 1.
I’ll see you there. <3
Twisting a neck isn't supposed to be easy, but neither is watching your best friend get kidnapped by a guy who collects girls like trading cards.
Kaleido's still on the ground where Jeon shot him, one hand wrapped around his bleeding foot, the other reaching inside his jacket. Looking for a weapon, probably. Or a radio. Or whatever the fuck else psychopaths keep in their designer suits.
You're not about to find out.
Your body moves on instinct. Pure, beautiful muscle memory from all those hours Flower made you practice until your thighs burned.
In a blur of movement that would make her proud, you swing your leg up and over, wrapping your thighs around Kaleido's neck as you drop to the ground.
His eyes bulge, surprise replacing the cool calculation that's been there all night. His hands claw at your legs, trying to break free, but you've got him locked tight. You squeeze harder, cutting off his air, watching as his face turns an interesting shade of purple.
"Night night, asshole," you mutter through gritted teeth.
It takes exactly fourteen seconds for him to go limp. You count every single one of them, making sure he's actually unconscious and not just playing dead. When his body finally slumps, you release him, pushing his deadweight off your legs with a disgusted grunt.
Rising to your feet, you drag your fingers through your hair, pushing it back from your face. Your dress is torn mid-thigh, blood splattered across the fabric in an abstract pattern that probably costs extra at designer boutiques. Your feet ache from running in these ridiculous heels, and your throat feels raw from breathing in all that gunpowder residue.
But you're alive.
Unlike those guards V liquified back in the palazzo.
Your earpiece crackles to life, V's voice cutting through the static. "Where?"
Just that one word, sharp and demanding.
You know exactly what he's asking.
Where's Fervio? Where's the body? Where's our teammate, safe and sound?
The weight of it settles in your chest like a stone.
You exhale, shoulders slumping with the admission of failure.
"He's gone. Fled."
Silence stretches out, heavy and accusatory.
"What?" V's voice is dangerously soft.
You swallow, tasting copper and regret. "He's gone."
Another beat of silence, this one charged with something hot and volatile.
"What."
It's not a question anymore. It's a statement of disbelief, of mounting fury.
Before you can respond, Jeon's voice cuts in, equally tense. "Target escaped containment. Vehicle is mobile, heading southwest."
"The fuck is your fucking problem, Jeon?" V snaps, all pretense of calm evaporating like morning dew. "You had one fucking job—"
"Rich coming from you, fucking psycho," Jeon fires back, voice cold as ice. "You let him take her in the first place. What happened to 'I tagged her'? What happened to having a plan?"
"YOU? are talking about plans right now—"
"Shut the fuck up," Jeon interrupts, voice dropping to that dangerous register that makes even hardened criminals think twice. "You compromised the mission the second you decided to turn this into your personal art show. Three bodies, V? Then another four? In the middle of a covert operation?"
"Would've been EIGHT if you had done your fucking job as a sniper. But noooope, let me guess, you were playing babysitter."
Your head snaps up, eyes scanning the surrounding area. The voices are getting louder, not just through your earpiece but in real life. Both men are approaching from opposite directions, converging on your position like opposing storm fronts.
Jeon appears first, emerging from the shadows with his rifle slung over his shoulder. His face is a mask of controlled rage, jaw tight enough to crack walnuts. His eyes barely flick to you, too busy searching for V.
Who materializes a second later, stepping out from behind a pillar like he's been there the whole time. There's blood on his suit, though you can't tell if it's his or someone else's. Probably both. His expression is light, almost playful, but his eyes are cold enough to give you frostbite.
"Babysitter?" Jeon repeats, voice dangerously low. "Is that what you think I was doing?"
"Indeed, were or were you not checking whether miss lady over there was safe and sound?"
"Because we already lost one teammate! All while you were, what? Painting the courtyard red? Leaving a trail of bodies for MDF to follow right back to us? That was your job?"
They're closing in on each other now, tension so thick you could cut it with one of V's knives.
Which, given the way his hand keeps twitching toward his jacket, might actually happen soon.
"My job," V says, each word precise and cutting, "was keeping our covers intact while securing our target. Which I did. Until you decided to play hero from your little perch and blow everything to hell."
Jeon's laugh is cold and brittle. "Right. Because you had everything under control. That's why Yunjin's being driven off to god knows where right now."
"I have a tracker on her," V hisses, face finally showing real anger. "We could have followed them to their base, taken out the entire operation in one strike. But no, you had to take that shot, alert everyone, and force Fervio to change routes."
"I disable threats. That's my job. Your job was to make sure no one got fucking, I don't know, kidnapped? Which you failed spectacularly at."
"Fuck you," V spits, closing the distance between them in two quick strides. "You don't get to lecture me on—"
"Hey!" you shout, but neither of them even glances your way.
Jeon's hands are fisted at his sides, knuckles white. V's got that look in his eye, the same one he had right before he ventilated those guards' skulls.
This is about to get really ugly, really fast.
You press your fingers to your lips and let out a whistle sharp enough to make both men flinch. The kind of whistle that could shatter glass and eardrums in equal measure.
"Down, boys!" you snap, stepping between them like the world's most underpaid referee. "Can we fucking save the dumbfoolery for when we've rescued Yunjin? You can go back to cutting or sucking each other's dick later."
They both stare at you like you've grown a second head. Jeon's eyes narrow dangerously, storm clouds gathering. V's mouth twitches at the corner, like he can't decide if he wants to laugh or stab you.
"We have a teammate missing," you continue, fixing them both with your hardest stare. "A girl who's probably terrified right now, if she's even conscious. And you two are what? Measuring dicks in a palazzo courtyard while she gets farther away by the second?"
Jeon's jaw works silently, a muscle jumping in his cheek. V goes unnaturally still, that eerie focus returning to his gaze.
"The tracker," Jeon says finally, voice clipped. "Is it active?"
V's eyes hold his for a long, tense moment before he nods once, sharp and decisive. "Yes. Signal's weak but present. Moving southwest, just like you said."
"Then we follow it," you say before either of them can start arguing again. "We track them, we find them, we get Yunjin back. And then you two can tear each other apart for all I care."
"What about him?" V jerks his chin toward Kaleido's unconscious form.
"We take him with us," Jeon ays, all business now. "He'll have information. Locations, contacts, plans."
"And when he wakes up?" V asks.
"Oh, I'm counting on it."
The look that passes between them makes your skin crawl. For all their fighting, there's something in that shared glance that reminds you these two used to be partners. Used to be the most lethal duo in Kkangpae.
Maybe still are, when they're not trying to kill each other.
"You drive," Jeon says, eyes already locked on his phone screen where Yunjin's tracker blinks. "I'm not losing this signal."
V cocks an eyebrow. "You're letting me drive?"
"You want to explain to RM how we lost her because I was too busy parallel parking?"
V considers this, then shrugs. "Fair point."
V strides toward a modest Toyota parked at the edge of the lot, twirling a set of keys around his finger like they're one of his knives.
Of course. Of fucking course he had the foresight to steal a car at some point during the gala. Probably frowned when he realized it wasn't a Maserati, but beggars can't be choosers when you're planning an emergency getaway from a villa full of corpses and angry Europeans.
You watch them load Kaleido's limp body into the back of your extraction vehicle, all previous hostility temporarily shelved in favor of efficiency. It's almost impressive how quickly they switch from wanting to murder each other to working together seamlessly.
You start toward the passenger side when Jeon appears beside you, opening the door with a tilt of his head. The gesture is so unexpected you almost laugh.
Who knew assassination chiefs had manners?
Then again, you're still technically playing husband and wife, so maybe it's just habit from the long night of pretending to be madly in love.
You slide in, scooting across to make room as he folds his long frame into the seat beside you. The interior smells like cigarettes and cheap air freshener—far cry from the luxury you've been swimming in all night.
V starts the engine with a satisfied hum, like this whole ordeal has been nothing but a minor inconvenience in his otherwise pleasant evening.
Meanwhile, Jeon's already pulling out his phone, his thumbs flying across the screen.
The car lurches forward, and V takes the first turn like he's auditioning for Fast and Furious. You grab the oh-shit handle, but Jeon doesn't even flinch—just keeps his eyes glued to that little red dot, watching it move.
"She's heading southwest," he mutters. "A4 highway."
V suddenly reaches back, phone in hand, offering it to you over his shoulder.
"Call AD, sweetheart. Tell him we fucked up spectacularly."
You blink at the phone, then at him.
"Why me?"
Jeon's lips flatten into a thin line. "He'll listen to you."
"Bullshit. He'll be pissed."
"Exactly," V pipes up from the driver's seat, eyes meeting yours in the rearview mirror. "He'll rip us apart. You? He'll just be annoyed."
"That's your plan? Throw me to the wolf because he bites you harder?"
Jeon's jaw tightens. "AD doesn't waste time bitching at newbies. We tell him, he'll spend fifteen minutes telling us exactly how we fucked up before he even starts helping."
"But if you do it," V adds, turning onto a narrow street, "he'll skip straight to the fixing part. Basic psychology, love."
You take the phone despite yourself, and his lockscreen is surprisingly mundane—just a black background, no personal photos.
You swipe up and squint at the contacts list, scrolling until you find—
Wait.
"n00b?" you read aloud, staring at the contact name. "You have AD saved as n00b?"
V's grin widens in the rearview mirror. "Oh, that pisses him off so much. He's Challenger rank in League, you know."
You deadpan. "So you call him a noob."
"It's the little things," V says cheerfully.
You shake your head and hit call, pressing the phone to your ear. It rings once, twice—
"What now?" AD's voice cuts through, sharp and irritated. He clearly expected V. "I swear to god, if you're calling to brag about some pretentious wine you stole—"
"Uh," you manage. "Not V."
Silence. Then he says your name.
"Yeah."
More silence. You hear him shift, the telltale creak of his chair.
"Where's Jeon?"
"Here. Next to me." You glance at Jeon, who's still laser-focused on the tracker, ignoring everything else. "He's busy."
"Busy," AD repeats, flat. "During an extraction call."
"He's tracking Yunjin's signal. Can't look away from it."
"Tracking—" AD pauses. You hear the distinct sound of fingers flying across a keyboard. "What the fuck happened?"
Your throat tightens. "Mission's a bust. Lights cut out, gunfire in the ballroom. Fervio grabbed Yunjin while everyone was scrambling."
"He took her? Physically?"
"Drugged her, threw her over his shoulder like a sack of rice," you confirm, your voice tightening. "Got her in a van before we could stop him."
"Fuck." It's so quiet you almost miss it. More typing follows, rapid and aggressive. "And Kaleido?"
"In the trunk. Jeon shot his foot."
"His foot?" AD says, disbelieving. Then, after a sigh: "Where are you now?"
"Heading out of Venice. V tagged her before she was taken—that's why the tracker's live."
"Signal strength?"
You glance at Jeon, who doesn't look up but says, "weak but steady."
"Weak but steady," you relay.
AD grunts.
You hear him typing, then: "Got it. She's on the A4, past Padua. Speed suggests highway travel."
Relief floods through you. "So we can catch them?"
"Not in whatever shitbox you're driving," AD scoffs.
"It's a Toyota," you offer weakly.
"Of course it is." You can practically hear his eyes rolling. "At their current trajectory, they're heading to Milan, but that's not the final stop."
"Where, then?" Jeon asks, leaning closer.
"Genoa, most likely," AD answers, voice hardening. "Port city. International waters. MDF's old trafficking routes all went through there."
Your blood runs cold. "Trafficking. So he's really—"
"Yes," AD cuts you off, tone leaving no room for doubt. "And if they get her on a boat, we're fucked. Finding one vessel in the Mediterranean is—"
"How much time?" Jeon interrupts.
Keyboard clicks. "At their current speed... five hours to Genoa."
V presses harder on the accelerator, weaving between cars like they're standing still. "We can do it in four."
"Three," Jeon corrects.
"Not in that car, you won't," AD counters. "I've got a contact in Padua. Ex-military, owes us. He'll have something faster waiting—a helicopter. Sending coordinates now."
Your phone buzzes a second later.
You check it, showing the map to V, who nods and adjusts course, cutting across two lanes without signaling.
"What about backup?" you ask, anxiety gnawing at your insides.
The line goes quiet except for more typing. "Working on it. RM's greenlit emergency response, but we need to coordinate with our international contacts."
"Too long," Jeon mutters.
"No shit," AD snaps back. "Which means you three are it right now. Try not to fuck this up more than you already have." He pauses, then adds in a slightly less acidic tone: "Sending you schematics of possible port facilities they might use. Study them."
"Will do," you say.
Then AD says your name.
"Yeah?"
"Put V on."
"He can't really—"
"Put. Him. On."
You glance at V helplessly. He just grins wider, eyes on the road.
"Can't talk, noob!" V shouts toward the back seat, not even bothering to look. "So sad I'll miss your charming voice! Truly devastating!"
He reaches back without taking his eyes off the road—because of course he can drive one-handed at this speed—and plucks the phone from your grip with perfect precision.
"V, don't you fucking dare—" AD's voice cuts off as V ends the call, grinning like the Cheshire cat.
"Oops," V says, not sounding sorry at all. He pockets the phone while steering with his knee around a tight curve. "My hand slipped."
"You're an asshole," you mutter.
"And yet, here we are." V's eyes meet yours in the rearview mirror, glinting with mischief. "Everyone's secret favorite asshole."
Jeon finally looks up from his phone, expression unreadable. "He's going to murder you."
"He can get in line," V replies, taking another turn that makes your stomach lurch. "Right behind you, presumably."
Jeon doesn't rise to the bait. Just returns his attention to the tracker, watching that little red dot move steadily southwest.
Silence falls.
You don’t say anything else.
After 30 minutes of no talking, the atmosphere feels suffocating.
Jeon keeps shooting glances at the trunk, where Kaleido's probably starting to come around based on the occasional thump against the back seat.
Suddenly, Jeon taps the dashboard. "Stop the car."
V doesn't even slow down. "Yeah, right."
"Stop the fucking car," Jeon repeats, voice dropping to that register that makes your spine lock up.
"We're on a timeline, in case you forgot—"
"He's waking up." Jeon's tone is flat. "We can't interrogate him in the trunk. Can't do it in a moving vehicle. Once we're airborne, there's no time."
He looks at V directly now.
"This is our only window for intel. Ship layout, guard positions, her exact location. Unless you want to walk in blind."
V's fingers drum once against the steering wheel. His smile's gone brittle.
"Fine."
He pulls onto the shoulder hard enough to make gravel spray, tires crunching to a stop in the middle of nowhere.
Just empty road and the hulking shadows of abandoned warehouses.
“Five minutes. Then we move.”
Jeon’s out before the car fully stops. He reaches up, pulls his earpiece out, pockets it in one smooth motion. Glances back at you through the open door, then at V.
“Comms off. We’re all here.”
V plucks his out like it’s a piece of lint. “Yunjin’s are gone by now anyway.”
Nobody says anything about that. The weight of it just sits there.
You pull yours out too. The silence that follows is different from the car silence—fuller, somehow. No static. Just the three of you and whatever comes next.
He pops the trunk with zero ceremony, hauling Kaleido out by his collar and dumping him onto the gravel like he’s unloading groceries.
V climbs out after him, hands in his pockets.
He looks down at Kaleido.
Then he looks at Jeon.
Then he looks back down at Kaleido—at the man's slack face tipped toward the moonlight—and something shifts in V's expression. Not quite anger. Not quite disbelief. Something more personal than either of those. Something that's working its way up from his chest into his jaw in real time.
"Hm," he says.
Jeon crouches beside Kaleido, checking his pulse with two fingers. "Don't."
"I'm not doing anything—"
"You're about to."
"You don't know what I'm about to—"
"V."
V exhales through his teeth. Long and deliberate.
He gestures at himself. At the charcoal jacket. At Kaleido. At the general universe.
"I wrapped a dress around my entire head," he says. "My entire face. Hair, nose, chin—the whole production. I fought four men blind. Not figuratively. Literally blind. No eyes. Just darkness and the sound of their fear."
He pauses for effect.
"I was the Venetian Batman. A shadow. A ghost. A legend who left no evidence of his own existence, because I am that dedicated to this operation—"
"You are also," Jeon says, without looking up, "currently standing in a gravel lot in Italy at two in the morning having this conversation."
"—and now he's going to look directly at my face."
There it is. Said out loud, the thing that's been sitting in V's chest since they hauled Kaleido out of the trunk.
You can see the genuine pettiness of it, the specific wound of someone who committed fully to a bit and got absolutely nothing out of it.
Jeon stands. Brushes gravel off his knee. His expression doesn't change by a single millimeter.
"He's drugged. In our trunk."
"He has eyes, Jeon."
"Which aren't open."
"They will be." V turns to you, arms spread wide, like he's presenting evidence to a jury. "Tell him. Tell him this is insane. Tell him I bled—I bled, by the way, three separate places—so that Lorenzo's face stayed clean, and now we're just going to crouch in the dirt and wave hello—"
"You didn't bleed for Lorenzo," Jeon says. "You bled because Fervio's good and you got cocky."
"I bled artistically."
"That's not—"
"It was a choice."
"Getting stabbed was a choice."
"The angle was a choice."
"Nothing about that was a choice—"
"Okay but—" You push through it before this devolves into something you'll have to physically separate.
Both of them look at you.
You press on. "He's not wrong that it's not nothing. Yunjin was separate from us at the gala. Fervio saw her with that politician—not with Lorenzo. If Kaleido never connected her to us before tonight, that gap—"
"Existed," V says, pointing at you like you've just cracked a code.
"Past tense," Jeon says, pointing at V like he's the problem, which, to be fair…
"She's making a valid—"
"I know she's making a valid point—"
"Then what are you—"
"I'm not arguing with the point—"
"That's literally what it sounds like—"
"I'm arguing with you, it's different—"
"That's the same thing—"
"It is categorically not—"
"Both of you."
You step between them, one hand raised on each side, the world's most underpaid traffic cone.
Silence.
Jeon's jaw works once, stops. He looks at you and something in his expression drops half a degree—not soft, exactly. More like he remembered you're here and adjusted accordingly.
"You're right that it would've been cleaner," he says, voice leveling out. "It would've been better."
A beat. Brief, but there.
"But Kaleido knowing our faces is a smaller problem than walking onto that ship without knowing the layout, the guards, or where she is. Every second we stand here is another second they get farther."
V opens his mouth.
"And," Jeon says—half a second before V speaks, automatic, the timing so precise it's almost choreographed—"yes. You fought blind. It was—"
It costs him something, visibly. You watch him locate the word like it's buried under rubble.
"—effective."
V goes completely still.
Jeon is already looking away, crouching back down to check Kaleido's restraints.
"Did you just—"
"Don't."
"You just said—"
"I said it was effective. That's an assessment."
"Your voice did a compliment."
"My voice didn't do anything.
"It absolutely did. It went—" V makes his register go raspy in an impression that's, honestly, devastatingly accurate. "'It was effective.' That's the voice. I know that voice. I have heard that voice exactly twice in my life and both times it meant you were genuinely—"
"V."
"—impressed but constitutionally incapable of—"
"V."
"—saying so like a normal—"
Jeon stands up. "There will be no record of this conversation."
V blinks. "I didn't say anything about a record—"
"There was never a record. There will never be a record."
"I'm just saying what I observed—"
"You observed nothing."
"I observed your voice—"
"I don't have a compliment voice—"
V turns to you with the energy of a man who has just been gravely wronged and needs a witness.
"He has a compliment voice."
"I'm staying out of this," you say.
"You heard it."
"I heard words."
"You always do this," Jeon says flatly, and the ‘you’ is pointed directly at V, not at you, which—right.
Old habit.
Like they're slipping back into something grooved too deep to fully erase.
"Every single time—"
"Because every single time you do the voice and then act like it didn't happen—"
"It didn't happen—"
"It happened twice! I just said twice!"
You stare at them both.
Incredible.
Kaleido is unconscious in a gravel lot in the Italian countryside and these two are relitigating what is apparently a years-long argument about whether Jeon has a compliment voice.
The fact that V is right is something you're keeping firmly to yourself.
"I still want it on record," V announces, pivoting with great dignity back to the original grievance, "that I fought blind. Like—"
"There is no record—"
"Daredevil. But competent. And with better hair.”
"—in the history of records—"
"A legend," V continues, gesturing at himself. "Unseen. Unknown. A ghost among men."
"—that will ever contain this conversation."
"And I still managed to neutralize four armed men in total darkness, injured, with her dress on my face—"
"Completely your choice, by the way—"
"—for nothing." V spreads his hands magnanimously. "For absolutely nothing. Because the universe has no taste."
Jeon closes his eyes for exactly one second.
"Are you done."
V considers. "Mostly."
"Then get the vial."
V reaches into his jacket, already moving, and produces a small glass vial with the casual ease of someone who had it ready the whole time.
He crouches beside Kaleido, and just like that—theatrical grievance shelved, performance over—his expression goes still.
That flat, particular stillness he gets when the game starts.
“Wakey wakey, green bean.“
"What is that?" you ask, even though you're not sure you want to know.
"Something J-Hope would absolutely not approve of," V replies cheerfully, unscrewing the cap. "But desperate times and all that."
He waves the vial under Kaleido's nose. The effect is immediate—Kaleido's body jerks like he's been electrocuted, his eyes flying open as he gasps for air.
He coughs violently, trying to roll away, but V's hand on his shoulder pins him in place.
"There we go," V coos, pocketing the vial. "Welcome back to the land of the living. For however long that lasts."
Kaleido blinks rapidly, his gaze sharpening as he takes in his surroundings.
His composure rebuilds itself in real time—shoulders straightening, face smoothing into that eerie calm.
Even with a bullet hole in his foot and gravel digging into his back, the man looks unnervingly collected.
His eyes land on the rifle case leaning against the car. Then V. Then the other male figure next to him who must be the owner of the weapon.
Something clicks behind his gaze.
"Ah."
His lips curve into something that might be a smile if it wasn't so cold.
"V and Jeon. How delightful." He shifts slightly, testing his restraints. "Never thought I'd see Kkangpae's most volatile partnership reunited. Tell me—how's that working out for you both?"
V's smile sharpens. "About as well as your foot."
Kaleido huffs something that might be a laugh. "Fair. I assume this means we're negotiating."
V snorts, the sound sharp and unpleasant.
"Negotiating? That's adorable." He positions himself on his heels, looming over Kaleido with that manic smile plastered across his face. "I was thinking more along the lines of carving practice."
But before he can start whatever horror show he's got planned, Jeon steps forward.
"I'll handle this," he says, voice flat as a frozen lake.
V's eyebrows shoot up, his smile widening into something genuinely amused now.
"Oh? The stoic sniper wants to get his hands dirty? This'll be good."
He steps back, making a grand sweeping gesture.
"The stage is yours, chief."
Kaleido's gaze shifts, moving past Jeon to land on you. His eyes narrow slightly, calculating something you can't read.
You shift uncomfortably, but before you can respond, Jeon moves.
Not dramatically. Just a single step to the left, positioning himself directly in Kaleido's line of sight.
Blocking his view of you completely.
"Eyes on me," Jeon says quietly. No emotion, no emphasis. Just a statement of fact that somehow carries more threat than a shouted warning.
Kaleido's lips quirk, amused. "Of course."
But his eyes stay on you a beat longer than necessary.
Jeon doesn't raise his voice. Doesn't move suddenly. Just reaches out and grabs Kaleido's injured foot, applying just enough pressure to make the man's eyebrows frown.
"That's one," Jeon says calmly.
You blink, confused.
One what? Warning? Chance?
Kaleido seems to understand though. His face smooths back into that mask of control, but there's a new wariness in his eyes.
"Where are they taking her?" Jeon asks.
"You really think I'd tell you that?" Kaleido replies, matching his tone. "Business is business. Nothing personal."
"It became personal," Jeon says, voice still eerily flat, "the moment you involved my team."
"Your team?" Kaleido's gaze slides to you again, deliberate this time. "Or specifically her?"
Jeon doesn't hesitate. His hand slides to V's ankle. There's a flash of silver as he pulls something from what must be a concealed sheath.
V's eyes go wide. "That’s my favorite butterfly knife—don't you dare—"
Jeon drives it straight into Kaleido's thigh.
Not deep. Just enough to make a point.
Kaleido chokes on a scream, body arching.
"That's two," Jeon says, leaving the knife embedded.
V groans, throwing his hands up. "Oh, perfect. Now I need to pay extra coins for car cleanup. Fuck you, Jeon."
"Bill me," Jeon says flatly, not looking away from Kaleido.
Kaleido spits blood onto the gravel. "How many do I get? Just so I know when to start worrying."
Jeon doesn't answer. Instead, he pulls out his gun, examining it with detached interest under the moonlight. The metal gleams as he turns it over, checking the chamber with practiced motions. It's almost hypnotic, watching his hands move with such delicacy.
"You seem to have misunderstood my intentions," he says finally, lowering the gun until it points at Kaleido's uninjured knee. "I'm not here to negotiate. I'm not here to trade information. I'm here because I need intel don't see why I should make the process comfortable for you."
The cold calculation in his voice makes your skin prickle.
This isn't the Jeon you know—the one who takes clean shots from a distance, who executes missions with detached precision.
This is something else.
Something raw and visceral barely contained beneath the iciness.
"The Demeter," Kaleido says suddenly, eyes on the gun. "That's the ship. Greek registry, usual berth is pier 19."
"And the schedule?" Jeon asks, not moving the gun an inch.
"Five-thirty departure. Dawn." Kaleido's eyes flick to you again, quick but unmistakable. "Your wife would have found out eventually. She's quite resourceful."
The bullet hits the ground less than an inch from Kaleido's ear, sending gravel spraying.
You hadn't even seen Jeon fire—just that tiny adjustment of his wrist, the bare minimum movement needed.
"Three," Jeon says, voice still perfectly level. "Mention her again. Give me a reason."
V whistles, low and appreciative. "This is much more entertaining than my method."
"Your method involves too much screaming," Jeon responds without looking away from Kaleido. "It's inefficient."
"Interesting dynamic," Kaleido observes, looking way too calm for someone with a gun pointed at him. "One chief who feels nothing, one who feels too much. I wonder which approach is more effective."
"Both have their uses," V says with a casual shrug, but his eyes are sharp, watching Jeon. "Though I find Jeon's approach a bit... limiting."
You don't miss the undertone.
"So tell me, Kaleido," V continues, stepping closer, that unnerving smile plastered on his face. "Why the pink-haired beauty? Fervio's always had such specific tastes."
Kaleido's eyes narrow fractionally. "Perhaps she reminds him of something he lost."
"Unfinished business, huh," V says, voice deceptively light. "That's what this is about, isn't it?"
Jeon's head tilts slightly, the only indication he's paying attention to the conversation.
"Among other things," Kaleido admits. "The girl you stole from him left quite an impression. Though your friend here made sure he never found another to replace her." He nods toward Jeon. "Until now."
"I disabled a threat," Jeon says, making it sound like he's discussing the weather rather than whatever the hell they're talking about. "Nothing personal."
"Nothing personal," Kaleido echoes, smiling thinly. "Yet here you are, personally holding a gun to my head because one of your assets was taken."
"Assets are valuable," Jeon replies coolly. "Replacing them is inconvenient."
Kaleido's calculating gaze slides to you again, more deliberate this time. "A shame. Your wife plays her part too well. Very... convincing."
The implied suggestion makes your skin crawl, but before you can respond, Jeon shifts position.
Nothing dramatic—just that same economic precision as he adjusts his aim, now pointing directly between Kaleido's eyes.
"Convenient, isn't it?" Jeon says, voice mild as milk. "How we're in the middle of nowhere. No cameras, no witnesses, no one to verify what happened out here."
The gun presses harder.
"Could do a lot of things in a place like this. A lot of things that would never make it into any official report."
Holy shit.
That's... actually pretty terrifying coming from Jeon.
Not because it's violent—you've seen him take dozens of lives without blinking—but because there's an undercurrent of something that sounds almost like irritation.
Jeon doesn't do irritation.
He does cold, calculated professionalism.
V notices too. His eyes gleam with sudden interest, like a cat spotting a mouse.
"She's valuable," Jeon continues, calm and detached again. "All of my team is. Otherwise I wouldn't waste my time training them."
"Then consider this a free training exercise," Kaleido says. "Though I must admit, I'm surprised the infamous Jeon would bother personally handling this. Isn't field work beneath you these days?"
A muscle in Jeon's jaw ticks, so slight you'd miss it if you weren't looking. "I handle what needs handling."
"And what exactly does Fervio need handling for?" you ask, pulling attention away from whatever is being played between them.
Kaleido's eyes linger on you again. "Let's just say your pink-haired friend is the spitting image of something Fervio once thought was his. Something he's been obsessing over since Venice."
"Yunjin isn't a thing," you snap, anger flaring hot and sharp. "And she sure as hell isn't his."
"No?" Kaleido's smile turns knowing. "That's between her and Fervio now, I suppose. Though I will say he's gone to extraordinary lengths for this one. Quite the production."
Jeon's hand tightens almost imperceptibly on the gun. "Where on the ship?"
"Lower deck, third cabin on the right," Kaleido answers, surprising you with his directness. "That's where he'll keep her until they clear the harbor."
"Security?" Jeon presses.
"Four men, plus Fervio."
"Armed?"
"Naturally." Kaleido's eyes narrow slightly. "Though I should warn you, Fervio's been expecting this. Hoping for it, even. He has... unfinished business with certain members of your organization."
V laughs, the sound cold and unpleasant. "The feeling's mutual."
"Then I suggest you drive very, very fast," Kaleido says, his gaze drifting between the three of you. "The clock is ticking, and Fervio's not known for his patience."
Jeon stands smoothly, gun never wavering.
"Load him up," he tells V, his voice revealing nothing. "We're taking him with us."
V raises an eyebrow. "Alive?"
"For now." Jeon holsters his weapon. "He still has value."
Kaleido snorts, a surprisingly inelegant sound from someone so polished. "This is absurd. You're all going to get yourselves killed for one girl? For what? Professional efficiency?"
"For one of our own," you answer before either chief can respond. "That's how Kkangpae works."
"How touching," Kaleido drawls. "Though I suspect there are other motivations at play." His eyes flick between Jeon and V meaningfully. "Old scores to settle, perhaps?"
"The only score that matters," Jeon says, "is the one where Fervio ends up in the ground."
V grins, all teeth and no humor. "See? We can agree on some things after all."
As they haul Kaleido back to the car, shoving him unceremoniously into the trunk, you can't help noticing the way V keeps watching Jeon,.
And you realize something unsettling.
Whatever this mission started as, it's become something more—a convoluted chess match where rescuing Yunjin is just one objective among many.
V's playing his own game, Jeon's fighting to keep his mask intact, and you?
You're just trying to keep up, caught in the middle of a power struggle you never asked to be part of.
The engine roars to life as V slides behind the wheel, throwing a look at Jeon that's half challenge, half amusement.
"Ready for a reunion tour, partner?"
Jeon doesn't answer.
Just stares out the windshield, that storm brewing behind his eyes hidden from everyone but you.
The old man looks at you like you're something he found stuck to his shoe.
"What." Not a question—a dismissal wrapped in a thick Italian accent and crossed arms.
The helicopter sits behind him, sleek and deadly in the gray predawn light.
Your ticket to Yunjin, if this crusty gatekeeper would move aside.
Jeon steps forward, hands visible at his sides. "Nightingale sends regards from Prague."
The man's face doesn't change, but something in his eyes shifts.
He jerks his chin toward the backyard.
"Helicopter's fueled. You're late."
Jeon turns, glancing between you and V. "Two on the helicopter, one stays with Kaleido. Make sure he doesn't move."
His eyes land on you, mouth opening, and you already know what's coming.
"If you're about to suggest I stay behind, think again," you cut in, stepping forward.
Jeon's mouth snaps shut.
He tilts his head, fixing you with that storm-cloud glare that usually makes recruits cry. "You don't have the mastery or skills to go aboard a helicopter on a rescue mission."
"Jeon, she's my best friend," you fire back, heat rising in your cheeks.
"And you're a rookie," he counters, voice cooling several degrees. "Which is why you stay down here."
"You think me staying with Kaleido is better than up there?"
"I know so."
"That makes no sense!"
"He's restrained. You have more chances of—"
"She's my best friend!" Your voice cracks on the last word. "I am not staying down here while she's being—!"
"You are because I'm your superior and I am telling you so." His tone is flat, final, brooking no argument.
Which makes you want to argue even more.
"Why are you being so fucking difficult?" You throw your hands up, stepping closer until you're nearly chest to chest.
"I'm being practical," he says, like you're a child who needs things explained slowly. "This is a high-risk extraction requiring specific skill sets—"
"Jung—"
His real name almost escapes you.
Good thing his code name and the first syllable of his real name sound almost the same.
But from the way his eyes widen slightly, you know he knows it too.
"I can't bear—" he starts, voice rising to match yours, then cuts himself off.
His eyes dart to V, who's watching the exchange with undisguised interest, then back to you.
"We can't afford more losses. V and I are equipped to handle this type of risk. You are not."
Your throat tightens.
This isn't the Jeon you know—pure logic and mission parameters. There's something else there, something that makes you step closer, close enough that only he can hear you.
"Jungkook," you whisper, only for him to hear. "I need to be up there. She's not just my friend. She's the first person who ever made me feel like I belonged at Kkangpae. When everyone else was busy sizing me up, figuring out if I was worth their time, she just... took me in. No questions asked."
His jaw works silently, eyes searching yours like he's looking for something specific.
"If it were me up there," you continue, voice barely audible, "she'd tear apart heaven and earth. She wouldn't wait behind. She'd fight—even you—to get to me."
Something flickers across his face—not softness exactly, but a crack.
"I've been trained for this," you press, seeing the hesitation. "Maybe not as long as you, but I'm not useless. And I need to be there when we find her. I need her to see a friendly face, not just..." You gesture vaguely at him and V. "Not just Kkangpae's scariest."
Jeon exhales through his nose, a long, controlled breath.
His eyes never leave yours, searching for any sign of weakness or doubt.
He won't find any. Not about this.
After what feels like forever, he gives a single, sharp nod.
"V," he says, turning to where the other chief leans against the car, looking thoroughly entertained by the whole exchange. "You're staying with Kaleido."
V's eyebrows shoot up. "I'm what now?"
"Staying. With Kaleido." Jeon enunciates each word like he's speaking to a particularly slow child. "We need information. Get it."
V straightens, all amusement evaporating. "You're taking her instead of me? On an extraction mission? Are you fucking serious?"
"Dead serious," Jeon replies, already turning toward the helicopter. "She's trained for this. You're trained for..." He gestures vaguely at V's entire being. "Whatever it is you do."
"I kill people," V says flatly. "Very efficiently."
"So does she." Jeon doesn't even look back, just keeps walking. "Come on. We're wasting time."
You follow, heart hammering against your ribs.
You'd won the argument, gotten exactly what you wanted.
So why does victory feel like swallowing glass?
Maybe because Jeon gave in too easily.
Maybe because V is watching you both with those calculating eyes, like he's putting pieces together in a puzzle you don't want solved.
Or maybe because, despite everything, you know Jeon is right—this is high risk, and you are the least experienced person here.
But none of that matters now.
What matters is Yunjin, and the approaching dawn that threatens to take her away for good.
The old man hands Jeon a set of headphones as you climb into the helicopter after them.
You settle into the seat beside Jeon, buckle in and put on your headphones just as the old man flips several switches on the control panel.
"Last chance to stay behind," he whispers into the mic, not looking at you.
You meet his gaze steadily. "Not happening."
His lips press into a thin line, but he doesn't argue further.
The old man starts flipping switches like this ancient beast of a helicopter is his personal arcade machine. Everything inside rattles as the rotors groan to life overhead.
Jeon doesn't say anything. He hasn't said much since you strapped in.
Thirty minutes pass like that—quiet, save for the rising hum of altitude and tension.
Then he leans forward, just enough to catch your eye. Nods once.
A signal.
You unbuckle. Stand. He mirrors you, smooth and deliberate, like he's already mapped out this movement ten steps ago. Of course he has.
He bends down, unstrapping the smaller bag that's been latched to his seat the whole time.
Not the long sniper case—that one's still in the trunk with V. This is a separate one. Something you forgot existed. Which is wild, because nothing Jeon carries is ever just extra.
He unzips it without ceremony. Pulls out a bottle of water, two tablets in a foil pack, and then—
Clothes.
You blink. "Is that—"
"You're not planning to partake in a tactical operation in that burgundy dress, are you?"
You snort, loud. "You carry outfits now?"
He doesn't blink. Just starts laying them out on the empty bench beside him.
"Always plan for contingencies."
You raise a brow. "So what, you just happen to have a wardrobe stashed in there?"
"Four sets," he says, tone flat. "One for me. One for you. One for V. One for Yunjin."
"Four?"
"They're compact," he adds, like that explains everything. "Thermal-lined. Cargo pants. Tight long-sleeve body. Practical. Low-visibility. Optimal for movement."
You grab the one he slides toward you, unfolding the pants first. Thick but flexible. Fur-lined interior, surprisingly soft. The body top's all sleek stretch fabric, no excess seams. Jet black. Feels expensive.
"You really think of everything, huh?"
He exhales through his nose—almost a scoff. "I'm literally Chief of Tactical."
You shake your head, holding up the clothes. "Jessi signed off on this?"
"Obviously." A flicker of something close to smug crosses his face. "All gear goes through Jessi."
You hum. "Yeah, that tracks."
Of course she did. Only Jessi could find a way to make emergency extraction outfits both functional and slightly hot.
He shrugs off his blazer.
You pause mid-fold and blink at him. Once. Twice. Brain catching up in slow motion.
Because—he's not just adjusting or stretching or whatever guys do when they pretend they're not showing off.
He's unthreading the tie from around his neck, one hand working the knot with ease.
The motion's smooth, confident. Lazy, even. Like it's nothing. Like he doesn't know what he's doing.
Except he does.
The fabric slips free and hangs loose in his fingers, that grey silk catching just enough light to look expensive. He lets it dangle for a second, then tosses it onto the seat beside him, like it's a napkin and not part of a five-thousand-euro suit.
You're still staring when he goes for the collar next. Fingers dip in to loosen it. Thumb brushes the base of his throat.
And then, the buttons.
The fucking buttons.
The first one pops open like it's got no business being there. Then the next. Then two more. Each motion is annoyingly smooth, rhythm steady, like he's done this a million times.
"Wait—what are you doing?" Your voice cracks mid-yelp, too loud in the tight space.
Jeon just frowns. Not even a startled look. Just that deadpan, unreadable scowl that's basically his signature.
"What's it look like?" he mutters, tone dry.
You gape. "Are you seriously getting fucking naked in the middle of the air?"
He blinks. "Pretty sure I'm in a moving vehicle. Not the air."
"Not the point, jackass!"
He keeps going.
Of course he does.
Another button slips free, then the last one, and the shirt opens completely—clean white fabric falling away from skin like it was never meant to be there. He shrugs out of it, one shoulder, then the other, like this is normal. Casual. Like your entire brain isn't currently short-circuiting.
And yeah, you've seen it before. You've felt it before. His chest, his abs, that long inked line of muscle running down to his navel.
Still hits different now.
No dim light. No adrenaline-fueled fuck session. Just him, standing shirtless in a humming helicopter, muscle flexing as he folds the shirt and tucks it into the same bag. Like it's a mission task. Like you're not practically vibrating with tension just watching him.
He catches your stare. Smirks.
"What?" he says. "You getting shy now?"
You scoff and rip your eyes away, folding your arms.
"You've literally been more naked than this," he adds, tone light, mouth curved into a smug little thing that makes you want to punch him.
"That's different."
"How?"
"Because—" You wave a hand vaguely, still refusing to look directly at him. "Because that was... then. This is—this is something else."
He hums, low in his throat. Like he's enjoying this more than he should.
Then your eyes snap back as you hear the distinct sound of another button popping.
He's undoing the fly of his pants now.
You spin around on instinct, back to him, ears burning. "Oh my god, can you not?"
Behind you, there's a soft chuckle. Deep. Quiet. Almost warm.
"You gonna stand like that the whole time?" he asks.
"I will if you keep taking your clothes off like this is fucking Chippendales."
"You wanna watch, just say so."
"Go fuck yourself."
"I would," he says, voice amused, "but someone's in the room."
You don't answer. You don't breathe. You just stare at the wall like it's suddenly the most interesting part of the helicopter. Like your heart's not hammering against your ribs, and your thighs aren't clenched tight just from the sound of his voice going low like that.
You hear fabric shift behind you. A belt unlooped. A zipper. A dull thunk of folded clothes hitting the bench.
And still—he doesn't sound rushed. Doesn't act flustered.
If anything, he's comfortable, like getting stripped down for tactical gear mid-flight is just another line item on his checklist.
You risk a glance back.
He's already pulling on the thermal top. The body-hugging one. Muscles flex as he lifts his arms overhead. Ink peeks from under the hem before it disappears beneath black fabric.
It shouldn't be this hot.
But it is.
And you hate that it is.
You look away again before he notices you looking. Again.
Too late.
He already saw, and you know from the way he smirks. That smug, lazy smirk that means he's about to say something that'll make you want to throttle him—or climb him. Depends on the angle.
The piercing on his eyebrow catches the light when he tilts his head, like even the metal's in on the joke.
"Why you acting like this?" he says, voice low, unbothered. "I literally fucked you in a stall like three hours ago."
You whip your head toward him, eyes wide, and hiss out a panicked, "Shhh!"
The sound comes out louder than you mean it to, and you wince, glancing up toward the cockpit. The old man doesn't move, but still—you elbow Jeon in the side with zero hesitation.
He doesn't flinch. Just zips up his pants in that calm, methodical way of his, then glances casually at the cockpit. At the man sitting there with his ancient headset and absolute zero interest in your conversation.
"You know it's sealed off, right?" Jeon says, flicking his chin toward the front of the chopper. Then he looks back at you, one brow cocking. "Like, he can't hear a single thing we're saying."
You glance between them, then slowly turn back, narrowing your eyes.
Jeon's already got that look—the one he only wears when you're alone. A little too relaxed. A little too smug. Not the stone-faced, council-grade assassin the rest of the world sees. This version of him is still cold, but playful in the most dangerous way. Like he enjoys watching you squirm.
You press your lips together, holding back the first response that jumps to your throat, because of course he's like this. Of course the second you're alone, the snark cranks up and the smirking starts and suddenly it's like every rule back at the castle stops applying.
He steps closer, socked feet silent against the floor. "Turn around."
You squint. "Why."
"Just turn around."
You sigh, but you do it. More out of curiosity than anything. Maybe a little irritation. You're not about to admit how fast your pulse kicks up once his fingers touch your hair.
He brushes it off your neck gently, a single sweep that leaves goosebumps behind.
You stare ahead, spine straight, but his hands are slow. Intentionally slow. His index finger traces the top of your shoulder, then his middle, then all of them. A soft drag across your skin, barely there, but your whole body tightens under it.
His fingertips reach the base of your neck. Pause there.
Then, unhurried, he finds the zipper of your dress and pulls.
It slides down with that quiet metallic sound, cool air hitting your skin inch by inch.
You grip the sides of your thighs to keep from shifting. From saying something dumb. From backing into him just a little more.
His mouth brushes your left shoulder.
Not a kiss. Not quite.
Until he shifts, mouth pressing a real kiss this time. Slow. Warm. Right on the curve where your neck meets your shoulder.
His breath fans against your skin.
"Your turn to undress," he murmurs.
You inhale sharply. Hold it.
"And redress," you mutter back, pulse hammering.
He makes this thoughtful hum, but it's not really agreement. More like acknowledgment that he heard you, not that he's listening.
You're frozen. Not because you're shy—you've done so much worse with him—but because he's being slow. Controlled. Focused. And that's always dangerous.
Jeon's the one tugging the dress lower, easing it off like it's silk, not tight formalwear. You don't help. You just stand there and let him, your breathing shallower with every inch he pulls down. The fabric slides down your hips and then it drops.
And then?
Nothing.
Nothing except silence and stillness. Which is exactly how you know he's staring.
You glance over your shoulder.
And yep.
He's locked in like he's lining up a shot. Gaze fixed on your ass, completely unbothered by how obvious he's being. His mouth slightly open. The sharp edge of his jaw tightening.
"You're unbelievable," you mutter.
His response is immediate. "No. That ass is unbelievable."
The way he says it—low, reverent, almost a growl—sends a hot flush across your chest.
His hand slides down the line of your back. From your shoulder blades, over your spine, until he's hovering just above the curve of your hips.
Then he stops.
Like he's asking. A̶n̶d̶ ̶h̶e̶ ̶i̶s̶.̶
"Can I?"
His hand hovers. Not touching. Just waiting.
You bite your lip. "Jeon, I have to get dressed."
"Just—" he swallows, voice husky. "One touch. Please?"
Fuck.
You hate how he says it. Like it matters to him. Like the stakes are high and all he wants is this one goddamn thing.
You sigh, soft. "...Unbelievable."
You hear him swallow. "Please."
God, he's ridiculous.
But you nod. "Okay."
He exhales—one of those shaky, unguarded ones that sound like relief. Like he's been waiting for this.
His palm covers your ass, warm and firm. Fingers spread slightly, fitting around the curve like they've done too many times before. He gives it a slow, thorough squeeze, like he's savoring the feeling, grounding himself in it. His thumb drags up the side, over the roundest part, and he mutters it low—like it escapes him without permission:
"Fuck."
Your skin prickles.
His other hand finds your hip, steadying you. You're not even moving, but he holds you anyway.
His head dips, breath ghosting over your skin, and he squeezes again. Firmer. Like he can't help it.
"Why is this ass so—" he doesn't even finish. Just groans softly, forehead resting against your bare shoulder for a second.
You snort. "Are you talking to it?"
He doesn't deny it.
Of course he doesn't.
His hand slides around slowly, fingers brushing the dip just beneath your ribs before finding your navel.
The touch is light. Careful. Almost reverent. Not grabby, not greedy—just there.
Then the other hand joins in. Arms wrapping around you from behind. His forearm presses against your stomach, the solid weight of him anchoring you in place.
Not that you'd move. Not that you could.
His forehead rests against your shoulder.
You feel the exhale before you hear it. Warm. Shaky. His breathing's gone shallow.
You know that sound. That restraint. That barely-there edge to his self-control when his body's wound too tight and his patience is hanging by a single frayed thread.
And then he shifts forward. Just a little.
Just enough that you feel it—fuck—how hard he is. His hips slot flush to your ass and there's no way he's hiding that. That thick, unforgiving pressure pressed right where he wants to be.
Your breath catches.
Because you knew. Obviously you knew. Jeon's obsession with your ass is legendary by now—something he's reminded you of with his mouth, his hands, his hips, over and over again.
But it still gets you, the way he reacts to you like this.
Like he's not used to it.
Like he never gets used to it.
Your cheeks burn, stupidly pleased. You want to say it's just ego, just the thrill of control, but it's not. Not really. It's something else. Something warm and annoying and too much to name.
The weight of his cock thick and hard against your ass is bad enough. But then he mutters it—
"Shit."
Low. Guttural. Like it ripped out of him before he could stop it.
Your thighs clench instinctively.
He hasn't even done anything. He hasn't moved. He's just standing there, holding you, hard as fuck because of your backside, whispering curse words reverently into your skin.
It shouldn't affect you this much.
It's not new.
But his voice is different this time. Softer. Like awe threaded through heat.
Like he's not just turned on.
He's wrecked. Just by you.
Your breath stutters out.
You feel his arms tighten a little. Not crushing. Not demanding. Just close. As if he needs to feel all of you under him or else he'll lose his goddamn mind.
You want to lean back. Want to grind just once. Let yourself melt into that heat and get off on the friction alone, like you've done before.
But it's not the time.
Not the moment.
Not the place.
So instead, your hands slide down. Over his forearms. Slow. Gentle. Your fingers curl around his wrists and hold there for a beat.
He stills behind you, his mouth parting slightly against your skin.
You don't turn around. Just focus on his hands. Beautiful hands. Inked and veined and big. Hands that have held knives and necks and your thighs spread open in dark rooms.
You swallow.
"Jeon," you murmur, barely above the rotor hum. "I have to get dressed."
You feel it the second it hits him.
The stiffening in his posture. The way his hips pull back like it physically hurts. That little breath he takes through his nose, sharp and clipped like he's pissed at himself.
"Yeah," he says, rough. "Yeah. You're right, I—"
He swallows hard. You feel the bob of his throat against your shoulder before he steps back. Barefoot on the steel floor, fingers twitching like he doesn't know where to put them.
"I'm sorry. I just—" His hand lifts, then drops, then lifts again as he gestures vaguely at you. "Fuck."
He actually says it like that. Soft. Defeated.
Like the sight of your half-undressed body scrambled something in his brain and now he's trying to reboot with blood still rushing south.
He shakes his head like he's trying to snap out of it.
Then he crouches to grab the pile of clothes you haven't touched. Holds them out to you with both hands like you might break if he gets too close.
"Let me help you," he says. Quiet. Not pushy. Like he wants to do something with his hands that isn't gripping you tight enough to leave bruises.
You reach for the thermals, and that's when you notice it.
Have Jeon’s ears ever been red?
if you've enjoyed this chapter please consider buying me a coffee!! ☕️ ♡´∀｀♡
pairing: jungkook x f!reader | rating: 18+ | wc: 8.4k | warnings: here
genre: e2l, fwb, gang au, angst with smut, slow burn, forbidden love
† burgundy †
“You can handle chaos. You’ve trained for it. You just didn’t account for the part where the chaos gets personal—where the mission fractures, the lines blur, and someone you care about gets taken right in front of you.”
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↪︎ author's note: First off—ARMY, HOW ARE WE FEELING??? OH MY GOD. I am not even kidding when I say I have been in a constant state of derangement ever since Arirang dropped. I have not listened to a single other thing. Not one. This album has been on loop, front to back, back to front, like my life depends on it. And maybe it does.
As a 2016 ARMY, this one hit different. I don’t even have coherent thoughts about it yet, just vibes and emotions and me staring at the ceiling like I’ve just been spiritually rearranged. I am so, so proud of them. The way they’ve woven Korean elements into the sound, the storytelling, the symbolism??? Insane. Beautiful. Genius. I’ve been seeing K-ARMYs break down all the cultural references and little Easter eggs and I’m just sitting there like YES, EDUCATE ME, FEED ME KNOWLEDGE, I WILL EAT IT UP. I feel like I’ve ascended. I feel like I’ve been injected with serotonin directly into my bloodstream. Kings truly never disappoint.
Now. About this chapter. You remember how the last one leaned heavily into V? Yeah. I lied. We’re not done with that. In fact, we’re going further. Because I need you to fully grasp—not just understand, but feel—how terrifyingly competent this man actually is. Not in a flashy, loud way. In a way that is quiet and calculated and deeply, deeply wrong if you look at it for more than five seconds.
At the same time, I needed to tune Fervio properly. Because he is not V. And V is not him. But they exist on the same spectrum of… let’s call it distortion. Two people who operate outside the boundaries of what we consider normal human behavior—but on completely different frequencies. One is controlled chaos. The other is something that enjoys the chaos a little too much. And when those two energies meet… well. You’ll see.
Also—before anyone even thinks about it—do not look at me. The warnings have always been there. The author’s notes have always been there. I do not put them for decoration. I do not write ‘read at your own discretion’ for fun. I will be taking exactly zero complaints. Sit down. Drink water. Reflect.
And finally, the last scene. We step into Jeon’s head for a bit, and I need you to pay attention. Not in a ‘this will be on the test’ way, but in a ‘this is me quietly placing pieces on the board’ way. There is a small lore drop regarding his past, his training, and the way he functions. And that one moment—yes, that one—where his crosshair wavers?
That matters. It really, really does.
Anyway. Enjoy. Scream. Spiral. Come talk to me after.
And for the love of everything, go stream Arirang with your best Swim-focused playlists. Here’s one!
Mwah. ( ´ ▽ ` )
The PA system crackles to life like a death rattle.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please make your way to your assigned seating. The auction will commence in ten minutes."
You watch the crowd move like some bizarre synchronized swimming routine, and it's kind of mesmerizing, honestly—how they manage to make even basic walking look like it’s dripping euro signs. Everyone's got that studied nonchalance down pat, like they're not all here to casually drop millions on illegal tech.
The setup is pretty genius, you'll give them that. A charity auction? Perfect cover. Rich people love throwing money at ‘causes’ while pretending they're not just laundering funds. Plus, the champagne keeps flowing and the tiny food actually tastes good, so who's complaining?
V's hand finds your waist, grip casual but present. He moves like this is the most natural thing in the world, like he hasn't just finished redecorating the courtyard in various shades of red. His fingers press slightly when Jeon's eyes meet his over your head, and oh—you can practically see the tactical planning passing between them in that single look.
Jeon's gaze drops to you, just for a second, but it's enough to make your chest do that weird tight thing again. He hesitates—actually hesitates—before giving V this tiny nod that probably contains fifteen different contingency plans.
Then he's gone, melting into the crowd like smoke.
Kaleido and Fervio disappear too, though with considerably less grace. You catch flashes of them—green hair here, nightmare contact lenses there—before they vanish into the sea of black suits and evening wear.
Thank fuck for small mercies.
A splash of pink catches your eye through the crowd.
Yunjin, still working that cotton candy princess vibe, being ‘escorted’ by two guys who scream private security. They're trying to look harmless, but you notice how their eyes keep scanning, how their hands stay ready near their jackets.
Not that you're worried. Yunjin's got one hand curved around her clutch, right where you know she keeps that special ‘lipstick’ that definitely isn't MAC. Her laugh tinkles through the air—perfectly pitched, perfectly fake—as she lets them guide her toward the auction hall.
The ballroom itself is... well, it's a lot. More crystal chandeliers than any room needs, ceiling high enough to have its own weather system, and honest-to-god velvet chairs arranged in neat little rows.
There's even a proper auctioneer's podium up front, complete with one of those tiny hammers that judges love.
"Your bidding cards, signore e signora?"
You nearly jump when a server materializes beside you, crisp bow tie and judgment. The silver tray he's holding has these fancy numbered cards, each one sporting a QR code that looks weirdly modern against the old-school setup.
You grab number 23, noting how his eyes linger just a touch too long. Probably memorizing your face for whatever sketchy record-keeping system they've got running.
Your seat comes with an actual printed catalog, bound in leather like this is a legitimate auction house instead of criminal shopping hour. You flip through it, scanning past the bullshit items—some rare wines here, a probably-fake Monet there—until you find what you're actually here for.
Which is fancy talk for ‘AI that could make your gang the most technologically advanced criminal enterprise in Asia.’
No wonder AD's been practically vibrating since this hit the black market.
Five million's just the starting bid, but for tech like this?
Worth every stolen penny.
The room fills up like a who's who of international crime. You spot at least three arms dealers trying to look casual, a politician who definitely shouldn't be here, and what you're pretty sure is actual royalty hiding in the back row. Everyone's playing at being normal auction-goers while definitely sizing up competition.
Some woman in head-to-toe Chanel claims the seat next to you, rattling like a jewelry store with every movement. Her bidding card says 17, and she keeps touching it like she's afraid it'll disappear.
Rookie move.
You can practically smell the nervousness rolling off her designer perfume.
The auctioneer takes his place, and in all honesty, they’ve really committed to the aesthetic. He looks like he should be reading bedtime stories to grandkids instead of facilitating international crime, complete with wire-rim glasses and this perfectly maintained mustache that probably has its own grooming routine.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he starts, voice carrying a mix of authority and charm. "Welcome to our annual charity gala auction. As always, we remind you that all proceeds go to various children's foundations across Europe."
You have to bite back a snort.
Sure, if by ‘children's foundations’ they mean offshore accounts and shell companies.
But hey, at least they're dedicated to the bit.
The first items are your standard rich-people bait.
Some ancient wine goes for stupid money. A definitely-fake vase sells for even more stupid money. Everyone's playing their part perfectly—sipping champagne, making polite noises about art they definitely don't understand, pretending they're not all here for lot 47.
You check your phone under the catalog, making sure AD's account details are ready to go.
You know it'll skyrocket faster than crypto on a good day.
The real question is: who else is here for it? And how messy is this going to get?
Your eyes drift around the room once more, because it’s part of the job, really.
Brioni suit three rows up keeps fidgeting with his cufflinks. Someone's whispering in Russian nearby. And somewhere behind you, you just know Kaleido's watching, probably already plotting twelve different ways to fuck this up for everyone else.
But... Yunjin?
You blink slowly, scanning the crowd for that signature bubblegum pink. It shouldn't be hard to spot—not in this sea of blacks and neutrals—but Yunjin's always been good at disappearing when she needs to.
Too good, sometimes.
Your stomach twists with a familiar anxiety.
Logically, you know she's fine. V made his point pretty fucking clear to Fervio in what might be the most disturbing way possible. But still. You need to see her. Need to confirm with your own eyes that she's okay, that she's not—
You shut that thought down hard before it can fully form.
You're not going there. Not now. Not when you need to stay focused.
It's just... you can't help but think about your first mission. The one where you helped dismantle MDF's trafficking ring. The one where girls kept disappearing, snatched up like they were nothing.
The one where you finally put Hanjun—that sadistic motherfucker—behind bars where he belongs.
You haven't heard anything about MDF restarting those operations. Not a whisper, not a rumor. But you know how they work. You've seen firsthand how they play dirty, how they take what they want without a second thought.
And you can't forget the look on Jessi's face when she showed you those photos.
Those girls, all lined up like merchandise.
And that one girl—god, the resemblance was uncanny.
Same eyes, same curve to her jaw.
Jessi never confirmed it was her sister, but she didn't have to.
Some things you just know.
A burst of familiar laughter cuts through your spiraling thoughts, and your head snaps up, eyes immediately finding that shock of pink hair several rows behind you.
There she is, seated next to some older man in an expensive suit that screams ‘corrupt politician.’ She's leaning in, twirling a strand of hair around her finger, her lips curved in that perfectly polishdd smile.
Classic Yunjin. Playing the bubbly airhead while she works her real magic.
You shift in your seat, angling yourself just enough to catch their conversation without being obvious about it. Several months in the Seduction Division have taught you exactly how to eavesdrop while looking completely disinterested.
"...just don't understand why anyone would spend so much on computer stuff," Yunjin's saying, voice pitched higher than normal, that deliberate valley-girl lilt she pulls out when she's playing dumb. "Like, isn't technology, like, always getting better? Why not wait for the next version?"
The politician—balding, probably mid-fifties, wedding ring glinting under the chandeliers—laughs indulgently.
"Sometimes, my dear, it's about being the first. Having what others don't."
Yunjin giggles, the sound calculated to stroke his ego. "I guess that makes sense. You seem so smart about these things."
She leans in, dropping her voice to a stage whisper.
"So which one are you going to bid on? That pretty painting? Or maybe that yacht? You look like a yacht kind of man."
The politician puffs up like a peacock, clearly enjoying the attention from someone half his age.
"Well, I was considering lot 47, actually. The processing algorithm."
"Really?" Yunjin's nose wrinkles adorably. "That sounds so boring. Like, what would you even do with it?"
"More valuable than a yacht?" She sounds genuinely confused, like she can't imagine anything better than floating around on a big boat. "But you can't even show it off! No one's gonna be like, 'ooh, look at his algorithm.'" She mimics taking photos with her hands. "Like, yacht pics look way better on Instagram."
You have to bite your lip to keep from laughing.
This is why Yunjin's the best. She knows exactly how to play these types—stroking their egos while subtly making them question their choices.
The politician hesitates. "Well, when you put it that way..."
"Plus," Yunjin continues, leaning even closer, her hand ‘accidentally’ brushing his thigh, "I've always wanted to see the inside of one of those super fancy yachts. All those... private spaces."
She bats her eyelashes, and wow, she is laying it on thick.
The man actually gulps. You can practically see his brain recalibrating, shifting from ‘valuable tech’ to ‘impress hot girl.’
"The yacht does have... quite the master suite," he manages, his voice going slightly rough.
Yunjin's smile widens.
"Really? That sounds amazing." She sighs dreamily. "I bet the views from the bedroom are just incredible."
And just like that, you can see bidder number one cross lot 47 off his mental list. He's now fully invested in winning that yacht, if only for the chance to show Yunjin the ‘views’ from the bedroom.
Men are so predictable it's almost sad.
You turn back around, smiling slightly.
One down.
But you know there are others—probably smarter, definitely less easily distracted by pretty girls playing dumb. Your gaze drifts to where you last saw the Russian whisperer, noting how he's now deep in conversation with someone who looks like private military. Great.
Your hand moves to your phone again, checking the time.
Where the hell is Jeon?
He hasn't said anything so far. He should be back by now, positioned somewhere high with eyes on everything.
V's lips brush your cheek, and you freeze. Not the fun kind of freeze, like that ‘oh, butterflies-in-my-stomach’ kind. No, this is the ‘what-the-fuck-is-he-doing-now’ kind of freeze. Your whole body goes stiff as a board, the kind of rigid tension that makes your neck hurt to hold, and you shoot him a look from the corner of your eye.
"Pay attention, love," he whispers, voice low enough that it barely registers over the hum of the room.
You exhale through your nose, long and slow, resisting the very real urge to elbow him straight in the ribs. Because of course V thinks this is the perfect time to mess with you. Of course.
His hand lands on your shoulder, light and almost soft, like he's trying not to spook you. The gesture should feel protective, but this is V, so it just feels... calculated.
His arm drapes across the back of your chair, settling like it belongs there, while he leans back like he's got all the time in the world. One leg crosses casually over the other, and yeah—he's smiling. That lazy, shit-eating grin he wears when he's enjoying himself way too much. His head tilts, his posture screams ‘relaxation,’ but that glint in his eye says otherwise.
He's watching the room like he's already mapped it out in his head, every exit, every target.
And somehow, he still finds time to mess with you.
You roll your eyes so hard you're surprised they don't get stuck.
"You're hilarious," you mutter, flicking your attention back to the auction.
And there it is.
The microchip.
The room shifts. It's subtle, but you feel it. The way the conversations die out, the way the collective breath of the crowd seems to catch all at once.
The man at the podium raises his gavel, holding it up like some kind of holy relic. His voice takes on a certain weight as he announces it, drawing out the moment like he's savoring it.
You barely hear him over the rushing in your ears.
The words don't really matter—what matters is that.
Lot 47. The reason you're all here.
Your eyes flit to the side, catching a flash of green in your periphery.
Kaleido.
He's moving, positioning himself, and for a second, your pulse skips.
What's his angle here?
Is he sticking to the script, or is this about to go sideways?
You've seen MDF play nice exactly never, so the fact that they're even pretending right now has you on edge.
But then V's fingers start moving on your shoulder, and your concentration is gone, just like that.
It's subtle at first, light little taps against your skin. Annoying but ignorable. Then his thumb brushes over the thin strap of your dress, tracing the bare skin beneath it, and your patience evaporates.
"Do you mind?" you hiss under your breath, darting him a sharp look.
He doesn't even react. Just keeps smiling, his gaze fixed on your neck now. His lashes half-lower, hooding his eyes in that way that makes it impossible to tell what he's thinking. His fingers graze upward, settling right where the mark sits, the one Jeon left.
The one over—oh.
Shit.
"I see you've been busy," V hums, the slightest curve to his lips. His voice is soft, almost teasing, but there's a weight to it that makes your stomach drop.
Your hand flies to your neck before you even think it through, heat rushing to your face.
"What do you mean? It's your mark," you snap, trying to sound casual, like this is the dumbest conversation you've ever had. "You bit me, remember?"
You throw in a smirk for good measure, injecting your tone with as much sass as you can muster. It's a defense mechanism, sure, but it's always worked before. You're hoping it works now.
But V just... laughs. Not the loud, obnoxious kind, but something smaller. Sharper. A quiet little puff of air that sends a prickle running down your spine because you're the only one who hears it.
"Sweetheart," he murmurs, leaning closer, his breath warm against your ear. "Bold of you to assume I wouldn't recognize my own canines."
You go still again, your hand still covering the mark.
It's fine. This is fine. He doesn't know anything. He's just being his usual cryptic self, trying to get under your skin. That's all this is.
Except it doesn't feel like that. Not this time.
"What the fuck are you talking about?" you mutter quietly, irritation clear in your voice. "Is this another one of your fucked-up riddles, or did the blood licking from earlier finally poison you?"
V's smile widens slightly, delighted—unbothered, as usual. He shrugs one elegant shoulder, gaze drifting languidly back to the auctioneer like this conversation bores him now. But you catch the sharp, cunning twist of his lips.
"Nothing, darling," he says casually, thumb gliding once more across the sensitive bruise. "Just... an interesting observation. It's quite fascinating, don't you think, how different bites can feel? Some are playful, teasing. Others... intentional. Hungry."
His gaze flicks meaningfully back to your neck, smirk sharpening.
"Territorial, even."
Fucking hell.
You roll your eyes again, forcing your posture to remain relaxed even as you hear your internal voice scream.
He's being purposefully obnoxious, as always. Trying to bait you into some reaction he's clearly fishing for.
"Sorry," you deadpan, cocking a brow coolly, "guess I must've missed the canine identification course during Seduction training."
V chuckles softly. "Well, everyone has their specialities. Mine happen to include... keen observational skills. And yours, apparently, involve collecting lovely accessories on your skin."
You grit your teeth, irritation flaring hot once again. "Again, it's the same damn bite you left. So whatever you're trying to imply—"
"Imply?" V interrupts smoothly, one eyebrow arching delicately. "Oh, darling, I'm merely noting facts. For instance—"
He leans in again, lips brushing your ear.
"My marks are delicate. Artistic, if you will. That one—" He nods at your neck with a subtle jerk of his chin, voice hushed. "That one looks downright feral. Possessive. A real... statement."
A chill skitters down your spine, uncomfortable and unwelcome, because this whole conversation feels wrong.
Off.
"That so? Maybe your artistic talent slipped. Guess you can't always hit the mark."
"On the contrary," he murmurs, voice velvety and amused, "I'd say I hit the mark perfectly. But then again, I suppose my definition of success differs from yours, doesn't it?"
He finally leans back, posture relaxing once again.
But that lingering, calculating glint never leaves his eyes—sharp, vicious, brilliant. Like he's been playing five moves ahead.
And you're pretty fucking sure you just played directly into one of them.
The lights cut out without warning, plunging the room into an inky, suffocating onsidian.
For a second, you think maybe you're imagining it.
But no, the confused murmurs around you confirm it's real.
V's arm over your shoulder goes still. No more lazy drumming of fingers, no casual teasing pressure.
Nothing. Just dead weight.
And then his hand moves, dropping to your forearm in a firm, deliberate grip.
He's not pulling, not pushing, just... holding. Like he's making sure you're still there. Like he's making sure you stay there.
It takes you a second to process it, the grip, the tension. But when you do, your stomach churns.
This isn't part of the plan. It's all wrong.
MDF's play?
Your mind races.
Why didn't AD see this coming?
Why wasn't it flagged in the mission parameters?
The intel was solid—or should've been. You've run through every angle, every contingency, and this just... this wasn't on the board.
You can barely hear yourself think over the voices in the crowd, panicked muttering mixing with sharper edges of annoyance. People don't like being left in the dark, figuratively or literally, and the tension in the room is rising. Fast.
You swallow hard, your throat dry as sandpaper.
Then Jeon's voice cuts through your earpiece, low and steady. "What's going on? Lights went off."
"We don't know," you subvocalize, your voice tight but controlled. "Might be MDF's doing."
There's a beat of silence, the kind that stretches a millisecond too long to feel casual.
Then Jeon speaks again, his tone neutral, unreadable. "So you're okay."
It's not a question, not really.
But it's not nothing either, and the tiny flicker of reassurance in your chest catches you off guard.
You shouldn't care about the undertone—or lack of one.
But you do.
"Yes," you murmur, trying to keep it curt, professional.
"I'm fine too," V interjects, his voice practically dripping with amusement.
Of course he's amused. Why wouldn't he be? The man thrives on chaos.
There's a pause.
Then Jeon's cold, clipped response: "Huh. Pity."
The corner of your mouth twitches despite yourself. It's involuntary—something about the way Jeon says it, like it's barely worth the breath it takes to spit it out. Typical.
But then the humor evaporates, snuffed out like a candle in the dark.
"Yunjin?" Jeon's voice comes again, a little sharper this time.
Static.
Nothing.
"Yun?" Your voice cuts through next, pitched higher than it should be. Still nothing.
A cold spike of fear lodges itself in your chest.
No, no, no—this isn't happening.
She's fine. She has to be fine. You just saw her. Laughing, flirting, working her magic. She was right there.
But now?
"Yunjin," V says, and for the first time, you hear something in his voice that you're not sure you've ever heard before.
Something in you snaps.
Your legs move before your brain catches up, carrying you toward where you last saw her. But you don't get far. V's grip tightens like a vice, yanking you back into place.
"Stay. Put." His voice is low, barely a growl, but the weight of it anchors you immediately. "No sudden movements. This could get ugly fast."
Ugly?
No, this is already ugly.
The kind of ugly that makes your skin crawl and your pulse race.
But you grit your teeth, fighting against the urge to shove him off and keep moving. Because the rasp in his voice—sharp, calculating, dangerous—tells you he's not bluffing.
"Get out of there," Jeon's voice cuts through again, quieter now, but no less urgent. A half-whisper, half-command.
"The microchip—" you start, your voice rising slightly before you can pull it back.
"I don't give a fuck about the microchip," Jeon snaps, the first bit of real emotion bleeding into his tone. "Get. Out."
That makes your breath hitch.
Because Jeon?
He always gives a fuck about the mission.
Always.
The thought hasn't even settled before you hear it—the rat-a-tat-tat of a Tommy gun ripping through the air like it's 1934 all over again. The sound cuts through the murmurs, sharp and deafening enough to make your bones vibrate. It's unmistakable, even through the chaos. That old-school clatter of destruction, fast and relentless.
The crowd erupts. Gasps. Screams. Chairs scraping against the marble as people scramble blindly in the dark, their panic amplifying your own.
You instinctively shrink back, pressing into V's side because—fuck—you've lost every sense of direction.
V's hand clamps tighter on your arm, his knuckles digging in. You can't see his face, but you can feel him tense beside you, the energy rolling off him like a bomb ready to detonate.
He doesn't say anything—doesn't need to.
He's already calculating, already shifting gears from playful chaos to absolute survival.
"Move!" Jeon's voice roars through your earpiece, cutting through the noise like gunfire itself. "Now!"
Your legs won't cooperate. You're frozen, stuck in place, unable to think past the crackling in your ears and the pounding in your chest.
And then V is pulling—hard—dragging you out of your seat with a force that leaves no room for argument.
You stumble forward blindly, the room still pitch-black, the air saturated with the stench of panic and confusion.
All you can do is follow, barely keeping up with the deadly pace of V's steps, his grip on you unyielding as the sound of chaos swallows the room whole.
Somewhere in the distance, the gunfire stops.
Everything else feels like it's just beginning.
V moves like a fucking ghost.
The moment you clear the ballroom doors—spilling out into the long stone corridor with the crowd’s screaming still raw in your ears—he’s already ahead of you. Not running. Not even hurrying, really. Just moving, with that particular quality of motion that makes him hard to track even when you’re standing right next to him.
You’re clinging to his shadow, heels hitting marble, the chaos behind you collapsing into dull, distant noise.
He takes a sharp turn left, then right, navigating this labyrinth of a palazzo like the blueprints are tattooed on the inside of his eyelids. Every column, every alcove, every too-dark doorway—memorized.
You’d be impressed if you weren’t busy trying not to twist your ankle on four-inch heels in near-complete darkness.
Then it happens.
A man in a charcoal jacket rounds the corner from the opposite direction, moving fast, head down—one of the guests trying to evacuate. Normal. Unremarkable.
V doesn’t stop.
He doesn’t even slow down.
What happens next is so fast you almost miss it entirely—a brush of shoulders, an arm passing an arm, a half-second where two men occupy the same narrow corridor space—and then V is past him and gone, and the man keeps walking, and you blink, because—
Wait.
V’s jacket is different.
The deep navy he’d been wearing all night? Replaced. Now he’s in charcoal. The other man’s charcoal. The one that was on the other man’s back approximately four seconds ago.
You look behind you.
The man rounds a corner, oblivious, moving fast—now in what is very definitely V’s—Lorenzo’s—navy jacket—and he doesn’t even know it, and you stare at the back of his retreating shoulders with your mouth slightly open.
“Did you just—” you start.
“Keep moving,” V says, not looking back.
You keep moving.
But your eyes drop, almost involuntarily, to his wrist—and that’s when you clock it.
The watch. Heavy, silver, sitting on V’s wrist like it’s always lived there, like it grew there.
And it was absolutely, definitely not there five minutes ago because you notice things, it’s literally your job—
When.
“The watch,” you say flatly.
V glances down at it with the air of a man admiring his own taste. “Mm.”
“You stole that.”
“Such a loaded word.”
“V.”
He finally cuts you a sideways look, and there it is—that faint curve of his mouth that means he’s been waiting for you to catch up.
“Why,” he says, like he’s in a lecture hall and you’re the slow kid in the front row, “do you think I needed the jacket?”
You open your mouth.
Close it again.
Fervio.
When he sees V, he’ll clock the suit—the jacket first, always the jacket. Label, cut, silhouette. Men like Fervio and Kaleido don’t go memorizing faces in a crowd of hundreds, not on a first pass. They track identifiers: what jacket, what’s on your wrist, what’s on your feet.
“He’ll recognize the suit,” you say slowly. “The jacket specifically. But now some random guest is wearing it.”
V tilts his head. Patient and unbearably smug. “There’s hope for you yet.”
“And the pants?” you ask, because the pants are still the same pants, and if you’re right about his logic—
“That,” V says, with a pointed glance at the watch, “is why I have this.”
You stare at him.
He looks back, perfectly composed.
“Guys like Kaleido,” he continues, conversational, like he’s explaining the rules of a board game, “don’t track trousers. They track jackets—brand, cut, the shoulder line. They track accessories. Watches, pocket squares, cufflinks. Shoes, if they’re distinctive.”
A small pause.
“These shoes are not distinctive. Half the men in that room were wearing the same pair. The jacket is gone.”
He adjusts his cuffs, two fingers, the watch catching what little light exists in the corridor.
“They’ll be looking for someone who doesn’t exist.”
It’s so clean it’s genuinely annoying.
When did he take the watch, though. That’s still the thing. You were watching him. You were right there.
And you have absolutely no answer to that question and it’s going to bother you for the rest of your life, probably.
“Whatever,” you mutter. “Fine. You’re very smart. Congratulations.”
“Thank you.” He sounds like he means it sincerely, which is somehow worse.
The corridor narrows, walls pressing in, and V slows.
That switch flips—the playfulness dissolving into something colder and more focused, the version of him that makes you want to take a small step sideways and give him space.
His eyes cut left, right. Reading. Evaluating.
You follow his gaze.
The room opens up ahead. Wider. Darker.
And then you see them.
Those eerie contact lenses, catching what little light exists like two small moons.
Fervio.
Your pulse slams into the back of your throat.
He’s there, talking in low rough tones to one of his men—that same swagger intact, that slouchy certainty of someone who’s never had a reason to look over his shoulder.
You can’t make out the words, just the cadence. Clipped. Certain. Something about the girl. Something about plan B.
And then, in the far corner—
A flash of tulle.
Rose-pink fabric, crumpled against the wall.
Not moving.
Your brain stutters.
Yunjin.
The awful thing in your chest starts doing its awful thing, and you press yourself harder against the stone because if you move, if you make a single sound—
V goes rigid beside you. Not dramatic-rigid. Just stone, like something cold has moved through him and settled.
He doesn’t speak. You don’t either.
His gaze moves across the room in slow, deliberate sweeps—guard, guard, angle, exit, angle, Yunjin—and then his eyes drop to your hair.
Specifically, to the hairpin holding it up.
He reaches over without preamble and pulls it free.
Your hair spills down.
“Hey—” you hiss, barely any sound at all.
He shuts you down with one look.
You flatten yourself against the wall.
Fine. Fine.
He’s still again, too still, and you watch him turn the hairpin between his fingers once—a quick, stylish roll—before his wrist snaps.
The pin cuts through the air with a soft fsst.
Fervio's head jerks. A split-second, reflexive flinch, the kind your body makes before your brain has even registered why. The pin grazes the shell of his ear instead of finding its mark, and a thin dark line opens across the skin.
He doesn't yell. Doesn't flinch back. Just goes very, very still.
Two fingers lift, slow, and touch the nick at his ear. He looks at his own blood.
And then his mouth pulls wide.
Not a wince. Not irritation.
A smile.
The kind that means he liked it.
Your stomach turns.
"V," he says, voice rolling out warm and unhurried into the dark.
He says it the way you'd name a dog you heard scratching at the door—delighted, certain, already excited to open it.
His eyes sweep the room, scanning the shadows with the focused patience of someone who enjoys the hunt, who'd be disappointed if it ended quickly.
"Come on." He tilts his head, rubbing the blood between his fingers like he's feeling the texture of it. Savoring it. "Let's play."
Oh, that's not good.
He didn't see V—the room's too dark, the distance too far for a face.
But the throw gave him everything he needed: the angle, the silence, the half-centimeter miss that wasn't a miss, it was a signature.
The kind of precision with a thrown blade that only belongs to one person in any room, in any country, in any criminal network operating on this continent.
And if Fervio clocks V and Lorenzo in the same breath—
You don't finish that thought.
Beside you, V is already looking at your dress.
Not your face. The dress.
"Don't," you say, flat.
He kneels anyway.
Both hands find the hem of your skirt—full, draped, a truly excessive amount of fabric—and rips. One clean tear from mid-thigh, the seam giving like it was always planning to.
He stands back up with a wide strip of deep burgundy silk in his hands like he just unwrapped something he ordered.
You stare at him.
"That," you say, very quietly, "was designer."
He doesn't respond. He's already bringing it up over his head—not neat, not careful, just fast and efficient, hauling the silk over his hair, his forehead, pulling it flat across his face, dragging it down past his chin and jaw and knotting the ends tight at the back of his neck.
He straightens.
You look at him.
The burgundy fabric is pulled flat and seamless across his entire face—nothing visible, no gap, no shadow where a nose or mouth might push against the silk. Just smooth wine-dark fabric from crown to collar, his hair gone, his jaw gone, every recognizable line of him erased under your skirt.
He looks—
He looks absolutely, certifiably s̶t̶u̶p̶i̶d̶ terrifying.
"You literally have zero visibility right now," you say. "You understand that, right? You're blind. Functionally, completely—"
V tilts his head.
Forty-five degrees. Slow. Toward the sound of Fervio's last movement, somewhere across the room.
Oh.
Oh, he's tracking by sound.
Which is insane. Which is the most insane thing you've seen all night, and you watched him walk away from the ballroom still humming, so the bar is high.
But the tilt of his head is so precisely oriented toward Fervio's position that you can't argue with the result, and your objection dies somewhere in the back of your throat.
"Gorgeous," you mutter. "Truly. Go off, king."
From across the room: "I know it's you, pretty boy. Nobody else throws like that. Nobody alive, anyway."
A soft sound—almost appreciative, like he's reviewing a wine.
"How long has it been? Four years? Five?"
V's covered head turns toward the voice.
"Your little sugar plum fairy here makes excellent bait," Fervio continues, crouching down to brush a strand of pink hair from Yunjin's face. "Though I have bigger plans for her than just luring you out."
His fingers trail down Yunjin's cheek in a way that makes your stomach turn.
"She'll fetch a high price, this one. The right buyers pay extra for that innocent look."
Trafficking. He's talking about fucking trafficking her.
V chin dips once.
That's it. That's his whole pre-fight ritual.
And then he goes.
V moves and there’s no other word for it—he moves like something with no visual cortex, like a thing that navigates by other means entirely.
No sight-line adjustments. No head-tracking.
Just forward, smooth, certain, like the room’s geography already lives in him from the thirty seconds he spent looking at it before he wrapped his face in your dress.
The first guard doesn’t hear him coming.
He barely makes a sound—there’s a collision of bodies, almost gentle-looking from where you’re standing, and then the guard folds.
V doesn’t watch the body hit the floor. Already moving, already oriented toward the next one by sound, probably, by the shift of air or the vibration of footsteps on marble or something you can’t quantify from here and honestly don’t want to think too hard about.
The second guard turns at the thud.
V walks into his swing.
Doesn’t dodge, doesn’t weave—just takes the impact with a forward lean, using the momentum to get close, and then his hands find the man’s head and that’s the end of that.
V pauses after the kill. Straightens his tie with bloody fingers. Adjusts his cuffs like he's at a business meeting.
Jesus.
Fervio's head snaps toward the sound.
"Marco?" he calls, voice sharp. "Alec?"
When nothing answers, his posture changes.
He pulls a curved knife from his belt—the kind meant for gutting.
"Come out, come out, wherever you are," he sing-songs, backing toward Yunjin.
V moves to the third guard like he's bored. Casual. One second he's examining his nails, the next his knife is buried in the man's eye socket. He doesn't even watch the body fall—already focused on his next target like a kid with too many toys.
The final guard panics, firing wildly. The muzzle flash strobes the room, and what you see freezes your blood.
V isn't dancing through the gunfire—he's walking. Just fucking walking, head tilted curiously as bullets miss him by inches. Not because he's dodging, but because he doesn't seem to care if they hit him or not. Like death is beneath his notice.
When he reaches the guard, he doesn't kill him right away. He leans in close, whispers something that makes the man's eyes go wide with terror, then slices his throat with a flick of his wrist.
Blood fountains upward. V steps back just enough to avoid most of it, watching with the detached interest of someone observing an unusual bug.
Four down. Just Fervio left.
He isn’t rattled—you’ll give him that. He’s recalibrated, stance dropped low, knife in a reverse grip, turning slowly and putting his back to the wall so nothing can come at him from behind.
Smart.
He’s listening too now, matching V’s method with his own version of it.
“You know,” Fervio says, “fighting blind is a lovely party trick. But I’ve been hunting in the dark since before you could hold a blade.”
V’s head tilts.
Toward the voice. Just slightly.
Fervio catches it, feints left, goes right—knife slashing through the space V had been occupying a half-second earlier.
He almost connects. Almost. The blade catches fabric at the shoulder of the charcoal jacket, a thin slice, and Fervio presses forward because he’s found something and he knows it.
They’re not equally matched in the conventional sense. But they’re equally dangerous, and those aren’t the same thing.
Fervio gets in close, drives an elbow back and catches V across the jaw.
V’s head snaps sideways. He makes a sound.
And then he laughs. Muffled, bright, terrible—a genuinely delighted sound coming out of the blank burgundy face that makes the back of your neck prickle.
He can’t see. He took a hit he couldn’t track because he can’t see, and he is laughing about it.
Fervio reacts instantly, knife flying. There's a soft thud, and V hisses. The blade catches his arm, tearing through skin.
"First blood," Fervio purrs. "And there I was thinking you were all myth, no substance."
V's fingers press against the cut through the silk wrap, feeling the warmth seeping through.
"Interesting," he murmurs. To no one. To himself.
To the wound.
You watch him catch V's wrist and twist, and when V makes a choked sound behind the silk, Fervio's eyes go bright. Brighter. He twists harder, past the point of restraint, past the point of tactical necessity, and you realize he's not trying to break the grip.
He's trying to feel the joint give.
"There it is," Fervio breathes, satisfied, like a man who just found what he was looking for.
V headbutts him.
Both foreheads connect with a crack that echoes and Fervio stumbles back, blood pouring into his eyes from the split above his brow, and V just stands there for a second—covered head tilted, listening to the drip of it—before driving his knife through Fervio's thigh. Not deep. Shallow, measured, exactly enough to—
To make Fervio laugh, apparently.
"Good," Fervio says, pulling the blade out himself with a wet sound and dropping it on the floor between them. "That's good."
He's having the time of his life, and it's the most disturbing thing you've ever watched, and you've watched V lick blood off his knife and say it tastes like wet McDonalds, so.
They're two of a kind.
In the worst possible way.
Fervio gets his hand around V's throat—fingers digging in, arm fully extended, driving him back into the wall.
For two seconds that stretch like taffy, V just—hangs there. Head back. Covered face pointed at the ceiling.
Then he drives a shard of broken display case glass into Fervio's armpit.
The sound Fervio makes is the first genuinely pained sound of the whole fight. It rips out of him involuntarily, sharp and bitten-off, and his grip breaks.
V lands on his feet. Rolls his own neck once, slowly.
Fervio looks at the glass still embedded in his arm.
Then he looks at V, who is now methodically adjusting his bloodstained cuffs.
"You," Fervio starts—
V doesn't let him finish. He presses his advantage, not with skill but with pure frenzy—cutting, slashing, in no pattern you can discern. He slices Fervio's face, not deeply, but precisely, like he's carving his initials.
Fervio staggers back, reaching for something at his belt. It's a gun, small and ugly.
You want to shout a warning, but that would give you away.
So you just press your fist against your mouth, biting down until you taste copper.
V doesn't need the warning.
He's already moving sideways as Fervio pulls the trigger.
The bullet clips the wall, sending marble chips flying.
V straightens, adjusting his bloody tie again. He's bleeding from at least three places now, but his energy is ramping up with each wound—like pain is fuel for whatever twisted engine runs him.
Fervio charges, knife leading. V doesn't dodge—he lets himself get cut across the chest, using the moment to drive his own blade between Fervio's ribs.
Not a killing blow, but deep enough to hurt.
They break apart, circling.
An alarm blares, harsh and electronic.
Security. Someone's called security.
The distraction is all Fervio needs. He lunges, knife aiming straight for V's throat—
You react without thinking. Grab a fallen guard's gun and hurl it across the room. It smashes into a display case with a crash of breaking glass.
Fervio's head turns instinctively. Just for a split second. But enough.
V moves, burying his knife in Fervio's side.
Fervio staggers back, face twisted with fury.
"You're going to regret that," he spits, blood on his lips.
V says nothing. Just watches, head tilting like a curious bird.
The sirens grow louder; footsteps pound in the corridor.
Time's running out.
Fervio moves.
Not toward V.
Toward Yunjin.
V tracks the footsteps and dashes forward—two fast steps, already closing the distance—
Fervio hauls Yunjin's limp form off the floor and over his shoulder in one brutal motion, swinging her weight like she's nothing, and his free hand comes up with the gun, and he fires.
Three shots. Fast, no hesitation.
V drops—hits the marble sideways, rolls—the shots crack off the wall where he was standing, marble chips flying, and by the time he's back on his feet Fervio is already at the side exit, Yunjin's pink skirt visible over his shoulder, her arm swinging loose.
"This isn't over," he snarls, blood dripping steadily from his wounds. "Tell your boss I'll be keeping this one. Consider it interest on our debt."
V lunges forward, but Fervio fires off another shot that forces him to drop.
By the time he recovers, Fervio's already shoving through the door, Yunjin's limp form bouncing against his shoulder.
The door swings shut behind them.
Gone.
"No—"
You're across the room before you know it, heels hitting marble, no plan, no thought, just Yunjin's pink dress disappearing through that door and your legs already moving—
V's hand closes around your wrist like a vice.
He hauls back, and you actually stumble, jerked off your forward momentum and yanked to a stop so hard your shoulder wrenches.
"Don't." His voice comes out through his teeth. Flat and furious and barely controlled.
You spin on him. "He just—"
"I know."
He rips the burgundy wrap off his head in one motion—knots torn loose, silk falling away—and his face when it surfaces is not a face you've seen on him before.
Not the theatrical one.
Not the delighted one.
Not his usual bullshitty one.
This one is just angry.
He turns his head and spits blood onto the marble, a sharp, disgusted motion. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes still fixed on the door.
"We need to go," he says, voice pulled tight. "Now."
"Yunjin is—"
"I know where Yunjin is." The words come out clipped, jaw set, like he's holding something back by sheer force of will. His grip on your wrist doesn't loosen. "Jeon's outside. He'll track them. That's what he does."
It makes sense, but it feels wrong.
So fucking wrong to just let Fervio take her.
"V, we can't—"
"We have to."
He yanks you away from the door, toward the other exit, and the grip hurts—not accidentally.
His frustration is in his hands, in the locked set of his jaw, radiating off him in waves.
"If we go through that door and a single camera catches us—bloody, from a room full of bodies—MDF connects Lorenzo to this. He connects you to this. Then it's not just Yunjin, it's every single one of us." He doesn't slow down. Doesn't look back. "RM. The mission. All of it."
He's right.
You hate him for being right.
But it doesn't make it easier to turn away, to follow him through the shadows as gunfire erupts behind you.
"Jeon will get him," V repeats, more solemnly. "He won't let Fervio take her."
Your answer is a mere nod as he pulls you deeper into the darkness.
But the image of Yunjin, limp over Fervio's shoulder like a broken doll, burns behind your eyelids with every step.
Aligning a shot with a thrumming heart is not ideal.
Jeon knows this.
It's a fundamental rule, a sentence that keeps repeating in his mind with the same exact tone his father used to drill into his skull.
Keep it below sixty, or don't bother pulling the trigger at all.
He's perfected the art over years. Built his reputation on it. His breathing pattern is as precise as a metronome, heart rate controlled to the point where other snipers look at him like he's some kind of machine.
The stillness, the patience, the absolute precision—these aren't just skills.
They're who he is.
Which is why this current situation is so fucking irritating.
His heart shouldn't be doing this. Not now. Not ever.
Yet here it is, tapping out an irregular rhythm against his ribs like some amateur on his first mission.
He adjusts his grip on the rifle, minute movements that nobody else would notice.
The scope gives him a crystal-clear view of the courtyard below, every shadow, every potential exit point mapped in his mind with mathematical precision. He's factored in the wind (minimal, barely 2 mph from the northeast), temperature variance (negligible), and the exact distance to each target point.
In other words, he's ready for anything.
Except, apparently, for the silence in his earpiece.
"Y/N, report," he says, voice clipped. Professional. Betraying nothing of the strange knot forming in his chest. "Location."
Nothing.
He counts exactly three seconds—a perfect measurement of time—before trying again.
"Y/N. Status update." His index finger taps once against the trigger guard, a tell he'd normally never allow.
The silence stretches, empty and heavy in his ear.
"Y/N, do you copy?" A new edge enters his voice, something raw that slips past his usual control.
His jaw tightens.
Fine. Fine.
He starts the mental calculation—route down, shortest path, likely resistance—ready to abandon the perch, mission be damned—
One last time.
Try one last time.
"Here," your voice finally cuts through the static, thin and breathless. "V... took off. Fervio too."
Air floods Jeon's lungs, a shaky inhale he hadn't realized he was holding. Relief hits him so intensely it’s almost disorienting. He forces it down, shoves it away.
No room for that shit now.
"You injured?"
His eye sweeps the area below again, tracking shadows.
"No. Fine."
Liar. He can hear the tremor, the adrenaline comedown.
But he doesn't call you on it. Just licks his lips, focus snapping back.
"Details. Fervio?"
"He... he took Yunjin," you manage, the words punched out. "Got away in the chaos. She's unconscious, possibly drugged. He's injured but mobile."
"Separated. He took damage. Multiple hostiles neutralized but..." You hesitate, just for a beat. "Fervio got away with her."
"Of course he did," Jeon mutters, barely audible.
Irritation flares, hot and precise.
V had one job. One fucking job.
And now Yunjin—their teammate, their responsibility—is in the hands of a known trafficker with a sadistic streak a mile wide.
Movement catches his eye—a hulking figure emerging from the shadows, dragging something pink.
Jeon's world narrows instantly, everything beyond the scope falling away. He tracks the movement as someone who's spent thousands of hours honing this exact skill.
Fervio, limping but determined, hauling Yunjin's unconscious form toward a waiting van.
"Visual confirmation," he murmurs, making micro-adjustments to the scope. "Northeast lot, black van. He's moving her now."
"You've got the shot?" .
The question almost makes him snort.
Seriously?
"Who do you take me for?"
The crosshairs settle on Fervio's head.
At this distance, with these conditions, it's practically point-blank for someone of his caliber.
His finger curves around the trigger, pressure building with perfect control. The mathematics of it all—trajectory, windspeed, the slight adjustment for distance—happens automatically, his brain processing variables that would leave lesser snipers hesitating.
Just 1.2 pounds more pressure and it's done. Clean. Simple.
But then—he stops.
"Wait," he mutters, frowning.
Something isn't right. The scene is incomplete. A critical variable missing from his equation.
"Where's Kaleido?"
His instincts flare, sharp and insistent.
The green-haired negotiator is MDF's brain, never far from their muscle. For him to be absent during an extraction...
Jeon scans the courtyard, methodical sweeps that search every shadow, every potential hiding spot.
And then—movement. A flash of familiar burgundy color catches his attention.
You.
You're out in the open. Alone. And your dress is torn.
"Why are you exposed?" he demands, tracking your progress across the courtyard. "Where's V?"
"Had to split up," you reply, voice tense. "He's circling back to—"
Jeon's question dies as a blur of green enters his scope's edge. His focus snaps immediately toward it, crosshairs abandoning Fervio to center on Kaleido's approaching figure.
What the fuck is he doing?
His pulse spikes—again—before years of training kick in. The slight acceleration in heartbeat is noted, analyzed, and then dismissed as irrelevant data. He can function perfectly well at 70 BPM. Even 80, if necessary.
"Kaleido approaching your position," he warns, voice gone flat and cold. "Ten meters and closing."
What follows is thirty seconds of pure tactical hell.
Through the scope, he watches Kaleido intercept you. The man's hands are visible, posture relaxed—no immediate threat signals—but Jeon keeps the crosshairs trained on the center of his forehead anyway.
His training says eliminate the primary threat to the mission objective.
His instincts say keep you in his protection.
Then he sees it—your hand, raised in a subtle motion as you speak to Kaleido.
The all-clear signal, disguised as you fixing your hair.
Okay. Okay. Not an immediate threat. Covers likely intact.
Jeon breathes out, slow and sharp. His focus snaps back to the van.
Three seconds. Maybe four he'd lost.
Too long.
The van door slams shut. Engine revs.
Fuck.
The irritation doesn't register in his body—no tensing muscles, no change in breathing. Just a cold acknowledgment of failure and an immediate shift to contingency planning.
The crosshairs settle on the driver's head, visible through the window. A clean shot, even at this angle. His finger applies precise pressure to the trigger, and the bullet leaves the chamber with a suppressed crack, traveling the distance in an instant. The driver's head snaps back, a spray of red misting the inside of the windshield.
Perfect execution. Target neutralized.
But the van lurches forward anyway.
What the—
Fervio must have taken the wheel. Injured, bleeding, but still functional enough to drive.
Which is fucking insane and also kind of fascinating, given that most men would be in shock from the injuries V likely inflicted.
The van accelerates, listing slightly but still moving. Still taking Yunjin.
Fury blooms hot and immediate in Jeon's chest.
Fury at himself for the momentary distraction, fury at V for his incompetence, fury at the entire fucking situation that's spinning out of control when control is the only thing he's ever truly valued.
"Fervio's mobile," he reports, voice tight. "Shot was clean but ineffective. Vehicle heading southwest on the main access road."
Your curse comes through the comm, sharp and frustrated.
"Can you disable the vehicle?"
"Calibrating," he replies, sight shifting, mind working through angles and probabilities in the space of a heartbeat.
But if Fervio is escaping, Kaleido sure as hell isn't.
Jeon's scope swings back to where you stand with Kaleido, the man obviously planning to follow his partner's exodus.
Not if Jeon has anything to say about it.
The shot is effortless—an easy calculation compared to the moving vehicle.
Jeon doesn't aim to kill, just to ensure that the bastard stays put, becomes a source of information rather than another loose end.
His bullet slams into Kaleido's foot, splitting leather and bone with equal indifference. Even from this distance, Jeon can see the man crumple, shock and pain registering on his face in the split second before he realizes what's happened.
His attention immediately returns to the fleeing van, recalculating his options.
A flat tire might buy you all some time.
His finger adjusts, preparing for the more complex shot that will puncture rubber without risking a dangerous blowout that could harm Yunjin.
But even as he lines up the shot, he knows it's too little, too late. The van's nearly out of optimal range now, moving fast along the winding access road that leads away from the villa. The window for effective intervention is closing with every second.
"Target vehicle approaching no-fire zone," he reports, frustration evident despite his best efforts. "Switching to tracking mode. I'll maintain visual as long as possible."
You don't respond immediately, and when you do, your voice is tight with suppressed emotion. "Roger that. Securing Kaleido for interrogation. Hold position until extraction team arrives."
Jeon wants to argue, wants to abandon his post and pursue Fervio himself.
The urge is nearly overwhelming—a visceral need to fix this mess, to complete the mission properly, to live up to the impossible standard that's been his only measuring stick for as long as he can remember.
But that's not how this works. Not how he works.
Discipline above emotion. Strategy above impulse.
The rules his father engraved into his bones with methodical cruelty, the ones that keep him alive in a world designed to kill people like him.
So he stays put, scope steady on the retreating van until it disappears around a bend in the road.
Only then does he allow himself a single moment of weakness—a sharp exhale that carries more emotion than he'd ever admit to feeling.
Failure.
It tastes like ash on his tongue.
if you've enjoyed this chapter please consider buying me a coffee!! ☕️ ♡´∀｀♡
pairing: jungkook x f!reader | rating: 18+ | wc: 8.4k | warnings: here
genre: e2l, fwb, gang au, angst with smut, slow burn, forbidden love
† circles †
“You go looking for Yunjin and find three corpses, one very smug psychopath, and the increasingly terrifying realization that in Kkangpae, love and murder might just be dialects of the same language.”
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↪︎ author's note: I will just say this now because I already know what is about to happen, and I would rather get ahead of the agenda than pretend otherwise: I am fully prepared for the shower of “I can fix him”s in 3… 2… 1… Leave them here. I see you, Nita. Do not think I do not see you (¬‿¬)
But also… no judgment from me, unfortunately. I get it. I understand. Fictional murderers are, for some deeply concerning reason, hot. A tragedy for feminism, perhaps, but a win for the plot. So no, I will not be forbidding anyone from thirsting over my man V. Even if he is, objectively speaking, not well in the head. Then again… are any of my characters? Be serious.
Also yes, V very much has the highlight of this chapter, and that is on purpose. There are multiple little hints sprinkled in here about how he views the world, people, attachment, possession, relationships, and why he is not just some random contingency risk or ticking time bomb for Kkangpae. That man is deeply intentional, which I personally think is sooo much worse. As always, the demons are demon-ing, but they are doing it with structure and thematic relevance, thank you very much.
And because apparently I enjoy enabling myself, I am also writing a Yunjin x Taehyung smutty one-shot that should be seeing the light of day on my Tumblr sometime soon, so… keep your eyes open for that too (´꒳`) I know. I know. I am sick in the head and unemployed in spirit.
Anyway. Good luck with this chapter. Thoughts and prayers to all of us, especially the ones about to come out of here giggling and twirling their hair over a man who just made several extremely questionable life choices.
Enjoy <3
"Jungkook," you gasp, his name a d̶e̶s̶p̶e̶r̶a̶t̶e̶ plea on your lips.
You don't even know what you're asking for. More? Less? To stop? To keep going until the stall collapses around you?
He doesn't answer. Just bites his lip again, eyes still locked on yours, and thrusts harder.
"Say it," he commands. "Say you're fucking pretty."
You open your mouth to say it—to give him what he wants, to say the word that's been stuck in your throat since the moment he demanded it.
But before you can, the heavy sound of the bathroom door creaking open freezes you in place.
Jeon goes rigid. Completely, utterly still for a second.
Then, quick as a switchblade, he buries himself to the hilt, so deep you swear you can feel him in your goddamn lungs. His hand comes up to your mouth, covering it firmly, cutting off the sharp gasp that nearly escapes. The pressure is just enough to keep you quiet without hurting, but the message is clear: Don't. Make. A. Sound. n̶o̶t̶ e̶a̶s̶y̶
His eyes meet yours, dark and sharp, and you can see the tension rippling through him. He looks focused, his shoulders squared and jaw tight, listening intently to the voices filtering into the space.
"—weird, wasn't it?" Kaleido's voice echoes off the marble walls, smooth and calm. "Seeing the woman with the brother?"
Your entire body stiffens, and Jeon's grip on your mouth tightens, his fingers pressing harder against your skin. His hips stay locked against yours, unmoving, but you can feel the way his muscles coil.
"She seemed content to share," Fervio replies casually, tone laced with sleazy amusement. "The husband was the territorial one. Maybe she's the free spirit, and he's just latched onto her."
Kaleido hums thoughtfully, the sound deep. "That's a good point. If needed, we could leverage that. Might be useful."
Your heart is pounding so loud you're convinced they'll hear it, but Jeon doesn't falter.
Until he moves.
Slow. So fucking slow, like he's deliberately testing your restraint. His hips pull back an inch, just enough to make you feel the unbearable drag of him leaving you empty, before he pushes forward again. Deep. Controlled. Devastating.
Your body betrays you instantly, clenching around him like it's trying to keep him there, and his reaction is immediate. His hand tightens on your mouth, his breath hitching through gritted teeth. He leans down, biting into your shoulder as if the pressure will somehow silence the groan threatening to escape him.
"Keep quiet, sunshine," he murmurs into your skin.
His hand flexes against your face, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth like a warning.
"Be good for me."
The words send heat cascading through you, pooling low in your stomach.
You hate how your body responds to him. Hate how a simple command in that voice makes you so fucking h̶o̶r̶n̶y̶ willing.
But when you clench around him again—entirely involuntarily, mind you—it nearly undoes him. You feel his teeth sink harder into your skin, the pressure bruising, and his hips stutter just slightly before he regains control.
"Do that again," he growls, pulling back just enough to look at you, his eyes blazing, "and I swear to god, everyone will know what we're doing in the men's bathroom."
It's a dare. A warning. Both.
And you're half tempted to test him.
His next thrust empties your head completely.
It's slow—god, it's so slow—but the depth of it makes your breath catch somewhere in your throat and refuse to come out. The stall creaks, barely.
Kaleido and Fervio's voices drift through the bathroom like they're underwater. Kaleido says something sharp, Fervio's laugh scrapes low and oily in response, but none of it reaches you. Not really. Not when Jeon is doing this—moving like every thrust is deliberate, like he's got all the time in the world to take you apart piece by piece.
And he does.
The way his hips roll infinitesimally, but burying himself impossibly deeper, carving space inside you that feels like it was always meant for him. Like he's trying to leave an imprint. Something permanent. Something you won't be able to shake even after this is over.
You're already so close it hurts.
His palm stays firm over your mouth, silencing the sounds that want to spill out every time he bottoms out. His other hand has traveled to your thigh, grip now hard enough to bruise, fingers digging into your skin like he's holding onto you for dear life. Like letting go isn't an option.
Then his thumb moves, finds your clit easily, dragging slow circles that match the rhythm of his hips.
Not fast. Not frantic.
Just this steady, torturous pressure that makes your whole body tremble.
You feel his teeth graze your shoulder again, his breath hot and ragged against your neck. His chest presses flush against yours, slick with sweat and heat, and you can feel the restraint radiating off him.
The way he's barely holding it together.
The way he's trying so hard to stay controlled, even as your body clenches around him like it's trying to pull him under.
"Good girl," he whispers, voice low and frayed at the edges.
That's it.
That's all it takes.
The words hit you like a d̶e̶t̶o̶n̶a̶t̶i̶o̶n̶ key turning in a lock, and everything inside you breaks.
Your orgasm doesn't crash over you—it unfurls. Slow and heavy and all-consuming, like a wave pulling you down into depths you didn't know existed. It rolls through you in shuddering pulses, each one deeper than the last, and you swear your vision whites out for a second.
Your thighs lock around his waist. Your nails dig into his shoulders. You can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything except feel as your walls clamp down hard around him.
He feels it. You know he does.
You can tell by the way his body goes rigid, every muscle locking up like he's been hit with a current. By the way his fingers flex on your mouth.
And then he follows.
His teeth sink into your shoulder—harder than before i̶f̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶'̶s̶ ̶e̶v̶e̶n̶ ̶p̶o̶s̶s̶i̶b̶l̶e̶—and his hips stutter. Just once. Just enough to lose that iron control he's been clinging to.
You feel him pulse inside you, thick and hot through the condom, and his groan vibrates against your skin, muffled and desperate and so goddamn raw it makes your chest ache.
He doesn't speed up. Doesn't lose the rhythm. If anything, he slows down even more, like he's trying to wring every last drop of pleasure from this moment without giving you away.
It's the depth that does it. The way he's buried so deep you swear you can feel him in your throat. The way each roll of his hips pushes him impossibly further, grinding against places that make your vision spark and your breath catch.
Your body responds without permission—squeezing him again, and the sound he makes against your shoulder is almost pained.
"Fuck," he growls against your skin, muffled and rough. "You're—fuck—you're unfair, sunshine."
Honestly? If this is what he classifies as unfairness, he'd better get ready for a lawsuit.
You don't realize you're still holding onto him until you register the damp heat of his back beneath your forearms. It's instinct. Like clinging to him is the only thing keeping you upright.
Your legs feel like jelly, and you let your head drop back against the tile. The cool surface shocks your overheated skin, but it feels good.
You close your eyes and focus on slowing your heartbeat, on coming back down from wherever the hell you just went.
Not easy when Jeon's still buried so deep inside you it feels like he's part of your anatomy now.
Your fingers find the nape of his neck without thinking. They thread through his damp hair, nails dragging lightly over his scalp, and you feel the way his whole body shudders in response. His forehead stays pressed to the side of your neck, lips brushing your collarbone with every exhale.
He's quiet.
Too quiet.
And that's what tips you off.
Jeon is never quiet. Not like this. Not with you.
It's subtle at first. The way his body changes.
Stiffness creeping into his shoulders. His grip on your mouth falling.
His breathing doesn't slow like it should.
It stalls.
That's when you hear it.
"—pink hair, right?" Kaleido's voice slices through the bathroom like glass. Smooth. He sounds like he's smiling. "What's her name again? Rina? Rika?"
Your stomach drops.
"Riva," Fervio corrects, his tone dripping with that disgusting amusement that makes your skin crawl. "She's gorgeous. Like a doll. Eye candy like that doesn't walk into places like this without a reason."
Yunjin.
They're talking about Yunjin.
You can feel the blood drain from your face, leaving you cold and clammy despite the heat radiating off Jeon. A chill skitters down your spine, and your hand moves without thinking. You tap against Jeon's neck—once, twice—trying to get his attention.
But when you glance down, you realize he doesn't need it.
He's already listening.
His head is tilted just slightly, his jaw set tight, and his eyes—fuck, his eyes. They're open now, glinting like molten steel beneath the fringe of his lashes. He's not looking at you, though. His gaze is fixed straight ahead, sharp and unyielding, like he's trying to burn holes through the stall door with sheer willpower.
And that's when you know.
He heard them before you did.
"She's the kind you keep an eye on," Fervio continues, his voice taking on a sickeningly casual lilt. "Could be useful, you know? Get her in the right situation, the right mood. Make her comfortable. Easy prey."
Your nails dig into the back of Jeon's neck without meaning to, and his reaction is instant. His hand rests on your thigh—and just for a second, a fleeting pulse of pressure, enough to steady you.
To remind you that he's here, that he's got this.
Kaleido hums thoughtfully, the sound echoing off the marble like some kind of sinister lullaby. "Three of our boys are keeping tabs on her. Make sure she doesn't slip out of sight."
Fervio chuckles, low and guttural, and you swear your stomach twists into knots. "Smart. We can't afford to lose her, especially after Hanjun."
And just like that, the chill in your veins turns to fire.
You know what he's implying—you can hear it in his tone, in the way his words drip with sleazy satisfaction.
That bastard. That fucking bastard.
Your gaze darts back to Jeon, searching his face for any flicker of emotion, any sign of what's going through his head right now. But his expression is blank—a mask of control so perfect it's almost terrifying.
Almost.
Because you can see through him.
The way his jaw ticks. The way his nostrils flare. The way his fingers flex against your skin, like he's holding himself back from doing something he'll regret.
You've seen Jeon angry before. Hell, you've seen him downright murderous.
But this?
This is personal.
And honestly? That scares you more than anything they could've said.
He shifts first, one deliberate movement at a time, like he's cataloging every muscle, every joint, making sure nothing snaps the wrong way. His hands drift to your waist, steadying you, though you're not exactly sure who he's doing it for—you or him. Maybe both of you.
And then, slowly, carefully, he eases you down onto the floor.
His hands never leave you, guiding you as if he's afraid you'll suddenly break. It's stupid, really—you're not the fragile one here. Not by a long shot. But his touch stays soft, measured, and there's something about it that makes you hold your breath.
Gentle. He's always been gentle, hasn't he?
Even when he's in full business mode.
Even when he doesn't mean to be.
Your mind flickers back to that time you twisted your ankle during that improvised paintball game of V, back when you two barely spoke. Could barely tolerate each other. He didn't say many words back then, either—just crouched down, his brows knitted in that perpetual storm-cloud scowl of his, and told you to get on his back. He carried you like it wasn't a big deal.
But his grip had been careful then, too. Like he didn't want to risk making it worse.
And now? Now is no different. He handles you just as softly.
The thought digs into your chest, uncomfortable in a way you can't quite name, so you shove it down and focus on the present.
On the way his hands linger just a second too long before pulling back.
On the slight downturn of his mouth, like he's thinking too hard about something he'll never say out loud.
He leans back slightly, adjusting his weight on his heels as he reaches for the tiny trash can bolted to the stall wall. The condom comes off in such a practiced, easy way, it almost makes you laugh. He ties it off, tosses it in the bin with a quiet flick of his wrist, and sits back on the toilet, finally meeting your gaze.
"You okay?"
His voice is low, quieter than usual, and it takes you a second to realize he's waiting for an answer.
You nod. "Yeah."
No point in saying more. He wouldn't believe you if you tried to downplay it, not with the way your legs are still shaking, but he doesn't push. Just gives you a small tilt of his head before his hand drifts to his pocket.
Your brows knit together as he pulls out his phone, the screen lighting up with a quick swipe of his thumb. He types something out, fingers moving fast.
You arch an eyebrow. "What are you doing?"
He doesn't look up, his focus locked on the screen. "Letting V handle it."
You blink.
Handle what, exactly?
And why does that answer make your stomach twist in five different directions?
You want to ask, to press, but the way his jaw tightens makes you pause. Because the weight to his words had left no argument.
Whatever it is, he's already decided.
Your eyes dart across the room, wild and frantic, moving too fast to really make sense of anything.
Faces blur together, it’s a mixture of masks, glittering jewels, and expensive fabric, but none of it matters.
None of it.
Not the champagne glasses clinking, not the murmured conversations, not the fucking string quartet playing Mozart in the corner.
Where is she? Where the fuck is she?
Yunjin. Yunjin. Yunjin.
Your pulse is hammering now, loud and erratic, each frantic beat slamming into your ribs like it's trying to break out.
You scan the crowd again, face after face, but none of them are hers.
And it's fine. It's fine.
You tell yourself it's fine, but your chest is so tight it feels like it might collapse in on itself.
God, where the fuck is she?
You try—try—to keep your expression neutral, to keep your desperation from bleeding through the cracks, but it's hard. Too fucking hard. Because this is bad. Really fucking bad.
And it's your fault.
Your stomach twists violently.
Fucking your fucking fuck buddy—your husband, apparently—in the middle of a mission. What the hell is wrong with you? You knew this shit was risky. You knew it the second RM dragged you into that stupid briefing room and started handing out roles. You were supposed to watch each other, keep each other safe, make sure she didn't—
Your chest caves in.
You drag in a shaky breath, forcing yourself to stay upright, forcing yourself not to panic.
Panic won't help her. Panic won't get her back.
But fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
Your brain is spiraling, doubling back on itself in a loop of frantic guilt and dread, when—oh.
There.
She's there.
Your breath whooshes out of you all at once, too fast, leaving you lightheaded but relieved. So goddamn relieved. You can feel the tension draining from your limbs, leaving them heavy and shaky, like you've just run a marathon uphill and lived to tell about it.
She's fine.
She's fine.
She's still standing by the fireplace, all five feet and some change of her wrapped up in that ridiculous pink tulle monstrosity.
She looks like a fucking cupcake, and you could kiss her for it.
Not literally, obviously. But still.
She's laughing at something. Some sleazeball in a black tux who's probably trying to chat her up. You can tell by the way her head tilts, the way her hand flutters to her throat in that delicate, practiced move she does when she's trying to look shy. It's her distraction routine. And god, it works.
She's fine.
She's fine.
She's—
A hand snakes around your waist, and you freeze, the sudden contact making your breath hitch.
Jeon.
His palm settles low, just above your hip, and it's so fucking stupid how good it feels—how grounding, how solid, how right. Like your body is wired to respond to him.
You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, and he's already looking past you, his gaze locked on Yunjin. His expression doesn't change—it's still that same unreadable steel—but you can feel the shift in him. The subtle tightening of his grip.
And then, just as quickly, he's scanning the rest of the room. His eyes sweep over the crowd like he's cataloging every face, every corner, every potential threat.
You don't have to ask what he's looking for.
You already know.
MDF.
His hand tightens on your waist, just for a second, just enough to make you feel it, before he leans in close.
"I'm going to scan the room," he murmurs, low and quiet, like he's trying not to draw attention.
You don't miss the way his gaze lingers on you, though. The way his eyes flicker, just barely, like he's trying to make a decision he hasn't fully committed to yet.
You know that look.
It's hesitation.
And it pisses you off.
"Jeon," you scoff, turning to face him. Your brow arches, your tone sharper than it probably needs to be. "I'm fine. Go."
He doesn't move. Not at first.
He just stares at you, his jaw tight, his brows drawn together in that way that's probably supposed to intimidate you but mostly just pisses you off more.
Like he's trying to decide if he believes you. If he trusts you.
And for a moment, you wonder if he's going to stay. If he's going to plant himself right there next to you like some overprotective bodyguard and refuse to leave, even if it means blowing the mission.
But then he nods.
Just once.
It's quick. Barely there.
And yet somehow, it feels heavier than it should.
The muffled sound of grunting filters through the gala, irregular amid the laughter and clinking glasses.
It's out of place, barely audible through the heavy oak doors leading to the palazzo's west courtyard, a good thirty meters from the main ballroom. You glance around the opulent space—no one else seems to notice, too absorbed in their champagne and shallow conversations.
Curiosity tugs at you, a low ripple of unease curling in your stomach.
You step closer to the terrace, weaving past the velvet curtains as the noise grows clearer with each passing second. The muffled thud of something—or someone—hitting the ground. A low, wet groan.
You push the double doors open just enough to slip through, the cold night air hitting your skin like a slap. The courtyard stretches before you, moonlight spilling across ancient cobblestones bordered by immaculately trimmed hedges.
And then you see him.
V.
So that's where he was.
He's a vision—chaos and precision—standing amidst three writhing bodies like a composer orchestrating a bloody symphony.
His suit is immaculate—of course it is—but his knuckles are smeared with blood, and there's a gruesome spatter across his cheek. Despite his somber expression, his movements are liquid, almost hypnotic, as he drives a boot into one man's chest with a thud that sends shockwaves down your own ribs.
"Come on," he says coldly, "I just want to talk."
You freeze, tucked in the shadows of the terrace's ornate archway, unsure whether to intervene or bolt.
One of the men groans, clutching his ribs as he sobs incoherently, begging under his breath. V
squats down gracefully, grabbing the man's chin with blood-slick fingers and forcing his face up.
"You were saying something earlier," V murmurs, voice velvet-smooth and unnervingly soft.
His knuckles are slick with crimson when he brings them to his side, tilting his head in mock curiosity.
"But now you're all quiet. Why is that?"
The man lets out a wheeze, his body curling instinctively to guard his ribs.
Gently—oh so gently—V pats the man's cheek, smearing blood across it like some dark mockery of affection.
"Come on now," he coos, his hand lingering just a beat too long, fingers pressing into the bruised, wrecked skin. "What was it you said about her? Hmm? Be a good boy. Use your words."
The man whimpers, mouth opening like he wants to say something—but all that comes out are garbled, incoherent cries.
V tsks softly, like a disappointed teacher.
"No? Nothing?" V sighs, the sound loud and final amidst the greenery of the courtyard. "What a shame."
The next motion is so quick you almost miss it.
He draws a blade from somewhere—thin, sharp, glittering in the moonlight—and drives it straight into the man's throat.
The dying gargle that follows is brief, cut off—the man twitches once before going still, blood seeping across the cobblestone like spilled wine.
V doesn't even spare him a second glance as he stands up. His attention has already shifted to the second one.
A man who is still conscious, though he's attempting to crawl backward, his heels scraping uselessly for purchase on the blood-slick stones.
V catches him by the hair with a casual, almost lazy motion, yanking his head up.
"Ah-ah. Don't go anywhere just yet."
The man is trembling, his face a grotesque mask of fear.
"P-please," he stammers, eyes darting anywhere but at V. "I—"
"Shh." V crouches down again, his face inches from the man's. The bloodied knife dangles loosely from his other hand, glinting ominously. "Will you tell me then? What you said?"
The man starts crying—loud, pitiful sobs that echo. "I-I didn't mean it! I—"
"No, no. Be a big boy for me now, come on," V interrupts, his tone light, chiding. "You were so confident before. Something about her legs, wasn't it? Or was it her mouth? Remind me."
The man breaks, the words spilling from his lips in a desperate rush as he repeats the vile comments he and his friends had made earlier.
You don't catch all of it, and honestly, you don't want to.
V listens intently, his expression unchanging, like he's picking up every word. When the man finishes, his lips curve into something that might pass for a smile.
"Good boy," he says softly, almost fondly.
Then, without warning, he slams the man's head into the stones.
Once.
Twice.
The crack of bone is deafening, and by the time V stands, the man isn't moving anymore.
The point of his shoe then connects with his torso. You flinch, but V is relentless, kicking the man's ribs until the screams fade to wet, gurgling gasps.
By the time he steps back, the man's chest looks concave, his lifeless body sprawled awkwardly on the bloodied marble.
The third man does what any sane person would do.
He runs.
Or at least, he tries.
V's wrist snaps in a graceful arc, and the knife whistles through the air, embedding itself into the man's hand with a sickening thud. The force pins him against one of the terrace's ornate columns, his scream piercing the night air.
"You're an ambitious one, aren't you?" V murmurs, walking toward him with maddening calm.
The man whimpers, cradling his impaled hand as blood pools at the base of the column.
V stops just short of him, knife in hand again before you even realize he's pulled it free. He tilts his head, studying the man like he's deciding which part to cut first.
"I think I'll leave you as a messenger," he muses aloud. "Fervio does love a good story."
The man starts to stammer something, but V presses the blade against his jaw, silencing him in an instant.
"No, no," he chides softly. "You don't get to speak anymore."
V slices cleanly through the man's tongue, the bloody piece falling to the floor with a wet plop.
The man collapses to his knees, clutching his face and making choking, guttural noises.
"There. You'll have to write the message instead," V says, voice like cold silk. "Now listen to me very well, dear."
V elevates the knife on the air, analyzing the crimson liquid. He leans in slightly, leveling the man with a look that sends a chill down your spine.
"Tell your men—write it down, obviously—that if any of them even glance at her again, I'll carve their eyeballs out with a fucking spoon." He smiles, and it's an ugly thing. "Though I'd advise against making spelling errors. You know how particular Fervio can be."
Then, casually, he brings the blade to his lips, running his tongue along its edge to taste the blood. He grimaces.
"Terrible diet," he says to no one in particular, his tone as conversational as if he were discussing wine pairings.
The quiet that follows is deafening.
You're still frozen, heart hammering, unsure if you're breathing.
He turns and immediately spots you in the shadows.
He offers a smile so disarmingly charming it makes your stomach flip for all the wrong reasons. His suit is slightly stained with blood now, but it somehow only adds to the fucking spectacle of him.
"Ah," he says, his voice smooth, unbothered, like he's not standing in a literal bloodbath. "You weren't supposed to see that."
His hazel eyes lock onto yours, sharp and glinting under the pale moonlight, and you swear he's amused. Like this is funny to him. Like you catching him in the middle of his art is some sort of inside joke.
Your stomach churns.
He tilts his head slightly, and then—of course—he lifts the knife. The blade is still wet, slick with blood, and it shines in way that makes your throat tighten.
He turns it lazily in his hand, like he's showing it off. Like this is normal.
And then he smiles.
"Wanna taste?" he drawls, his tone light and teasing, as if he's offering you a sip of his wine instead of a goddamn murder weapon. "Not recommended, though. Tastes like wet McDonald's."
You blink, your brain stuttering to process what the actual fuck he just said.
Wet McDonald's? What does that even—?
No. You're not doing this. You're not playing his stupid game.
You tear your gaze away from the blade, focusing instead on... nothing. The ground. The sky. Literally anything else.
But it doesn't help. The image is already burned into your brain.
The blood, dark and glistening.
The bodies, crumpled and broken.
The way V had moved through them like he was painting a masterpiece.
You've seen violence before. Plenty of it. Enough to know that it doesn't faze you the way it used to.
But this? This is different.
You've heard the stories about him. Everyone has.
About how V doesn't just kill—he creates.
How he makes it messy. Personal. How he treats it like an art form, savoring every brushstroke like he's a fucking Picasso of murder.
And hearing about it is one thing. Horrifying, sure, but distant. Detached.
Seeing it? In real life? Up close?
You swallow hard, the bile rising in your throat.
Out of the corner of your eye, you catch him watching you.
He doesn't look guilty. Or ashamed. Or even particularly interested in the carnage around him.
No, he's completely unphased, like this is just another weeknight for him. Just another job.
He glances down at the knife still in his hand, then back at you, his lips twitching in the faintest hint of amusement. "No? Not hungry? Fair enough."
Before you can respond—because honestly, what the hell do you even say to that—he flips the knife in his hand, wiping the blade clean against the pristine white handkerchief he pulls from his pocket.
He just does it like it's part of his routine. Like wiping someone's blood off a knife is equivalent to brushing lint off a suit.
He tucks the knife away somewhere, then pulls his phone out of his jacket. For a second, you think he's ignoring you—just texting someone like he didn't just massacre half the courtyard—but then his eyes flick up to meet yours again.
"Ah," he says lightly, sliding the phone back into his jacket's inner pocket. "Don't worry, love. Cleanup crew has been notified."
The casualness of it makes your skin crawl. He gestures vaguely toward the bodies, like they're nothing more than a stain on someone's fancy carpet.
And maybe to him, they are.
"Now," he continues, stepping toward you, his voice dipping into something warmer, almost playful. "Let's get back to the party, shall we? You're a bit far from it."
Before you can even think to argue, he drapes an arm around your shoulders, guiding you back through the ornate double doors.
You pass through the dimly lit antechamber, your heels clicking against marble as V steers you away from the main hallway that would lead back to the gala.
Instead, he guides you left, down a narrower corridor lined with renaissance paintings and gilded mirrors.
You follow him because... well, what the hell else are you supposed to do?
You realize then why he's chosen this route—of course, he cannot make it back to the main ballroom with dark red stains marring his otherwise impeccable suit. The service corridors, you suppose, must lead to somewhere he can clean up unnoticed.
V moves like he's gliding, not walking, and it's starting to really fuck with your head. His steps are so smooth, so unhurried, it's like he's taking a goddamn Sunday stroll instead of weaving through the labyrinthine passages of a centuries-old palazzo with blood drying on his suit.
It's impossible not to notice the way he moves. His shoulder brushes yours every now and then—not enough to feel intrusive, just enough to remind you he's there. In control. Completely nonchalant, like he's not leaving a trail of very real corpses behind.
It's disorienting. Maddening, even.
Because, somehow, he knows exactly where he's going. Exactly when to turn.
He doesn't so much as hesitate, not when there are forks in the hallways or doors that all look the same.
It's like he's got the whole fucking layout of this place tattooed on the inside of his eyelids.
And the worst part? He's not even trying.
You're trudging along beside him, trying not to think about the fact that your shoes are probably going to need to be burned after this, when he suddenly stops. Just—stops. So quickly that you almost slam into his side.
"Wait two seconds," he says, as casually as if he's asking for a light.
You open your mouth to ask what the fuck he's talking about, but then you hear it.
Footsteps.
Two pairs of them, echoing faintly down the corridor ahead. Your breath catches, and you instinctively press yourself deeper into the shadowed corner where he's already ducked.
The footsteps grow louder. Closer. Two people—a man and a woman—walk past, their voices low but animated, completely unaware of the murderous lunatic and his reluctant accomplice lurking ten feet away. They don't even glance in your direction.
Once they're gone, V straightens, brushing an invisible speck of dust off his sleeve.
"See?" he murmurs, already moving again. "Two seconds."
You blink, scrambling to catch up to him. "Okay, what the fuck was that?"
He glances at you out of the corner of his eye. "What was what?"
"Don't play dumb," you snap, your voice low but sharp. "How did you know they were coming? You didn't even look. You didn't—" You make a vague, frustrated gesture. "You weren't even paying attention!"
His lips twitch, just the barest hint of a smirk. "I was paying attention."
"To what? The voices you couldn't hear? The footsteps that weren't there yet?"
He hums, a soft, noncommittal sound that somehow makes you want to strangle him.
"Patterns," he says after a moment, like that explains anything. "Rhythms. This place has them if you know where to look."
You squint at him. "Patterns."
"Mm-hmm." He turns down another hallway, his hand brushing the wall briefly as he passes. "These old places... they have a pulse, you know? A heartbeat. You just have to listen for it."
You have no idea what he's talking about, and judging by the way his smirk grows, he knows it. He just likes being mysterious and theatrical.
Or so you think.
"That's the thing with people," he adds, his tone as light as if he's saying the alphabet. "They're predictable. Always moving in loops, repeating the same habits without realizing it. You just have to pay attention to when they breathe."
"When they... breathe?" You stare at him, half-convinced he's bullshitting you just to mess with your head.
He stops again, turning to face you with that same infuriatingly calm expression.
His eyes flick to your collarbones, then back up to meet yours, and you feel your shoulders stiffen under the weight of his gaze.
"You're used to Jeon," he says, his voice dropping just slightly. It's not an accusation, but it's not not one either. "He works in straight lines. Makes sense. Clear, logical. You like that about him, don't you?"
Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
V chuckles softly, shaking his head like he finds your silence amusing.
"Me?" He steps closer, his voice dipping into something quieter, almost conspiratorial. "I work in loops. Circles. Chaos. Everything connects if you know where to look. Even when it doesn't seem like it should."
You don't know how to respond to that, so you say the first thing that comes to mind. "That's the most pretentious thing I've ever heard."
He laughs, a short, sharp sound that makes your chest tighten.
"Mhm. Maybe," he agrees, already turning away. "But it's true."
And just like that, he's walking again, his pace as steady and unhurried as before.
You stay rooted on the spot, still trying to wrap your head around what the hell just happened.
Because as much as you hate to admit it, he's not wrong.
Not about Jeon. Not about himself. And definitely not about this place.
He stops mid-step, turning just enough to glance over his shoulder at you.
His expression is light, bordering on amused, but there's that something behind it—something indecipherable—lingering just under all of it.
"You coming?" he asks, his head tilting slightly to the side.
You hesitate for half a second before moving, your feet carrying you toward him like you don't have a choice.
Which, let's be real, you don't.
He waits patiently, doesn't even blink, but there's something about the way his gaze stays fixed on you that makes you feel like a bug under a microscope. Like he's dissecting you just for fun.
When you're close enough, he extends his arm toward you—not in a flourish, but with that same infuriatingly calm confidence that seems to ooze out of him. His other hand is already busy, tugging at the bloodied gloves on his fingers like he's peeling off a layer of skin. The first one comes free with a soft snap, revealing his pale, unblemished hand underneath.
You glance at the glove, then at him.
"That's gonna leave a trail," you say, unable to help yourself. "You know, for the cleanup crew you're so confident about."
V's lips twitch upward—barely a smirk, more like a shadow of one.
He turns the glove over in his hand, studying it like it's a piece of art, before tucking it into his pocket.
"No," he says simply, and it's infuriating how certain he sounds.
"No?" you echo, crossing your arms. "What, you think blood just... vanishes because you said so?"
He sighs, like you're being difficult on purpose, and pulls off the second glove with the same practiced ease.
"Blood doesn't vanish," he says, his tone patient, like he's explaining basic math to a particularly slow child. "But people don't notice what they're not looking for."
You frown, watching as he pulls a silk handkerchief from his pocket and wipes down the cuffs of his suit jacket. "That doesn't make any sense."
"It does if you're paying attention." He pauses, flicking the handkerchief once, twice, before folding it neatly and tucking it away. "You'd be surprised how much you can get away with when you control the narrative. People don't see blood if you don't give them a reason to look for it. They see wine. Spilled sauce. A clumsy waiter."
You don't respond. Mostly because you don't know how. He says it so matter-of-factly, like this is just another random day for him and not the aftermath of three brutal murders.
He straightens his tie next, smoothing the fabric, and his knuckles are clean now—no blood, no dirt, nothing.
Not a single trace to suggest he just beat a man to death with them.
You blink. "How—?"
"A magician never reveals his secrets," he cuts in, the corners of his lips twitching upward again. "But let's just say... I'm very good at my job."
That much is obvious.
When he finally turns back to you, his arm is still extended, and his smile is just a little too charming to be trustworthy. Against your better judgment, you hook your arm through his, letting him guide you forward once more.
There’s a bit of silence then, wrapped in multiple questions you're not sure you want to ask.
But one of them slips out before you can stop it.
"Was this about Yunjin? Did you get Jeon's message?"
He stills. It's subtle—just a fraction of a second—but you catch it.
The way his shoulders tense, the way his steps falter ever so slightly before he recovers.
When he looks at you again, his smile is different. Smaller. Tighter.
And his eyes... his eyes are sharp enough to cut glass.
"This?" he says, harsh suddenly. "This has nothing to do with Jeon."
Your brow furrows. "Then why—?"
"I don't like when people want my things." His tone is light, almost playful, but there's an edge to it that makes your skin prickle.
The kind of edge that tells you not to push.
You swallow, your throat suddenly dry, and decide to let it go.
His smile widens, as if it hadn't disappeared at all.
"Now," he says, his voice warm and charming again, "shall we? The party's waiting, and I'm dying to see how Jeon's managing husband duty."
You roll your eyes, but the tension in your chest doesn't ease.
Not even a little.
V's arm stays looped through yours as you enter the ballroom, grip light but present as a reminder.
You're still trying to process what just happened in the courtyard, the images flashing behind your eyes every time you blink.
The blood.
The bodies.
The way he'd moved through it all like a dancer in a violent ballet.
Then you feel it. A chill skittering down your spine, making the tiny hairs on your neck stand at attention.
It's not the cold—no, this is different.
This is that hurricane feeling, that storm-driven intensity that can only mean one thing.
Your eyes drift left, up toward the grand staircase, and—yeah. There he is.
Jeon.
He's leaning against the ornate railing, and his gaze... fuck.
The weight of it hits you like a physical thing, heavy and intense.
But his face? Perfectly blank.
You wouldn't even know he'd noticed you if not for the way he straightens, pushing off the railing in a swift movement.
His descent is as if he's got all the time in the world.
But you know better. You can see it in the set of his shoulders, in the barely-there tick of his jaw.
He's not happy.
When he reaches you, his arm extends—an invitation that feels more like a demand.
But before you can even think about taking it, V's grip on you tightens just slightly.
"Come now, dear brother," V's voice drips honey and arsenic. "Let your wife have some fun, no?"
Jeon's eyes narrow, that storm brewing behind them getting darker by the second.
He doesn't speak—doesn't need to. His hand just reaches for yours, palm up, waiting.
V twirls you to his other side, smooth as silk, putting himself between you and Jeon like some kind of demented dance move.
"You know," he muses, "I believe you had a rather important position to maintain. Something about... higher ground?"
"The plan changed," Jeon's voice comes out between gritted teeth, "the minute you decided to include me in your little family drama."
"Ah, but that was when our dear friends were present." V's smile is bright enough to blind. "And they're not anymore, are they? So..."
He makes a shooing motion with his free hand.
"Off you go, mm?"
"MDF is still here." Jeon's words clip short, precise. "Kaleido and Fervio may very well be—"
"All the more reason for you to return to your post, wouldn't you say?" V cuts in smoothly. "Unless..." His head tilts, that smile turning sharp. "You'd rather stay down here? For some reason?"
You watch Jeon's tongue press against the inside of his cheek, a tell you've learned means he's about two seconds from violence.
His eyes narrow at V for a moment, calculating, assessing—but then they shift to you.
And oh.
Oh.
Something in his expression... changes.
Softens.
Breaks.
You've never seen him look like this before, like he's trying to hold something together that's already slipping through his fingers.
And then, when you thought that was the most devastating thing of all, you hear him say—quiet, almost childlike:
"Where were you?"
He’s looking at you like—like what? Like you might vanish if he blinks too long? Like he's been searching for something and can't quite believe he's found it?
It feels wrong. All of it. The way he's looking at you, the way his voice sounds, the way your stomach twists under the weight of his stare.
Something's off, something's bad, and you don't know what or why but—
"She was with me," V interjects, his voice light and playful. "We were having lots of fun on the terrace."
But Jeon... Jeon doesn't even acknowledge him. He just keeps looking at you, waiting. Patient. Still. Like whatever answer you're about to give matters more than anything else in this moment.
You lick your lips, mind racing.
You could tell him the truth—about V, about what you saw, about how you'd stumbled onto his little murder scene like the world's worst timing.
You open your mouth, ready to explain that you're fine, that he doesn't need to look at you like that, like you're something precious and breakable and—
"Well, isn't this cozy?"
Kaleido's voice slides over your skin like oil, and suddenly he's there, materializing beside you like he's been summoned by the tension alone.
His smile is perfect, manufactured, and absolutely fucking lethal.
Your stomach drops through the floor.
The shift in V is immediate.
You don't even know how he does it—how he can just flip like that.
One second he's all charm and poison, smiling like he's got the whole world in the palm of his hand, and the next...
Gone.
That eerie brightness in his expression? Snuffed out. Just like that.
His face hardens, subtle enough that only you can really tell. The corners of his lips drop, and his jaw sets just a fraction tighter.
But it's his eyes that change the most.
Darker now. Hooded.
Like thorns coming out, a warning of something far worse than poison.
You see it right as Fervio steps up next to Kaleido, all dead-eyed menace and the kind of loose-limbed swagger that makes you want to puke.
And apparently, V sees it too, because his hand—warm, steady—moves to your arm.
Then you feel it.
The tug.
It's barely anything, just this slight but certain pressure as he moves you behind him, placing his body between you and whatever fresh hell Fervio plans on bringing.
It's subtle enough that no one else would notice—the careful repositioning, the way his stance changes just so—but you do.
And you know why he's doing it.
He's pissed.
That glimpse of darkness you saw during the courtyard massacre earlier?
It's back now, crawling underneath the surface of his skin, but this time it's sharp, jagged.
And the worst part is, it's not even for himself.
You don't breathe, not when he transforms back into his usual self with that radiant, fake-ass smile plastered across his face.
It's so bright, so blinding, you almost forget what you saw just seconds ago.
"What a surprise seeing you again!" V chirps, his voice as cheerful as a champagne flute toast.
His shoulders are loose again, posture casual. Like you just imagined what you just saw.
Kaleido doesn't return the enthusiasm, but his eerie smile deepens, the kind that doesn't quite reach his cold, calculating eyes.
"We've been compromised, dear partners." His voice is smooth, calm. "Kkangpae is here."
You don't dare look at Jeon. Don't need to look at Jeon.
You already know his reaction—or lack of one. He doesn't so much as blink. He just stands there, cool and detached, like the mention of his gang's name isn't a firework primed to go off.
V tilts his head, that perfect expression of polite curiosity staying firmly in place.
"Compromised, you say?" His smile stays fixed, but you can sense something ominous curling around his words. "How troubling. Though I can't imagine what Kkangpae would be doing here of all places."
"That motherfucker V left me a little message," Fervio growls, his voice raspy and rough like sandpaper. His gaze flickers toward you, and it's greasy, sticking to your skin like tar. "Now it's made me want to toy with his pink-haired beauty even more."
Oh. God.
You don't realize you're holding your breath until your lungs start burning.
The room feels too small, the air too thick, and all you can hear is the rush of blood in your ears.
But V doesn't move. Doesn't flinch.
If anything, his smile widens, and it's... terrifying.
"Well," he says, as smooth as silk, "hate the message, not the messenger. Isn't that what they say?"
He leans forward slightly, voice dropping just enough to sound conspiratorial.
"And between us"—his voice turns lighter, almost theatrical—"perhaps it would be wise to listen."
Fervio cackles, sharp and guttural, like it's the funniest fucking thing he's ever heard. The sound makes you want to hide, recoil into yourself, and you hate that he sees it.
"Listen?" Fervio drawls, teeth baring in a smile that's more snarl than anything else. "Why would I listen to that amateur? V thinks he's an artist, but he doesn't understand murder."
Jeon's lips twitch at the word amateur, but he doesn't interrupt. He's watching—waiting—and when you risk a glance at him, you can see it in his stance.
He's tense, calculating.
Ready to pounce if given the excuse.
"He thinks pain is art. But real artistry? Comes when you've separated pain from pleasure. When you've extricated sex from violence. That's when you see the difference in level—between a master's work," Fervio’s hand spreads, a mock flourish, "and that rabid little dog V."
V's hand barely spasms, the movement almost imperceptible. You only notice it because you're watching him like your life depends on it—which, let's be honest, it probably does.
But when he speaks, his voice is light, sweet even.
"Ah, but isn't that the beauty of art?" V's tone stays warm, friendly, even as his words cut like razors. "Everyone has their own... interpretation. Though some prefer a more refined approach than others."
"Refined?" Fervio scoffs. "There's nothing refined about his messy displays."
"Perhaps yes, perhaps not," V concedes with a graceful shrug. "But at least he understands the importance of... consent in certain matters. Unlike some who must force their art upon unwilling canvases."
The barb is subtle—wrapped in velvet and delivered with a smile—but it hits.
Fervio's eyes narrow slightly.
"After all," V continues, smooth as honey, "true artistry lies in making someone want to submit to the pain, doesn't it? Anyone can take by force." His head tilts, expression innocent. "But making them beg for it? Now that's skill."
You watch the way Fervio's lips purse.
V's just called him an untalented hack who can't get willing partners, all while looking like he's discussing cooking recipes.
"Though I suppose," V muses, tapping his chin thoughtfully, "when one lacks the charm to seduce, force becomes the only option, no?"
And for the first time all night, you feel it—a flicker of something close to hope.
Because if anyone can hold their own against someone like Fervio, it's V.
if you've enjoyed this chapter please consider buying me a coffee!! ☕️ ♡´∀｀♡
Summary: Five couples. One fate. In this unprecedented experiment, those who thought they had it all figured out will face the ones who were once their “forever.” Commitments will be tested, buried feelings will resurface, and one single question will change everything: Is your current love strong enough to survive the past? Because sometimes, the real happy ending… has to go through an ex.
Pairing: Jungkook x fem!reader
AU's: Reality Show!AU
Word Count: ???
Warnings: exes to lovers, eventual smut, cheating (duh).
Taglist: @thunderg @minjianhyung @queenv1997 @yoongtism @lizzymizzy-blogg @superbbananananana @drpepperobsessed @themwordsblog @taekritimin123 @bluecloudss @yooglefics @tan-veee @angellekookie @madussthougths @meadowsweetskoo @amarawayne @chimmchimmm-blog @mar-lo-pap @namaslaylife @redcherrytea
Series Taglist: @nooooooooonnneeeeeee @ilikekpop-c @starlight-1010 @kpopsmutty69 @lallataegi
You can join the taglist here!
How much do you really trust your relationship? Do you believe it could survive anything placed in its way? Financial problems. Lack of chemistry. Or worse than anything else… a third person in the relationship.
These are just some of the questions we asked five young couples, all willing to do whatever it takes to prove their love is real and built to last.
But is it? Or are they still blinded by the comfort of the honeymoon phase?
In this brand-new reality show, we will put those five couples to the ultimate test, confronting them with the greatest fear of anyone in a stable relationship: their first love.
The person you once dreamed of a future with. The one you lived with. The one you almost built a family with. All to answer one simple question:
Is death truly the only force that could tear them apart… or will the arrival of the right person be enough to shatter the illusion?
pairing: jungkook x f!reader | rating: 18+ | wc: 8.7k | warnings: here
genre: e2l, fwb, gang au, angst with smut, slow burn, forbidden love
† so fucking pretty †
"You’re here for a microchip worth millions, but somehow the real high-risk item is your own stupid heart, stuck between a psychopath’s brother act and the man who looks at your neck like it’s a threat."
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↪︎ author's note: Hi, hello, hey. It's me. I'm here. Kiki has, in fact, survived the week—barely, and not particularly gracefully, but survived nonetheless.
Okay so. This week was a bit rough, not gonna lie. My head's been everywhere and nowhere simultaneously, which is a very fun ADHD feature I definitely asked for. Productivity? Her? Didn't see her, don't know her. Genuinely stared at a blank document for three hours this week and then closed the laptop and went to lie on the floor. We do not elaborate further on this. BUT—and this is the important but—past Kiki, in a rare and beautiful moment of executive function, edited chapter 27 a long time ago. So. Here we are. I am choosing to believe past me caught all the typos and loose threads because present me absolutely does not have the bandwidth to verify that. This is a trust exercise. We're trusting past Kiki. Godspeed.
Onto the chapter!
Okay, so, phew. This one is genuinely one of my favorites to have written. I know I say that a lot and you're all probably rolling your eyes at me, but I mean it this time—we REALLY get to see the V and Jeon dynamic that I have so much fun writing. The sibling-coded banter? The theatrical attempts on each other's lives rattled off like they're swapping holiday recipes? I LOVE them for it. I genuinely do. Were those real? Yes. Were they murder? Technically... homicide is the umbrella term and murder requires intent and premeditation and look, I did law, not criminal law specifically, so I'm going to stop before I embarrass myself in front of my degree. Point is: they are absolutely feral about each other and it's a delight.
But—and here's where I ask you to put on your reading glasses, metaphorically speaking—the comedy is not just comedy. It never is, not with me. The attempted murders, the banter, the forced pleasantries dripping with venom: it's all very funny, yes, but it's also genuinely violent. These two have tried to kill each other. Multiple times. That's not a quirky background detail, that's characterization. Their hatred isn't two guys who bicker at Christmas dinner. It's real. It runs deep. And the laughter is the mask, not the face.
Now. Pay close attention to what's happening underneath the surface in this chapter, because I will be upset if you miss it ( ._.) I have a habit—intentional, always intentional—of over-explaining in a character's internal monologue. Of letting them rationalize and justify and redirect. Because that's how brains actually work. You will be given a perfectly logical, completely believable reason for Jeon's behavior in this chapter, and it will make total sense, and that is exactly why I need you to not take it at face value. Rage is not just rage. It can be dissatisfaction, a loss of control, fear wearing a very convincing mask. It can be mourning dressed as irritation. It can be something you don't have a clean word for because human emotion does not live in neat little boxes, no matter how badly we want it to. Don't let the characters' own narration fool you. They're not unreliable narrators in the traditional sense—they're just people, and people are very good at lying to themselves first.
Read the subtext. It's there. I put it there on purpose. You are missing out if you don't ('- ω - ') ♡ As for the rest of the chapter... well. Have fun. Just. Maybe don't read this one in public. I'm just saying. The spice level was not an accident and I will not be apologizing for it. 🌶️
As always, thank you for being here, especially through the hiatus scare. It means more than I know how to say without getting embarrassingly sentimental, which we are not doing today. Now go read. I'll see you in the comments.
"There you are."
The relief that floods through you is almost embarrassing.
Because there's Jeon, looking absolutely fucking devastating in a perfectly tailored suit, moving through the crowd like he's been here all along.
Like he didn't just materialize out of thin air after sprinting down from whatever rooftop he'd been perched on.
Your knees almost go weak with relief, but you maintain your composure. Barely.
His dark eyes scan the space with his usual demeanor, and then—they land on you. Or, more specifically, on Kaleido.
The flicker of recognition is subtle—so subtle you'd miss it if you didn't know him as well as you do. But it's there, just for a second, before his expression smooths into something blanker.
And then comes the smile.
It's the fakest fucking thing you've ever seen, and you've seen a lot. It's all teeth and no warmth, the kind of smile that says 'I'm being polite because I have to be, not because I want to.' You can practically feel the effort it takes for him to plaster it on, and honestly? It's kind of impressive.
"Ah," Jeon says, voice smooth and pleasant, like he's greeting an old friend at a dinner party. "What a coincidence to find you here as well."
"Isn't it just?" Kaleido's smile is a masterpiece of calculated pleasantness. "Though some things do tend to draw attention. Items of particular... value."
The way he says 'value' makes it clear he's not talking about the general auction items. The microchip. The one MDF is after too.
Jeon's hand presses slightly against your back when he reaches you, pulling fractionally closer.
"There are always valuable things at these events," he replies. "Though value is rather subjective, wouldn't you say?"
"Oh, I don't know about that."
Kaleido's eyes flick between you two, analyzing.
"Some things have quite... universal appeal. Your wife, for instance—" His smile doesn't waver. "—has proven herself quite valuable in previous negotiations."
Jeon's fingers twitch against your spine. It's barely noticeable, but you feel it.
"My wife excels at whatever she puts her mind to," he says, and there's something acerbic beneath the tone he employs.
"Indeed she does." Kaleido's expression gives absolutely nothing away. "Though I must say, she seemed quite... comfortable with your brother earlier. Lorenzo, was it?"
You feel Jeon tense slightly—probably at having to acknowledge V as his brother.
"Lorenzo has always been..." he starts, then stops abruptly.
His eyes catch on something, and you watch as his whole expression shifts for just a fraction of a second.
His gaze fixes on your neck, where V had—oh.
Oh shit.
"...been... Uh, very european about these things," Jeon finishes, but there's a new edge to his voice. "Family is.... important to him."
"Family," Kaleido repeats, watching Jeon like he's particularly interesting. "Yes, I can see the... dedication to keeping things close."
Jeon's jaw ticks slightly. He's still staring at your neck, like he's trying to convince himself he's seeing things wrong.
The mark V left must be more visible than you thought.
"Speaking of family," Kaleido continues, smooth as silk, "Fervio was quite eager to meet you. He's always had such... intense interests in family dynamics."
The implication in his tone makes your stomach turn.
You remember the way Fervio had looked at you during those trade negotiations, like he was imagining all the ways he could make you scream.
And not in the fun way, you bet.
"I'm sure he does," Jeon's hand spreads wider against your back, nudging you closer. "Though I'm afraid we won't be able to stay much longer. Prior commitments."
"What a shame." Kaleido doesn't sound disappointed at all. "And here I thought we might discuss some mutual interests. Fervio, especially, expressed such... enthusiasm about spending time with you both."
The threat is clear, even wrapped in perfect politeness.
"Another time, perhaps," Jeon says, but his attention keeps drifting to your neck, that muscle in his jaw jumping. "We really should—"
Thorns.
God, it's like being strangled by a rosebush.
"Brooooootheeeeer!"
You've never been simultaneously so relieved and so t̶e̶r̶r̶i̶f̶i̶e̶d̶ concerned to hear someone's voice.
"I've been positively dying to find you!"
Jeon's hurricane aura spikes violently, sending invisible debris whirling through your chest. You swear you can hear his teeth grinding even over the ambient party chatter.
V glides over in a way that is too theatrical for the carefulness the situation requires. Fervio, for his part, remains more like death's own shadow, those dead-white eyes fixed on you in a way that makes your skin try to crawl right off your body and book it for the exit.
"You simply won't believe how long I've been searching," V continues, throwing an arm around Jeon's shoulders.
The movement forces Jeon to either step away from you or accept the contact.
...He chooses the latter, but god—you can practically hear his molars cracking from tension.
"Though of course, you've always had such a... talent for vanishing when people need you most."
"Lorenzo." Jeon's society smile could cut diamonds. "How... delightful to see you."
"Isn't it just?" V beams, squeezing Jeon's shoulder hard enough to wrinkle the expensive fabric. "I was just telling Fervio about that marvelous incident in Milan. You remember, surely? With the fountain?"
Something lethal flashes in Jeon's eyes. "You mean when you pushed me?"
"Pushed you?" V's gasp belongs in a soap opera. His free hand flies to his chest in theatrical offense. "Brother, you wound me! You fell."
"Into your conveniently positioned hands," Jeon's smile twitches, and not in the happy way.
"Gravity is such a fascinating force." V's smile spreads until his eyes crinkle. "Almost as fascinating as your newfound appreciation for... architecture."
"Speaking of architecture," Jeon counters smoothly, "do recall that lovely balcony in Rome? The one you nearly toppled from?"
"Ah yes!" V's laugh is bright and deadly. "After your thoughtful analysis of the railing's structural integrity."
"Just looking out for my dear brother's safety."
"Ever so considerate." V's tone drips fakeness. "Rather like that time you helped me gauge the pool depth in Naples."
"You did mention wanting to cool off."
"In December."
"The weather was quite mild for the season."
Kaleido watches this exchange like it's prime entertainment, while Fervio's corpse-pale eyes keep fixing on you in ways that make you want to shower for the next week straight.
"Oh!" V perks up with manufactured delight. "Remember that charming little mishap with the wine cellar? When you were trapped for—what was it, six hours?"
"Five and a half," Jeon corrects with poisonous pleasantry. "Nearly matching your stint in that Florence closet."
"A complete accident. Unlike those three separate occasions your car tried to acquaint itself with my person."
"Faulty brakes, I'm afraid."
"Three times?"
"I'm a dreadful driver." Jeon's laugh sounds like it's being extracted via torture. "Though not quite as dreadful as your aim with that cheese knife in Milan."
"Oh, that!" V squeezes Jeon's shoulder. "A simple misunderstanding. I was merely demonstrating proper cheese-cutting technique."
"At my throat?"
"I'm passionate about dairy education."
What in the actual fuck?
Are they seriously trading their greatest assassination attempts like they're swapping family recipes at a potluck right now?
"Speaking of passion," Jeon's smile could slice atoms, "remember that delightful camping excursion? When my tent mysteriously caught fire?"
"A terrible accident." V sighs wistfully. "Moths are so drawn to flames."
"The moths brought gasoline?"
"Exceptionally determined moths."
"Naturally." Jeon's eyes narrow while his smile stays fixed. "Much like how all your Versace suits were determined to turn pink in the wash."
"A devastating loss," V sighs theatrically. "Though not quite as devastating as what happened to your favorite long-range equipment. The one for... stargazing, wasn't it?"
Jeon's smile holds steady, but his eyes promise bloodshed. "Less devastating than losing an entire collection of first editions."
"Water damage, actually." V's grin turns predatory. "But Dubai was memorable, wasn't it? When that marksman just couldn't find his target. Must have been the heat affecting his concentration."
A muscle twitches in Jeon's jaw. "Not as memorable as Tokyo. Something about a certain knife expert who kept missing... all twelve times."
"Some targets prove remarkably elusive."
"And some people," Jeon replies, "go to creative lengths making that point... crystal clear."
"Communication is vital."
"Indeed. Nothing quite like proper... feedback."
"A well-placed note often suffices."
"Of course." Jeon tilts his head, smile tightening. "Though who would be unhinged enough to drive that message home? Twelve times over, conveniently. Really touched their heart, didn't it? In front of their employer."
V smiles. "Some people truly are passionate."
Their laughter that follows hits a pitch that could shatter champagne flutes.
It's the kind of forced hilarity that makes your teeth ache just hearing it—like they're reciting sitcom punchlines instead of trading stories about attempted murder.
"Such precious memories," V dabs at nonexistent tears. "We simply must make more soon, brother dear."
"Oh, absolutely." Jeon's grip on V's shoulder tightens. "I have so many ideas for future... family bonding."
"As do I!" V's smile turns venomous. "In fact, I was just sharing some with your lovely wife during our dance."
Jeon's smile freezes like fractured ice.
His eyes flick to your neck—where V's mark still lingers.
The muscle in his jaw works overtime.
"How considerate of you," he grits through his perfect smile.
"Always thinking of family," V purrs. "Someone must keep the... bonds tight."
You're pretty sure they're both calculating exactly how many ways they could kill each other right now without breaking cover.
Before V can launch into what's probably another delightful story about fratricide, you grab Jeon's hand, plastering on your best society smile. The one that says 'stop this shit right now.'
"As wonderful as this family reunion is," you say, voice tinged with sweetness, "my husband and I really should check the auction list. I believe they're starting soon?"
"Oh, but I haven't told them about Prague!" V protests, looking far too delighted. "You know, the thing with the chandelier—"
"Or Barcelona," Jeon cuts in smoothly. "With the paella."
"The seafood was a bit... off that day, wasn't it?"
"The shellfish was definitely toxic."
"Such a shame you noticed the puffer fish."
"Just like that time in Singapore—"
You tug at Jeon's hand more insistently.
These idiots are going to blow their cover if they keep this going.
"The auction," you remind them through gritted teeth. "Very important items to bid on?"
"Of course, of course! Don't let me keep you from your... preparations." The way V says it makes it sound distinctly dirty. "Though do save a dance for your brother-in-law later, won't you?"
"After you tell them about Kyoto?" Jeon pushes in again. "With the tea ceremony?"
"The matcha was a bit... bitter that day."
"Cyanide tends to have that effect."
For fuck's sake.
You tighten your grip on Jeon's hand to just shy of bone-crushing.
"We really must go. Right, darling?"
"But I haven't mentioned Budapest," he protests, still locked in this deranged competition. "With the opera house—"
"The acoustics were perfect for screaming," V sighs nostalgically.
"We'll see about that dance later," you cut in before they can start comparing notes on creative uses of stage equipment. Your smile feels painted on at this point as you nod to Kaleido and try not to make direct eye contact with Fervio's nightmare lenses.
Jeon actually tries to resist as you pull him away, like a child being dragged from a particularly violent playground. "The thing with the elevator in Seoul—"
"Later, brother dear!" V calls after you, waving cheerfully. "Don't forget about Amsterdam!"
"The tulips were lovely that spring," Jeon throws back. "Especially after the fertilizer incident—"
You practically yank him around a corner before he can finish that charming anecdote about whatever creative way they tried to kill each other with Dutch flowers.
The moment you're out of earshot, he snatches his hand from your grip like it's burning.
"Brothers?" he hisses, voice low but absolutely vibrating with contained fury. "Seriously? Of all the possible cover stories, you had to family-connect me to that fucking psychopath?"
"Hey, I didn't come up with it!" you whisper-yell back. "V just started spouting that brother bullshit and what was I supposed to do? Call him a liar in front of Kaleido?"
"Yes!" He runs a hand through his hair, messing up the perfectly styled strands. "Or say he's delusional. Or that he escaped from a mental institution. Literally anything else!"
"Oh right, because that wouldn't have been suspicious at all." You roll your eyes. "Besides, you played along just fine. All those lovely stories about attempted murder—very brotherly."
"Those weren't stories," he growls. "They were a fucking highlight reel of actual murder attempts."
Momentarily, he pauses, scanning the palazzo's architecture like he's genuinely checking something.
"...Though that marble banister on the west staircase has potential. Forty-seven-degree angle, roughly sixteen steps... terminal velocity would be—" He catches your look. "What?"
"Wait, what?" You blink at him. "The fountain thing actually—"
"Yes."
"And the car—"
"Three times."
"The cheese knife—"
"Don't." His jaw ticks. "Just... don't."
You stare at him for a moment, processing this. "Okay, but like... the moths and the gasoline—"
"I said don't." He's still eyeing that banister though, and you can practically see him doing the mental calculations. "Though speaking of gasoline, did you notice the antique oil lamps in the main hall? Very unstable. Would be a shame if someone bumped into one near some very flammable curtains..."
"Jeon."
"What? I'm just appreciating the historical architecture."
"Right. And planning fratricide."
"Purely hypothetical fratricide," he corrects, like that makes it better. "With historically accurate methods."
His attention drifts around the room, probably cataloging more potential murder weapons disguised as decor. Then his gaze drops lower, scanning the crowd, probably marking exits and—
He stills.
Right. That mark on your neck. The one he'd noticed earlier but couldn't comment on, not with Kaleido watching their every move.
Now though...
"By the way," he says, voice forced through in a way that suggests he's anything but nonchalant. "What the fuck is that anyway?"
The casual tone doesn't match the way his jaw ticks, that muscle working overtime as his eyes fix on the spot where V's teeth had been.
It's like watching someone try to gift wrap a grenade—the packaging might be pretty, but you can still tell there's something explosive underneath.
"What's what?" you ask, playing dumb even as your hand comes up to cover the mark reflexively.
"That." He gestures sharply at your neck. "The thing my dear brother left on you. During an operation."
You drop your hand, shrugging. "Part of the cover. V was just selling the whole passionate Italian lover thing—"
"By marking you?" He sounds pissed. "In the middle of an operation?"
"It worked, didn't it?" You point out, because it did. "The security guy totally bought it. And Kaleido—"
"Kaleido," he cuts you off, "is probably questioning our cover story right now. What kind of husband lets his brother mark his wife? It's sloppy. Unprofessional."
Typical Jeon, always analyzing every detail, every possible weakness in a plan.
You've seen him spend hours calculating bullet trajectories—of course he'd be pissed about V throwing variables into his perfectly mapped-out operation.
"V was just being V," you say with a shrug. "You know how he operates—"
"Exactly." Something sharp edges into his tone. "He doesn't think things through. Doesn't consider the tactical implications. Just does whatever serves his immediate purpose without regard for the broader mission parameters."
You roll your eyes. Of course this is about V's improvisational approach clashing with Jeon's methodical planning. Again.
"It's just a mark, Jeon. It'll fade."
"That's not the point." His hands clench at his sides. "The point is he compromised operational security. Created a potentially exploitable inconsistency in our cover story. Drew unnecessary attention—"
"Since when does unnecessary attention bother you?" The words slip out before you can stop them. "You were just trading murder stories like fucking Pokemon cards."
"That's different!" His expression hardens. "That was controlled. Calculated. This is just V being chaotic for the sake of chaos."
"How is publicly discussing murder attempts controlled?"
"Because I knew exactly what I was revealing and why." He sounds like he's explaining basic math to a child. "Every story had a purpose. Built our cover as dysfunctional but ultimately loyal siblings. V just..."
He gestures at your neck.
"...Improvises. Without considering the consequences."
You get it, really. Jeon likes his plans detailed, his variables controlled.
V's whole existence is basically a middle finger to that approach.
"Look," you say practically, "what's done is done. We'll work around it. Make it part of the cover somehow."
He stares at you for a long moment, then reaches out to ghost his fingers over the mark, assessing how visible it is, probably already calculating how to minimize its impact on the mission.
"Next time," he says, voice clipped, "he follows the fucking plan."
Simple as that. Just Jeon being Jeon, getting annoyed when things don't go according to his strategies. V probably did this specifically to mess with his tactical approach—they're always trying to throw each other off balance like that.
"Come on," you say, stepping back. "We have an auction to prepare for."
He drops his hand, stoicism sliding back into place.
Time to get back to work.
Besides, you've got bigger things to worry about than V and Jeon's eternal pissing contest.
...Like how you're going to acquire a microchip worth millions without starting an inter-gang war.
The walk to the auction area is quieter than it should be.
Not the comfortable kind of quiet you've come to tolerate with Jeon, but something heavier—like tension that has been pulled so tight you can practically hear the creak of it, threatening to snap.
Jeon's stride is steady, purposeful, his eyes scanning the corridor ahead. Always registering, always aware.
His hand brushes against the small of your back, not for any affectionate reason—Jeon doesn't do affectionate—but to guide you, to keep the illusion of your cover intact.
That's what you tell yourself, anyway.
The corridor is lined with gilded sconces and marble accents, opulence you're getting sick of seeing tonight.
Jeon's silence should be reassuring—he's working, focused, in control. But somehow, it isn't.
You glance at him out of the corner of your eye. His jaw is tight, the lines of his face harder than usual, and his hand, even when it brushes your back, feels laden.
Like that's right where it belongs.
"So..." you start, voice deliberately light, trying to evaporate the tension. "What's the plan now? Charm our way through a few rich assholes, get the microchip, and go?"
He doesn't answer right away. His eyes flick briefly to you, then to the end of the hall where the restrooms and coat-check signs are posted, and then back to the path ahead.
He's silent long enough that you're tempted to repeat yourself.
Finally, he says, "We stick to the routine. You focus on bidding. I'll handle the rest."
His voice is calm. Too calm.
And when his eyes flick to you again, they drop, just for a fraction of a second, to your neck.
You resist the urge to cover it with your hand again.
Instead, you give him a shrug and a casual smile. "Right. Stick to the plan."
He doesn't respond. Doesn't even glance at you this time. His steps are just slightly faster, his heels clicking a bit harder than before, like he's trying to outpace something.
The corridor opens up slightly as you near the restrooms, with an alcove of doors, each marked individually. Fancy private bathrooms, of course, because nothing screams 'charity' like excessive luxury.
You catch a glimpse of yourself in the ornate mirror on the wall. The mark is faint but still there, a shadow of V's teeth left on your skin. Jeon's eyes hadn't lingered on it long, but long enough for you to know it's still bothering him.
"I should fix this," you mumble, breaking the silence again and gesturing vaguely toward your neck. "Can't have Kaleido or Fervio using this as ammo later."
Jeon doesn't stop. Doesn't even turn, but his voice is quieter this time, clipped.
"It's fine."
"It's not," you shoot back, already stepping toward the women's restroom. "You literally said yourself—this makes things inconsistent. Give me five seconds."
You don't wait for his approval because, honestly, you don't need it.
But before you can take another step, his hand clamps around your wrist, firm and unrelenting, and it stops you dead in your tracks. That's the thing about Jeon—he never has to try hard to make you freeze. He doesn't have to shout or force anything.
It's the quiet intensity, the way his touch demands obedience without ever being harsh.
"Jeon," you start, your voice lined with frustration as you turn to face him. "What are you—"
You don't get the chance to finish.
Because suddenly, he's moving, his grip shifting just enough to pull you off balance as he drags you toward the men's restroom.
"What the hell—"
The words barely make it out before the door is swinging open, crystal-clear brass letters spelling 'Men's' passing by as you're yanked inside.
The restroom is ridiculous—marble counters, gold faucets, probably the fanciest hand soap you've ever seen—but none of that registers.
All you can focus on is him.
The tension in his shoulders as he lets go of your wrist, the sharp line of his jaw as he stands there, just... looking at you.
"What is your problem?" you blurt, heat rising in your chest—partly from confusion, but mostly from the way he's looking at you now.
Like he's barely holding himself together.
Like something inside him is threatening to break.
He doesn't answer. Not at first. Instead, he steps closer, and for a second, you think he might back off. But no. His hand trails up your arm, slow, deliberate, stopping just above your collarbone.
Then his thumb brushes over the faint mark, featherlight but impossible to ignore.
"You really shouldn't let him get this close," he says finally, his voice low, gravelly, and entirely devoid of the casual tone he usually reserves for these moments.
You blink. Once. Twice. "It's not like I—"
The rest of your words are swallowed as he leans in, impossibly close, the scent of him—pine, smoke, and something minty—flooding your senses. His lips hover just above your neck, right over the faint bruise, and for half a second, you think he's about to...
But instead, his hand shifts lower, curling over your hip like a vice, pulling you that crucial inch closer until there's nothing but fabric between you.
"Do you ever stop talking?" His tone is quiet, almost teasing, but something about it almost gives you a pause.
Your retort dies on your tongue as his other hand plants itself against the door beside your head, boxing you in completely. The shift in his posture presses you more firmly against him, and suddenly the steady silence between you feels... dangerous.
Not in the way danger usually feels in your line of work—guns, knives, threats whispered in dark rooms—but in a way that makes your pulse pound against your throat, erratic and untamed.
"You needed to fix this, didn't you?" he nods at the bite mark.
His lips quirk faintly, but there's nothing playful in the way his eyes roam down to your mouth, then your dress, then back to your neck.
"Let me help."
His mouth finds your neck, and fuck—of course he's good at this too. Perfect, precise Jeon, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses that make your knees weak. He works his way down one side, then the other, and your hands find his hair because what else are you supposed to do when he's pressing you against the door like he wants to melt right through you?
"Seriously?" you manage, breathless. "In the middle of an operation?"
He hums against your skin, the vibration sending shivers down your spine, hips pressing forward, and—oh.
Oh.
That's definitely not his gun digging into your thigh.
"You don't know," he murmurs between kisses, "how you look in that fucking dress."
His teeth graze your pulse point, making you gasp.
"All these women out there..." Another kiss, harder this time. "With their tulle dresses and ornate jewelry..."
Your fingers tighten in his hair as he finds a particularly sensitive spot. "Jeon—"
"They don't compare, sunshine."
The endearment falls from his lips like it belongs there, casual and devastating all at once.
"How you look in burgundy is..." His tongue traces the shell of your ear. "...fucking criminal."
Your head falls back against the door with a soft thud.
Trust Jeon to turn color theory into foreplay.
"The slit on your side..." His hand traces up your leg, teasing. "...been driving me crazy all night."
His fingers slip through the fabric opening, finding bare skin.
"Wanted to place my hand..." He presses closer, grinding against you. "...right here."
His palm is hot against your thigh, thumb skittering up on your skin. You can feel his smile against your neck—the bastard knows exactly what he's doing.
"Anyone could walk in," you manage to say, even as your body betrays you by arching into his touch.
Your breath catches when his fingers trace higher up your thigh, but he just hums against your throat.
Clearly, the possibility of getting caught isn't high on his list of concerns right now.
"You're right."
He pulls back just enough to look at you, and fuck—his eyes are hazy and opaque. His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip as his gaze drops to your neck, lingering on the mark there.
"But let me fix that first."
Before you can process what's happening, he's got your wrist in his grip again—and honestly, sue you, because you can't help the stupid smile that spreads across your face as he practically drags you toward one of the toilet stalls.
Trust Jeon to make even manhandling hot.
The lock clicks shut and suddenly he's pressing you against the wall again, mouth finding your neck without hesitation.
His teeth drag along your skin, not gentle at all this time.
And the contrast hits you weird—the sting of his bite, then his tongue soothing over it. Hot and wet. Your head's spinning a little.
You can feel his lip piercing every time he moves. The metal's cool against your pulse point, dragging these trails that his breath turns hot a second later. Then his teeth sink in again—not breaking skin, but enough to make you gasp—and he sucks.
Oh.
He's marking you.
Not like V's casual little nip from earlier. This is different. This is Jeon being stupidly thorough about it, working the skin until you're pretty sure it's gonna bruise. Dark. Obvious.
Your fingers tighten in his hair as he moves to a new spot and starts the whole thing over again. Teeth scraping. Tongue sliding. That cold metal piercing. It's a lot.
Each bite feels harder than the last.
Like he's trying to make sure no one sees V's mark under his.
Which is... honestly kinda hot? In a fucked up territorial way that you probably shouldn't be into but definitely are.
You should probably care more about how you're gonna explain multiple hickeys to literally anyone. But his mouth's doing that to your neck and you can't bring yourself to give a shit.
His hand comes up, fingers finding the sharp hairpin holding your hair up. He twists it—securing it instead of pulling it out—making sure your hair doesn't fall despite how he's manhandling you right now.
Weirdly considerate for someone currently trying to mark every inch of your neck.
But whatever. You're supposed to be playing passionate newlyweds anyway, right?
What's more convincing than some love bites?
That's what you tell yourself as his teeth find another spot.
And god, you love this.
You really fucking do.
The way Jeon gets when he's worked up like this—ready to fuck you into next week without thinking twice..
But.
You're supposed to be maintaining cover here.
A quickie in the bathroom isn't exactly keeping a low profile, no matter how good it sounds.
"Jeon."
You try pushing at his shoulders but he just grunts against your throat and keeps going. His teeth scrape a sensitive spot and—fuck. Focus. You need to focus.
You plant your hands firmer on his chest and push harder.
He finally looks up. The scowl on his face would be intimidating if you hadn't seen it a hundred times before.
"What the fuck are you doing?" It comes out breathier than you meant.
Probably because his hand's still on your thigh.
"Fixing this." He tries diving back in but you hold him at arm's length.
"By making it worse?"
His eyes narrow. "How is it worse?"
"Are you serious right now?" You gesture at your neck where you can feel at least three spots throbbing. "V left one mark. You're turning my neck into a fucking connect-the-dots puzzle."
"At least they're mine."
He freezes like he didn't mean to say that out loud.
Oh.
"Yours?" Your voice comes out edged. "Since when do you care whose marks I wear?"
"Since my brother—" he practically spits the word "—decided to get creative with our cover story."
"Oh, so this is about V?" You arch an eyebrow even as his grip tightens. "Not very professional of you."
"Professional?" He laughs. Harsh. "You wanna talk professional while you're wearing his fucking teeth marks?"
"It was for the mission!"
"The mission didn't require him marking you."
"No?" You push at his chest again. He doesn't budge. "And what exactly would you call what you're doing right now?"
His jaw ticks. "That's different."
"How?" Heat's building between you with every word. "Because you're the one doing it?"
His eyes drop to your mouth, then back to your neck.
The look makes your stomach flip.
"Because I do it better."
You scoff and shove at his chest again. "Better? You're just pissed V went off script."
"Damn right I am." His fingers flex on your hips. Bruising. "We had a plan. A solid fucking plan. And he just—"
"What? Improvised?" You laugh. "God forbid someone doesn't follow your precious tactical outline to the letter."
"This isn't about following orders." His voice drops. "This is about that psychopath making me play happy families with him. Making me pretend he's my fucking brother—"
"Oh, so that's what this is about?" You curl your fingers in his shirt. Not sure if you wanna push him away or pull him closer. "You're throwing a tantrum because V made you play nice?"
His eyes flash. "A tantrum? You think this is a tantrum?"
"What would you call it? Getting pissy and dragging me into a bathroom to—what? Mark your territory?"
"To fix his mess! Like I always fucking have to!"
"Right, because everything V does is automatically wrong—"
"When it involves putting his mouth on you? Yes."
Silence.
One beat. Two.
His chest's rising and falling fast under your hands. You can feel his heart hammering.
"What's it matter, where he puts his mouth?" You sigh, trying to get out of this conversation. "As long as the mission succeeds, right?"
"The mission would succeed better if he'd stick to the fucking plan instead of—"
"Instead of what? Being V?" You laugh. "News flash, Jeon. Not everyone operates like a fucking user manual."
"No." Venom drips from his voice. "Some people operate like complete fucking wildcard who don't care who they drag down with them."
"At least he knows how to adapt. Unlike some people who need every variable calculated down to the—"
His hand slides up to your throat.
It cuts your words off like he covered your mouth.
"You want adaptation?" His thumb brushes over one of his marks on your neck. "Fine. Let's adapt."
Your eyes narrow.
Oh, so that's how he wants to play this?
Fine.
Chaewon didn't spend months drilling joint locks into your muscle memory for nothing.
Before he can react you've got his wrist trapped, using his momentum against him as you twist. The move sends him stumbling forward and you take advantage, slamming him face-first into the wall. His arm twists behind his back at an angle that's gotta be uncomfortable, but you know exactly how far to push before actually hurting him.
The laugh that escapes him is almost impressed.
"Wow." His voice is rough against the wall. "Really fucking mature, sunshine."
You press his arm up a fraction higher. Just because you can. Just to remind him you're not some damsel he can push around.
His breath hitches but you can hear the smile when he speaks.
"Guess Flower's been teaching you new tricks."
"Guess you're not the only one who can adapt."
He tests your grip—not really trying to break free. More like checking your form.
Always the tactical bastard, even pinned to a fucking wall.
"That what this is? Adaptation?"
His breathing's slightly ragged. Whether from the hold or something else, you're not sure.
"You know what your problem is, Jeon?" Your voice comes out low. "You always think you're in control."
His shoulder shifts under your grip. "And you think you are?"
The challenge in his voice is unmistakable.
Slowly you ease the pressure on his arm—not releasing him completely, but giving him just enough slack to wonder what you're planning.
Then you spin him around and shove him back against the wall hard enough that his breath catches.
His eyes widen slightly. Clearly not expecting the move. And that split second of genuine surprise on his face is so fucking satisfying you can't help what happens next.
You slam your mouth against his, swallowing whatever smartass comment he was about to make.
He freezes for a moment. Caught off guard. But then he's kissing back just as hard, just as angry, like he's trying to prove a point neither of you understand.
He shifts until your back hits the wall again, hands immediately sliding down to your thighs, grip firm as he hoists you up with his infuriating inhumane strength.
Your legs wrap around his waist automatically, new angle letting him pressing right where you need him.
"This what you wanted?" He breathes against your mouth, rolling his hips in a way that makes stars explode behind your eyes. "To prove you can handle me?"
His lip piercing drags across your bottom lip as he kisses you again. Deeper this time. Like he's trying to taste your answer before you give it.
His hands flex on your thighs, fingers digging in as he grinds against you, pants dragging against your increasingly wet underwear and—fuck.
You should probably be embarrassed by how worked up you are already but it's hard to care when he's moving like that.
"Always so fucking stubborn," he mutters between kisses.
You can feel him smirking.
"Think you can just throw me around, huh?" Another deliberate grind has you gasping. "Show me who's in charge?"
His mouth moves to your jaw, then your neck again.
Apparently still not satisfied with the marks he's left.
His tongue drags slow against your pulse point and you tilt your head. Just slightly. Granting better access.
"Gonna leave you something to remember me by." His voice is rough. "Something that won't fade so easily."
Your fingers tighten in his hair as he sucks another mark into your throat. The sound he makes—half growl, half moan—vibrates straight through you.
You hate this.
Hate how easily he works you up. How perfectly he knows where to touch, where to bite. Hate how good it feels when he's angry like this.
You don't even understand why he's so worked up. Why V's stupid improvisations got under his skin this badly.
But fuck. The way he's grinding against you makes it hard to care about the why.
His hands are bruising on your thighs, holding you up like you weigh nothing, making every single roll of his hips hit perfectly.
It has you arching into him like you can't get close enough.
And maybe you can't. Because even with him pressed against every inch of you, it still doesn't feel like enough.
"Fuck, I hate you," you breathe against his mouth even as your legs tighten around his waist. "Hate how fucking good you are at this."
He laughs. Dark and rough and mean. The kind of laugh that gets under your skin because it sounds like he's done checkmate.
His teeth catch your bottom lip. Not hard enough to break skin but enough to sting.
"Yeah?" His voice has an edge that pulls a gasp from you as he rolls his hips again.
"Yeah."
Your nails dig into his shoulders, dragging through the fabric of his suit jacket. You feel the muscle beneath tense. Which only makes you grip tighter.
You hope the scratches leave marks. Hope it stings when he moves later. Just enough to remind him you were here.
Because damn it, if he's gonna do this thing where he wrecks you and walks away like it's nothing, you want there to be something he can't erase either.
His mouth moves back to your neck. Latching on like he's got something to prove.
Another fucking hickey.
Because apparently three aren't enough.
You should stop him. This is gonna look insane in the mirror. But when you feel the cold scrape of his lip piercing against your skin, the sound that escapes you is embarrassingly needy.
"Say it again." His words vibrate against your throat as he drags his tongue up.
"What?"
"Say it again." His voice drops a full octave, rough edges and wrecked control. "Turns me on."
You freeze for half a second.
Because why the fuck is that hot?
He's already grinding against you like he's trying to unmake you. His voice is on the verge of breaking. And now he wants you to—what? Say it again so he can smirk all smug and satisfied like the bastard he is?
You hate him.
God, you hate him.
You want to throttle him. You want to mount him.
You want—
"Then maybe you should do something about it."
Your fingers tighten in his hair as you say that—and the way his breath hitches when you tug makes you pull harder.
"Something like what?" His lips curl into a smirk you can feel against your jaw.
It's infuriating.
"I don't know." Your hips roll against his, matching his rhythm out of sheer spite. "Maybe... fuck me like you hate me."
Everything stills.
His movements freeze so suddenly you could swear the air sharpens between you. His body's still pressed tight, trapping you where you are, but his head lifts.
Slowly.
Cautiously.
When his eyes meet yours they're so dark you can barely make out the irises.
"Be careful what you say, sunshine," his voice is low and controlled but straining at the edges.
"Why?"
The word's practically a dare.
"Because if you say that again—" his fingers flex against your thighs "—there will be no going back."
Heat in your stomach spreads like wildfire at the rough promise in his tone.
You should hesitate. Should stop for one second and think about implications.
But you're too far gone for that.
"Maybe that's exactly what I want."
His thumb brushes your leg. A touch so light it's almost mocking as it trails higher.
"What, no going back?" He leans in closer, lips grazing your ear. "Or for me to fuck you like I hate you?"
"The latter." You admit it because there's no point pretending otherwise.
Not when you're already on fire from how he's looking at you.
From how his hands feel like they're branding your skin.
His eyes lock on yours. Searching. Though you don't know what for.
Testing you maybe. Waiting to see if you'll flinch.
But you don't.
If anything you hold his gaze harder.
"You sure about that?" His tongue darts out to wet his lips, quieter but no less dangerous. "Last chance, sunshine."
You're done hesitating.
You meet his glare head-on. A small smug part of you takes satisfaction in how his jaw tightens just watching you.
"Jungkook."
You lean forward just enough to brush your lips against his. A whisper away from contact.
"Fuck me like you hate me."
The moment the words leave your mouth something in him snaps.
His grip on your thighs tightens as he adjusts you against the wall, somehow managing to keep you pinned while his other hand frantically pats his back pockets.
Even now—even when he's practically vibrating with tension—his movements are stupidly coordinated.
His mouth crashes into yours again.
You can feel his eyebrows furrowing against your skin as he kisses you. Clearly annoyed about something. Probably his own organizational skills for once.
Which would be funny if you weren't so desperate to get his hands back on you.
Then his expression shifts—you can feel it in how his lips curve—and he pulls back just enough to show you the condom he's retrieved with a triumphant little smirk.
Because of course Jeon would have protection in his wallet.
Of course he'd be prepared even for angry bathroom sex during an operation.
Fucking boy scout.
"Wipe that look off your face." You chide, yanking him back into another kiss.
His laugh is dark against your mouth.
"Make me." He challenges.
Oh. You're gonna make him regret that.
Really, you're already planning how. But then he's unbuckling his belt with one hand—one fucking hand—like the insufferably coordinated bastard he is and your brain short-circuits a little.
You hate this.
Hate how stupidly hot everything about him is. Especially when you're ready to destroy him.
But what's worse—what's actually infuriating—is how he's still kissing you like it's the only thing he's focused on. Even while you can practically see his big stupid brain dividing everything into perfect little tasks.
Unbutton. Kiss. Unzip. Bite. Adjust grip. Roll hips.
Everything so clean and methodical. Like he's got some flowchart running in his head. Like this is just another tactical operation he's executing accurately.
You want to kick him for being this unnervingly perfect.
Want to mess up his careful control until he—
Oh.
Your thoughts scatter as his fingers push your underwear aside. Testing. Checking.
Because of course he'd make sure you're ready.
Of course he'd be thorough about this too.
His smirk widens against your mouth and you already know you're gonna hate whatever comes out of it next.
"This wet already, sunshine?" His voice is rough but entirely too pleased with himself. "Just from fighting with me?"
You actually frown at him. Like full-on scowl.
Because he's such a smug shit.
A hot smug shit, but still shit.
"You know women's pussies produce fluid, right?" You say it with your whole chest. Channeling your inner biology professor. "To clean themselves and stuff. Doesn't mean we're aroused."
His fingers keep stroking lazily up and down. The bastard has the audacity to look amused.
"Is that so?"
"Mhm." You arch an eyebrow, trying to ignore how good his touch feels. "Basic anatomy."
He actually scoffs. This full-body thing that has him pressing closer.
"Sunshine." His voice drops low as his thumb finds your clit. "I know the difference."
"Do you now?"
"Mm." His eyes are dark as they hold yours. "I know how you feel when you're actually wet for me. Know the way your breath catches—" his fingers slide lower, spreading the wetness "—just like that."
You try maintaining your unimpressed expression but he's not done.
"Know how your thighs start trembling." He continues. And fuck—your legs are shaking around his waist. "How your pulse picks up right... here."
His mouth finds that spot on your neck again. Tongue pressing against your racing heartbeat.
"That's not—"
"And I definitely know—" he cuts you off, thumb circling your clit again "—the difference between regular wetness and when your pussy is literally weeping for my cock."
Christ.
"Still wanna lecture me about anatomy?" His smile is absolutely wicked now.
"You're so full of yourself." You manage to say even as your hips betray you by pressing into his touch.
"Nah." His fingers slide lower, parting your folds. "But you're about to be."
You don't know when he managed to roll the condom on.
Somewhere between his insufferable anatomy lecture and the way his thumb had been circling your clit like he was trying to prove a point.
Efficient bastard.
Because now there's no mistaking what's pressing against you, saying a very enthusiastic 'hello' right under you. Like it's been waiting for this moment all goddamn night.
His grip on your thighs tightens. Fingers digging in like he's trying to anchor himself.
His other hand drops and you feel him grab himself, guiding the head of his cock to your entrance.
There's a pause. A fraction of a second. Just long enough to make you wanna scream at him to get on with it already.
Then he pushes in.
And—fuck.
It's not slow. Not tentative. He just slides in like your body's been waiting for him. Like it's been expecting him. No resistance. No hesitation. Just this smooth fluid stretch that has your breath catching.
Like he belongs there.
Like your pussy was already rolling out the red carpet, practically begging him to come back.
He curses under his breath. Low and rough. His forehead drops to your shoulder as he bottoms out.
"Damn." He mutters. Voice wrecked. "Just like that, huh?"
It's infuriating.
It's humiliating.
It's—god. It's perfect.
"Yeah." He breathes, almost to himself, like he's in awe or something.
His fingers flex against your skin, holding you in place as he rolls his hips experimentally. Just enough to make you clench around him.
"You feel that? Fucking perfect."
Your face goes hot—like boiling hot—and you don't know if it's from anger or embarrassment or the way his voice drops when he says that. Like he's savoring the word.
So you do the only thing you can think of.
You bite him.
Hard.
Your teeth sink into the curve of his shoulder. Right through the expensive fabric of his suit jacket.
He hisses, his hips jerking forward involuntarily, and the movement punches a gasp out of you and you hate how much it gives him the upper hand.
"Fuck." You muffle against his shoulder. "Fuck you."
"Working on it." He shoots back, voice tight.
You can feel the way his lips curl into a grin against your neck.
Smug bastard.
The first thrust is deep but careful, as if he's testing the waters. Gauging just how far he can push you.
The second is harder. Stronger. It knocks the air right out of your lungs.
By the third he's found his rhythm—this maddening punishing pace that has you clinging to him like he's the only thing keeping you upright.
"Insane." He grits out. "How well you take me."
Your nails dig into his shoulders. Hard enough to leave crescent-shaped indents.
You wanna tell him to shut up. To stop talking. To just fuck you and leave it at that.
But all that comes out is this broken breathless sound that you're pretty sure only feeds his ego.
Because of course it does.
Of course he'd get off on this—on the way your body reacts to him. On the way you can't seem to stop gasping his name every time he hits it.
"Yeah." He murmurs, brushing your ear. "Just like that."
And god. You hate him.
You hate how good he feels. How perfectly he fits. How every roll of his hips seems to work the tension inside you out.
You hate the way his voice sounds when he's like this—low and wrecked and so fucking smug. Like he knows exactly what he's doing to you.
But most of all you hate the way your body responds to him.
Like it's been waiting for this. For him.
Like it doesn't care how much you wanna strangle him right now.
As long as he keeps moving like that.
And fuck does he keep moving.
His hands slide down to your ass. Fingers splaying wide. Gripping like he's afraid you might slip away.
Or worse—fight back.
Like hell you'd let him win that easily.
But when he starts gliding you up and down, letting gravity do half the work, all you can do is hold on.
Not because you're weak.
But because his pace is so maddeningly precise it leaves no room for anything else.
You cling to him. Arms around his neck. Squeezing tight enough to feel the strain in your biceps, tight enough that if you were any stronger you'd probably choke him out.
But let's be real—this is Jeon. If there's any way he'd wanna go, it'd be happily suffocated between your thighs.
Then he has the audacity to pause. Just enough to make you wanna murder him.
His head tilts. Smugness dripping from every pore as he leans in.
Voice low and rough like gravel dragged under tires.
"Ready?"
You don't answer. Not verbally at least. Instead you grab a fistful of his hair and yank. Hard enough to make him hiss through his teeth.
He doesn't complain. Doesn't even flinch.
If anything the fucker smirks. Like the sting of your nails in his scalp is just another reason to wreck you.
"Gonna fuck you like I hate you." He growls. "As promised, sunshine."
Then he delivers.
The next thrust shoves you up the wall hard enough to make the entire stall tremble.
Your back arches, nails scraping against his shoulders.
He takes it as encouragement.
His hips snap forward again—deeper this time, faster—and the sound you make is ripped straight from your lungs.
He grabs your ass harder. Palms flexing like he's trying to mold you into his grip.
Sypnosis : Survival brought them together. Desire keeps them trapped. In a world where freedom is forbidden, love may be the deadliest crime.
WARNINGS & DISCLAIMER
This story contains mature and sensitive themes including: illegal activities, human trafficking implications, violence, trauma, depictions inspired by North Korean oppression, emotional manipulation, harsh language, smoking, alcohol use, sexual content and morally gray characters.
This is a work of fiction. The portrayal of North Korea, smuggling networks, and political elements are used for narrative purposes only and are not intended as factual representation. Characters and events are imagined and do not reflect real individuals. Reader discretion is strongly advised.
Chapter Six
The door opens only a few inches.
You push it wider with your shoulder, unaware that outside the thin glass, tension is already coiled tight enough to snap.
Inside the store, two men in plain clothes stand near the counter, one paying for bottled water, the other pretending to debate between brands of cigarettes. They look ordinary. They look forgettable. They are not.
And now you are stepping out. The door swings wider. You blink against the shift from fluorescent light to dusk. The sky is fading into indigo, the parking lot washed in pale yellow from flickering lamps. You see Jungkook leaning near the hood of his car, posture relaxed, one hand in his pocket.
You smile faintly. You have no idea.
The men inside the store are finishing their purchase.
Jungkook’s pulse spikes. He cannot let them walk out and see you standing there in open light. So he moves.
He knocks over the metal rack of discounted snacks by the entrance. It clatters loudly, bags scattering across the concrete. The cashier shouts in surprise. One of the Colonel’s men turns instinctively toward the noise.
“Sorry,” Jungkook calls out, sounding irritated. “Who stacks these like this?”
The distraction works. For three seconds. Three seconds is enough.
He crosses the space between you quickly, fingers closing around your wrist. You blink up at him. “What happened?”
“Get in the car,” he says under his breath, voice calm but tight underneath.
“What?”
“Now.”
You search his face, confused by the urgency. But something in his eyes makes you move without arguing.
Behind you, the store door opens again. The men step out, scanning the lot lazily.
Jungkook guides you toward the passenger side, but at the last second he changes his mind. Too obvious. He opens the driver’s door instead and slides in first, pulling you with him.
You barely have time to register what he is doing before he draws you onto his lap.
“Jungkook,” you whisper, startled.
“Play along,” he murmurs against your ear.
His hands move to your waist. Firm. Certain. He presses you closer as if this is instinct, as if this is something he has done a hundred times.
The men are walking toward the sedan now. They glance at him. They see you. But only from behind.
Your short hair brushes your jaw. The thin strap of your top exposes the flower tattoo blooming across your shoulder blade. Ink that curls down toward your spine.
Jungkook tilts your chin and kisses you. Hungry enough to look convincing. Messy enough to look real.
Your fingers clutch his shirt, partly because you understand the act, partly because your body reacts before your mind does.
He deepens the kiss deliberately, his hand sliding along your waist, guiding the movement of your hips in a way that looks reckless and shameless from a distance.
One of the men slows his steps. “Seriously?” the second mutters.
They come closer. Close enough that Jungkook can hear gravel shifting beneath their shoes.
He does not stop. He kisses you like the world is small and he does not care who sees.
You almost forget this is not real. Almost.
The first man squints slightly at your back.
“That’s not her,” he says quietly.
“How do you know?”
“She doesn’t have tattoos."
“Rumor’s true then. Jungkook can’t keep his hands off girls.”
The second snorts under his breath.
Jungkook hears every word.
He keeps kissing you anyway.
One of his hands moves higher, fingers threading into your hair, shielding more of your face. He turns slightly so your features stay hidden from view.
You feel his heartbeat against your ribs. Fast. Hard.
He is not as calm as he looks.
After a moment that stretches like an hour, the men retreat.
You hear their car doors shut. The engine starts.
Jungkook does not pull away immediately. He waits. Counts silently. Watches the rearview mirror through the sliver of space past your shoulder.
The sedan pulls out of the lot and disappears onto the highway.
Only then does he slowly lift his mouth from yours.
Your foreheads rest together. Your breathing uneven.
“What was that?” you whisper.
He exhales, long and unsteady. “Insurance.”
You pull back slightly, still seated on his lap. “Against what?”
“Against them taking you.”
The words land heavier than anything else tonight.
You turn, looking over your shoulder as if you might still see the black sedan.
“Who?”
“The Colonel’s men.”
Your body goes cold.
“They were inside?” you ask.
“They’ve been looking for you,” he says quietly. “They came to me first.”
“And you told them—”
“That I don’t know you.”
The sentence hangs between you.
You search his face for hesitation, for regret. You find neither.
He shifts you gently off his lap and into the passenger seat properly, starting the engine.
“They might circle back,” he murmurs. “So we don’t go home yet.”
He drives.
He takes the highway, then exits unexpectedly, weaving through small towns where neon signs flicker outside closed motels and roadside diners. He checks the rearview mirror every few seconds. Changes lanes without pattern. Stops at a gas station and waits without getting out, just watching reflections in the glass.
You sit quietly at first.
Then, softly, “You didn’t have to do that.”
He glances at you briefly. “Do what.”
“Risk yourself.”
A faint, tired smile curves his mouth. “You think I haven’t already?”
The forest road appears hours later, narrow and winding, trees arching overhead like cathedral beams. Night has deepened into something thick and endless. No headlights follow.
He finally relaxes his shoulders as he turns onto the dirt path leading to the forest house.
The engine cuts. Silence settles around you, broken only by crickets and the distant rustle of wind through leaves.
You do not move to get out.
Neither does he.
“You were scared,” you say quietly.
He stares ahead at the darkness between the trees.
“Yes.”
“For yourself?”
He shakes his head slowly.
“I was scared they would see your face,” he answers.
Your throat tightens.
“I don’t want you fighting my battles,” you whisper.
He turns to you then, eyes reflecting faint moonlight.
“If they come for you,” he says, voice low and steady, “they come through me first.”
You step out of the car together.
Halfway to the cabin door, you stop.
“You kissed me like you meant it,” you say softly.
He pauses.
“I did mean it.”
The air shifts.
This time there is no audience. No surveillance. No performance.
Just the two of you standing in the quiet dark, something unspoken stretching between you, heavier now than fear.
Inside the house, the lights flicker on. Warm. Safe. For now.
But somewhere beyond the trees, beyond the road, beyond the dark sky, the Colonel’s men are still searching.
And next time, they might not be fooled by a kiss.
Days passed after the night at the convenience store, but the forest did not feel the same.
Before, the trees had felt like shelter. Now they felt like a perimeter.
Jungkook stopped leaving entirely.
No more supply runs. No more late drives under the excuse of clearing his head. The truck stayed parked beside the cabin, slowly collecting a thin layer of pollen and dust as if even it understood that movement meant risk.
“They’re still circulating the area,” he said one morning after stepping off the porch, phone pressed to his ear, voice low and controlled. “No, don’t approach. Just watch.”
You were inside, pretending to reorganize the pantry. You had learned the rhythm of his calls. Short. Efficient. No names spoken out loud.
He had people placed quietly across the nearby towns. A mechanic who owed him a favor. A waitress who noticed faces. A delivery driver who paid attention to license plates. None of them knew the full story. They only knew to report sightings of unfamiliar men asking the wrong questions.
“They checked the gas station again,” he told you later, tossing his phone onto the table. “And the motel off Route Seven.”
You crossed your arms. “So they’re widening the circle.”
“They’re getting impatient.”
“And impatient men make mistakes.”
He studied you for a moment. “Impatient men drag civilians into it.”
That was the part he did not like.
Waiting became a discipline.
Mornings were training. Afternoons were silence. Evenings were small domestic rituals that felt dangerous in how normal they were.
He corrected your stance less harshly now.
“Shift your weight,” he would say, stepping behind you, adjusting your shoulder with a light touch instead of snapping at you for being careless.
“You didn’t insult me today,” you pointed out once, lowering the rifle.
He shrugged. “You’re improving.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
He looked faintly amused. “Don’t get used to it.”
But you noticed. The sharp edges in his tone had softened. He no longer called you reckless every time you challenged him. No longer dismissed your ideas with a dry, cutting remark.
It unsettled you more than the insults ever had.
Inside the house, you moved around each other with a growing familiarity that neither of you acknowledged. You knew how he liked his coffee now, stronger than necessary. He knew you hated silence while eating and would eventually start talking about anything just to fill it.
“You used to be more annoying,” he said one evening while slicing vegetables.
“I can fix that.”
“I’m sure you can.”
There was a quiet undercurrent to your conversations now, a restraint neither of you named.
That night, long after you had gone to bed, Jungkook remained awake.
He sat at the small wooden table, the forest pressing close outside the windows, replaying the memory he had tried not to revisit.
The gasoline station.
The moment the door opened.
The way you had stepped out into open light without knowing.
He remembered the cold surge in his chest. Not fear for himself. That realization had come later.
At first he had told himself it was business. If the Colonel’s men caught you, it would trace back to him. It would complicate his operations. It would disrupt alliances.
That was what he had told himself while he knocked over the snack rack. While he pulled you into the car. While he kissed you with enough force to sell the lie.
But that night, sitting alone with the memory, he admitted something he had been pushing aside.
When he saw the men glance at you, his mind did not calculate consequences.
It panicked.
He remembered the weight of you on his lap. The way your hands had fisted into his shirt without hesitation. The faint tremor in your breath when you realized something was wrong.
He had thought, briefly and violently, If they take her, she goes back.
Back to a country that burned your home.
Back to people who erased your name.
The idea had tightened around his ribs until it was difficult to think.
He leaned back in his chair now, rubbing a hand over his face.
“This is ridiculous,” he muttered to himself.
It was responsibility. That was all. He did not like unfinished business. He did not like losing control of a situation.
It had nothing to do with you.
He stood, restless, pacing the small cabin before finally glancing toward the hallway where your door remained closed.
He did not knock.
The next evening, rain trapped you both indoors. The world outside blurred into gray streaks against the windows.
You brought the letter to the table without ceremony.
He had seen it once before. The night he found you. You were drenched, holding the letter like it was the only thing keeping you breathing. He had seen the ink before, but he’d never really looked at it.
Now you unfolded it slowly.
“This is the first time I’m letting someone look at it properly,” you said quietly.
He did not take that lightly.
The paper was older than he expected, the creases worn thin. The markings curved and intersected in patterns that looked meaningless at first glance.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, examining it carefully.
Now he traced the air above the page thoughtfully.
“These lines repeat,” he murmured. “See here. And here."
You shifted closer to see.
“I thought it was just decorative,” you admitted.
“It’s structured."
“You don’t even know what it is.”
“No,” he said honestly. “But it’s not careless.”
You watched him, studying his concentration.
“You really think she meant for me to understand this.”
“I think your mother knew you were capable of more than surviving,” he replied.
The words settled heavily between you.
He noticed a faint indentation near one corner, almost invisible unless the light hit it correctly.
“Have you ever held this over heat,” he asked.
“No. Why.”
He stood and adjusted the lamp, angling it closer. The warmth deepened the shadows across the paper. Slowly, faint lines began to emerge beneath the original ink.
Your pulse quickened.
“I never saw that,” you whispered.
“You weren’t meant to see it immediately.”
He did not know what the symbols meant yet. But he recognized intention.
You let out a small breath you had not realized you were holding.
“I was starting to think I imagined it because I needed there to be something left of her.”
He looked at you.
“You don’t survive what you survived by imagining things,” he said. “You survive by noticing what everyone else misses.”
You held his gaze longer than usual.
“Why are you helping me with this,” you asked softly.
He hesitated.
Because the thought of you going back there feels like losing something I haven’t even named yet.
Instead he said, “Because if this is a map, you shouldn’t follow it alone.”
You nodded slowly.
Outside, thunder rolled faintly across the forest.
You folded the letter carefully and slipped it back into its hiding place.
As you stood to leave, you paused.
“You were different after that night,” you said without looking at him.
He kept his expression neutral. “Different how.”
“You didn’t call me reckless once this week.”
He almost smiled. “Don’t make it a habit.”
“I’m serious.”
He considered his answer.
“I realized something,” he said finally.
“What."
“That if they had taken you, I wouldn’t have been able to fix it.”
You studied him.
“You fix everything.”
“Not everything.”
A quiet understanding passed between you.
You turned toward the hallway.
“Goodnight, Jungkook."
“Goodnight.”
He remained at the table long after you closed your door, staring at the faint impressions he had memorized on the page.
He told himself again that this was strategy. Protection. Obligation.
But when he finally went to bed, the image that followed him was not the letter.
It was you stepping out into open light, unaware of how close the world had come to taking you away.
The days stop feeling like days and start feeling like training disguised as living.
You wake before him now, not out of fear but habit. The forest outside the windows is still when you move through the house, quiet enough that even the floorboards seem to cooperate. You brew coffee without measuring, learning the sound it makes when it is strong enough for him. You stop flinching when his phone buzzes on the counter. You stop asking who is on the other end.
Jungkook notices everything and comments on almost nothing.
By the third morning, he stops telling you to stay inside when he steps out to take calls. By the fifth, he lets you sit at the table while he spreads out documents that used to disappear the moment you entered the room. By the end of the week, you are holding a pen, circling figures you do not fully understand yet, asking questions that would have earned you a sharp look before.
“Why that supplier,” you ask, tapping the paper.
“Their route is longer.”
“They don’t get inspected,” he answers without looking up.
“Because they pay or because they’re invisible.”
He finally lifts his head. “Both.”
You nod, filing it away. He watches you do it.
You start learning the shape of his work the same way you learned the forest. You learn which shipments are real and which are cover. You learn how he moves money without it ever feeling like it has moved. You learn how silence can be leverage and how being underestimated is a currency of its own.
“People think loud men are dangerous,” he tells you one afternoon while fixing a jammed lock. “They don’t see the quiet ones until it’s too late.”
You lean against the doorframe. “You’re not quiet.”
He smirks. “I am when it matters.”
Training changes too.
He no longer corrects you by grabbing your wrist and forcing it into place. He stands back now, watching, letting you fail once before speaking. When you miss a shot, he waits.
“Again,” he says calmly.
You adjust. Fire. Hit closer.
He nods once. “Better.”
It should not feel like praise. It does.
Later, when you struggle with a maneuver, he circles you slowly, eyes sharp but voice even.
“You’re anticipating the hit,” he says.
“Stop waiting for pain.”
You grit your teeth. “Easy for you to say.”
“No,” he replies. “It isn’t.”
That surprises you.
You start pushing back.
When he tells you to stay behind him during drills, you step to his side instead.
“If you go down,” you say, “I don’t plan on freezing.”
He studies you for a long moment. Then he steps aside without argument.
You cook together now, bumping elbows in the kitchen, arguing about seasoning. He pretends not to care but eats more when you add spice. You learn which scars are old and which he still avoids talking about simply by the way his body reacts when you brush past him.
Once, you catch him watching you clean your rifle with a precision that mirrors his own.
“You’re enjoying this too much,” he remarks.
You glance up. “You taught me.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to like it.”
You meet his gaze. “It does when it keeps me alive.”
Something shifts in his expression. Approval, maybe. Or recognition.
At night, conversations stretch longer. You sit across from him at the table, maps between you, his phone set aside for once.
“If this deal collapses,” you say, tracing a route, “won’t it expose the other network.”
He exhales softly. “You’re thinking three steps ahead now.”
“You told me to.”
“I didn’t expect you to listen this well.”
You smile faintly. “You underestimated me.”
He leans back in his chair. “I don’t do that anymore.”
The boldness creeps in quietly.
You interrupt him mid call when you recognize a name that should not be trusted. He pauses, looks at you, then changes the subject without explanation. After he hangs up, he says nothing. Neither do you. The trust settles between you like an unspoken agreement.
Later, as you clean up, you ask, “How did you know I was right.”
“I didn’t,” he answers. “But I knew you weren’t guessing.”
You stop walking. “You let me redirect a deal worth more than this house.”
“I let you protect us.”
The word lands heavy.
You do not call it love. You do not even call it attachment.
But you start standing closer to him without realizing it. You start meeting his eyes longer, not out of defiance but certainty. You argue like equals now, voices low, tension sharp but steady.
“You’re getting reckless,” he tells you one evening.
“You’re getting controlling,” you fire back.
A pause. He exhales, almost amused. “You would have apologized for that a month ago.”
“I would have meant it then.”
He watches you carefully. “And now.”
“Now I mean it.”
Silence stretches. Then he nods once. “Good.”
That night, as you lay awake listening to the forest breathe, you realize something else has changed.
You are no longer learning how to hide. You are learning how to stay.
And Jungkook, despite every instinct he has honed over years of survival, is letting you step deeper into a world he never planned to share.
The call comes on an afternoon that feels almost gentle. Light spills through the tall windows in a way that makes the dust look harmless. The forest outside hums with insects and wind, alive but unbothered. You are at the table sorting ammunition by caliber, a task Jungkook gave you weeks ago and never took back, when his phone begins to vibrate.
He looks at the screen once. That is how you know it matters.
He does not answer immediately. His thumb hovers, tension slipping into his posture so quietly you almost miss it. You keep your eyes on the table, pretending not to notice, pretending you are not listening for the change in his breathing. He steps away, voice low when he finally answers.
“Yeah.”
A pause. Longer than it should be. You hear only his side, but the air changes anyway.
“When,” he asks.
Another pause. His shoulders tighten, then ease, like something inside him gives up the fight too early.
“Ready,” he repeats. “You’re sure.”
He turns his back fully now, walking toward the window, as if distance might help him think.
“I’ll come get it,” he says, slower this time. “Not today.”
Silence again. Then, sharper.
“No, I said I’ll come.”
He ends the call without goodbye. For a moment, he does not move. He stands there with the phone in his hand, staring out at the trees like they might argue with him, like they might tell him what he is supposed to do next.
You clear your throat, gentle, careful not to spook whatever fragile truce exists between you lately.
“Everything okay.”
He turns too fast.
“Yes.”
It is immediate. Too immediate.
You tilt your head. “That didn’t sound like nothing.”
“It’s handled,” he replies, already moving back toward the table. He picks up one of the bullets you lined up, rolls it between his fingers, sets it down again in the wrong place. You notice.
“Handled how,” you ask.
He meets your eyes, and for a split second something unreadable flickers there. Conflict. Hesitation. A thought he does not want to finish.
“It just is,” he says.
You wait for more. It does not come.
That night, you cook together, shoulder to shoulder, the rhythm easy. He passes you a knife without looking. You pass him the salt. It feels like progress. It feels earned.
When you sit down to eat, you smile at him without realizing it. He does not smile back.
Instead, he watches you like he is memorizing the way you hold your fork, the way you tuck your foot under the chair. Like this moment might be a last draft of something.
“Did something change,” you ask quietly.
“No,” he says.
You believe him. That is the part that will hurt later.
The days after feel almost normal. You train in the mornings. You argue about routes in the afternoons. At night, you sit on opposite ends of the couch, close enough to feel each other shift. He teaches you how to read people faster than words ever could.
“Listen to what they avoid,” he says.
“That’s where the truth is."
You take that lesson to heart.
When he starts leaving the room to take calls again, you tell yourself it is business. When he grows quieter, you tell yourself it is pressure. When he stops correcting your mistakes out loud and only watches, you tell yourself it means he trusts you now.
One evening, as the sun sinks low and turns the forest copper, you say it out loud for the first time.
“I think we’re okay here.”
He looks up from his phone. “Okay.”
“I mean,” you add, choosing your words carefully, “we could stay longer. The men haven’t come close. You said yourself this place doesn’t exist on any map.”
He nods. “I said that.”
“So,” you continue, heart steady, hopeful, “maybe this is it for now.”
He studies you, like he is weighing a cost only he can see.
“You don’t want to leave,” he says.
It is not a question.
You shake your head. “Not if I don’t have to.”
Something tightens behind his eyes.
“You trust me,” he says quietly.
“Yes,” you answer without hesitation.
That is the moment he looks away.
Later that night, you wake to the sound of him moving through the house. Careful. Like someone trying not to wake the thing they are about to break. You do not follow him. You do not listen at doors. You trust him.
In the dark, he sits alone at the table with his phone in his hand, staring at the message the forger sent hours ago.
Passport ready. Route secured. Clean exit.
He thinks of your laugh earlier, surprised and unguarded. He thinks of the way you stand your ground now, chin lifted, eyes sharp. He tells himself this is safety. He tells himself this is mercy. He does not tell himself the truth.
The next morning, you wake lighter, unaware that a decision has already been made without you in the room. You stretch, dress, step outside to train, confident in the future you believe you are building together.
And somewhere between the trees and the house, a quiet line is drawn. The house has learned your rhythms by now. The way the floorboard near the sink creaks if you step too close to the edge. The way the wind slips through the trees at night and presses against the windows like it wants something. Tonight, even that familiar quiet feels wrong. Too alert. As if the walls themselves are listening.
Jungkook is in the shower when it begins. You are not looking for anything. That is the truth. You are wiping the table, moving the knife back into its place, folding the blanket he left on the chair. His phone lights up. You do not touch it. You only glance at the screen.
The vibration stops. Then comes another message. And another. Your stomach tightens, slow and unpleasant.
You tell yourself not to look. You tell yourself this is none of your business. That trust is built on restraint. That you are not the girl who survives by stealing glances anymore. Then the screen lights up again.
READY.
JUST NEED PICKUP WINDOW.
Your hand freezes around the cloth. Pickup window.
Your mind tries to soften it, tries to turn it into something harmless. Supplies. Equipment. Business. Jungkook has a thousand shadows following him. This could be any one of them.
But the words sit wrong. Too specific. Too final.
You step back as if the phone has burned you. The water in the bathroom shuts off. Pipes knock softly in the walls. Time shortens. You move away from the table, heart pounding now, and your foot catches the edge of something near the couch. A folder. Thin. Black. Not hidden, exactly. Just placed where no one would notice unless they were already uneasy.
You kneel and open it. Maps. Routes marked in red. Dates circled. Notes written in Jungkook’s sharp handwriting, clipped and efficient, like feelings were never invited to the page.
And then you see it. Your name. Not fully filled out yet, but enough. Birthplace. A destination stamped at the top. A different country. A clean exit. Your fingers tremble as you turn the page.
Transfer arranged.
Timing dependent on heat level.
No discussion. Safer that way.
No discussion. Your chest tightens, not with tears but with a quiet, devastating clarity. He plans to sell you.
Your first instinct is panic. The second is anger. The third is worse. It is the memory of every promise you thought lived between silences. The way he stopped locking his door. The way he taught you how to stand your ground, how to shoot, how to look like you belonged anywhere. All of it folding into this.
You close the folder carefully. Too carefully. Like it might hear you. You put it back exactly where it was.
The bathroom door opens. Steam spills into the hallway. Jungkook steps out, towel around his neck, hair damp, expression neutral. He looks at you and pauses.
“You okay?” he asks.
You nod. Your voice surprises you with how calm it sounds. “Yeah. Just tired.”
He studies you for a second longer than usual. Something in his eyes sharpens, like he senses a shift he cannot name.
“Go to bed,” he says. “I’ll lock up.”
You do. You lie in the dark, staring at the ceiling, listening to his footsteps move through the house. You count them. The way you once counted gunshots. The way you once counted days until people vanished.
So this is what betrayal feels like, you think. Just quiet planning done without you. He does not know you know. You do not confront him. That choice settles inside you quietly, like a stone dropped into deep water that never resurfaces.
Instead, you wake earlier. Before the light reaches the windows, before the forest shakes itself awake, you slip out of bed and move through the house with a care that feels practiced, almost instinctive. The cold floor grounds you. The weight of the knife at your side feels familiar now. Comforting, in a way that scares you a little.
Outside, the air is sharp. Damp earth. Pine. Metal from the targets nailed to the trees. You train harder than before. Your hands ache by the third round, fingers raw where the grip bites back, but you do not stop. You fire again. And again. The recoil no longer surprises you. The sound no longer rattles your bones. You adjust your stance the way he taught you, shoulders squared, feet planted, body refusing to fold. This is what survival looks like when hope dies quietly, you think.
By the time Jungkook comes out, coffee steaming in his hand, you have already emptied a magazine. He watches you for a long moment without speaking.
“You’re up early,” he says.
You shrug, lowering the gun. “Couldn’t sleep.”
He nods, like he understands something he absolutely does not. “Don’t overdo it.”
You almost laugh.
Instead, you reload.
The days that follow arrange themselves into a strange, careful performance. You cook with him. You listen when he talks about shipments, about buildings that are no longer safe, about people who are watching too closely. You ask questions, the right ones, the kind he likes. Smart. Calm. Useful.
You become useful.
At night, when he spreads blueprints across the table, you lean over his shoulder and study the lines, memorizing routes, entrances, exits. You watch how his eyes move, how his jaw tightens when something does not add up, how his fingers hover over certain places longer than others.
“You’re staring,” he says once, not unkindly.
“I’m learning,” you reply.
He glances at you, then back at the papers. “You don’t need to learn this.”
You smile. “I want to.”
He does not argue. That should have reassured you. Instead, it feels like permission given too easily.
At night, when he thinks you are asleep, you listen to him pace. You hear the low murmur of phone calls cut short. You catch fragments of words drifting down the hallway. Timing. Risk. Clean.
You fill in the rest yourself.
He is selling you.
You remember that day too clearly.
A criminal will always stay a criminal, you tell yourself.
Even when he smiles like a man trying to be better.
The thought hurts more than you expect.
Because somewhere between shared meals and shared silence, between him correcting your stance with a touch to your elbow and handing you a plate without asking if you are hungry, you had begun to imagine something else. Something softer. Something reckless.
You hate yourself for that.
You hate him more.
Still, you act normal.
You laugh at the right moments. You argue with him over nothing. You complain about the coffee being too bitter. You tease him when he checks the locks twice. You let your shoulder brush his when you pass in the hallway and ignore the way his breath changes.
Inside, you are counting.
Routes through the forest. The distance to the river. How long it would take to disappear if you had to. What you would do if he tried to force you into a car.
One evening, as the sun drops low and the sky bleeds orange through the trees, he hands you a towel after training.
“You’re improving,” he says, like it costs him something to admit.
You meet his gaze, hold it longer than you used to. “You trained me well.”
Something flickers across his face. Pride, maybe. Or regret.
“That wasn’t the plan,” he says quietly.
You dry your hands, folding the towel with care. “Plans change.”
He studies you then, like he senses the ground shifting beneath him.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “They do.”
That night, he sits alone at the table long after you have gone to bed, the forger’s message burning a hole in his pocket. He tells himself he is being careful. He tells himself this is mercy. He tells himself letting you stay would be cruel.
What he does not tell himself is the truth.
That the thought of you leaving feels like losing something he did not realize he had already claimed.
You lie awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to the forest breathe.
The girl who trusted him blindly is gone.
What remains is someone sharper. Someone quieter. Someone who will not be led anywhere again.
The voice reaches you in fragments first.
Not the words. The tone.
That low, steady cadence Jungkook uses when he is already three steps ahead of whoever he is speaking to. The one he never uses with you. The one meant for deals that end cleanly and people who disappear quietly.
“…tomorrow night,” he says. “Everything will be ready.”
Your body reacts before your mind does. Your hand tightens against the doorframe, knuckles whitening as if the wood might steady you. The air in the hallway feels thinner, heavier, like the house itself is holding its breath.
You lean closer.
“I don’t want complications,” the voice on the phone replies.
Jungkook exhales slowly. “There won’t be.”
That is when it happens.
A sharp, sinking certainty settling into your chest, cold and absolute.
Of course.
Of course this is how it ends.
You step back quietly, every movement controlled, trained. The gun comes up from where you hid it beneath the loose board near the stairs. The weight of it is familiar now. Comforting in a way that makes you hate yourself for how natural it feels.
When the door opens, he steps out mid call.
You are already there.
The gun is raised. Both hands steady. Your eyes do not leave his face.
“End the call,” you say.
He freezes.
For a split second, something unguarded flashes across his expression. Shock. Fear. And something deeper that looks almost like regret.
“Hey,” he says softly. “Put it down.”
You laugh. It sounds wrong even to your own ears. “You don’t get to say that.”
He lowers the phone slowly, eyes never leaving you. “You heard something out of context.”
“I heard you selling me,” you snap. “Again.”
His jaw tightens. “I never sold you. That’s not what this is.”
“Then what is it,” you shout. “Because it sounds a lot like betrayal.”
He takes a step closer. You raise the gun higher.
“Don’t,” you warn. “I won’t miss.”
“I know,” he says quietly. “That’s what scares me.”
Something inside you twists at that. Anger sharpens it.
“You trained me,” you say. “You taught me to survive. And now you’re done with me.”
“That’s not true.”
“You don’t get to decide what’s true for me,” you spit. “Not after everything.
He sighs, slow and heavy, like he is carrying too much. “You don’t understand what I’m trying to do.”
“I understand perfectly,” you say. “You’re cleaning up loose ends.”
The silence stretches, thick and vibrating.
Then his hand moves.
He reaches for the gun tucked at his waist.
You mirror him instantly.
Now both guns are raised.
The room feels smaller. The walls closer. The distance between you measured in inches and choices.
“This doesn’t have to end like this,” he says.
“It already has.”
“You think I’m going to sell you?” he says, his voice breaking just slightly. “After everything?”
“You already did once,” you say. “I trusted you then too.”
His eyes darken. “I fixed it.”
“You don’t get credit for undoing your own crime.”
He steps sideways. You track him with the barrel.
“Don’t,” you warn again.
“Listen to me.”
“No,” you shout. “I listened enough.”
The first shot fires into the ceiling. Wood splinters rain down. The sound is deafening, ripping through the house and out into the forest.
He reacts instantly, lunging forward. Your arms collide. The guns knock aside. Another shot cracks through the wall, sending bark and dust flying.
You fight like your life depends on it.
Because it does.
He grabs your wrist. You knee his stomach. He stumbles but doesn’t fall. He catches you around the waist, slams you into the table enough to rattle everything on it.
“You’re not thinking,” he growls.
“I am,” you scream back. “For the first time.”
You twist free, snatch your gun again, swing it up. He does the same.
For a heartbeat, you stand there, guns pointed straight at each other’s hearts.
Your hands are steady. Your eyes burn.
“I trusted you,” you say quietly. “That was my mistake.”
Pain flickers across his face. “You still trust me.”
“No,” you whisper. “I trusted the version of you that doesn’t exist.”
He lowers his gun just slightly. “Please.”
That word nearly breaks you.
Nearly.
You fire again, not at him, but close enough to send the message. He flinches, lunges, and this time he reaches you.
He slams you into the wall, pins your wrists above your head, his body heavy and unyielding. His face is inches from yours. You can see the panic in his eyes now. Real. Raw.
“Stop fighting me,” he says. “You’re not my enemy.”
“You made yourself one,” you hiss.
You slam your knee into his thigh, then twist hard. He loses balance for a second.
It is enough.
You break free and run.
Out the door. Into the night. Into the forest that smells like rain and freedom and danger all at once.
Behind you, he shouts your name.
You do not turn.
You do not slow.
Branches tear at your skin. The ground slips beneath your feet. Your lungs scream. Your heart feels like it might tear itself apart.
Not from fear.
From betrayal.
From the awful truth that part of you still wants him to follow.
Back at the house, Jungkook stands frozen, gun hanging uselessly at his side, staring into the darkness where you vanished.
For the first time in a long time, every plan he has ever made feels meaningless.
Because the one thing he never planned for is already gone.
And when he finally moves, it is not as a strategist.
It is as a man who is about to lose everything.
Chapter Seven
A/N: I don’t usually write notes like this, but I feel like I owe you honesty. I’m truly sorry for the delay. The past few days have been overwhelming. I’ve been struggling with my broken phone, and even transferring Chapter 6 from Ko-fi to Tumblr became a challenge. I’m just grateful it’s finally up.
What really broke my heart, though, was losing the entire Chapter 7 of Love Me, Break Me. Days of writing. Late nights. Sleeping at dawn just to make sure I could update for you. And then, in one moment, it was gone. No backup. No copy. I can’t fully explain how devastating that felt. I cried. I felt defeated.
I’m currently rewriting it from scratch, even though it’s exhausting and discouraging. My phone still hasn’t been repaired, so I’m working on an old device that lags and crashes constantly. It makes everything harder, but I don’t want to give up on this story, or on you.
Chapter 7 will be posted on Ko-fi on Sunday, February 22, and here on Tumblr on February 26. I just ask for a little more patience and understanding while I try to fix everything and get back on track.
Thank you for staying with me, even when things fall apart behind the scenes. Your support means more than you know, especially right now. 🤍
After discovering her brother's secret life as the leader of an underground racing crew, Y/N is pulled into a world of speed, danger, and rivalry. That's where she meets Jeon Jungkook - the fearless leader of the opposing crew, the one her brother can't stand, and the last person she should ever get close to. But Jungkook is impossible to ignore. And Y/N is impossible for him to forget. Because in a world where every choice could end in flames...falling for each other might be the most dangerous race of all.
pairing: racer!jk x model!reader
warnings: brother's enemy, somewhat forbidden love, smut, angst, fluff, obsession, jealousy, possessiveness, masturbation, unprotected sex, sexting, bodily fluids, rough sex, multiple positions, public sex, degradation kink, dirty talk, sexual tension, sexual teasing, smoking, violence, illegal activities, mentions of blood, control
sha’s note: so…this is kinda my first series here on tumblr. i got inspired to write this after relistening to ohmami by chase atlantic (i love ca to death) and also afterrewatching culpa mia hehe. i’m hella scared to see how this turns out cus tumblr is filled with incredible writers and i’m a newbie. please be nice to me 🥹🙏
“…And then ‘What’s in My Bag’ with Vogue, followed by the Victoria’s Secret show in New York first thing next month.”
Mr. Solin’s voice bounced cleanly off the white corridor walls as he walked, brisk and purposeful, shoes clicking like a metronome. Y/N followed a half step behind him, posture straight out of muscle memory rather than energy. Her team trailed after them, a loose cluster trying—and failing—to match his pace. Jin nearly clipped someone’s heel.
“Good.” Mr. Solin stopped abruptly and turned, clapping his hands once. The sound cracked through the hall. Y/n smiled on cue. Soft, sweet, just enough teeth. The kind of smile that had gotten her booked and forgiven.
“So glad to have you back, Ms. Y/n.” He dipped his head briefly before pivoting and striding toward his office, already halfway gone. That was the signal. The team began to scatter—assistants peeling off, stylists murmuring to one another, phones already back in hands. The hallway emptied in seconds until it was just Jin and Y/n, standing in the leftover silence.
Her phone buzzed. She slipped it from her side pocket without thinking. Yoongi.
Not that she’d been expecting anyone else.
Jin noticed anyway.
“Y/n—” he started, then sighed. “Three interviews. Two fashion events. And a Victoria’s Secret runway?” He counted them off with his fingers like he was trying to convince himself he’d misheard.
“That’s like…all in two weeks till next month,” he added, worry sharpening his voice. “Isn’t that a little much?”
Y/n barely registered him, thumbs already moving.
“Y/n.”
“Huh?” She glanced up. Blinked. “What—yeah. No, it’s fine.” She waved him off vaguely, attention drifting straight back to the screen.
“I’ve…done worse,” she added, like an afterthought and tad bit distracted. “This shouldn’t be a problem.”
Jin clicked his tongue, unconvinced. He jabbed a finger toward the floor, stiff and irritated. “Yeah, but you’re traveling a lot this time. Different time zones, long flights—if you suddenly start complaining you’re jet-lagged, I swear, Y/n, I’m not go—”
“Jin.”
She finally looked at him properly. Chin lifted. Palm raised. Calm, but firm. “I need this,” she said. Then, quieter, more honest: “I’m too free.”
That shut him up. Jin exhaled slowly, shoulders slumping as the fight drained out of him. He hated that sentence. Hated how true it sounded.
Her phone buzzed again.
“Yoongi’s here,” Y/n said, already stepping back. She combed her fingers through her hair, smoothing it down out of habit. “I gotta go.”
“Y/n—”
“See ya!”
She was already walking away, heels striking the floor in clean, confident clicks. She didn’t look back. Her eyes stayed glued to her phone, thumbs flying as the hallway swallowed her footsteps whole.
Outside, the day hit her all at once—light too bright, air too sharp. Yoongi leaned against his car, arms crossed, expression carved into mild annoyance. The moment he spotted her, he straightened.
“Took you long enough,” he muttered, opening the passenger door. “You trying to move back in there or what?”
She slid into the seat, sighing as soon as the door shut. “Missed you too.”
He snorted, starting the engine after settling in on the other side. “You eat?”
“Barely.”
“Figures.” He pulled out smoothly. “We’re grabbing dinner. Hoseok, Jimin and Marquise will be there.”
Y/n groaned, dropping her head back against the seat. “I look like shit.”
She smiled, small and tired, watching the city blur past the window as work—real work—settled back onto her shoulders like something familiar. Heavy. Necessary.
The car smelled like leather and iced coffee. Yoongi drove one-handed, elbow resting against the door, the other tapping the steering wheel absentmindedly as traffic crawled.
Y/n sat in the passenger seat, legs crossed, phone balanced on her thigh. Her calendar was open—blocks of color stacked too close together, like someone had played Tetris a little too aggressively with her life.
“So,” Yoongi said, eyes still on the road. “You free Thursday?”
She hummed, distracted, thumb scrolling. “Mm…define free.”
“Dad’s gonna be gone on a short business trip,” he said. “He thought it’d be good for us to actually hang out. You know. Sibling time. Like the old days, except we’re older and more tired.”
Y/n smiled faintly. “You’re always tired.”
“Occupational hazard. I’m going to be running a goddamn company soon, okay?”
“You’re already running an illegal racing gang. Shouldn’t get harder than that…”
He cleared his throat. “I was thinking maybe we do something big. Four days. Brazil?”
That finally got her attention. She paused, blinking. “Brazil?”
“Yeah,” he shrugged. “We’ve never been. Thought it’d be…nice. Chill at the beach, have some street food, no work emails—”
“I’ll be in Japan,” she said gently, already shaking her head. Her thumb kept moving. “And then L.A. right after.”
Yoongi glanced at her, then back at the road. “Thursday?”
“Thursday and Friday,” she confirmed. “Tokyo first. Red eye to L.A. after.”
He let out a quiet breath through his nose. “Jesus.”
Y/n turned her head toward him. “What?”
“Nothing,” he said. Then, after a beat, “That’s…a lot.”
She shrugged, nonchalant on the surface. “It’s fine.”
They stopped at a red light. The city reflected off the windshield—billboards—some of Y/n’s—, brake lights, movement everywhere. Yoongi drummed his fingers once, then twice.
“So,” he said slowly. “You ended your break early.” Her thumb stilled. The light turned green. He drove on. “I thought you said six months,” he continued. “You barely made it past half.”
Y/n stared at her screen, but she wasn’t really seeing it anymore. The calendar blurred together—dates, flights, fittings, meetings.
“Yeah,” she said. “Plans change.”
“Mm.” Yoongi nodded. “So what’s the reason.”
She didn’t respond. He waited. He was good at that—waiting people out without making it obvious. He’d always been this quiet, observant, and annoyingly perceptive.
After a few seconds, he spoke again, softer this time. “Why’d you come back to work early?”
Y/n inhaled, exhaled. Her fingers tightened around her phone. Traffic slowed again. She didn’t answer.
Yoongi sighed, almost to himself. “Is it… that—”
“No,” she cut in quickly, too quickly. Her head snapped up, eyes forward. “It’s not that.”
He glanced at her, eyebrow raised but expression neutral. “I didn’t even say anything yet.”
She swallowed. Her jaw tightened.
“I just…” Y/n leaned back against the seat, phone finally locking with a dull click. “The break was too long.”
“That’s it?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
He didn’t push. Didn’t nod either. Just hummed quietly, like he was filing the answer away somewhere for later.
“You’ve never been bad at resting,” Yoongi said after a moment. “You’re bad at running.”
She scoffed softly. “Wow. Thanks, Dr. Min.”
“Anytime.” He smirked, then sobered. “Just saying. People don’t usually drown themselves in work unless they’re trying not to think.”
Y/n looked out the window now, watching the city pass. Her reflection stared back at her faintly—perfect hair, perfect makeup, eyes a little too alert.
“Well,” she said lightly, forcing it, “good thing thinking’s overrated.” Yoongi didn’t laugh.
The car rolled on, quiet settling between them—not uncomfortable, just heavy. Familiar. He reached over at the next stoplight and flicked her forehead.
“Ow,” she muttered.
“Thursday’s still open if you cancel Japan,” he said. “Brazil’s not going anywhere.”
She smiled, small but real this time. “We’ll see.”
And that was the closest thing to an answer either of them got.
🏎️. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ .
The waiter guided the siblings to their awaited table tucked into the far end of the restaurant, where—just like Yoongi had promised—Jimin, Hoseok, and Marquise were already sprawled out and waiting.
The place was predictably high-end. White tablecloths crisp enough to blind someone, low golden lighting, waiters in black-and-white uniforms balancing absurdly large circular trays against their shoulders like it was second nature. Soft jazz floated through the space, stitched together with the low hum of rich people gossiping, forks scraping porcelain, wine glasses chiming every now and then. Not unfamiliar territory for the Min siblings. If anything, it felt automatic.
The waiter bowed slightly, one arm extended toward the three already seated as if presenting them. It was a round table, wrapped with built-in velvet seating that curved along the wall, intimate in a way that made conversations feel closer than intended.
Yoongi slid in first, Y/n settling opposite him at the end of the curve. Marquise next to her, then Jimin, and Hoseok took smack centre, long legs stretching out comfortably like he owned the place.
“Finally you guys are here,” Jimin said immediately, eyes wide as he leaned back in his chair, dramatic as ever. “I haven’t eaten shit since this morning.”
“Yeah—well,” Hoseok laughed, slapping Jimin’s shoulder, “good thing it was Yoongi’s idea to have a late lunch. If it weren’t for him, we’d be eating kimbap outside a Family Mart right now.”
Jimin shot him a sharp glare. “I would’ve been fine with that.”
Yoongi chuckled, shrugging as he leaned back against the velvet. “You say that now, but five minutes in you’d be crying about stale onigiri.”
“So,” she said, leaning forward with both palms pressed against the edge of the table, eyes flicking to Yoongi. “You’re really paying for lunch today?”
Yoongi raised a brow. “Why wouldn’t I?”
Marquise grinned. “Nothing. Just wanted to hear you say it.” She nodded once. “Richie Rich...”
“Don’t get used to it,” Yoongi replied dryly. “This is just a one-time thing.”
Menus were passed around, though no one really looked at them for long. Plates were ordered with reckless confidence—at least ten dishes for five people—Yoongi barely blinking as he confirmed everything. Soon enough, the table blended into the restaurant’s hum, laughter and overlapping voices folding into one another.
“No—she literally backed up and fucking crashed her car into theirs,” Jimin wheezed, laughing so hard his shoulders shook. He leaned halfway onto Yoongi, eyes squeezed shut. “Like—no hesitation.”
“It was my first time attending a race,” Marquise muttered, leaning toward Y/n but still loud enough for everyone to hear. “Don’t mind him.” She rolled her eyes at Jimin. “I was nervous.”
“Nervous my ass,” Hoseok snorted, pointing at her. “Mar, you’re lucky it wasn’t Jungkook’s car. He would’ve rammed you straight into the barrier.”
The name landed heavier than it should’ve. Y/n’s breath caught—just barely—but enough.
“No, he wouldn’t,” Jimin added easily, already spiraling. “Because he literally asked her out that night.”
Laughter erupted again, Hoseok nearly choking on air, Marquise groaning into her hands.
To anyone else, it was harmless. A dumb story. A name tossed around too casually like in a game of basketball. To Y/n, it felt like the conversation had veered off the road entirely. She reached up, scratching lightly at the back of her scalp, right where her neck met her hairline—a nervous habit she didn’t even register anymore. Her gaze dropped to the table, then to the stem of her water glass, fingers circling it once.
“Y—Y/n—hah!” Hoseok tried, still laughing, pointing at her with his fork. “Don’t tell me you don’t find that funny!”
She lifted her head a beat too late, lips pulling into a smile that felt more like she was stretching muscles she hadn’t used in a while. She shifted in her seat, subtly closer to Marquise. That was when Yoongi noticed. He frowned slightly, eyes narrowing just a touch as his gaze lingered on her longer than usual.
“Uh—well—”
“Here’s your beef Wellington, foie gras, Kobe beef,” the waiter interrupted smoothly, placing down plates one by one like a practiced ritual. “And the cacio e pepe and nonettes. I’ll be right back with your wine.”
The interruption landed perfectly.
The waiter disappeared, taking Hoseok’s unfinished sentence with him. Plates were pulled closer. Jimin stared down at the spread like it had personally offended him.
“Shit,” he muttered. “So this is what rich people eat.”
“You’re welcome,” Yoongi said dryly, already reaching for his cutlery.
As the conversation shifted—work gossip, race schedules, Hoseok ranting about some karen at his motor shop—Yoongi stayed quieter than usual, eyes flicking back to Y/n every now and then. She laughed when she was supposed to. Nodded at the right moments. Ate carefully, like food was an afterthought.
Their food slowly disappeared into their tummies, leaving behind only streaks of sauce and oil smeared across white porcelain. Forks rested lazily at the edge of plates now, conversations softer, fuller — the comfortable kind that came after good food. The wine bottles had noticeably lightened too, one already pushed aside like it had served its purpose.
Y/n was relieved the conversation never circled back to him. Instead, it drifted through stories she’d missed — inside jokes, half-finished sentences, moments from Yoongi’s life that had existed parallel to hers without ever intersecting. She found herself loosening up without realizing it, shoulders no longer tight, laughter coming easier. It felt…nice.
She was genuinely happy she’d finally gotten to know Yoongi’s friends after years of knowing about them but never really knowing them. There was something grounding about seeing Yoongi exist in this version of his life, one that didn’t feel so secret anymore.
“Y/n,” Marquise tilted her head, a lazy side-smile on her lips as she shook a box of cigarettes between her slender fingers. “Smoke a cig with me?”
Y/n blinked once, then twice — her lips curling slowly as she nodded. “Yeah—”
“Hey.”
Both their heads snapped toward Yoongi. He leaned forward, elbow planted on the table, one finger pointed accusingly at Marquise. “She’s not smoking shit with anyone.”
Marquise stared at him for a beat before scoffing. “Fuck off, Min. Your sister’s a grown adult.” She nodded emphatically with each word. “Let her live.”
Yoongi opened his mouth, then closed it, muttering something under his breath as Hoseok laughed into his glass. The girls didn’t wait around. They slipped out of the restaurant, the warm glow of the interior giving way to the cool night air outside. The city had fully settled into evening — couples walking hand in hand, clusters of friends laughing too loudly as they headed toward clubs, someone across the street already leaning against a pole like the world was spinning faster than expected.
The sharp click of Y/n and Marquise’s heels echoed against the pavement before they settled beside the brick wall of the restaurant. Marquise leaned back first, already pulling a cigarette from the box and slipping it between her lips. Her fingers flicked the lighter, flame dancing briefly before catching. She took a deep huff, shoulders relaxing almost instantly. Y/n watched her quietly. Marquise extended her hand, offering a cigarette. Y/n took it without hesitation.
It wasn’t her first time smoking. She’d done it enough to know the rhythm — the inhale, the pause, the slow release. She mirrored Marquise’s movements, the tip glowing softly before smoke spilled from her lips.
“You okay?” Marquise asked, softer now. One arm folded across her stomach, the other propped against her elbow as she studied Y/n.
Y/n took another puff, exhaling slowly. “Yeah,” she said after a beat. “I’m good.”
Marquise hummed, unconvinced. “You mentioned earlier you got back to work early. Why?” She pulled the cigarette back between her lips, eyes flicking up to the dark sky.
“Nothing,” Y/n shrugged, though it felt heavier than she meant it to. “Break was too long.” Their smoke collided briefly in the air. Y/n waved a hand, pushing it aside.
Marquise watched her closely before asking, “Does it have to do with Jungkook?”
Y/n’s gaze snapped toward her, brows pulling together sharply. “No—what? Why does everyone think that…?”
“Because that shit show you two pulled that Friday…wasn’t nothing,” Marquise replied easily, lips tugging into a knowing smile.
Y/n took another puff, longer this time. She stared straight ahead, not really interested in carrying the conversation forward. The silence stretched. Marquise’s smile faded just a little.
“There’s nothing wrong, you know…” she said quietly, legs shifting as she crossed her ankles. “With…liking him.”
“Woah—I did not…say anything about liking him.” Y/n scoffed dryly, lifting the hand holding her cigarette like she needed to physically stop that thought from existing.
Marquise laughed. “Not that kind of like.” She shook her head. “I meant just as a person.” A pause, then a shrug. “I should be the one embarrassed. I fucked him with no feelings.” She chuckled lightly, taking another drag.
Y/n stared at her. She knew there was nothing inherently wrong with liking someone as a person. But there were a million reasons why liking him — in any capacity — felt like a bad idea.
He’d made her feel stupid. Small. Like she’d imagined things that were never there to begin with. He’d given her attention that lingered just long enough to be missed, pulled her in just enough to make her crave more.
Nobody likes that.
“I don’t like him at all,” Y/n said firmly. Smoke slipped from her mouth as she spoke.
Marquise studied her, eyes softening — not judgmental, not teasing this time. Just… observant.
“Okay,” she said gently, tapping ash onto the pavement. “Then I’ll believe you.”
She leaned back against the wall again, letting the night swallow the conversation for now. “Just don’t let me catch you in his arms—” she said calmly, almost teasing, “—if you’re just gonna lie to me like that.”
She took another drag, then softened — lips lifting into something gentler as she looked at Y/n. Not accusatory. Comforting.
Y/n huffed out a quiet breath, eyes dropping to the pavement. “You won’t,” she muttered. “Promise.”
Marquise watched her for a moment longer, then nudged her shoulder lightly with her own. “Good. Because I don’t like seeing girls pretend they’re fine when they’re not.”
Y/n let out a breathy laugh, the kind that barely counted. She flicked ash away, cigarette burning down faster than she’d realized.
“I am fine,” she said, though her voice lacked conviction.
“Mm,” Marquise hummed. “Sure you are.”
They stood there in companionable silence, the city filling in the gaps — cars passing, distant laughter, music leaking faintly from somewhere down the street. Y/n finally crushed the cigarette under her heel, twisting it until the glow died out. Marquise followed suit a second later.
“C’mon,” she said, pushing off the wall. “Before your brother comes out here and lectures me about corrupting you.” Y/n smiled — small, but real this time — and nodded, turning back toward the restaurant doors.
Whatever she was running from, it wasn’t catching up to her just yet.
🏎️. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ .
Y/n padded into the kitchen barefoot, the mansion dim except for the bluish glow bleeding in from the living room. The fridge light flicked on with a soft hum as she reached in, fingers curling around a cold bottle of water. Her head was still foggy, the kind of tired that didn’t come from lack of sleep but from thinking too much.
Behind her, the TV murmured—some late-night talk show channel Yoongi liked to leave on for background noise. He sat on the couch, laptop balanced on his knees, glasses slipping slightly down his nose. From the way his fingers moved across the keyboard, he wasn’t really watching the screen at all.
“Ms Y/n.” Y/n turned. Yeongmi stood in the hallway, holding something up with two fingers like it might bite her.
A black hoodie.
Her stomach dropped before her brain could catch up. It was unmistakable. Oversized. Worn soft at the cuffs. The faintest crease at the bottom. Even from across the kitchen, Y/n knew exactly what it was.
Yeongmi tilted her head. “Is this yours?”
Y/n didn’t answer right away. She was at loss for words. Didn’t really know why.
“I found it hanging on the back of your door,” Yeongmi continued. “I thought it was odd. You haven’t shopped lately, right? And I didn’t see any PR packages come in. I’ve never seen this hoodie before.”
Yoongi glanced up. His eyes flicked from the hoodie to Y/n’s face, then back again. He leaned back into the couch slightly, posture shifting—subtle, but she caught it.
“It’s…my friend’s,” Y/n said finally. Too quickly. She hated that. “I borrowed it.”
Yeongmi hummed, unconvinced but not pressing. “I figured. I washed it already,” she said, stepping closer and passing it to Y/n. “Used your favorite detergent. The one that smells like coconut.”
The fabric was warm. Still holding a trace of the laundry room heat, soft and clean and wrong in her hands. The scent hit her immediately—bright, familiar, clinging to something that absolutely smelt like it belongs in this mansion. It smelt like her now.
His hoodie. Smells like her.
“Thanks,” Y/n muttered.
Yeongmi smiled, oblivious. She bowed and then disappeared back down the hall, her slippers shuffling softly against the floor. The silence that followed was heavier than before.
Y/n stared at the hoodie, thumb rubbing absently over the seam near the pocket. Her grip tightened without her meaning to. For a split second, an image flashed—him leaning against the car door, leather jacket hiding his tattoos like it had always been part of him.
“Wow,” Yoongi said dryly. She flinched.
“You still hadn’t gotten rid of it?” he asked, eyes back on his laptop but jaw tight. His tone wasn’t loud. Just pathetic.
Y/n swallowed. “Uh…no.” She turned toward him, forcing a shrug as she bounced the hoodie once in her hand, like it was nothing. Like it didn’t weigh a fucking ton. “He wants it back. I’ll just get Marquise to return it.”
Yoongi’s fingers paused on the keyboard “Right,” he said slowly. “Like she’d want to be involved with him again.” He looked up at her this time, really looked. “You’ve had weeks, Y/n.”
“I know.”
“And you didn’t—”
“I said I know.” Her voice came out sharper than intended. She exhaled and dragged a hand through her hair. “It’s just a hoodie, Yoongi.”
She leaned against the counter, hoodie folded over her forearm now, eyes fixed on the marble surface. “He asked for it back. That should be enough.”
“Did he?” Yoongi asked. It sounded more like a statement more than a question, like he wasn’t convinced.
Y/n didn’t answer. Instead, she folded the hoodie more neatly than required. Once. Twice. Each movement precise, careful. Like she was packing away something fragile.
Yoongi sighed. “You know, you don’t have to pretend with me.”
“I’m not pretending.”
“You are,” he said gently. “You ended a six-month break early. You’re snapping at everyone. And now you’re standing in the kitchen at midnight holding onto my enemy’s hoodie like it’s evidence.”
She laughed under her breath. “Jesus. You make it sound pathetic.”
“No, I’m just stating the fact.”
Y/n lifted her head, meeting his gaze. For a moment, something cracked—just slightly. But she masked it fast.
“I’ll return it,” she said firmly. “Tomorrow. Or…whenever. Through Marquise. Done.”
Yoongi studied her, then nodded once. “Okay.” He reopened his laptop. But as Y/n turned toward her room, hoodie tucked against her side, she knew—deep down—that returning it was never going to be that simple.
“No—what do you mean you can’t help me return it?” Y/n’s voice pitched higher despite herself.
On the other end, Marquise laughed, completely unbothered. “Babes. As much as I love you, I’m not in touch with him.”
“What do you mean you’re not in touch with him?” Y/n pressed, twisting the phone cordlessly between her fingers.
“I mean,” Marquise said, drawing it out, “I deleted his number the second he texted me that he’d dropped you off safely the night of the party. Closure. Growth. Self-respect, honey.” She snorted. “Why would I still be talking to my ex?”
Y/n groaned, sliding down her chair until her knees were tucked up to her chest. She pressed her forehead into her palm. “Of course you deleted it.”
“I’m proud of me too,” Marquise added lightly. “You should try it sometime.”
“Not helpful.”
“I’m being realistic,” Marquise said. “Besides, you’re acting like this is some life-or-death situation. It’s just a hoodie.”
“Right. Just a hoodie,” Y/n muttered.
There was a pause.
Marquise’s tone shifted, gentler now. “Look, if I had his contact, I’d help. But I don’t. And I’m not about to go digging around for a man I don’t associate with.”
Y/n exhaled, defeated. “Okay then. I’ll just…” Her gaze drifted to the end of her bed, where the hoodie sat folded neatly, black fabric stark against the pale wood. “…I’ll figure out a way.”
“Mhm,” Marquise hummed. “You always do.”
The call ended not long after—soft goodbyes, a promise to meet soon, nothing heavy said out loud.
Y/n let her phone fall onto the mattress beside her. Then she folded in on herself. Her forehead dropped to her knees, arms wrapping around them, breath shallow as the room settled into silence. The city hummed faintly outside her window, distant traffic, a siren far away. Life continuing like nothing was wrong.
She lifted her head and stared at the hoodie again. Clean. Washed. Smelling like her detergent now—coconut and something faintly floral. It shouldn’t still feel like his, but it did. It sat there like an unanswered question.
She let out a weak laugh. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
She couldn’t even deliver it. She didn’t know where the fuck he lived. Does he still show up at races? Is he even still in the gang? Would showing up look insane—or worse, intentional?
Her fingers curled into the comforter. Texting him felt like crossing a line she’d spent weeks convincing herself she hadn’t already crossed. Showing up in person felt worse. Too much. Too honest. Y/n reached out anyway, thumb brushing the fabric of the hoodie.
For a second, she imagined just keeping it. Letting it disappear into the back of her closet until it became another thing she never dealt with.
Her jaw tightened.
“No,” she murmured to herself.
Decision made. Whether she liked it or not.
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The ice cream place was loud in a way that felt harmless but invasive—like sugar-coated chaos. Kids shrieked with laughter too big for their bodies, freezers hummed like they had opinions, and the bell over the door rang every few seconds, bright and unforgiving. The smell of vanilla and waffle cones clung to the air, sweet enough to make your teeth ache just breathing it in.
Y/n and Jin heard it before they saw it.
“I’m telling you,” Jin said, walking backward for emphasis, hands slicing the air, “I deadass told Solin not to agree to that Elle interview next month. I spelled it out. Birthday. Time off. Non-negotiable. And that little cunt still nodded like one of those stupid bobbleheads and said yes.”
Y/n walked beside him, steps even, unhurried. Black shades covered her eyes, baseball cap pulled low like armor. No security. No handlers. Just her and Jin and the city pretending she wasn’t famous.
“Whatever,” she said, voice flat, like the word had been chewed on too many times already.
Jin stopped so abruptly Y/n nearly walked into him.“Oh my god.”
She halted too, sharp as a slammed brake. “What.”
“The ice cream shop…” His voice went reverent. “It finally opened!” He pointed at the teal-painted building like it was a holy site. Cartoon cones smiled from the windows. The line wrapped halfway down the block, a mess of parents, kids, tourists.
Guess kids included Jin.
“Can we get one?” he asked, suddenly soft. “Please.”
Y/n lifted an arm, lazily gesturing at the line. “No. Look at that shit. I can see the end from here.” Jin deflated, shoulders slumping, lips pulling into a dramatic pout. Y/n laughed—quiet, brief—and hooked her arm through his.
“Relax,” she said. “We’ll get ice cream at the Prada café.” Jin sighed dramatically, nodding while forcing his eyes away from the shop like it personally betrayed him.
Neither of them noticed anything going on inside.
He set two paper cups down on the small white circular table, the surface printed with pastel sprinkles that looked fake enough to lick. The cups made a soft thud.
“Vanilla,” he said, sliding one toward her, “with cookie crumbles, gummy bears, and sprinkles.”
Seoyeon’s face lit up instantly. “Thank you, Jungkook-ah!” She scooped before he even sat down, shoveling ice cream into her mouth like it might disappear.
Jungkook smiled without thinking, lip piercing tugging as he leaned closer, his palm smoothing down the small of her head. Her hair was soft under his fingers—always had been.
Seoyeon was the only girl Jungkook had never learned how to leave. Never said no to her. Never disappeared. Never went quiet when things got heavy. Her nine year old heart was too small for his damage. Too clean for his ghosts.
“Mom would never let me eat this much,” she said, glancing up at him with the same wide eyes he saw in the mirror every morning.
“Hmm. So you used the house phone knowing I’d pick up and buy you ice cream, huh.” he said softly. “It’s okay. I know how much you love vanilla, Yoyo.”
She giggled at the nickname—his nickname, sacred and hers alone. Her shoulders lifting like she’d been gifted something precious.
He finally took a bite of his own. Chocolate and fudge melted against his tongue, Oreos crunching, grounding him for half a second. He hummed without thinking.
“I wanted to get a vanilla cake for Dad’s birthday,” Seoyeon said, suddenly quieter. “But Mom said you weren’t coming. So it’d be too much cake. And a waste of money.”
His spoon slowed. The world dimmed—not silent, just distant. Like someone turned the volume down but left the ache.
“Why didn’t you wanna celebrate Dad’s birthday?” she asked.
The question didn’t accuse but it still hit. Jungkook stared at his melting ice cream, jaw tightening until it hurt. His reflection stared back at him in the glass freezer door—older than he felt. Tired in a way sleep never fixed.
“I just…” He breathed out through his nose. “Didn’t feel right, sweetheart.”
“But Mom was sad.”
“I know.”
“Dad would’ve been sad too.” She poked her ice cream absently, carving small craters. “Even if I never met him…”
“Hey hey.” He leaned forward, lowering himself to her level, hands warm on her small arms. “Even if Dad died before you were born, he knows you. He saw you in Mom’s belly. He’s probably seeing you now… stuffing your face with ice cream.” A quiet laugh slipped out of him. Her shoulders eased. The weight she carried—quiet, unseen—lifted just a little.
“Are you mad about it?”
“No,” he said immediately. Then softer. “I don’t think I ever was.”
She tilted her head, eyes narrowing like she was solving a math problem. “Then why are you acting weird?”
He huffed. “Am I that obvious?”
“You kept checking your phone,” she said, matter-of-fact. “Even in the car.”
“Okay…” He leaned back, eyes drifting to the window where people passed like ghosts. “There’s this…girl.”
Seoyeon perked up instantly. “Ooooh.”
“Don’t,” he warned. She grinned anyway while clapping. “She makes things loud in my head,” he admitted, voice low.
“That sounds annoying.”
“It is.” He nodded.
“Do you like her?”
The question lodged somewhere painful. He thought about her mouth when she argued. The way she looked angry. The way silence with her felt louder than noise. Images flashed—heels in his chest, her mouth shaping his name like a weapon, hoodie on her, and her body pressed against his while comparing Louis Vuitton with Chanel.
“I think,” he said slowly, “I’m scared of her.”
Seoyeon nodded like that made perfect sense. “That means you care.”
He blinked. “Really? Who taught you that?”
“You,” she said simply. “You said scary things are worth being brave for.”
The words hit him harder than the race ever had.
“I think you should tell her,” she added.
He scoffed. “It’s not that simple.”
“But she’s always in your head,” Seoyeon pressed. “So you care. Like you care about me.”
Something tight and warm cracked open in his chest.
“You’re good,” he muttered with a nod.
She grinned. “I learned from you.”
Jungkook’s signature bunny-like grin slapped on his face upon his sister’s reply. They finished their ice cream in silence that felt heavy but safe. Then—
“Oh! I started liking this celebrity,” Seoyeon said suddenly. “She’s a model.”
Jungkook stilled.
Model.
“Hmm. A model!” Jungkook shook his leg under the small table, his tone amused.
“She’s really, really pretty. I saw her interviews.” She leaned closer. “I think I saw her just now. Walking past with a guy. I think it’s her boyfriend,” she giggled.
“Who—,” Jungkook asked carefully, “who are you talking about?”
She beamed.
“Min Y/n.”
🏎️. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ .
“Did they say anything?” he asked, voice too casual for how tight his jaw looked.
The garage smelled like burnt rubber and stubborn regret.
Hot metal ticked as it cooled. Somewhere in the back, a fan oscillated lazily like it was bored of these men and their emotional incompetence. The afternoon light leaked in through the high windows, cutting across dust particles that hung in the air like suspended thoughts—unsettled, heavy.
Jungkook sat on the edge of the wooden worktable, Timberlands knocking against the cabinet below, fingers digging into the grain of the wood like it personally offended him. Namjoon didn’t even look up at first. He was still scrolling, grease streaking the side of his phone like the poor thing didn’t deserve better.
“Nah,” he said, thumb flicking. “Just Vogue saying Y/n gets irrationally irritated when someone walks slower than her but won’t let her pass.” He snorted, shaking his head before shoving the phone into the huge front pocket of his overalls.
Jungkook groaned, head dropping forward. The sound wasn’t dramatic. It was the kind that crawled out of your throat when your brain wouldn’t shut the fuck up. Namjoon straightened, cracking his neck once before facing him properly.
“Look,” he started, and Jungkook didn’t lift his head. “I doubt she has a boyfriend. Why would she agree to go on that date with you? Why would she let you bring her home? She’s not taken. okay?”
Jungkook’s head snapped up like someone hit a switch. “Okay but she could’ve!” His eyes were wide—actually wide. Panic sat in them like it paid rent. “Like recently. Shit happens fast.”
Namjoon barked out a laugh and turned back to the open hood of the car. The metal frame stood between them like a half-built confession.
“Kook,” he said, tossing a mustard-colored cloth over his shoulder, “you’re fucking up your brain over a model who’s your enemy’s sister. Is that not clocking to you?” He reached into the engine bay, arms disappearing into steel and shadow.
“You said you found her hot. Wanted to get laid.” He glanced over his shoulder. “What the fuck happened?”
Jungkook rolled his eyes but it didn’t land the way it used to. There was no arrogance in it. Just exhaustion.
Yeah.
What the fuck happened?
It was supposed to be simple. She was hot. He was bored. That electric pull the first night? He wrote it off as hormones and ego. That itch under his skin? Lust. Easy. Containable. But somewhere between her glare and her laugh and the way she said his name like it meant something. Something shifted. Now his chest felt like a locked garage door with the engine still running inside.
“You wanna know what I think happened?” Namjoon grunted, lowering the hood with a solid thunk. Jungkook stared at the floor.
“I think you’re attached.”
The word hit harder than it should have.
Attached.
Like a parasite. Like a seatbelt. Like a damn anchor.
Namjoon wiped his hands on the cloth, then looked at him fully. “I think…” he paused, squinting slightly, “you’re in love.”
“Woah—woah.” Jungkook lifted both hands like he was getting arrested. “Love’s a little dramatic, don’t you think?”
Namjoon tilted his head. “Your face says otherwise.” Jungkook scoffed but it came out thin. Weak. Like even his sarcasm didn’t believe him.
“It’s not like that,” he muttered. “It’s different.”
Different.
The word felt stupid. Useless. But it was the only one that didn’t choke him.
“She’s…different,” he repeated, running a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots like that might yank the feeling out with it. “And now Seoyeon likes her, says she has a boyfriend, and I can’t stop thinking about it. Fuck.” He leaned back against the wall, head thudding lightly against concrete. The impact grounded him for half a second.
His eyelids slid shut. Darkness. And there she was anyway.
Min Y/n.
Her voice. Sharp as broken glass but controlled. The way she’d shove him without hesitation. The way her eyes didn’t soften for anyone. The way she walked like the world owed her space. She wasn’t just gorgeous. She was alive. Like fire that didn’t apologize for burning. And that scared the shit out of him.
“How do you know if…” Jungkook’s voice came quieter now, less defensive, more confused. “You like someone.” Namjoon froze mid-step, bucket of tools clinking softly.
“Like,” Jungkook clarified, sitting up and spreading his legs, elbows on knees, staring at the oil-stained floor. “You like them as…a lover.” The word tasted foreign in his mouth. Heavy. Too honest.
Namjoon stared at him. “You’re asking me?” Jungkook shot him a look. “I don’t date,” Namjoon said, shrugging with a sheepish grin. “I build engines. I break bones. I don’t do candlelight and feelings.”
“What do you mean you don’t date?” Jungkook frowned. “You just haven’t found someone interesting. Nobody just doesn’t date.”
Namjoon pointed at him suddenly. “Oh now you’re the one giving relationship advice?” He laughed. “Sort your shit out first.” He set the bucket down with a clang and stepped closer.
“Do you like Y/n…or not?”
Silence thickened between them. Jungkook swallowed. He thought about her laugh. The way his mood shifted depending on whether she texted back. The way her name sounded in his sister’s mouth. The way he’d rather lose a race than lose control in front of her.
His chest tightened. Liking someone wasn’t butterflies. It was vulnerability. It was risk. It was knowing exactly how much damage someone could do if they wanted to. And still wanting them close.
He dragged a hand down his face. “I don’t know,” he admitted finally, voice rough, like gravel under tires. “But when she’s not around, everything feels…” He searched for the word. Failed. “Off.”
Namjoon didn’t interrupt.
“And when she’s angry at me,” Jungkook continued, jaw tightening, “it pisses me off. But it also—” He exhaled sharply. “It hurts.”
There it was. Raw. Ugly. Real.
Namjoon studied him for a long second. “That,” he said slowly, “sounds a lot like liking someone.”
Jungkook let out a humorless laugh. “Yeah? Well liking someone feels a lot like losing control. And I don’t fucking do that.” The fan in the corner kept swinging back and forth like it disagreed.
Namjoon crossed his arms. “You don’t do attachment,” he corrected. Jungkook didn’t respond. Because that one hit too close to the bone.
“You live alone. You don’t bring girls back twice. You don’t call people after midnight unless it’s about engines.” Namjoon’s voice softened slightly. “You keep distance like it’s oxygen.” Jungkook stared at the oil stain between his boots.
“And now,” Namjoon continued, “you’re panicking because you don’t have it.”
Jungkook let out a breath through his nose, sharp and shaky. “Shit.”
The word fell out like surrender. Maybe he was attached. Maybe he was falling. And maybe the scariest part wasn’t that she might have a boyfriend. It was that he cared if she did.
Namjoon had already retreated, boots echoing out of the garage like he couldn’t be bothered to babysit Jungkook’s existential crisis anymore. The place felt bigger without him. Emptier. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead like they were judging him. Meanwhile, Jungkook stayed. Said he’d wait for the customer. The clock above the tool rack blinked 11:43 p.m., each second ticking like a slow accusation. Jungkook sat on a small metal stool, elbows on his knees, phone glowing against his face. The light carved shadows under his eyes. He looked like a man about to confess to a crime.
Y/n’s contact name sat there. Untouched. Unanswered. Unforgiving.
He typed.
Jungkook: u home??
Delete.
Jungkook: r u busy?
Delete.
Jungkook: lets meet
“Argh, fuck—” he hissed, fingers digging into the back of his hair like he could rip the right words out of his skull.
Delete.
His thoughts weren’t lining up. They were crashing into each other like cars missing the sixth turn. Every sentence sounded either too needy or too cold. And he didn’t know which one would make her hate him more.
He needed her to know. About the attachment. About the fear. About how the space she left in his chest felt like someone pried open a rib and forgot to close it. He needed to see her again. Hear her voice. Watch her eyes roll when he said something stupid. Feel that heat between them just to confirm—
Is this fucking love?
His head spun like those playground spinners kids jump off too late. Dizzy. Disoriented. No solid ground.
“Get it together,” he muttered to himself.
Fuck it.
Jungkook: y/n
Jungkook: u awake?
Jungkook: pls text back
He hit send before his courage could expire. The message whooshed away. He immediately locked his phone and let his hands dangle between his knees like they’d betrayed him. A long, exhausted breath left his mouth.
“Shit… please reply.”
The customer came. Paid. Took the keys. Thanked him. Left. The garage shutter half-closed with a metallic groan. Cold air slipped in, brushing against his forearms. The night thickened. Still no reply. Every five minutes, he checked. Nothing. Just app updates. Spam notifications. Everything except her.
He kissed his teeth harshly. “You serious right now?”
Is she ignoring me? Maybe she’s overseas. Models travel like it’s a personality trait.
The thought didn’t comfort him. It made it worse.
He unlocked his phone again and opened Instagram. Typed:
Min Y/n.
Boom. First result.
hiitsmeyn.
His thumb hovered before tapping her profile.
model. sister. life improver.
He snorted softly. “Life improver, my ass. You’re ruining mine...”
Her feed loaded like a slap. Photo dumps. Runways. Backstage mirrors. Editorials. Flashing cameras. Comments flooded with heart eyes and blue checks. But Jungkook didn’t see a celebrity. He saw the girl who shoved him against his own car and called him out for being a coward. A dickhead.
He tapped her most recent post. Her in a black car. His breath stalled. It wasn’t even intentional. It was just—
Fuck.
The way she was leaning over the opened window. Back arched slightly over the hood. Chin resting on her forearms on the steering wheel. Eyes sharp enough to slice through steel. She didn’t look like a model in that shot. She looked like she owned the damn machine. Like she belonged in his world. Jungkook swallowed. His jaw tightened.
A slow heat pooled low in his stomach—not just physical, but territorial. Primitive. Ugly. His grip tightened around the phone. The denim over his thighs pulled taut, the sudden pressure impossible to ignore.
She looks too fucking good in that car.
He zoomed in without realizing it. Traced the line of her jaw with his thumb. The curve of her waist. The gloss on her lips.
He exhaled through his nose, sharp. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not here, not like this—not with grease still streaked across his knuckles and the scent of motor oil thick in the air. But his body didn’t care about should or shouldn’t. It reacted. Heat coiled tighter, lower, insistent. He thumbed to the next photo without thinking.
Bad fucking idea.
This one was a close-up. Her lips parted, eyes locked dead ahead like she could see him through the lens. The collar of her racing suit was undone just enough to show the dip of her collarbones, the sheen of sweat along her throat. Jungkook’s pulse kicked against his ribs.
It wasn’t just attraction. It was obsession dressed up as appreciation. He imagined her sitting in his passenger seat instead. Hair messy from the wind. Hands gripping the dashboard — or better, his arm — when he took a sharp turn. Cursing at him and then laughing after.
He exhaled sharply through his nose. He locked his phone and leaned back against the metal cabinet. The garage smelled like oil and gasoline and something burnt. It felt like him. Rough. Mechanical. Controlled. But his chest? His chest felt like an engine overheating. He unlocked his phone again. Still no reply.
He typed another message.
Jungkook: u can ignore me. just let me know youre okay
His thumb hovered.
Don’t. Don’t fucking beg.
Delete.
He shut his eyes. Her voice replayed in his head.
I don’t like being fucking played, Jungkook.
The words didn’t regret themselves. He did.
He dragged a hand down his face. “You pushed her away first, dumbass.”
And now she’s doing what you taught her.
Distance.
He stared at her profile picture one more time. Zoomed in. Whispered to the empty garage—
“Just answer me.”
🏎️. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ .
The crunch of popcorn and surround-sound gunfire filled the private cinema, bass vibrating through leather seats that probably cost more than most people’s rent. Three rows of long, wide sofas. Plush. Excessive. Only two occupied. Filthy rich shit.
Y/n was half-sunk into the couch, legs crossed, hoodie sleeves tugged over her hands. The screen washed her face in blue and orange light, explosions reflecting in her eyes—but she hadn’t been watching for a while now.
Soon—
Ding.
No movement yet. A second later—
Ding.
She stiffened. The phone buzzing against the cushion beside her sounded stupidly loud, like it was tattling on her.
“Yo,” Yoongi muttered around a mouthful of popcorn, eyes glued to the screen. “Can your phone shut the fuck up? I’m trying to watch capitalism burn.”
Ding.
Y/n cursed under her breath and grabbed it, thumb fumbling as she turned the brightness all the way down. Face ID scanned. Unlocked. Her breath caught.
Jungkook: yn
Jungkook: u awake?
Jungkook: pls text me back
Stacked. Needy. And wrong. Her fingers curled tighter around the phone, knuckles blanching slightly, like it might slip away or explode or say something else if she didn’t hold it down.
What the fuck is he doing? Begging?
Her pulse kicked, sharp and sudden, like she’d been startled awake from a dream she didn’t remember having. She thought of his voice. Calm. Casual. Dismissive.
Waste of time.
The words replayed like a scratched CD, skipping, skipping, skipping. Her jaw tightened.
“Oh my god,” Yoongi said suddenly, shoving more popcorn into his mouth. “Did you see that? That was sick as hell.”
“Huh?” Y/n blinked, dragged back into her body. She turned toward him. “Oh—yeah. Crazy.”
“Who keeps blowing up your phone?” he asked, finally glancing sideways at her. One brow lifted. Sharp. Observant in that annoying way.
She hesitated. Just a beat too long. “Work,” she said, too quickly. Then softer, like she was convincing herself too. “Just…work.”
Yoongi hummed, unconvinced, but didn’t really care much either. He never did unless he smelled blood.
Her eyes drifted back down to the screen. Three texts. No jokes. No stupid emojis. No fake confidence. Just…him. Bare. Asking.
Was he bored? Lonely? Drunk on nostalgia and suddenly in need of female attention to plug whatever hole he’d fallen into tonight? Her thumb hovered over the keyboard. She imagined typing ‘what do you want?’ Imagined deleting it. Imagined asking ‘why now?’ Imagined hating the answer.
The phone felt heavier, like it had gained weight just to fuck with her. She locked her phone and tossed it face-down on her thigh like it had personally offended her. Yoongi glanced over again.
“You good?”
“Yeah,” she said, forcing a shrug. She huffed, crossing her arms. Her leg bounced despite herself. The phone vibrated again. She felt it even without looking. Phantom-limb shit. Like her body was wired directly to his name.
This time, she didn’t reach for it. Didn’t want to see another ‘pls’. Didn’t want confirmation that whatever this was—it mattered more than she’d let herself admit. Because replying meant opening a door she’d already slammed shut. And ignoring him felt like standing on the other side of it, hand still pressed to the wood, listening to him knock.
Hard. Soft. Desperate.
Her chest felt crowded. Like all her thoughts were pacing, bumping into each other, tripping over old memories and unfinished sentences.
On screen, someone died. Y/n didn’t notice. Yoongi sucked butter off his fingers. “You wanna pause it?”
“No,” Y/n said immediately. Too sharp. Then quieter. “No—it’s fine. Let it play.”
Because if it kept playing, time would keep moving. And if time kept moving, maybe this feeling would pass.
Her phone stayed face-down. Unread and unanswered. And somewhere across the city, Jungkook waited while Y/n sat in a home cinema, surrounded by noise, pretending she couldn’t hear the silence screaming her name.
🏎️. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ .
The mirror was fogged over, shy and unhelpful. She wiped a clear strip through the middle with her palm.
There she was. Bare face. Damp hair clinging to her collarbone. No mascara, no gloss, no carefully curated angles. The same face that lived on glossy covers and ten-meter billboards. The same face strangers recognized before they recognized her voice.
She didn’t hate it. She loved this career, genuinely. The rush of a perfect shot. The quiet command of a runway. The way a camera could feel like a spotlight and a weapon at the same time.
Her mom used to stand in front of mirrors like this too. Same bone structure. Same eyes. Y/n smiled faintly at the memory. She was proud to carry that legacy. Proud to honor her mom like this. But sometimes, in moments like these, when the glam was gone and the house was quiet, a stupid thought slipped in. Her mom had found someone steady. Someone who loved her without conditions. Someone who stayed. Zero complications.
Would she ever—Her brows lifted at herself.
“Relax,” she muttered. “You don’t need a boyfriend crisis at eleven p.m.”
Step one: toner. Cool liquid pressed into warm skin. Step two: serum. Fingers gliding over her cheeks in slow circles, methodical, grounding. The bathroom was calm. Steam thinning. Candles burning lower. Then—
Ding.
The sound cut through the quiet like a stone through glass. She didn’t look at it immediately. Just continued smoothing the serum over her jaw, pretending she hadn’t heard it.
Ding.
Her eyes flicked down.
Jungkook: how long r u gna ignore me y/n?
Jungkook: i know youre reading this
Her stomach tightened before she could stop it. A reflex. Annoying. Involuntary. She looked away instantly, focusing on her reflection instead.
Not tonight.
Another ding. And another. The notifications stacked up, his name multiplying on the screen like it had something urgent to prove.
Jungkook: i just wna talk
Jungkook: dont do this
Jungkook: please.
Please.
That word sat heavier than it should’ve.
Her jaw tightened. She dragged the moisturizer down her neck a little harder than necessary.
“Can he shut the fuck up?” she muttered under her breath, palms flattening against the cool marble counter.
The phone buzzed again, vibrating against the surface, small but persistent. Like it refused to be ignored. She stared at it. The screen lit up again. His name glowing in the dim bathroom.
Why now? Where was this energy when he called her a waste of time? When he acted like she was just convenient? Disposable?
Her chest felt tight—not dramatic, not cinematic. Just real. Like a hand pressing flat against her ribs.
She picked up the phone. Unlocked it. Opened the chat. Blue and grey bubbles. His recent messages desperate, stacked, slightly messy. No punctuation. Typing like he couldn’t sit still. She read them all. Twice. Her throat felt dry despite the wine. The three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. He was still there. Waiting. Her thumb hovered over the keyboard. A thousand responses lined up in her head. Sharp ones. Cold ones. Vulnerable ones.
Instead, she locked the phone. Placed it face-down on the counter.
You don’t get access to me whenever you feel like it.
The candles on the counter flickered. The phone buzzed again. And she let it.
The next day didn’t ease up on her. It came in loud and bright and impatient. Y/n had been planted in the makeup chair for an hour and twenty-three minutes — yes, she checked — and her ass had officially gone numb. The studio smelled like hairspray and expensive foundation. Hot lights beamed down from above like artificial suns, turning the room into a controlled little universe where perfection was mandatory.
She was wrapped in a black silky robe, smooth against her skin, barely tied at the waist. Three people hovered around her like she was a group project. One dusted powder along her collarbone, brushing over the delicate dip between her bones like they were polishing marble. Another leaned in close, steady hand dragging liquid liner into a sharp wing. “Don’t blink,” he murmured. As if she ever did. The hairstylist tugged gently at her curls, clipping, spraying, fluffing.
All Y/n could do was stare at herself in the mirror. Not really at herself — at the version of herself being assembled. Piece by piece. Stroke by stroke.
Her phone lit up on the counter in front of her, screen facing up.
Ding. Ding. Ding.
The sound was small but persistent. Like droplets in the bathroom. Something that refused to be ignored. Her eyes flicked to the screen before she could stop herself.
Jungkook.
Again.
Her stomach tightened the way it had last night, except now there was no steam or candles to soften it. Just fluorescent lighting and people watching her face for micro-movements.
“Your boyfriend’s persistent,” the makeup artist said casually, pausing mid-brush as she blended highlighter over Y/n’s cheekbone. Y/n didn’t look down. Didn’t move.
“He’s not my boyfriend.” Her voice was even. Cool. The kind of tone she used when interviewers asked stupid questions. The makeup artist raised a brow in the mirror.
The hairstylist snorted softly. “If he’s texting like that, he either fucked up or he’s in love.”
“Or both,” the eyeliner guy added dryly.
Y/n’s jaw tightened for half a second before she smoothed it out. Years of training. Cameras caught everything. She lifted her chin slightly so the highlighter hit just right, catching the studio lights like liquid gold. Her face was calm. Her pulse wasn’t.
Ding. The screen lit up again, his name flashing in the reflection like it had something to say to everyone in the room.
The makeup artist leaned back slightly, squinting at the screen. “He’s blowing it up.”
“Can we focus?” Y/n said lightly, a hint of edge beneath it.
“Relax hon, I’m just saying,” the makeup artist smiled. “Men don’t text like that unless they’re desperate.”
Desperate.
The word slid into her chest and settled there. She kept her eyes locked on herself.
“Or,” the hairstylist chimed in, fingers combing through her curls, “he cares a lot.”
Y/n let out a soft breath through her nose. Almost a laugh. Almost. Inside, though, her thoughts were louder.
If he cared, why did it take losing me for him to realize it? If he cared, why did he make me feel temporary?
Her phone buzzed again, vibrating against the glass surface of the vanity. It sounded impatient. Almost irritated. Like it was asking, ‘Why are you still ignoring me?’
Because I can. Because I’m not something you get to summon.
The makeup artist leaned in again. “Look up.”
Another day passed. Or maybe it dragged. Hard to tell lately. The private gym at the mansion smelled faintly of rubber mats and eucalyptus spray. Soft instrumental music floated through the room, trying to convince everyone they were at peace. Mirrors lined one wall, reflecting every bend and stretch—because of course, there was no escaping yourself here.
Y/n lay on the reformer, one leg strapped in, the other extended upward by the machine’s resistance. Both palms pressed into the mat, core tight, breath controlled.
“Inhale…hold…exhale,” her trainer murmured, hands lightly adjusting Y/n’s posture. “Good. Keep your shoulders down, Y/n. You’re pulling from the right muscles.”
“Mmhm,” Y/n replied, eyes fixed on her reflection, jaw tight.
Pilates was a regular routine. Not just because she needed to “maintain her model-like body,” whatever the fuck that meant. Apparently model-like still wasn’t enough for some people. Too skinny. Too thick. Your ribs are visible. Your belly’s sticking out. Your thighs look bigger in this angle. Everyone had an opinion. Strangers behind screens dissecting her like she was public property.
“Good. Push through it. Breath in… and longer exhale.”
Sometimes it felt like her body wasn’t hers—just a project people kept revising. Pilates helped. The slow burn in her muscles. The discipline of breathing through discomfort. The way it forced her into her body instead of out of it. And right now? It was helping with the Jungkook situation too.
She stretched her leg higher against the machine’s pull. The trainer hovered, hands ready to adjust.
Ding.
Her eyes squeezed shut.
Fuck. Hell no.
She didn’t need to look at the phone resting on the counter. She knew that pattern. Repeated ding. Relentless follow-ups. Overuse of “please” like the word was losing meaning by the second.
Ding. Ding. The sound cut through the calm studio like a glitch in a meditation app.
The instructor glanced over gently. “Do you need to take that?”
“No,” Y/n replied quickly, breath steady even though her chest wasn’t. “I’m good.”
She wasn’t really. Y/n exhaled sharply. Her core tightened. She wouldn’t look. Wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. She extended her leg again, jaw tight. Muscles trembling. Sweat sliding down her temples.
Jungkook had turned into a notification storm. A persistent ache. A mosquito you couldn’t slap. The phone kept lighting up, his name demanding attention. She let it. Let it buzz. Let it beg. Let it stack up. If it wanted to act like a ticking bomb, fine. Let it tick. Y/n didn’t care if it exploded.
Her muscles trembled slightly as she held the stretch. Sweat gathered at her temples, sliding down her neck in thin, irritating lines.
Ding.
The sound started to feel personal. Like it was mocking her discipline. Like it was whispering, You’re not as unbothered as you pretend.
The trainer leaned down, adjusting the strap on Y/n’s foot. “Pull through your heel more. That’s it… perfect. Keep your shoulders down.”
Y/n exhaled, breath uneven. And then—
The bomb exploded.
Her phone started ringing.
Loud. Aggressive. Vibrating against the marble countertop like it was possessed. Every muscle in Y/n’s body tensed.
“Argh—goddamn it!” she hissed, jumping off the reformer. Barefoot on the cool floor, snatching the vibrating phone.
Jungkook.
Of course. His name flashed, unapologetic, bright.
“The audacity,” she muttered, pressing it to her chest for a second before throwing her hands to her sides.
The trainer blinked. “You…want me to finish the set with you later?”
“No. I…I got it,” Y/n replied, voice low, feral even. Her heart thudded like a drum in her ears.
She stared at his name like it was a dare. Her thumb hovered over the screen. This wasn’t just about annoyance anymore. This was about control. About dignity. She let the call decline itself. Her fingers moved. Settings. Contact. Block. Confirmation popped up. Cold. Final. She hesitated. Memories flickered—his laugh, that flirty way he said her name, the stupid grin she tried to ignore.
Her chest tightened. “Fuck,” she whispered.
Blocked.
The screen went still. No more dings. No more buzzing. Silence. The kind that settles heavy in your bones.
“Okay, let’s get back to it.”
🏎️. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ .
Jungkook was pacing his apartment, phone clutched like it had life in it. The walls seemed to shrink every time he glanced at the screen, each ding from his unanswered messages echoing like a punch in his chest.
“Dude, what the fuck?” he muttered to himself, voice low but sharp. “Why the hell is she not answering?”
Namjoon leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, expression deadpan as he sipped his black coffee. “Because she’s ignoring you, genius. Or maybe she’s busy. Or maybe she just doesn’t give a shit.”
Jungkook flopped onto the couch, hair falling into his eyes, jaw tight. “No. No, no. She’s not busy. She’s a model. She answers texts. She’s…she’s—” He groaned, running a hand over his face, “She’s out of my reach and I hate it.”
Taehyung, sprawled across the other couch with his legs over the armrest, smirked lazily. “Wow. So you’re really into it. Nice, bro. Really letting your dick—or your heart—take over here.”
“Shut the fuck up, Tae,” Jungkook snapped, tossing his phone onto the coffee table. “This isn’t about…whatever you’re saying. I don’t even—fuck, I don’t know what this is anymore.”
Namjoon’s eyebrow rose. “You know what it is, dumbass. You’ve been texting her nonstop for days, literally blowing up her phone. You like her. You’re attached. You’re—holy shit—you’re in love.”
Jungkook snapped his head to their direction. “Yeah, alright. Fuck it. I do like her. I like Y/n. There, I said it,” he muttered, voice low, frustration boiling over. “But that doesn’t make this any fucking easier.”
Taehyung laughed, kicking off the couch to sit cross-legged beside him. “Dude, you should see your face.”
“I don’t even know if she wants me thinking about her,” Jungkook muttered, voice cracking a little, frustration boiling over. “Maybe she hates me. Maybe she blocked me and I don’t even know it. Maybe she’s laughing at me with her friends right now. Maybe—fuck.”
Namjoon sighed, running a hand over his face. “Kook, chill. You’re spiraling. You’re acting like a fucking maniac. Do you want my advice? Well here it is,” Namjoon said, tone sharp but measured. “You either man the fuck up and figure this shit out, or you stay here crying into your own panic until she never even remembers your name. That’s the real choice.”
Taehyung chuckled, clapping Jungkook on the shoulder. “See? I like that one. Sounds like you’ve got a plan brewing. Finally, Kook. Action. I like it.”
Jungkook sat up straighter, fists tight on his knees, chest heaving. Namjoon’s words were fire in his veins. Taehyung’s smirk was a kick in the ass. She wasn’t answering because she didn’t have to. But he didn’t care anymore. He needed her to know. Needed to see her. Needed whatever the hell this was between them to stop being a ghost he was chasing.
“I’m going,” he said finally, voice low and steady, the storm inside him condensing into a single thought. Namjoon just nodded, finishing his coffee.
“Yeah. Go. And don’t get kicked out by her brother.” Taehyung laughed.
Jungkook grabbed his keys, phone in his pocket, heart hammering like an engine revving. The night was waiting, and Y/n wasn’t going to ghost him forever.
Jungkook’s car rolled to a stop outside the sprawling Min mansion. The streetlights glinted off the black paint, a subtle halo on the sleek curves of his ride. He leaned back in the seat for a second, exhaling through his nose like he was trying to push down the knot of nerves in his chest. The buzzer at the gate rang, piercing the quiet night. Jungkook stepped out, heels clicking lightly on the cobblestone driveway. He pressed the call button.
“Hello?” His voice was low, steady, trying to mask the edge of impatience.
“Yes, you are speaking to a house keeper,” came the soft, polite voice.
“I’m here to see Y/n,” he said, keeping his tone casual but firm. “She—uh, told me to come by.”
A pause, then: “Please wait a moment.”
Jungkook leaned against his car, fists stuffed in his pockets, the cool night air crawling under his jacket. He could hear the faint rustle of leaves, a distant car, the hum of the city beyond the walls. A few minutes later, a figure emerged from the shadows, Eric, the ever-composed butler, walking toward him with that measured, almost intimidating calm. Before Eric could ask for any identification, Jungkook hesitated just long enough to pull out his phone. He flashed Y/n’s contact into view, showing it to Eric. A single raised eyebrow from the butler, then a subtle nod.
“Very well. Right this way.”
The gate opened, a low metallic creak echoing across the driveway. The mansion loomed ahead, massive and cold, swallowing footsteps and whispers. Jungkook followed Eric inside.
“Wait here,” Eric said. He left Jungkook in the middle of the living room.
Jungkook’s clothes feet slid on the marble floor as he took a seat, arms laid on his thighs, phone in hand, thumb tapping idly against the back. He then settled near the window, eyes flicking to the silent clock on the wall. Seconds felt like hours. The silence wasn’t comforting—it was tense, electric, waiting. He waited. The silence of the mansion pressed down on him like a second skin, his thoughts bouncing off the towering walls.
Then the front doors swung open, followed by murmurings. Yoongi stepped in first, carrying that casual, predatory confidence he always had. Marquise, Jimin, and Hoseok followed close behind, laughing quietly, the sound bouncing against the emptiness of the living room. The familiar scent of Marquise’s perfume cut through the air, mingling with the faint musk of the room.
Jungkook’s pulse picked up. His eyes followed them, scanning, calculating. The tension was a live wire between them—the kind that could snap at any second. He shifted slightly, keeping his hands visible, trying not to look like a kid caught sneaking into a candy store.
Yoongi’s gaze caught his almost immediately. A slow, deliberate glance that carried years of shared history, ownership, and a subtle, unspoken warning. Jungkook straightened, jaw tight, already feeling the weight of what was coming. Yoongi’s eyes flicked past them all and landed on Jungkook, who had froze in the middle of the room, hands stuffed in his pockets. His pulse kicked. The air seemed to shrink around him.
Yoongi’s lips twitched, not quite a smile. “What the fuck are you doing in my house?” His brows slowly started to dip between his eyes.
Jungkook straightened, shoulders squared, jaw set. His heart was hammering like a drum, but his voice stayed low, steady, deliberate. “I need to talk to Y/n.” Not panicked nor pleading. Calm, sharp, and unshakable. He wasn’t leaving this mansion without seeing her, no matter what—or who—stood in his way.
The silence stretched, thick as molasses. Yoongi’s eyes narrowed, scanning Jungkook like he was some intruder, a predator in his territory. Marquise and Jimin were already snickering, whispering behind their hands, while Hoseok just listened, curious but cautious.
“You’re here at…what, midnight?” Yoongi said finally, voice low, controlled but with an edge. “For her?”
“Yeah. I—look, I just need a minute. I need to talk to her.”
Yoongi’s jaw tightened. He took a step closer, and the tension in the room snapped like a rope ready to fray. Marquise raised an eyebrow, smirking, whispering to Jimin who stifled a laugh while Hoseok smacked their arms to shut them up, but Jungkook didn’t notice. His entire focus was on the giant floating lit staircase at the side of the living room—the ones that led to Y/n.
Yoongi’s voice cut through the charged silence. “You’re not going anywhere near my sister without my say-so.”
Jungkook’s pulse spiked, chest tightening like it was being squeezed in a vice. His brows arched, eyes sharp enough to cut glass, voice low and dangerous. “I’m not leaving without talking to her.”
Yoongi took another step forward, his presence a wall of authority. “You think you can just walk into her life? Text-spamming her, showing up here? You’ve got some balls, Jeon, but you’re about to find out—this isn’t that kind of playground. And my sister’s no fucking barbie doll.”
Jungkook’s jaw set. His hands curled into fists in his leather pockets. “I don’t care about your goddamn opinions, Min. I’m here to see her, not hear your mouth move.”
Yoongi’s eyes flared, but before he could respond, Marquise laughed softly. “Oh, this is good. Kookie, you’re really brave. Or stupid. One of the two.” Hoseok just shook his head, a hand catching his falling forehead.
Jungkook stayed rooted, silent but ready, eyes glancing to the top of the stairs every five seconds. His heart hammered like it was trying to escape his chest. Every second, every movement, every subtle glance from Yoongi made it harder to breathe. He was here now. The air in the living room felt charged.
“So…this is how it ends. You barging in like some…” Yoongi shrugged lazily, but his eyes weren’t lazy. They dragged over Jungkook’s frame slow, calculated. “…prince charming?”
A crooked smirk tugged at Jungkook’s lips, offended but amused. He rolled his shoulders once, like he was loosening up before a match. “Prince charming? Nah. I’m just tired of being ghosted.”
“Ghosted?” Yoongi tilted his head, subtle shake. “You mean you can’t respect boundaries.”
Jungkook let out a dry scoff. “Boundaries?” He stepped forward, sneakers whispering against marble. “Maybe you should check yours. Whatever’s going on between me and your sister’s none your business.”
Yoongi’s fingers curled slowly at his sides. Not trembling. Just coiling.
Hoseok shifted awkwardly. “Jeon, just lea—”
“You really think you can just walk in here like you own her?” Yoongi cut in smoothly, nudging his chin up.
“I don’t think,” Jungkook said, taking another step. Their personal space evaporated. “I know I deserve a chance to talk to her.”
“Chance?” Yoongi barked a laugh. Cold. Sharp. Another step. “You think a few desperate texts make you entitled?”
“More than you do, apparently.”
That did it. Something feral flickered behind Yoongi’s eyes. His jaw locked so tight it looked painful. And then—like a glitch in the matrix—he moved. One second they were staring each other down. Next, Yoongi had Jungkook by the collar, fist twisted into white cotton, knuckles pressing against his throat. The sound of fabric stretching cut through the room. Jimin cursed under his breath. Jungkook didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. His hand shot up too, gripping Yoongi’s jacket, dragging him close enough that their foreheads nearly brushed. Their breaths collided—hot, angry, laced with ego.
“Me?” Yoongi seethed, voice low and lethal. “More entitled than your ass?” His grip tightened. “No fucking shit—I’m her goddamn brother. You’re nothing.”
The word nothing hit like a gunshot. Jungkook smiled. Not a friendly one.
“Oh yeah?” he murmured, voice dangerously calm. “Seems like the opposite when she’s wearing my hoodie…sitting in my car at night...crying in my arms when she’s drunk.”
That was gasoline. Yoongi’s fist twitched, rising fast—so fucking fast it almost kissed the silver of Jungkook’s lip piercing. Hoseok grabbed Yoongi’s right arm. Jimin caught the other.
“Hyung—fuck—chill! Not in the house!” Jimin hissed, struggling.
Marquise moved just as quickly, palm flat against Jungkook’s chest, shoving him back a step. His heart was slamming under her hand like it was trying to break out of his ribs.
“Enough, you assholes!” she snapped, voice sharp enough to slice glass. “Cut it out before Y/n hears you.”
“Hear what?”
Everything froze. The voice floated down the staircase like smoke. All heads snapped up. She stood at the top, one hand resting on the railing. Too calm. Wearing an oversized sweater, bare legs, hair falling loose around her shoulders. Jungkook’s grip loosened immediately. His eyes widened—hope flashing through them so raw it almost hurt to look at.
“Y/n,” he breathed. She looked at him first. Not at Yoongi. Not at the chaos. At him.
“What are you doing here…” she asked flatly. The monotone stung more than if she’d screamed.
“Y/n—we gotta talk—”
“No.”
Just like that. Clean. Precise. Surgical.
Jungkook blinked, like maybe he misheard. “Wha—what do you mean no? You’ve been ignoring my texts, my calls—” His hands moved helplessly, fingers flexing like he could grab the words back.
She tilted her head slightly. “She’s a waste of my time.” The quote dropped into the room like a brick through glass.
Silence. Yoongi’s smirk returned slowly. Jungkook’s face drained. Because those were his words thrown back at him like a blade.
She lifted a brow. “Is that correct?”
The marble floor may as well have opened beneath Jungkook.
He squeezed his eyes shut briefly, jaw clenching. “No. No—I wasn’t thinking. I was pissed. I was stupid—”
“Were you?” she cut in softly. Her voice wasn’t loud. That’s what made it worse. It was steady. Controlled. Detached. Like she’d already processed the damage and archived him under mistakes.
Yoongi crossed his arms. “You heard her.”
“Shut up,” Jungkook snapped, briefly looking at him. His eyes stayed locked on Y/n again. “Please. Just let me explain. Five minutes. That’s it.”
She looked at him for a long second. And for just a flicker of a heartbeat—Marquise saw it. The crack. The almost. Then it sealed shut again.
“Get the fuck out of my house.”
The words were clean. Final. And then she turned. Just like that. Disappearing down the hallway upstairs, swallowed by the mansion walls like she’d never been there at all.
“Shit—no—Y/n!” Jungkook took a step forward instinctively.
Yoongi stepped in front of him instantly, palm flat against Jungkook’s chest this time. Hard. “She said get out.”
Jungkook shoved his hand away. “Move.”
“Or what?” Yoongi’s voice dropped. “You gonna cry about it too?”
That one landed. You could see it. Not rage this time but something like disappointment. The kind that sinks slow and heavy into your stomach like swallowed stones.
Jungkook’s shoulders rose with a sharp inhale. His eyes flickered to the staircase again. Empty. Gone. He laughed once under his breath. Not amused. Just…defeated. He stepped back, running a hand through his hair roughly. The anger came back fast, like it was embarrassed to be replaced by hurt. Jungkook turned and walked toward the door. Not storming. Not dragging his feet. Just leaving. But Marquise noticed. The way his jaw kept flexing like he was biting back words. The way his hands opened and closed at his sides. The way he looked up at the staircase one last time before stepping out. That wasn’t ego or pride. That was someone who actually gave a shit.
The door shut behind him with a heavy thud. Yoongi exhaled through his nose, rolling his neck like he’d just finished a workout.
“Pathetic.”
Marquise shot him a look. “Was it?” she asked quietly. Yoongi didn’t answer. Upstairs, a bedroom door clicked shut. And the mansion felt even colder than before.
🏎️. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ .
Marquise had Y/n on speaker while she was pacing her bedroom.
“You good, love?” Marquise asked for the third time.
“I’m fine.”
Marquise rolled her eyes at the ceiling. “You told him to get the fuck out.”
“And?”
“And he looked like someone shot his dog.” In the background, Marquise could hear the faint hum of Y/n’s air purifier. The soft rustle of sheets. Maybe she was sitting on her bed. Maybe staring at the wall. That’s what she did when she was pretending not to feel things.
“He deserved it,” Y/n said finally.
Marquise flopped onto her bed. “Maybe. Doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.”
“It didn’t.”
“Bullshit.”
Another silence. Thicker this time. Like fog rolling in. Before Y/n could snap back, Marquise’s phone buzzed in her hand. The screen lit up.
Unknown number.
She frowned. “Hold on.” She switched lines. “Hello?”
A beat. Then—
“Marquise.”
Her spine straightened. She knew that voice. Low. Slightly hoarse. Controlled, but barely.
Her brows shot up. “Shit—you didn’t delete my number?” The annoyance came out automatically, but it wasn’t sharp. It was…confused. Almost impressed.
A soft exhale from the other end. “Thank God I didn’t.”
Marquise swung her legs off the bed, suddenly alert. “Are you serious right now, Jungkook?”
“I need your help.”
She rolled her eyes, dragging a hand down her face. “Goodness—what.” A heavy pause. It stretched long enough that she checked the screen to make sure the call hadn’t dropped.
“Can you…get Y/n to talk to me?” The words weren’t aggressive. Nor were they demanding. They were careful. And that almost pissed her off more.
Marquise leaned back against her headboard slowly. “You’ve got balls calling me.”
“I know.”
“She hates you right now.”
“I know.”
“You embarrassed her.”
Silence. Then quieter—“I know.”
That one landed differently. Marquise’s irritation cracked a little. “You really fucked up, Jeon” She muttered.
“I did.”
No excuses. No deflecting. Just ownership.
She exhaled sharply through her nose. “Why me?”
“Because she listens to you.”
“Not about you, apparently.”
Another pause.
“I’m not asking you to defend me,” Jungkook said. His voice dipped lower. Less sharp. “I just…need five minutes. That’s it. I’ll leave her alone after that if she still wants me gone.”
Marquise stared at the wall. Five minutes. That’s what he asked for earlier too. Consistency. Desperation. Same energy.
“You’re putting me in a shitty position,” she said.
“I know.”
“You always ‘know,’ huh?”
A faint, humorless huff from his end. “Yeah. Doesn’t mean I know how to fix it.”
That shut her up for a second. She hated that he sounded wrecked instead of crying or broken. Just hollowed out.
“You said she was a waste of your time,” she reminded him.
“I was angry.”
Marquise arched a brow. “That’s your excuse?” A scoff.
“No.” His voice tightened, not defensive — just exposed. “It’s not an excuse.” Silence. Then he exhaled, like he was forcing something up from deep in his chest. “I’ve got commitment issues, Marquise.”
That made her blink. “What?”
“I don’t…attach,” he said flatly. “I don’t let myself. I don’t date. I don’t build shit that lasts. I keep it simple. Physical. Detached.” There was no pride in it. No bragging. Just fact.
“You and I?” he continued. “We were fuck buddies because it was easy. No feelings. No expectations. Just good sex and we both walked away fine. Us ‘dating’ was just an excuse to fuck.” Marquise leaned back slowly against her headboard. “But that wasn’t because I didn’t respect you,” he added quickly. “It’s because I don’t do attachment. I avoid it.”
A small beat.
“I didn’t even like Y/n at first. Not like that. Yeah I did find something about her…alluring but I just thought she was hot. I wanted it to be the same thing. No strings. Just…fun.” His jaw clenched on the other end. She could hear the faint scrape of his breath against the mic.
“But she didn’t stay surface-level,” he said quieter. “She got in. And I didn’t notice until it was already too late.”
Marquise swallowed.
“So—when I said she was a waste of time…” His voice dipped lower. “That was me panicking. Not literally meaning it. Just trying to kill something before it could…root.”
That one sat heavy.
“I don’t know how to do this shit,” he admitted. “I don’t know how to want someone and not feel like I’m losing control.” No dramatics. No theatrics. Just a man realizing he’s been running his whole life and now he doesn’t want to.
“And now?” Marquise asked quietly.
“And now she won’t even look at me.”
Marquise pressed her lips together.
Damn him.
“Do you like her,” she asked bluntly. The question cut straight through the static. No hesitation this time.
“Yeah. More than I planned to.”
There was something raw in that confession. Like he hadn’t meant for it to slip out that easily. Marquise swallowed. On the other line, Y/n was still technically waiting. Two worlds hanging off one phone.
“You’re aware…Yoongi will kill us both if I help you,” she said dryly.
“Wouldn’t be the first time he’s tried.” Despite herself, she almost smiled. Almost.
“Give me a reason,” she said finally. “One good reason I shouldn’t hang up.”
Another pause. It felt like he was choosing his words carefully like they mattered.
“Cause…she didn’t look at me like she was done,” he said quietly. “She looked hurt…”
Marquise’s chest tightened.
“And I did that,” he continued. “So I should at least try to fix it.”
Silence filled her room again. Outside her window, cars passed. Life went on. Normal. Unbothered. Inside, everything felt like it was balancing on the edge of something fragile.
“You’re an idiot,” she muttered.
“Yeah.”
She inhaled slowly. “I’ll…I’ll see what I can do,” she said, already regretting it. On the other end, she didn’t hear relief. She heard a breath he’d been holding finally let go.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me just yet,” she warned. “If she throws something at me, I’ll make you my shield.”
A faint, tired chuckle. “Sure.”
She pulled the phone away, staring at the screen for a second before switching back to Y/n’s call.
“…You still there?” Y/n’s voice came.
Marquise closed her eyes briefly.
Yeah. This was about to get messy.
🏎️. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ .
Yoongi didn’t knock. The door swung open and he stepped inside already knowing what he’d find—Y/n sitting on the edge of her bed, shoulders pulled tight, spine stiff like she’d swallowed a metal rod. Her phone lay beside her, face down. Exiled. Banished. Dramatic as hell.
The room felt stale. Like emotions had been sweating in it for hours. The air conditioner hummed but did absolutely nothing for the heat crawling under her skin.
Yoongi leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest.
“Want me to punch him?” No hello. No soft entry. Just violence, offered casually like a bottle of water.
She didn’t look up. “Can you stop defaulting to assault for like five seconds?”
“I’m serious.”
Y/n looked at him. Her eyes weren’t glossy. They weren’t red because wasn’t crying. They were pissed. Bruised pride. Ego scraped raw like someone dragged it across concrete.
“He’s a dick,” she muttered.
Yoongi stilled. That was new. Usually she’d argue. Deflect. Defend whoever she was seeing out of pure stubborn loyalty. She’d die on a hill before admitting a man she thought she knew was trash. But not tonight.
“He really is,” she added, jaw tight. “I should’ve listened to you.”
Yoongi’s mouth pressed into a thin line. Not smug. Not triumphant. “Yeah,” he said flatly. “You should’ve.” She didn’t fight him on it. That’s how he knew it hit deep.
Silence thickened the room. It sat heavy on their shoulders like a weighted blanket soaked in regret.
Yoongi pushed off the wall slowly. “Hated him the first time I saw him,” he said, eyes drifting toward the floor like the memory lived there.
Y/n frowned faintly. “You never told me why.”
“You never asked.”
“Sorry I didn’t know about your illegal double-life.”
He exhaled through his nose. The memory flickered behind his eyes — headlights slicing through night, engines screaming like caged animals, asphalt hot even after sundown.
“He beat me that day.,” Yoongi said. Her brows lifted. “First time we met each other. He won.” There was no sadness in it. Just fact and acceptance. “He was good,” Yoongi admitted. “Fast. Clean and smooth like he was born behind a wheel. I respected it.” His jaw flexed.
That word — respected — sounded like it cost him something.
“I lost by half a fucking second.” The bitterness didn’t shout. It simmered. “And I don’t mind losing fairly,” he added quickly. “That’s not the point.” He rubbed the back of his neck, exhaling through his nose.
“I walked up to him after. Told him it was a good run. That he earned it.” Y/n listened carefully now. She’d never heard the story behind the rivalry.
Yoongi’s lip twitched, humorless. “He looked at me,” he said, voice flattening, “and said, ‘Come back when you’re actually competition.’” The words dropped like oil in water — dark, spreading.
“No handshake or nod. Just…that smug fucking look on his face like he’d just conquered the world instead of winning a street race.” Yoongi grumbled under his breath in a mocking tone.
“I wasn’t even mad he won,” he continued. “I was mad at the way he wore it. Like a goddamn crown. Like the rest of us were just extras in his highlight reel.” He leaned back against the dresser now, arms crossing again.
“And every race after that?” he scoffed lightly. “He drove like he had something to prove. Cutting it close—showing off—pushing too far.”
“It wasn’t competition,” he said, voice low. “It was ego.”
The word hung between them like smoke.
“I don’t hate him because he’s fast,” Yoongi said. “I hate him because he can’t stand not being the best in the room.”
Y/n stared at her hands. “And you?” she asked quietly.
“I don’t mind losing,” Yoongi said. “I mind losing against him. And I mind disrespect.” That one sat heavier. Because tonight wasn’t just about racing.
“He disrespected you tonight,” Yoongi added. “In my house.” Y/n decided to stay quiet. “And he disrespected you,” Yoongi pressed. “Calling you a waste of time? That’s not a slip. That’s him protecting his fragile little pride.”
She flinched. Not visibly dramatic. Just the tiniest tightening around her mouth. Because it sounded right.
“I told you,” Yoongi said. Not smug. Just solid. “Over and over—he doesn’t know how to handle things that matter.” She nodded slowly.
“I thought I could…” she admitted.
“Fix him?”
“Handle him,” she snapped, turning her head sharply toward him. “Not fix him.”
Yoongi scoffed softly. “Still not your job.”
Silence swallowed the room again. Y/n leaned back on her palms and stared at the ceiling. The white paint looked different tonight. Less innocent. Like even the walls were judging her. Her thoughts were loud. So fucking loud, like a room full of people arguing inside her skull.
You knew better. You ignored him. You liked him. You still like him.
“I feel stupid,” she said finally.
“You’re not stupid.” Yoongi shook his head in defence.
“I ignored your warnings.” She shot him a look.
“Okay—I’m not sugarcoating it,” Yoongi said. “But I warned you.”
He had. Side-eyes, comments, blunt “I don’t like him.” He’d said it so many times it had become general background noise and she’d brushed it off every single time because she thought she could outsmart the red flags. Because she thought she wouldn’t catch feelings. She thought she was immune.
“Fuck,” she whispered, dragging her hands down her face. “I should’ve just never gone out with him.”
Yoongi watched her carefully. “I knew you’d come around,” he muttered. She glared at him, but there was no real heat in it.
“You’re so fucking annoying.”
“And I’m still right.” He stepped closer now, looming slightly. “I don’t trust him,” he said quietly. “And I won’t. Not after that first day. Not after tonight. Not ever.”
She didn’t defend Jungkook or argue. Because right now? She was mad at him too. Mad that he embarrassed her, that he made her look weak in front of her own brother, that he made her feel something that still hadn’t fucking gone away. That was the worst part. Even after the insult. Even after the humiliation. Her heart was still beating a little too hard when she thought about him.
Disgusting.
Yoongi studied her for a long second.
“You liked him,” he said quietly.
She froze.
“Did not.”
“You did.”
She stood up abruptly, pacing away from him. “That’s not the point—he hurt my ego,” she snapped. “That’s what this is.”
Yoongi tilted his head slightly. “If it was just your ego, you wouldn’t be this quiet.”
She hated how well he knew her. She turned away from him, arms wrapped around herself now. Not cold. Just holding herself together.
“You don’t cry over people you don’t care about,” Yoongi said.
“I’m not crying.”
“Yeah and I’m not illegally racing.”
Her breath hitched, just slightly. He wasn’t accusing. He was stating facts.
“Another reason for me to hate that bitch,” Yoongi continued, voice lower now. “He gets under your skin.” The room felt smaller suddenly. “And I don’t like anyone who makes you doubt yourself,” he added. That softened something in her chest. Annoyingly.
Yoongi moved toward the door. “If you go back to him,” he said without turning around, “don’t expect me to clap.”
She rolled her eyes weakly. “Wasn’t planning on it.”
The door opened. “And if he hurts you again,” Yoongi finished, voice steady and cold, “I won’t be lending you a shoulder this time.” The door shut softly behind him. And suddenly the room felt too quiet. Too still.
Y/n laid there for a second, staring at nothing. Anger buzzed in her veins like static electricity. But underneath it, something softer and stubborn that refused to die no matter how much she tried to suffocate it.
Her gaze drifted to her table. To the hoodie. His hoodie. She walked over before she could stop herself. Touched the fabric. It still smelled faintly like her detergent — coconut and something warm. Something he’s probably unfamiliar with.
“Fuck,” she breathed. Her heart felt like a traitor. Like it was voting against her pride.
Yoongi was right.
Jungkook was an egoistic asshole.
But the problem? He wasn’t just that. And that’s what made this so much worse.
🏎️. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ .
The next day came too quick and passed even faster — like the universe hit fast-forward just to spite her.
Her room was a controlled disaster. The kind that looked chaotic if you didn’t know her, but every stack had intention. Clothes folded into clean, obedient piles. Passport placed dead center on her desk. Chargers coiled with military precision.
Four suitcases lay open on her floor like gaping mouths. Two for Tokyo. Two for LA. Brazil with Yoongi would’ve been easier. A clean escape. A continent between her and Jungkook. Out of sight, out of reach. But running felt obvious and she refused to let him think he’d pushed her out of her own city.
Her flight was at seven in the morning. It was 10:02 p.m. The house was quiet in that heavy, expensive way. Their father had left at dawn for his business trip. Yoongi barely spoke at dinner. Not cold. Not angry. Protective silence. The kind that said, ‘I’m still thinking about what happened and I don’t like it.’
Y/n didn’t like it either.
She zipped one suitcase shut with a sharp, aggressive pull. The sound ripped through the room like she was trying to cut something in half.
Her phone buzzed. She glanced at it lazily.
Marquise.
Her brows knit together. She wiped her palms against her slacks before picking it up.
Mar: y/n emergency!!!
Mar: come to 28 Sinheung-ro 01-gil, Seongdong-gu, Seoul
Y/n frowned.
Sinheung?
That stretch of industrial nowhere. Long roads. Fewer houses. The kind of place people only drove through — not to.
Y/n: wut? why?
The typing bubble appeared. Disappeared. Reappeared.
Mar: dont ask questions. just come.
Y/n: Is everything okay?
Typing again. Paused.
Mar: just shut up and get here.
That was not comforting.
Y/n stared at the screen like it might confess something else. Marquise wasn’t dramatic for no reason. If she said come, she meant come. Still…the address felt random and wrong. Like a door in a dream you shouldn’t open.
She moved anyway. Because curiosity had always been her fatal flaw and loyalty ran deeper than logic. What if Marquise actually needed her? But needed her for what? Pose for a desperate Instagram story? Hide a body? Who the fuck knew.
She changed quickly. Black fitted slacks that hugged her hips like they were tailored to her mood — sharp, clean, and unforgiving. A black tank that clung to her waist and dipped just enough. Hair down, pin straight. No perfume. No touch-up. Just her. Raw. She paused in front of the mirror. She looked composed. Maybe too composed. Her face gave nothing away. No heartbreak. No hesitation. But her eyes? Restless. Like they were waiting for something to jump out.
She grabbed her keys and slipped out quietly. The last thing she needed was Yoongi catching her creeping out like a teenager. The night air hit her like cool silk — thin and sharp and humming. The city’s distant noise felt muted, like Seoul itself was holding its breath. She slid into her car. The leather was cool against her skin. The engine purred to life, smooth and confident. She typed the address into navigation. The map loaded. No turning back now.
City lights blurred past her windows like smeared gold paint. Music played low but she didn’t register a single lyric. Every second stretched thin like gum pulled too far.
The city thinned out. High-rises turned into warehouses, neon signs turned into lonely street lamps standing ten meters apart like socially awkward cousins. Trees lined the road. Dark. Watchful. She swallowed. Her headlights carved through the night like blades.
“You will reach your destination on the left,” the robotic voice announced, too cheerful for the vibe.
There sat a row of garages. Rusted metal walls, low industrial buildings crouched under dim lights. One long horizontal banner that read ‘Mechanical Seoul’ in peeling letters.
And then she saw something. A matte-black Porsche parked slightly crooked. Like the driver hadn’t cared enough to fix it.
Her breath caught. Her pulse didn’t spike romantically. It punched. Hard. Annoyed. And betraying.
No.
Plenty of people own black Porsches. Right?
She squinted. The emblem glinted under the light. Her stomach flipped.
“You’re being dramatic,” she muttered to herself.
She parked a few spaces down, engine still idling and hands locked around the steering wheel like it might float away. Her phone felt heavy in her hand as she texted.
Y/n: im here..
She stared at the half-open garage door. Light spilling out like a secret. Shadow moving inside.
A vibration.
Mar: okay come in
That was it. No explanation. No reassurance. Just… walk into the lion’s den.
She killed the engine for silence to swallow everything. Even her own breathing sounded too loud. She stepped out as her slides scraped softly against the pavement. The night air felt colder now. Meaner. Goosebumps prickled along her arms.
“Mar?” she called as she stepped into the garage. Her voice bounced off metal walls and came back thinner. The place smelled like oil and iron and something burnt. Tools hung on walls like surgical instruments. Buckets, rags, a dusty cash register that looked like it hadn’t seen a customer in months.
No Marquise.
“Mar? Hello?” Her voice sharpened slightly.
Nothing.
Why the fuck would she call me here?
Her eyes caught a door slightly ajar at the far end. Light leaking from underneath. She crossed the space, her footsteps echoing. Each step sounded louder than it should’ve like the building itself was snitching. She pushed the door open.
“Mar I’m—”
The word fell apart in her mouth.
Not Marquise.
Jungkook.
He was seated on a low mechanic’s stool, back slightly curved, forearms resting against his thighs as he worked a wrench over the rim of a tire. The overhead light cast a harsh glow over him, sharpening every line — the ink winding over his arms, the veins shifting under his skin, the subtle flex of muscle each time he tightened his grip.
There was something almost unfair about how calm he looked. AirPods in, head slightly lowered. Focused and unrushed. Like last night hadn’t happened. As if he hadn’t detonated her pride and walked away from the debris.
For a few seconds she just stood there, rooted to the uneven concrete floor, staring at him in a way she’d never admit to. Her heart started pounding, not in some cinematic slow-burn way, but hard and annoyed, like it was scolding her for even being here.
He shifted slightly, tightening the bolt, and the movement made the tattoos along his forearm ripple like dark water. It was intimate in a way it shouldn’t have been. Watching him like this. In his space. Unaware of her.
She hated that her body reacted before her brain could catch up. Her slides scraped against the floor when she adjusted her stance the same time Jungkook released a grunt as he stood up slowly, wrench still in hand, wiping his palm on a rag before tossing it over his bare shoulder. His gaze finally met y/n’s
Time didn’t slow down. It stretched.
Recognition hit his face first — surprise flashing through his pupils before he masked it. He pulled one AirPod out slowly, like he needed to make sure this wasn’t some hallucination brought on by lack of sleep.
“…Y/n.”
Her name came out rougher than usual. Not cocky. Not smooth. Just raw.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
There was hesitation in his movements, subtle but there. The kind of hesitation someone has when they don’t know if they’re about to get slapped or forgiven.
“What—uh…what are you doing here?” He fluttered his eyes, keeping a careful distance like he knew the line he could cross.
“I’m looking for Marquise,” she said, arms crossed, the weight of her posture a shield.
Jungkook’s head dropped, a short, dry chuckle escaping. “And…why the hell would she be at a mechanic shop?” His piercing shifted slightly as he smirked, eyes flashing something unreadable.
Y/n raised a brow, sarcasm creeping back like smoke. “Oh, I don’t know—maybe you two are back to fucking each other with no strings attached?” Her head bobbled with mock indignation. “Is there a bed here? She in your bed? Mar? Mar!” She cupped her hand over her mouth, yelling toward every shadowy corner.
Jungkook tilted his head, almost amused, poking the inside of his cheek with the tip of his tongue.
Unbelievable.
“Yeah—no. Mar’s not here,” he said, voice calm, almost lazy.
Y/n stopped. Her arms stayed folded, but her eyes narrowed. “Then what am I doing here?” Her voice wavered, raw, real, cutting through the sarcasm.
“To see me?” He replied quietly, scratching the back of his neck. The gesture betrayed nerves he usually buried under that confident facade. “I don’t know—you’re the one who came all the way here.”
“Yeah?” she echoed, incredulous. “Yeah—that’s your explanation?”
“I’m guessing this is her helping me,” he shrugged.
“He—helping you?” Her voice rose with disbelief. Neck craning forward. “What the fuck do you even need help with?”
He exhaled slowly, setting the wrench down. Metal clinked against the table—it sounded like a bell toll in the quiet garage. “Well, didn’t think you’d come if I asked.”
Her jaw tightened. Arms crossed tighter. She wanted to be angry, but the honesty scraped at her chest, and she hated the pull. “Y-yes…you’re right. I wouldn’t have came.”
“That’s why I asked Marquise to help me,” he murmured.
She blinked, then suddenly snapped, voice sharp. “She said she didn’t have your number!”
“No—I reached out to her myself,” he corrected.
Y/n froze, then blinked rapidly, trying to reclaim her tough exterior. “Exes don’t keep in touch,” she muttered.
Jungkook coughed out a short, incredulous laugh. “That’s your concern? Still can’t accept we dated?”
Her face stayed calm, unbothered, fake unbothered—but her pulse skipped. “Not the fucking point.”
“Hah—okay then.” He finally moved, rolling the rag from his shoulder onto the table. Muscles flexed in the light. Heat rose from his body. She blinked, half in disbelief. The garage suddenly felt smaller, the air thick.
“Do you think this is funny?” Her voice cut the hum of neon and distant traffic.
“No,” he said immediately. Fast. Honest.
He stepped closer, but then froze, remembering the last night, the collars, the pride bruised. He perched on the hood of the car, legs spread, hands flat, head bowed slightly. “I just needed to talk to you,” he said finally. “And you blocked me.”
“That’s right,” she spat. The words were sharp, like breaking glass. They hung there. His jaw flexed. He nodded once, accepting it. She studied him properly now. There were faint shadows under his eyes. His hair wasn’t styled the way it usually was when he showed up for a race or a party. But he still looked dashing. And that annoyed her more than if he’d shown up smug.
“And you decided to show up at my house unannounced and—what—put up another show?” Y/n’s tone now more agitated.
“Well what did you want me to do, Y/n—you’re stubborn as fuck.”
“You embarrassed me,” she suddenly cried, voice steady but low. “You hurt my pride.”
His gaze dropped, no confidence to look at her right now. “I know.”
“A you called me a waste of time.” She said it low, but every word sliced through the cold air between them.
“Don’t say that…” he whispered, almost to himself.
“Say it again,” she pressed, voice trembling just under the surface as she stepped forward.
Jungkook blinked slowly. Shook his head. “Don’t.”
“Say it!” Her command was sharper this time, more desperate than she intended. “Call me a waste of time…”
“I was lying,” he admitted quietly.
A dry, humorless laugh escaped her before she could stop it. “Bullshit excuse!”
“Okay—fuck! I wasn’t lying. I just—” His voice cracked. Palms pressed flat on the hood, head hanging low. “I…panicked…okay?”
Her chest dropped, a sharp inhale. The honesty hit like a fist wrapped in silk.
“You were getting too close,” he said, voice raw, low. “I don’t let people get near…or stay. You were starting to.”
Her mind went blank. No comebacks. No sarcasm. Just his words, slicing through her armor.
“I’m not even close with my friends,” he continued, eyes still down. “Yes, we seem close. But they don’t know my family, my childhood. Nothing. They just know I don’t get close. With Marquise, it was just sex. Simple. You however…you weren’t simple.”
Her breath caught. Every pulse in her body shouted at her to run, to scream, to laugh at the vulnerability, but she stayed. She needed to hear this. Needed it because it hurt, it mattered.
“You weren’t…” He exhaled slowly. “…a waste of time…Y/n. You were becoming something I couldn’t control. I only said it because if I convinced you that…you didn’t matter, maybe I wouldn’t have to admit you did.”
The garage was suddenly warmer, though the chill from the outside still clawed at her skin. The words wrapped around her, pulling at something stubborn she refused to give.
“So…what? You have attachment issues or something?” Her voice was steady but wary.
“Yes, Y/n,” he nodded, gaze soft, honest. “I have attachment issues.” He swallowed. Every nerve on edge, every muscle taut. He needed her to understand and see past the walls he’d built.
“My dad…he introduced me to racing. Every weekend, he’d take me out in his sports car. That’s how I learned to love the adrenaline, the thrill, winning. He was the first person I ever wanted to impress.” His lips twitched with a faint, sad smile. Eyes cast to the floor, lost in memory. She leaned closer involuntarily. The story sounded like confession that burned.
“After he died…” His throat tightened. “I missed him. Badly. I thought I’d never survive losing someone else. So…anyone I let close? I couldn’t let go.” He finally looked at her. No tears. Just honesty that was broken and raw.
“You’re not a waste of time,” he murmured, voice low, trembling with sincerity. “You are the first thing after my dad I didn’t want to lose. I said it…to push you away, to protect myself. Because if I let you in, I’d be fucked if anything happened to you.”
Y/n’s grip on her arms slackened. The cold breeze of the night no longer mattered. She was burning from inside, heart racing, chest tight, every nerve screaming at the raw truth standing in front of her.
For the first time, she didn’t feel angry at him. She didn’t feel the sting of pride or humiliation. She felt…everything. Vulnerability, ache, longing, the sharp sting of love she’d tried to bury. She just stared. And for a moment, nothing moved but the hum of fluorescent light, the soft drip of oil, and two hearts thundering in tandem.
He had explained himself. He had told her he panicked. That he didn’t expect it to feel that intense. The hills, the car hood, the way she looked at him that night — it hit him harder than he was prepared for. She understood. And somehow, that made it worse. Y/n let out a hollow laugh.
“So that’s it?”
Jungkook’s brows pulled together. “Wha-what do you mean—”
“Your feelings scared you so I just get…collateral damage?” she snapped, stepping forward. “You don’t get to bleed on me because you’re afraid of your own heart.”
There it is. They’re back in it.
He straightened from the hood now — not backing away, not defensive. Just tense. Face to face.
“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he shot back. “You think I enjoyed saying that? You—you think I didn’t replay it a hundred fucking times after?”
“That doesn’t erase it, Jungkook!” she yelled. “You still said it. You still looked me in the eye and told me I was a waste of your time and energy.”
His jaw tightened. “That’s not what I meant.”
“But that’s what I heard.”
Silence again — shorter this time, sharper.
Her chest heaved. “You don’t get to say those things and then stand here acting like explaining it fixes it. It doesn’t. It felt like a slap in the face, Jungkook. After that night in the hills. After you told me I was different.”
His eyes flickered at that.
“And I meant that,” he said, lower now. “I meant all of it.”
“And that’s exactly why it hurt.” Y/n spat back, leaning ever so slightly forward like she was pushing her words of frustration into his stupid face. “You don’t get to make me feel special and then disposable in the same breath!” she shouted.
He ran a hand through his hair, frustration cracking through. “I didn’t think it would hit me like that, okay? I didn’t expect you to matter like that. And when I realized you did, it felt like someone knocked the air out of me.”
She stared at him, stunned and furious all at once.
“So I’m what?” she challenged. “Your emotional punchline? Your…your practice round?”
“No!” he barked, getting his ass off the hood. “You’re the first person in a long time that made me feel out of control. And I hate that. I fucking hate not being in control.” He jabbed his finger into the curve of his chest.
Y/n was overwhelmed with all her mixed emotions of anger, frustration, guilt and maybe pity. She turned on her feet and clutched the front of her hair. Grip so tight, if she were to yank her hands down, her scalp would bleed.
“You’re not just some…thrill! You’re different, Y/n. You hit me in ways I didn’t even know existed! And yeah, I panicked—I’m not perfect! I fuck up, I overthink, I run when I shouldn’t!”
Her head whipped back. “Yeah you run! You acted cold towards me, Jungkook! I had to watch you—ignoring me, act weird, calling me a waste of time—and I just…just sat there, wondering what the fuck I did wrong!”
I said it to protect myself. To make it easier to walk away before I…before I get destroyed!” His voice dropped, barely above a growl, but it carried across the garage like a punch.
“And what? Make me feel like shit?” Y/n screamed, stepping closer and stoping at least half a meter away from him so now their breaths brushed. “Do you even know how much I…how much I—” She stopped, shook her head, hair whipping in front of her face, then shoved it back.
Y/n had to physically clamp her mouth shut. The words were right there. Sitting on her tongue. Heavy. Loaded. One wrong move and they’d fall out and ruin her. It was too dangerous to say them right now. Not when her chest felt split open and her pride was hanging on by a thread. So she didn’t finish. She just stood there, staring at him.
Tears pooled slowly at her lash line, glassy and stubborn. They didn’t fall — not yet. They just clung there, threatening. Her gaze flickered between his eyes like she was trying to decide which version of him she was looking at. The asshole. Or the boy who was terrified.
Her silence stretched. Jungkook cracked first.
“I’m…fucked up. Okay?” he breathed out, slamming his palms against his thighs like he was grounding himself, like he needed the sting. “Your brother probably told you that already.” A bitter exhale left him.
Y/n’s chest rose and fell, still shaky from almost saying too much. From almost slipping. She felt like she was balancing on ice that could split any second. But she listened. Because for once, he wasn’t hiding behind ego.
“I just…” He swallowed. His voice lost its edge. “I didn’t want to experience hell again. Loss. That empty, hollow feeling.”
His eyes locked onto hers — not wandering, not defensive. Just locked. Close enough now that he could see every detail in her face. The tiny crease between her brows. The faint flush in her cheeks. The mole under her eyebrow he’d somehow never noticed before. His lips twitched at that — soft, almost disbelieving. Like he couldn’t believe he’d almost walked away from something so detailed.
“If we kept talking…if we actually got close,” he continued, quieter now, “if this turned into something real…” His voice faltered. “…I don’t think I’d be strong enough to watch you walk away from me.”
That last part came out like a confession dragged over broken glass. Barely audible. Almost ashamed. And it hit her. Not like a knife. Like warmth. Like someone pressing their palm gently against a bruise.
Her heart didn’t shatter — it softened. It pulled apart slowly, like cotton being teased loose. It felt dangerous in a different way. She wanted to scream at him. Shove him. Call him selfish for making his fear her problem. But her body betrayed her. Instead of stepping back, her feet carried her forward. Anger and longing tangled inside her veins like barbed wire wrapped in silk. Reckless. Confused. Honest.
“You scared me,” she whispered. Her voice cracked on the edges, thin and exposed. “And I hate…that I care this much.”
There it was. Not ‘I love you’. Not ‘I forgive you’. Just the truth.
Jungkook’s expression shifted like something inside him gave out. The anger was still there — but dulled now. Fragile. Human.
“I didn’t want to,” he said, shaking his head slightly. “I didn’t want any of this. I didn’t plan for you. I didn’t plan to feel like this.”
He stepped closer without even realizing.
“But I can’t stop, Y/n.” His voice dropped, rough and helpless. “I can’t fucking pretend I don’t feel it. Not with you.”
Her hands trembled at her sides. She was close enough now to see the tiny flecks in his eyes. Gold bleeding into brown. Close enough to feel the warmth of his breath hitting her lips. Close enough that the air between them felt charged — like it was waiting for a match.
“Y/n…” he said softly.
Just her name. Like a question. Like a prayer he wasn’t sure he deserved an answer to. And God, that almost undid her.
“Forgive me,”
Slam. Y/n’s head whipped back, a sharp jolt of whiplash meeting the aggressive pull of his hands at her waist. Jungkook didn’t just kiss her; he collided with her. His lips were a sudden, soft contradiction to the violence of the movement, made even sharper by the cold, clinical bite of his lip ring catching against her lower lip. One of his hands slid up, tangled into the hair at her nape and anchoring her, while the other burned through the fabric at the small of her back.
Y/n froze. Her fingers hovered near his biceps, curled like claws but lacking the nerve to sink into the inked skin of his right arm, the intricate sleeve shifting like a second skin under her touch.
The air between them was thick enough to choke on—heavy with the scent of his cologne and the metallic tang of a night that had already gone to shit. Jungkook was waiting, his heartbeat thrumming a frantic rhythm against her chest, but the silence from her end was deafening. He was just throwing himself at a brick wall at this point, and the realization tasted like ash.
He pulled back, just a fraction, leaving a gap that felt like a damn canyon. His eyes scanned hers, taking in the way her lips quivered like a dying flame.
“Y/n…?” he breathed, his voice cracked and desperate. “Damn—say something...” His thumb brushed her cheek.
The hesitation snapped.
Y/n didn’t talk; she reacted. She shoved his shoulders back—hard—sending him thudding against the hood of the car again. Before he could even grunt, she was on him. Her lips crashed into his, messy and frantic, finally finding the friction she’d been craving—the metal of his piercing clicking against her teeth in a way that made her blood hum. One hand dove into his long hair, grappling at the strands like a lifeline, while her other palm cupped his cheek, her thumb digging into that slight softness there.
“Shut up,” she muttered against his mouth. “Just shut the hell up.”
Jungkook let out a low, wrecked sound in his throat, his hands sliding back to her waist. His palms were massive, practically mapping out her entire circumference, the dark ink on his right hand stark against her skin as his slender fingers bruised the skin through her thin tank top.
The kiss turned hungry. It wasn't some poetic, cinematic bullshit but teeth and tongue and a desperate need to consume. It was the sound of lips smacking in the dead-quiet night—a rhythm that drowned out the ringing in their ears. Every scream they’d swallowed during the fight, every jagged insult they’d spat at each other, every pathetic 'I hate you'—the kiss devoured it all. It was a goddamn exorcism.
Jungkook’s thumb hooked under the hem of her top, his skin searing against hers, a silent question she answered by pulling him closer until there wasn't a molecule of oxygen left between them.
When they finally broke apart, it wasn't graceful. They were both wrecked, chests heaving in a synchronized, ragged beat. The heat rolling off them could’ve melted the damn engine block they were leaning against. Neither of them moved. Their gazes were locked on each other’s swollen, reddened lips before finally flickering up to meet eyes that looked absolutely shattered. The night was still cold, but with his warm hands still clamped onto her like she might vanish, Y/n felt like she was burning alive. And she didn't want him to put the fire out.
Her fingers were still twisted in his hair when she leaned in again — not to kiss him this time, but to breathe him in. Her forehead pressed against his, noses brushing, lips barely touching.
He was still holding her like she’d disappear if his grip loosened. His thumb moved unconsciously against her waist now, slow back-and-forth strokes over the thin fabric of her tank top. Not even sexual. Just grounding. Like he needed the motion to convince himself she was solid.
Her hand slid from his cheek to the side of his neck, then into the ends of his hair. She absentmindedly combed through the strands at the nape, smoothing them down before curling them lightly around her fingers again. His hair was softer than it looked. Always had been. She felt the frantic pulse under his skin. He wasn’t composed. He wasn’t in control. He was unraveling right in front of her.
Good.
Let him.
She tilted her head slightly, lips brushing the corner of his mouth when she spoke. “What makes you think I’d leave you just like that?”
His thumb paused against her waist. The question hit him like cold water. She studied him up close now — really looked at him. The faint crease between his brows that only showed when he was thinking too hard. The way his lower lip was slightly swollen from kissing her, the silver ring glinting. The dark ink on his right hand flexing when his fingers tightened — that sleeve crawling up his arm like something alive under his skin. He looked dangerous. But right now, he just looked scared.
“You would,” he said automatically. His gaze flickered over her face — searching. Scanning every micro-expression like he was waiting for her to flinch. “Everyone does eventually.”
She pulled back just enough to look at him properly. “Don’t project your past onto me,” she whispered, thumb pressing under his jaw so he had to meet her eyes. “I’m not them.”
“You don’t know that,” he muttered.
“And you don’t know that I would.”
Silence again — but softer.
His thumb resumed its slow motion at her waist, this time more careful. Almost reverent. He was memorizing the shape of her there. His grip softened — not letting go, just less desperate. As if he was realizing he didn’t have to cage her to keep her.
“I’m not easy,” he admitted. His gaze dropped briefly to her lips before flickering back up. “I get in my head. I shut down. I push. I say shit I don’t mean.”
“No shit,” she muttered. A broken, quiet laugh left him.
She stepped closer, their bodies aligning again — but slower this time. Intentional. Her fingers slid from his hair down to rest her arms at the crook of his neck, feeling the warmth there.
“You don’t get to decide I’ll leave before I even have the chance to stay,” she said. “That’s not how this works.”
His eyes searched hers again, slower now. Less frantic. He noticed the faint red in her waterline from crying. The tiny mole under her brow he’d clocked earlier. The way her lashes clumped slightly from tears.
She was still here.
“And what if I fuck it up again?” he asked quietly.
“You will,” she said bluntly. He blinked. “And I’ll probably scream at you again,” she added, fingers lightly combing through the top of his hair once more. “But that doesn’t mean I’m walking away.”
Something shifted in his face. Not relief. Not quite. But something close to surrender.
“You’d stay?” he asked, softer than he’d been all night.
She leaned in until their lips barely grazed again, her breath warm against his mouth.
“I’m still here, aren’t I?”
His grip changed. Not tighter. Just steadier. His tattooed hand slid slightly up her back, fingers spreading like he was holding something precious instead of bracing for impact.
“Fuck,” he breathed, forehead dropping against hers. “You’re gonna ruin me.”
A faint smirk tugged at her lips. “You already tried ruining us first.”
He huffed a quiet laugh, eyes closing briefly as if the truth of that stung and soothed at the same time.
“Yeah,” he admitted. “Guess I did.”
There were no sharp edges left in the air now. Just heat and something steadier underneath it — like the fire had stopped raging and started warming. He kissed her again. Slow. Intentional. His thumb still tracing her waist. Her fingers still tangled in his hair. His lip ring cool against her mouth. His hands anchoring her like he was finally done running.
And this time, it didn’t feel like collision. It felt like choice. And she chose him back.
After discovering her brother's secret life as the leader of an underground racing crew, Y/N is pulled into a world of speed, danger, and rivalry. That's where she meets Jeon Jungkook - the fearless leader of the opposing crew, the one her brother can't stand, and the last person she should ever get close to. But Jungkook is impossible to ignore. And Y/N is impossible for him to forget. Because in a world where every choice could end in flames...falling for each other might be the most dangerous race of all.
pairing: racer!jk x model!reader
warnings: brother's enemy, somewhat forbidden love, smut, angst, fluff, obsession, jealousy, possessiveness, masturbation, unprotected sex, sexting, bodily fluids, rough sex, multiple positions, public sex, degradation kink, dirty talk, sexual tension, sexual teasing, smoking, violence, illegal activities, mentions of blood, control
sha’s note: so…this is kinda my first series here on tumblr. i got inspired to write this after relistening to ohmami by chase atlantic (i love ca to death) and also afterrewatching culpa mia hehe. i’m hella scared to see how this turns out cus tumblr is filled with incredible writers and i’m a newbie. please be nice to me 🥹🙏
“…And then ‘What’s in My Bag’ with Vogue, followed by the Victoria’s Secret show in New York first thing next month.”
Mr. Solin’s voice bounced cleanly off the white corridor walls as he walked, brisk and purposeful, shoes clicking like a metronome. Y/N followed a half step behind him, posture straight out of muscle memory rather than energy. Her team trailed after them, a loose cluster trying—and failing—to match his pace. Jin nearly clipped someone’s heel.
“Good.” Mr. Solin stopped abruptly and turned, clapping his hands once. The sound cracked through the hall. Y/n smiled on cue. Soft, sweet, just enough teeth. The kind of smile that had gotten her booked and forgiven.
“So glad to have you back, Ms. Y/n.” He dipped his head briefly before pivoting and striding toward his office, already halfway gone. That was the signal. The team began to scatter—assistants peeling off, stylists murmuring to one another, phones already back in hands. The hallway emptied in seconds until it was just Jin and Y/n, standing in the leftover silence.
Her phone buzzed. She slipped it from her side pocket without thinking. Yoongi.
Not that she’d been expecting anyone else.
Jin noticed anyway.
“Y/n—” he started, then sighed. “Three interviews. Two fashion events. And a Victoria’s Secret runway?” He counted them off with his fingers like he was trying to convince himself he’d misheard.
“That’s like…all in two weeks till next month,” he added, worry sharpening his voice. “Isn’t that a little much?”
Y/n barely registered him, thumbs already moving.
“Y/n.”
“Huh?” She glanced up. Blinked. “What—yeah. No, it’s fine.” She waved him off vaguely, attention drifting straight back to the screen.
“I’ve…done worse,” she added, like an afterthought and tad bit distracted. “This shouldn’t be a problem.”
Jin clicked his tongue, unconvinced. He jabbed a finger toward the floor, stiff and irritated. “Yeah, but you’re traveling a lot this time. Different time zones, long flights—if you suddenly start complaining you’re jet-lagged, I swear, Y/n, I’m not go—”
“Jin.”
She finally looked at him properly. Chin lifted. Palm raised. Calm, but firm. “I need this,” she said. Then, quieter, more honest: “I’m too free.”
That shut him up. Jin exhaled slowly, shoulders slumping as the fight drained out of him. He hated that sentence. Hated how true it sounded.
Her phone buzzed again.
“Yoongi’s here,” Y/n said, already stepping back. She combed her fingers through her hair, smoothing it down out of habit. “I gotta go.”
“Y/n—”
“See ya!”
She was already walking away, heels striking the floor in clean, confident clicks. She didn’t look back. Her eyes stayed glued to her phone, thumbs flying as the hallway swallowed her footsteps whole.
Outside, the day hit her all at once—light too bright, air too sharp. Yoongi leaned against his car, arms crossed, expression carved into mild annoyance. The moment he spotted her, he straightened.
“Took you long enough,” he muttered, opening the passenger door. “You trying to move back in there or what?”
She slid into the seat, sighing as soon as the door shut. “Missed you too.”
He snorted, starting the engine after settling in on the other side. “You eat?”
“Barely.”
“Figures.” He pulled out smoothly. “We’re grabbing dinner. Hoseok, Jimin and Marquise will be there.”
Y/n groaned, dropping her head back against the seat. “I look like shit.”
She smiled, small and tired, watching the city blur past the window as work—real work—settled back onto her shoulders like something familiar. Heavy. Necessary.
The car smelled like leather and iced coffee. Yoongi drove one-handed, elbow resting against the door, the other tapping the steering wheel absentmindedly as traffic crawled.
Y/n sat in the passenger seat, legs crossed, phone balanced on her thigh. Her calendar was open—blocks of color stacked too close together, like someone had played Tetris a little too aggressively with her life.
“So,” Yoongi said, eyes still on the road. “You free Thursday?”
She hummed, distracted, thumb scrolling. “Mm…define free.”
“Dad’s gonna be gone on a short business trip,” he said. “He thought it’d be good for us to actually hang out. You know. Sibling time. Like the old days, except we’re older and more tired.”
Y/n smiled faintly. “You’re always tired.”
“Occupational hazard. I’m going to be running a goddamn company soon, okay?”
“You’re already running an illegal racing gang. Shouldn’t get harder than that…”
He cleared his throat. “I was thinking maybe we do something big. Four days. Brazil?”
That finally got her attention. She paused, blinking. “Brazil?”
“Yeah,” he shrugged. “We’ve never been. Thought it’d be…nice. Chill at the beach, have some street food, no work emails—”
“I’ll be in Japan,” she said gently, already shaking her head. Her thumb kept moving. “And then L.A. right after.”
Yoongi glanced at her, then back at the road. “Thursday?”
“Thursday and Friday,” she confirmed. “Tokyo first. Red eye to L.A. after.”
He let out a quiet breath through his nose. “Jesus.”
Y/n turned her head toward him. “What?”
“Nothing,” he said. Then, after a beat, “That’s…a lot.”
She shrugged, nonchalant on the surface. “It’s fine.”
They stopped at a red light. The city reflected off the windshield—billboards—some of Y/n’s—, brake lights, movement everywhere. Yoongi drummed his fingers once, then twice.
“So,” he said slowly. “You ended your break early.” Her thumb stilled. The light turned green. He drove on. “I thought you said six months,” he continued. “You barely made it past half.”
Y/n stared at her screen, but she wasn’t really seeing it anymore. The calendar blurred together—dates, flights, fittings, meetings.
“Yeah,” she said. “Plans change.”
“Mm.” Yoongi nodded. “So what’s the reason.”
She didn’t respond. He waited. He was good at that—waiting people out without making it obvious. He’d always been this quiet, observant, and annoyingly perceptive.
After a few seconds, he spoke again, softer this time. “Why’d you come back to work early?”
Y/n inhaled, exhaled. Her fingers tightened around her phone. Traffic slowed again. She didn’t answer.
Yoongi sighed, almost to himself. “Is it… that—”
“No,” she cut in quickly, too quickly. Her head snapped up, eyes forward. “It’s not that.”
He glanced at her, eyebrow raised but expression neutral. “I didn’t even say anything yet.”
She swallowed. Her jaw tightened.
“I just…” Y/n leaned back against the seat, phone finally locking with a dull click. “The break was too long.”
“That’s it?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
He didn’t push. Didn’t nod either. Just hummed quietly, like he was filing the answer away somewhere for later.
“You’ve never been bad at resting,” Yoongi said after a moment. “You’re bad at running.”
She scoffed softly. “Wow. Thanks, Dr. Min.”
“Anytime.” He smirked, then sobered. “Just saying. People don’t usually drown themselves in work unless they’re trying not to think.”
Y/n looked out the window now, watching the city pass. Her reflection stared back at her faintly—perfect hair, perfect makeup, eyes a little too alert.
“Well,” she said lightly, forcing it, “good thing thinking’s overrated.” Yoongi didn’t laugh.
The car rolled on, quiet settling between them—not uncomfortable, just heavy. Familiar. He reached over at the next stoplight and flicked her forehead.
“Ow,” she muttered.
“Thursday’s still open if you cancel Japan,” he said. “Brazil’s not going anywhere.”
She smiled, small but real this time. “We’ll see.”
And that was the closest thing to an answer either of them got.
🏎️. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ .
The waiter guided the siblings to their awaited table tucked into the far end of the restaurant, where—just like Yoongi had promised—Jimin, Hoseok, and Marquise were already sprawled out and waiting.
The place was predictably high-end. White tablecloths crisp enough to blind someone, low golden lighting, waiters in black-and-white uniforms balancing absurdly large circular trays against their shoulders like it was second nature. Soft jazz floated through the space, stitched together with the low hum of rich people gossiping, forks scraping porcelain, wine glasses chiming every now and then. Not unfamiliar territory for the Min siblings. If anything, it felt automatic.
The waiter bowed slightly, one arm extended toward the three already seated as if presenting them. It was a round table, wrapped with built-in velvet seating that curved along the wall, intimate in a way that made conversations feel closer than intended.
Yoongi slid in first, Y/n settling opposite him at the end of the curve. Marquise next to her, then Jimin, and Hoseok took smack centre, long legs stretching out comfortably like he owned the place.
“Finally you guys are here,” Jimin said immediately, eyes wide as he leaned back in his chair, dramatic as ever. “I haven’t eaten shit since this morning.”
“Yeah—well,” Hoseok laughed, slapping Jimin’s shoulder, “good thing it was Yoongi’s idea to have a late lunch. If it weren’t for him, we’d be eating kimbap outside a Family Mart right now.”
Jimin shot him a sharp glare. “I would’ve been fine with that.”
Yoongi chuckled, shrugging as he leaned back against the velvet. “You say that now, but five minutes in you’d be crying about stale onigiri.”
“So,” she said, leaning forward with both palms pressed against the edge of the table, eyes flicking to Yoongi. “You’re really paying for lunch today?”
Yoongi raised a brow. “Why wouldn’t I?”
Marquise grinned. “Nothing. Just wanted to hear you say it.” She nodded once. “Richie Rich...”
“Don’t get used to it,” Yoongi replied dryly. “This is just a one-time thing.”
Menus were passed around, though no one really looked at them for long. Plates were ordered with reckless confidence—at least ten dishes for five people—Yoongi barely blinking as he confirmed everything. Soon enough, the table blended into the restaurant’s hum, laughter and overlapping voices folding into one another.
“No—she literally backed up and fucking crashed her car into theirs,” Jimin wheezed, laughing so hard his shoulders shook. He leaned halfway onto Yoongi, eyes squeezed shut. “Like—no hesitation.”
“It was my first time attending a race,” Marquise muttered, leaning toward Y/n but still loud enough for everyone to hear. “Don’t mind him.” She rolled her eyes at Jimin. “I was nervous.”
“Nervous my ass,” Hoseok snorted, pointing at her. “Mar, you’re lucky it wasn’t Jungkook’s car. He would’ve rammed you straight into the barrier.”
The name landed heavier than it should’ve. Y/n’s breath caught—just barely—but enough.
“No, he wouldn’t,” Jimin added easily, already spiraling. “Because he literally asked her out that night.”
Laughter erupted again, Hoseok nearly choking on air, Marquise groaning into her hands.
To anyone else, it was harmless. A dumb story. A name tossed around too casually like in a game of basketball. To Y/n, it felt like the conversation had veered off the road entirely. She reached up, scratching lightly at the back of her scalp, right where her neck met her hairline—a nervous habit she didn’t even register anymore. Her gaze dropped to the table, then to the stem of her water glass, fingers circling it once.
“Y—Y/n—hah!” Hoseok tried, still laughing, pointing at her with his fork. “Don’t tell me you don’t find that funny!”
She lifted her head a beat too late, lips pulling into a smile that felt more like she was stretching muscles she hadn’t used in a while. She shifted in her seat, subtly closer to Marquise. That was when Yoongi noticed. He frowned slightly, eyes narrowing just a touch as his gaze lingered on her longer than usual.
“Uh—well—”
“Here’s your beef Wellington, foie gras, Kobe beef,” the waiter interrupted smoothly, placing down plates one by one like a practiced ritual. “And the cacio e pepe and nonettes. I’ll be right back with your wine.”
The interruption landed perfectly.
The waiter disappeared, taking Hoseok’s unfinished sentence with him. Plates were pulled closer. Jimin stared down at the spread like it had personally offended him.
“Shit,” he muttered. “So this is what rich people eat.”
“You’re welcome,” Yoongi said dryly, already reaching for his cutlery.
As the conversation shifted—work gossip, race schedules, Hoseok ranting about some karen at his motor shop—Yoongi stayed quieter than usual, eyes flicking back to Y/n every now and then. She laughed when she was supposed to. Nodded at the right moments. Ate carefully, like food was an afterthought.
Their food slowly disappeared into their tummies, leaving behind only streaks of sauce and oil smeared across white porcelain. Forks rested lazily at the edge of plates now, conversations softer, fuller — the comfortable kind that came after good food. The wine bottles had noticeably lightened too, one already pushed aside like it had served its purpose.
Y/n was relieved the conversation never circled back to him. Instead, it drifted through stories she’d missed — inside jokes, half-finished sentences, moments from Yoongi’s life that had existed parallel to hers without ever intersecting. She found herself loosening up without realizing it, shoulders no longer tight, laughter coming easier. It felt…nice.
She was genuinely happy she’d finally gotten to know Yoongi’s friends after years of knowing about them but never really knowing them. There was something grounding about seeing Yoongi exist in this version of his life, one that didn’t feel so secret anymore.
“Y/n,” Marquise tilted her head, a lazy side-smile on her lips as she shook a box of cigarettes between her slender fingers. “Smoke a cig with me?”
Y/n blinked once, then twice — her lips curling slowly as she nodded. “Yeah—”
“Hey.”
Both their heads snapped toward Yoongi. He leaned forward, elbow planted on the table, one finger pointed accusingly at Marquise. “She’s not smoking shit with anyone.”
Marquise stared at him for a beat before scoffing. “Fuck off, Min. Your sister’s a grown adult.” She nodded emphatically with each word. “Let her live.”
Yoongi opened his mouth, then closed it, muttering something under his breath as Hoseok laughed into his glass. The girls didn’t wait around. They slipped out of the restaurant, the warm glow of the interior giving way to the cool night air outside. The city had fully settled into evening — couples walking hand in hand, clusters of friends laughing too loudly as they headed toward clubs, someone across the street already leaning against a pole like the world was spinning faster than expected.
The sharp click of Y/n and Marquise’s heels echoed against the pavement before they settled beside the brick wall of the restaurant. Marquise leaned back first, already pulling a cigarette from the box and slipping it between her lips. Her fingers flicked the lighter, flame dancing briefly before catching. She took a deep huff, shoulders relaxing almost instantly. Y/n watched her quietly. Marquise extended her hand, offering a cigarette. Y/n took it without hesitation.
It wasn’t her first time smoking. She’d done it enough to know the rhythm — the inhale, the pause, the slow release. She mirrored Marquise’s movements, the tip glowing softly before smoke spilled from her lips.
“You okay?” Marquise asked, softer now. One arm folded across her stomach, the other propped against her elbow as she studied Y/n.
Y/n took another puff, exhaling slowly. “Yeah,” she said after a beat. “I’m good.”
Marquise hummed, unconvinced. “You mentioned earlier you got back to work early. Why?” She pulled the cigarette back between her lips, eyes flicking up to the dark sky.
“Nothing,” Y/n shrugged, though it felt heavier than she meant it to. “Break was too long.” Their smoke collided briefly in the air. Y/n waved a hand, pushing it aside.
Marquise watched her closely before asking, “Does it have to do with Jungkook?”
Y/n’s gaze snapped toward her, brows pulling together sharply. “No—what? Why does everyone think that…?”
“Because that shit show you two pulled that Friday…wasn’t nothing,” Marquise replied easily, lips tugging into a knowing smile.
Y/n took another puff, longer this time. She stared straight ahead, not really interested in carrying the conversation forward. The silence stretched. Marquise’s smile faded just a little.
“There’s nothing wrong, you know…” she said quietly, legs shifting as she crossed her ankles. “With…liking him.”
“Woah—I did not…say anything about liking him.” Y/n scoffed dryly, lifting the hand holding her cigarette like she needed to physically stop that thought from existing.
Marquise laughed. “Not that kind of like.” She shook her head. “I meant just as a person.” A pause, then a shrug. “I should be the one embarrassed. I fucked him with no feelings.” She chuckled lightly, taking another drag.
Y/n stared at her. She knew there was nothing inherently wrong with liking someone as a person. But there were a million reasons why liking him — in any capacity — felt like a bad idea.
He’d made her feel stupid. Small. Like she’d imagined things that were never there to begin with. He’d given her attention that lingered just long enough to be missed, pulled her in just enough to make her crave more.
Nobody likes that.
“I don’t like him at all,” Y/n said firmly. Smoke slipped from her mouth as she spoke.
Marquise studied her, eyes softening — not judgmental, not teasing this time. Just… observant.
“Okay,” she said gently, tapping ash onto the pavement. “Then I’ll believe you.”
She leaned back against the wall again, letting the night swallow the conversation for now. “Just don’t let me catch you in his arms—” she said calmly, almost teasing, “—if you’re just gonna lie to me like that.”
She took another drag, then softened — lips lifting into something gentler as she looked at Y/n. Not accusatory. Comforting.
Y/n huffed out a quiet breath, eyes dropping to the pavement. “You won’t,” she muttered. “Promise.”
Marquise watched her for a moment longer, then nudged her shoulder lightly with her own. “Good. Because I don’t like seeing girls pretend they’re fine when they’re not.”
Y/n let out a breathy laugh, the kind that barely counted. She flicked ash away, cigarette burning down faster than she’d realized.
“I am fine,” she said, though her voice lacked conviction.
“Mm,” Marquise hummed. “Sure you are.”
They stood there in companionable silence, the city filling in the gaps — cars passing, distant laughter, music leaking faintly from somewhere down the street. Y/n finally crushed the cigarette under her heel, twisting it until the glow died out. Marquise followed suit a second later.
“C’mon,” she said, pushing off the wall. “Before your brother comes out here and lectures me about corrupting you.” Y/n smiled — small, but real this time — and nodded, turning back toward the restaurant doors.
Whatever she was running from, it wasn’t catching up to her just yet.
🏎️. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ .
Y/n padded into the kitchen barefoot, the mansion dim except for the bluish glow bleeding in from the living room. The fridge light flicked on with a soft hum as she reached in, fingers curling around a cold bottle of water. Her head was still foggy, the kind of tired that didn’t come from lack of sleep but from thinking too much.
Behind her, the TV murmured—some late-night talk show channel Yoongi liked to leave on for background noise. He sat on the couch, laptop balanced on his knees, glasses slipping slightly down his nose. From the way his fingers moved across the keyboard, he wasn’t really watching the screen at all.
“Ms Y/n.” Y/n turned. Yeongmi stood in the hallway, holding something up with two fingers like it might bite her.
A black hoodie.
Her stomach dropped before her brain could catch up. It was unmistakable. Oversized. Worn soft at the cuffs. The faintest crease at the bottom. Even from across the kitchen, Y/n knew exactly what it was.
Yeongmi tilted her head. “Is this yours?”
Y/n didn’t answer right away. She was at loss for words. Didn’t really know why.
“I found it hanging on the back of your door,” Yeongmi continued. “I thought it was odd. You haven’t shopped lately, right? And I didn’t see any PR packages come in. I’ve never seen this hoodie before.”
Yoongi glanced up. His eyes flicked from the hoodie to Y/n’s face, then back again. He leaned back into the couch slightly, posture shifting—subtle, but she caught it.
“It’s…my friend’s,” Y/n said finally. Too quickly. She hated that. “I borrowed it.”
Yeongmi hummed, unconvinced but not pressing. “I figured. I washed it already,” she said, stepping closer and passing it to Y/n. “Used your favorite detergent. The one that smells like coconut.”
The fabric was warm. Still holding a trace of the laundry room heat, soft and clean and wrong in her hands. The scent hit her immediately—bright, familiar, clinging to something that absolutely smelt like it belongs in this mansion. It smelt like her now.
His hoodie. Smells like her.
“Thanks,” Y/n muttered.
Yeongmi smiled, oblivious. She bowed and then disappeared back down the hall, her slippers shuffling softly against the floor. The silence that followed was heavier than before.
Y/n stared at the hoodie, thumb rubbing absently over the seam near the pocket. Her grip tightened without her meaning to. For a split second, an image flashed—him leaning against the car door, leather jacket hiding his tattoos like it had always been part of him.
“Wow,” Yoongi said dryly. She flinched.
“You still hadn’t gotten rid of it?” he asked, eyes back on his laptop but jaw tight. His tone wasn’t loud. Just pathetic.
Y/n swallowed. “Uh…no.” She turned toward him, forcing a shrug as she bounced the hoodie once in her hand, like it was nothing. Like it didn’t weigh a fucking ton. “He wants it back. I’ll just get Marquise to return it.”
Yoongi’s fingers paused on the keyboard “Right,” he said slowly. “Like she’d want to be involved with him again.” He looked up at her this time, really looked. “You’ve had weeks, Y/n.”
“I know.”
“And you didn’t—”
“I said I know.” Her voice came out sharper than intended. She exhaled and dragged a hand through her hair. “It’s just a hoodie, Yoongi.”
She leaned against the counter, hoodie folded over her forearm now, eyes fixed on the marble surface. “He asked for it back. That should be enough.”
“Did he?” Yoongi asked. It sounded more like a statement more than a question, like he wasn’t convinced.
Y/n didn’t answer. Instead, she folded the hoodie more neatly than required. Once. Twice. Each movement precise, careful. Like she was packing away something fragile.
Yoongi sighed. “You know, you don’t have to pretend with me.”
“I’m not pretending.”
“You are,” he said gently. “You ended a six-month break early. You’re snapping at everyone. And now you’re standing in the kitchen at midnight holding onto my enemy’s hoodie like it’s evidence.”
She laughed under her breath. “Jesus. You make it sound pathetic.”
“No, I’m just stating the fact.”
Y/n lifted her head, meeting his gaze. For a moment, something cracked—just slightly. But she masked it fast.
“I’ll return it,” she said firmly. “Tomorrow. Or…whenever. Through Marquise. Done.”
Yoongi studied her, then nodded once. “Okay.” He reopened his laptop. But as Y/n turned toward her room, hoodie tucked against her side, she knew—deep down—that returning it was never going to be that simple.
“No—what do you mean you can’t help me return it?” Y/n’s voice pitched higher despite herself.
On the other end, Marquise laughed, completely unbothered. “Babes. As much as I love you, I’m not in touch with him.”
“What do you mean you’re not in touch with him?” Y/n pressed, twisting the phone cordlessly between her fingers.
“I mean,” Marquise said, drawing it out, “I deleted his number the second he texted me that he’d dropped you off safely the night of the party. Closure. Growth. Self-respect, honey.” She snorted. “Why would I still be talking to my ex?”
Y/n groaned, sliding down her chair until her knees were tucked up to her chest. She pressed her forehead into her palm. “Of course you deleted it.”
“I’m proud of me too,” Marquise added lightly. “You should try it sometime.”
“Not helpful.”
“I’m being realistic,” Marquise said. “Besides, you’re acting like this is some life-or-death situation. It’s just a hoodie.”
“Right. Just a hoodie,” Y/n muttered.
There was a pause.
Marquise’s tone shifted, gentler now. “Look, if I had his contact, I’d help. But I don’t. And I’m not about to go digging around for a man I don’t associate with.”
Y/n exhaled, defeated. “Okay then. I’ll just…” Her gaze drifted to the end of her bed, where the hoodie sat folded neatly, black fabric stark against the pale wood. “…I’ll figure out a way.”
“Mhm,” Marquise hummed. “You always do.”
The call ended not long after—soft goodbyes, a promise to meet soon, nothing heavy said out loud.
Y/n let her phone fall onto the mattress beside her. Then she folded in on herself. Her forehead dropped to her knees, arms wrapping around them, breath shallow as the room settled into silence. The city hummed faintly outside her window, distant traffic, a siren far away. Life continuing like nothing was wrong.
She lifted her head and stared at the hoodie again. Clean. Washed. Smelling like her detergent now—coconut and something faintly floral. It shouldn’t still feel like his, but it did. It sat there like an unanswered question.
She let out a weak laugh. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
She couldn’t even deliver it. She didn’t know where the fuck he lived. Does he still show up at races? Is he even still in the gang? Would showing up look insane—or worse, intentional?
Her fingers curled into the comforter. Texting him felt like crossing a line she’d spent weeks convincing herself she hadn’t already crossed. Showing up in person felt worse. Too much. Too honest. Y/n reached out anyway, thumb brushing the fabric of the hoodie.
For a second, she imagined just keeping it. Letting it disappear into the back of her closet until it became another thing she never dealt with.
Her jaw tightened.
“No,” she murmured to herself.
Decision made. Whether she liked it or not.
🏎️. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ .
The ice cream place was loud in a way that felt harmless but invasive—like sugar-coated chaos. Kids shrieked with laughter too big for their bodies, freezers hummed like they had opinions, and the bell over the door rang every few seconds, bright and unforgiving. The smell of vanilla and waffle cones clung to the air, sweet enough to make your teeth ache just breathing it in.
Y/n and Jin heard it before they saw it.
“I’m telling you,” Jin said, walking backward for emphasis, hands slicing the air, “I deadass told Solin not to agree to that Elle interview next month. I spelled it out. Birthday. Time off. Non-negotiable. And that little cunt still nodded like one of those stupid bobbleheads and said yes.”
Y/n walked beside him, steps even, unhurried. Black shades covered her eyes, baseball cap pulled low like armor. No security. No handlers. Just her and Jin and the city pretending she wasn’t famous.
“Whatever,” she said, voice flat, like the word had been chewed on too many times already.
Jin stopped so abruptly Y/n nearly walked into him.“Oh my god.”
She halted too, sharp as a slammed brake. “What.”
“The ice cream shop…” His voice went reverent. “It finally opened!” He pointed at the teal-painted building like it was a holy site. Cartoon cones smiled from the windows. The line wrapped halfway down the block, a mess of parents, kids, tourists.
Guess kids included Jin.
“Can we get one?” he asked, suddenly soft. “Please.”
Y/n lifted an arm, lazily gesturing at the line. “No. Look at that shit. I can see the end from here.” Jin deflated, shoulders slumping, lips pulling into a dramatic pout. Y/n laughed—quiet, brief—and hooked her arm through his.
“Relax,” she said. “We’ll get ice cream at the Prada café.” Jin sighed dramatically, nodding while forcing his eyes away from the shop like it personally betrayed him.
Neither of them noticed anything going on inside.
He set two paper cups down on the small white circular table, the surface printed with pastel sprinkles that looked fake enough to lick. The cups made a soft thud.
“Vanilla,” he said, sliding one toward her, “with cookie crumbles, gummy bears, and sprinkles.”
Seoyeon’s face lit up instantly. “Thank you, Jungkook-ah!” She scooped before he even sat down, shoveling ice cream into her mouth like it might disappear.
Jungkook smiled without thinking, lip piercing tugging as he leaned closer, his palm smoothing down the small of her head. Her hair was soft under his fingers—always had been.
Seoyeon was the only girl Jungkook had never learned how to leave. Never said no to her. Never disappeared. Never went quiet when things got heavy. Her nine year old heart was too small for his damage. Too clean for his ghosts.
“Mom would never let me eat this much,” she said, glancing up at him with the same wide eyes he saw in the mirror every morning.
“Hmm. So you used the house phone knowing I’d pick up and buy you ice cream, huh.” he said softly. “It’s okay. I know how much you love vanilla, Yoyo.”
She giggled at the nickname—his nickname, sacred and hers alone. Her shoulders lifting like she’d been gifted something precious.
He finally took a bite of his own. Chocolate and fudge melted against his tongue, Oreos crunching, grounding him for half a second. He hummed without thinking.
“I wanted to get a vanilla cake for Dad’s birthday,” Seoyeon said, suddenly quieter. “But Mom said you weren’t coming. So it’d be too much cake. And a waste of money.”
His spoon slowed. The world dimmed—not silent, just distant. Like someone turned the volume down but left the ache.
“Why didn’t you wanna celebrate Dad’s birthday?” she asked.
The question didn’t accuse but it still hit. Jungkook stared at his melting ice cream, jaw tightening until it hurt. His reflection stared back at him in the glass freezer door—older than he felt. Tired in a way sleep never fixed.
“I just…” He breathed out through his nose. “Didn’t feel right, sweetheart.”
“But Mom was sad.”
“I know.”
“Dad would’ve been sad too.” She poked her ice cream absently, carving small craters. “Even if I never met him…”
“Hey hey.” He leaned forward, lowering himself to her level, hands warm on her small arms. “Even if Dad died before you were born, he knows you. He saw you in Mom’s belly. He’s probably seeing you now… stuffing your face with ice cream.” A quiet laugh slipped out of him. Her shoulders eased. The weight she carried—quiet, unseen—lifted just a little.
“Are you mad about it?”
“No,” he said immediately. Then softer. “I don’t think I ever was.”
She tilted her head, eyes narrowing like she was solving a math problem. “Then why are you acting weird?”
He huffed. “Am I that obvious?”
“You kept checking your phone,” she said, matter-of-fact. “Even in the car.”
“Okay…” He leaned back, eyes drifting to the window where people passed like ghosts. “There’s this…girl.”
Seoyeon perked up instantly. “Ooooh.”
“Don’t,” he warned. She grinned anyway while clapping. “She makes things loud in my head,” he admitted, voice low.
“That sounds annoying.”
“It is.” He nodded.
“Do you like her?”
The question lodged somewhere painful. He thought about her mouth when she argued. The way she looked angry. The way silence with her felt louder than noise. Images flashed—heels in his chest, her mouth shaping his name like a weapon, hoodie on her, and her body pressed against his while comparing Louis Vuitton with Chanel.
“I think,” he said slowly, “I’m scared of her.”
Seoyeon nodded like that made perfect sense. “That means you care.”
He blinked. “Really? Who taught you that?”
“You,” she said simply. “You said scary things are worth being brave for.”
The words hit him harder than the race ever had.
“I think you should tell her,” she added.
He scoffed. “It’s not that simple.”
“But she’s always in your head,” Seoyeon pressed. “So you care. Like you care about me.”
Something tight and warm cracked open in his chest.
“You’re good,” he muttered with a nod.
She grinned. “I learned from you.”
Jungkook’s signature bunny-like grin slapped on his face upon his sister’s reply. They finished their ice cream in silence that felt heavy but safe. Then—
“Oh! I started liking this celebrity,” Seoyeon said suddenly. “She’s a model.”
Jungkook stilled.
Model.
“Hmm. A model!” Jungkook shook his leg under the small table, his tone amused.
“She’s really, really pretty. I saw her interviews.” She leaned closer. “I think I saw her just now. Walking past with a guy. I think it’s her boyfriend,” she giggled.
“Who—,” Jungkook asked carefully, “who are you talking about?”
She beamed.
“Min Y/n.”
🏎️. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ .
“Did they say anything?” he asked, voice too casual for how tight his jaw looked.
The garage smelled like burnt rubber and stubborn regret.
Hot metal ticked as it cooled. Somewhere in the back, a fan oscillated lazily like it was bored of these men and their emotional incompetence. The afternoon light leaked in through the high windows, cutting across dust particles that hung in the air like suspended thoughts—unsettled, heavy.
Jungkook sat on the edge of the wooden worktable, Timberlands knocking against the cabinet below, fingers digging into the grain of the wood like it personally offended him. Namjoon didn’t even look up at first. He was still scrolling, grease streaking the side of his phone like the poor thing didn’t deserve better.
“Nah,” he said, thumb flicking. “Just Vogue saying Y/n gets irrationally irritated when someone walks slower than her but won’t let her pass.” He snorted, shaking his head before shoving the phone into the huge front pocket of his overalls.
Jungkook groaned, head dropping forward. The sound wasn’t dramatic. It was the kind that crawled out of your throat when your brain wouldn’t shut the fuck up. Namjoon straightened, cracking his neck once before facing him properly.
“Look,” he started, and Jungkook didn’t lift his head. “I doubt she has a boyfriend. Why would she agree to go on that date with you? Why would she let you bring her home? She’s not taken. okay?”
Jungkook’s head snapped up like someone hit a switch. “Okay but she could’ve!” His eyes were wide—actually wide. Panic sat in them like it paid rent. “Like recently. Shit happens fast.”
Namjoon barked out a laugh and turned back to the open hood of the car. The metal frame stood between them like a half-built confession.
“Kook,” he said, tossing a mustard-colored cloth over his shoulder, “you’re fucking up your brain over a model who’s your enemy’s sister. Is that not clocking to you?” He reached into the engine bay, arms disappearing into steel and shadow.
“You said you found her hot. Wanted to get laid.” He glanced over his shoulder. “What the fuck happened?”
Jungkook rolled his eyes but it didn’t land the way it used to. There was no arrogance in it. Just exhaustion.
Yeah.
What the fuck happened?
It was supposed to be simple. She was hot. He was bored. That electric pull the first night? He wrote it off as hormones and ego. That itch under his skin? Lust. Easy. Containable. But somewhere between her glare and her laugh and the way she said his name like it meant something. Something shifted. Now his chest felt like a locked garage door with the engine still running inside.
“You wanna know what I think happened?” Namjoon grunted, lowering the hood with a solid thunk. Jungkook stared at the floor.
“I think you’re attached.”
The word hit harder than it should have.
Attached.
Like a parasite. Like a seatbelt. Like a damn anchor.
Namjoon wiped his hands on the cloth, then looked at him fully. “I think…” he paused, squinting slightly, “you’re in love.”
“Woah—woah.” Jungkook lifted both hands like he was getting arrested. “Love’s a little dramatic, don’t you think?”
Namjoon tilted his head. “Your face says otherwise.” Jungkook scoffed but it came out thin. Weak. Like even his sarcasm didn’t believe him.
“It’s not like that,” he muttered. “It’s different.”
Different.
The word felt stupid. Useless. But it was the only one that didn’t choke him.
“She’s…different,” he repeated, running a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots like that might yank the feeling out with it. “And now Seoyeon likes her, says she has a boyfriend, and I can’t stop thinking about it. Fuck.” He leaned back against the wall, head thudding lightly against concrete. The impact grounded him for half a second.
His eyelids slid shut. Darkness. And there she was anyway.
Min Y/n.
Her voice. Sharp as broken glass but controlled. The way she’d shove him without hesitation. The way her eyes didn’t soften for anyone. The way she walked like the world owed her space. She wasn’t just gorgeous. She was alive. Like fire that didn’t apologize for burning. And that scared the shit out of him.
“How do you know if…” Jungkook’s voice came quieter now, less defensive, more confused. “You like someone.” Namjoon froze mid-step, bucket of tools clinking softly.
“Like,” Jungkook clarified, sitting up and spreading his legs, elbows on knees, staring at the oil-stained floor. “You like them as…a lover.” The word tasted foreign in his mouth. Heavy. Too honest.
Namjoon stared at him. “You’re asking me?” Jungkook shot him a look. “I don’t date,” Namjoon said, shrugging with a sheepish grin. “I build engines. I break bones. I don’t do candlelight and feelings.”
“What do you mean you don’t date?” Jungkook frowned. “You just haven’t found someone interesting. Nobody just doesn’t date.”
Namjoon pointed at him suddenly. “Oh now you’re the one giving relationship advice?” He laughed. “Sort your shit out first.” He set the bucket down with a clang and stepped closer.
“Do you like Y/n…or not?”
Silence thickened between them. Jungkook swallowed. He thought about her laugh. The way his mood shifted depending on whether she texted back. The way her name sounded in his sister’s mouth. The way he’d rather lose a race than lose control in front of her.
His chest tightened. Liking someone wasn’t butterflies. It was vulnerability. It was risk. It was knowing exactly how much damage someone could do if they wanted to. And still wanting them close.
He dragged a hand down his face. “I don’t know,” he admitted finally, voice rough, like gravel under tires. “But when she’s not around, everything feels…” He searched for the word. Failed. “Off.”
Namjoon didn’t interrupt.
“And when she’s angry at me,” Jungkook continued, jaw tightening, “it pisses me off. But it also—” He exhaled sharply. “It hurts.”
There it was. Raw. Ugly. Real.
Namjoon studied him for a long second. “That,” he said slowly, “sounds a lot like liking someone.”
Jungkook let out a humorless laugh. “Yeah? Well liking someone feels a lot like losing control. And I don’t fucking do that.” The fan in the corner kept swinging back and forth like it disagreed.
Namjoon crossed his arms. “You don’t do attachment,” he corrected. Jungkook didn’t respond. Because that one hit too close to the bone.
“You live alone. You don’t bring girls back twice. You don’t call people after midnight unless it’s about engines.” Namjoon’s voice softened slightly. “You keep distance like it’s oxygen.” Jungkook stared at the oil stain between his boots.
“And now,” Namjoon continued, “you’re panicking because you don’t have it.”
Jungkook let out a breath through his nose, sharp and shaky. “Shit.”
The word fell out like surrender. Maybe he was attached. Maybe he was falling. And maybe the scariest part wasn’t that she might have a boyfriend. It was that he cared if she did.
Namjoon had already retreated, boots echoing out of the garage like he couldn’t be bothered to babysit Jungkook’s existential crisis anymore. The place felt bigger without him. Emptier. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead like they were judging him. Meanwhile, Jungkook stayed. Said he’d wait for the customer. The clock above the tool rack blinked 11:43 p.m., each second ticking like a slow accusation. Jungkook sat on a small metal stool, elbows on his knees, phone glowing against his face. The light carved shadows under his eyes. He looked like a man about to confess to a crime.
Y/n’s contact name sat there. Untouched. Unanswered. Unforgiving.
He typed.
Jungkook: u home??
Delete.
Jungkook: r u busy?
Delete.
Jungkook: lets meet
“Argh, fuck—” he hissed, fingers digging into the back of his hair like he could rip the right words out of his skull.
Delete.
His thoughts weren’t lining up. They were crashing into each other like cars missing the sixth turn. Every sentence sounded either too needy or too cold. And he didn’t know which one would make her hate him more.
He needed her to know. About the attachment. About the fear. About how the space she left in his chest felt like someone pried open a rib and forgot to close it. He needed to see her again. Hear her voice. Watch her eyes roll when he said something stupid. Feel that heat between them just to confirm—
Is this fucking love?
His head spun like those playground spinners kids jump off too late. Dizzy. Disoriented. No solid ground.
“Get it together,” he muttered to himself.
Fuck it.
Jungkook: y/n
Jungkook: u awake?
Jungkook: pls text back
He hit send before his courage could expire. The message whooshed away. He immediately locked his phone and let his hands dangle between his knees like they’d betrayed him. A long, exhausted breath left his mouth.
“Shit… please reply.”
The customer came. Paid. Took the keys. Thanked him. Left. The garage shutter half-closed with a metallic groan. Cold air slipped in, brushing against his forearms. The night thickened. Still no reply. Every five minutes, he checked. Nothing. Just app updates. Spam notifications. Everything except her.
He kissed his teeth harshly. “You serious right now?”
Is she ignoring me? Maybe she’s overseas. Models travel like it’s a personality trait.
The thought didn’t comfort him. It made it worse.
He unlocked his phone again and opened Instagram. Typed:
Min Y/n.
Boom. First result.
hiitsmeyn.
His thumb hovered before tapping her profile.
model. sister. life improver.
He snorted softly. “Life improver, my ass. You’re ruining mine...”
Her feed loaded like a slap. Photo dumps. Runways. Backstage mirrors. Editorials. Flashing cameras. Comments flooded with heart eyes and blue checks. But Jungkook didn’t see a celebrity. He saw the girl who shoved him against his own car and called him out for being a coward. A dickhead.
He tapped her most recent post. Her in a black car. His breath stalled. It wasn’t even intentional. It was just—
Fuck.
The way she was leaning over the opened window. Back arched slightly over the hood. Chin resting on her forearms on the steering wheel. Eyes sharp enough to slice through steel. She didn’t look like a model in that shot. She looked like she owned the damn machine. Like she belonged in his world. Jungkook swallowed. His jaw tightened.
A slow heat pooled low in his stomach—not just physical, but territorial. Primitive. Ugly. His grip tightened around the phone. The denim over his thighs pulled taut, the sudden pressure impossible to ignore.
She looks too fucking good in that car.
He zoomed in without realizing it. Traced the line of her jaw with his thumb. The curve of her waist. The gloss on her lips.
He exhaled through his nose, sharp. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not here, not like this—not with grease still streaked across his knuckles and the scent of motor oil thick in the air. But his body didn’t care about should or shouldn’t. It reacted. Heat coiled tighter, lower, insistent. He thumbed to the next photo without thinking.
Bad fucking idea.
This one was a close-up. Her lips parted, eyes locked dead ahead like she could see him through the lens. The collar of her racing suit was undone just enough to show the dip of her collarbones, the sheen of sweat along her throat. Jungkook’s pulse kicked against his ribs.
It wasn’t just attraction. It was obsession dressed up as appreciation. He imagined her sitting in his passenger seat instead. Hair messy from the wind. Hands gripping the dashboard — or better, his arm — when he took a sharp turn. Cursing at him and then laughing after.
He exhaled sharply through his nose. He locked his phone and leaned back against the metal cabinet. The garage smelled like oil and gasoline and something burnt. It felt like him. Rough. Mechanical. Controlled. But his chest? His chest felt like an engine overheating. He unlocked his phone again. Still no reply.
He typed another message.
Jungkook: u can ignore me. just let me know youre okay
His thumb hovered.
Don’t. Don’t fucking beg.
Delete.
He shut his eyes. Her voice replayed in his head.
I don’t like being fucking played, Jungkook.
The words didn’t regret themselves. He did.
He dragged a hand down his face. “You pushed her away first, dumbass.”
And now she’s doing what you taught her.
Distance.
He stared at her profile picture one more time. Zoomed in. Whispered to the empty garage—
“Just answer me.”
🏎️. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ .
The crunch of popcorn and surround-sound gunfire filled the private cinema, bass vibrating through leather seats that probably cost more than most people’s rent. Three rows of long, wide sofas. Plush. Excessive. Only two occupied. Filthy rich shit.
Y/n was half-sunk into the couch, legs crossed, hoodie sleeves tugged over her hands. The screen washed her face in blue and orange light, explosions reflecting in her eyes—but she hadn’t been watching for a while now.
Soon—
Ding.
No movement yet. A second later—
Ding.
She stiffened. The phone buzzing against the cushion beside her sounded stupidly loud, like it was tattling on her.
“Yo,” Yoongi muttered around a mouthful of popcorn, eyes glued to the screen. “Can your phone shut the fuck up? I’m trying to watch capitalism burn.”
Ding.
Y/n cursed under her breath and grabbed it, thumb fumbling as she turned the brightness all the way down. Face ID scanned. Unlocked. Her breath caught.
Jungkook: yn
Jungkook: u awake?
Jungkook: pls text me back
Stacked. Needy. And wrong. Her fingers curled tighter around the phone, knuckles blanching slightly, like it might slip away or explode or say something else if she didn’t hold it down.
What the fuck is he doing? Begging?
Her pulse kicked, sharp and sudden, like she’d been startled awake from a dream she didn’t remember having. She thought of his voice. Calm. Casual. Dismissive.
Waste of time.
The words replayed like a scratched CD, skipping, skipping, skipping. Her jaw tightened.
“Oh my god,” Yoongi said suddenly, shoving more popcorn into his mouth. “Did you see that? That was sick as hell.”
“Huh?” Y/n blinked, dragged back into her body. She turned toward him. “Oh—yeah. Crazy.”
“Who keeps blowing up your phone?” he asked, finally glancing sideways at her. One brow lifted. Sharp. Observant in that annoying way.
She hesitated. Just a beat too long. “Work,” she said, too quickly. Then softer, like she was convincing herself too. “Just…work.”
Yoongi hummed, unconvinced, but didn’t really care much either. He never did unless he smelled blood.
Her eyes drifted back down to the screen. Three texts. No jokes. No stupid emojis. No fake confidence. Just…him. Bare. Asking.
Was he bored? Lonely? Drunk on nostalgia and suddenly in need of female attention to plug whatever hole he’d fallen into tonight? Her thumb hovered over the keyboard. She imagined typing ‘what do you want?’ Imagined deleting it. Imagined asking ‘why now?’ Imagined hating the answer.
The phone felt heavier, like it had gained weight just to fuck with her. She locked her phone and tossed it face-down on her thigh like it had personally offended her. Yoongi glanced over again.
“You good?”
“Yeah,” she said, forcing a shrug. She huffed, crossing her arms. Her leg bounced despite herself. The phone vibrated again. She felt it even without looking. Phantom-limb shit. Like her body was wired directly to his name.
This time, she didn’t reach for it. Didn’t want to see another ‘pls’. Didn’t want confirmation that whatever this was—it mattered more than she’d let herself admit. Because replying meant opening a door she’d already slammed shut. And ignoring him felt like standing on the other side of it, hand still pressed to the wood, listening to him knock.
Hard. Soft. Desperate.
Her chest felt crowded. Like all her thoughts were pacing, bumping into each other, tripping over old memories and unfinished sentences.
On screen, someone died. Y/n didn’t notice. Yoongi sucked butter off his fingers. “You wanna pause it?”
“No,” Y/n said immediately. Too sharp. Then quieter. “No—it’s fine. Let it play.”
Because if it kept playing, time would keep moving. And if time kept moving, maybe this feeling would pass.
Her phone stayed face-down. Unread and unanswered. And somewhere across the city, Jungkook waited while Y/n sat in a home cinema, surrounded by noise, pretending she couldn’t hear the silence screaming her name.
🏎️. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ .
The mirror was fogged over, shy and unhelpful. She wiped a clear strip through the middle with her palm.
There she was. Bare face. Damp hair clinging to her collarbone. No mascara, no gloss, no carefully curated angles. The same face that lived on glossy covers and ten-meter billboards. The same face strangers recognized before they recognized her voice.
She didn’t hate it. She loved this career, genuinely. The rush of a perfect shot. The quiet command of a runway. The way a camera could feel like a spotlight and a weapon at the same time.
Her mom used to stand in front of mirrors like this too. Same bone structure. Same eyes. Y/n smiled faintly at the memory. She was proud to carry that legacy. Proud to honor her mom like this. But sometimes, in moments like these, when the glam was gone and the house was quiet, a stupid thought slipped in. Her mom had found someone steady. Someone who loved her without conditions. Someone who stayed. Zero complications.
Would she ever—Her brows lifted at herself.
“Relax,” she muttered. “You don’t need a boyfriend crisis at eleven p.m.”
Step one: toner. Cool liquid pressed into warm skin. Step two: serum. Fingers gliding over her cheeks in slow circles, methodical, grounding. The bathroom was calm. Steam thinning. Candles burning lower. Then—
Ding.
The sound cut through the quiet like a stone through glass. She didn’t look at it immediately. Just continued smoothing the serum over her jaw, pretending she hadn’t heard it.
Ding.
Her eyes flicked down.
Jungkook: how long r u gna ignore me y/n?
Jungkook: i know youre reading this
Her stomach tightened before she could stop it. A reflex. Annoying. Involuntary. She looked away instantly, focusing on her reflection instead.
Not tonight.
Another ding. And another. The notifications stacked up, his name multiplying on the screen like it had something urgent to prove.
Jungkook: i just wna talk
Jungkook: dont do this
Jungkook: please.
Please.
That word sat heavier than it should’ve.
Her jaw tightened. She dragged the moisturizer down her neck a little harder than necessary.
“Can he shut the fuck up?” she muttered under her breath, palms flattening against the cool marble counter.
The phone buzzed again, vibrating against the surface, small but persistent. Like it refused to be ignored. She stared at it. The screen lit up again. His name glowing in the dim bathroom.
Why now? Where was this energy when he called her a waste of time? When he acted like she was just convenient? Disposable?
Her chest felt tight—not dramatic, not cinematic. Just real. Like a hand pressing flat against her ribs.
She picked up the phone. Unlocked it. Opened the chat. Blue and grey bubbles. His recent messages desperate, stacked, slightly messy. No punctuation. Typing like he couldn’t sit still. She read them all. Twice. Her throat felt dry despite the wine. The three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. He was still there. Waiting. Her thumb hovered over the keyboard. A thousand responses lined up in her head. Sharp ones. Cold ones. Vulnerable ones.
Instead, she locked the phone. Placed it face-down on the counter.
You don’t get access to me whenever you feel like it.
The candles on the counter flickered. The phone buzzed again. And she let it.
The next day didn’t ease up on her. It came in loud and bright and impatient. Y/n had been planted in the makeup chair for an hour and twenty-three minutes — yes, she checked — and her ass had officially gone numb. The studio smelled like hairspray and expensive foundation. Hot lights beamed down from above like artificial suns, turning the room into a controlled little universe where perfection was mandatory.
She was wrapped in a black silky robe, smooth against her skin, barely tied at the waist. Three people hovered around her like she was a group project. One dusted powder along her collarbone, brushing over the delicate dip between her bones like they were polishing marble. Another leaned in close, steady hand dragging liquid liner into a sharp wing. “Don’t blink,” he murmured. As if she ever did. The hairstylist tugged gently at her curls, clipping, spraying, fluffing.
All Y/n could do was stare at herself in the mirror. Not really at herself — at the version of herself being assembled. Piece by piece. Stroke by stroke.
Her phone lit up on the counter in front of her, screen facing up.
Ding. Ding. Ding.
The sound was small but persistent. Like droplets in the bathroom. Something that refused to be ignored. Her eyes flicked to the screen before she could stop herself.
Jungkook.
Again.
Her stomach tightened the way it had last night, except now there was no steam or candles to soften it. Just fluorescent lighting and people watching her face for micro-movements.
“Your boyfriend’s persistent,” the makeup artist said casually, pausing mid-brush as she blended highlighter over Y/n’s cheekbone. Y/n didn’t look down. Didn’t move.
“He’s not my boyfriend.” Her voice was even. Cool. The kind of tone she used when interviewers asked stupid questions. The makeup artist raised a brow in the mirror.
The hairstylist snorted softly. “If he’s texting like that, he either fucked up or he’s in love.”
“Or both,” the eyeliner guy added dryly.
Y/n’s jaw tightened for half a second before she smoothed it out. Years of training. Cameras caught everything. She lifted her chin slightly so the highlighter hit just right, catching the studio lights like liquid gold. Her face was calm. Her pulse wasn’t.
Ding. The screen lit up again, his name flashing in the reflection like it had something to say to everyone in the room.
The makeup artist leaned back slightly, squinting at the screen. “He’s blowing it up.”
“Can we focus?” Y/n said lightly, a hint of edge beneath it.
“Relax hon, I’m just saying,” the makeup artist smiled. “Men don’t text like that unless they’re desperate.”
Desperate.
The word slid into her chest and settled there. She kept her eyes locked on herself.
“Or,” the hairstylist chimed in, fingers combing through her curls, “he cares a lot.”
Y/n let out a soft breath through her nose. Almost a laugh. Almost. Inside, though, her thoughts were louder.
If he cared, why did it take losing me for him to realize it? If he cared, why did he make me feel temporary?
Her phone buzzed again, vibrating against the glass surface of the vanity. It sounded impatient. Almost irritated. Like it was asking, ‘Why are you still ignoring me?’
Because I can. Because I’m not something you get to summon.
The makeup artist leaned in again. “Look up.”
Another day passed. Or maybe it dragged. Hard to tell lately. The private gym at the mansion smelled faintly of rubber mats and eucalyptus spray. Soft instrumental music floated through the room, trying to convince everyone they were at peace. Mirrors lined one wall, reflecting every bend and stretch—because of course, there was no escaping yourself here.
Y/n lay on the reformer, one leg strapped in, the other extended upward by the machine’s resistance. Both palms pressed into the mat, core tight, breath controlled.
“Inhale…hold…exhale,” her trainer murmured, hands lightly adjusting Y/n’s posture. “Good. Keep your shoulders down, Y/n. You’re pulling from the right muscles.”
“Mmhm,” Y/n replied, eyes fixed on her reflection, jaw tight.
Pilates was a regular routine. Not just because she needed to “maintain her model-like body,” whatever the fuck that meant. Apparently model-like still wasn’t enough for some people. Too skinny. Too thick. Your ribs are visible. Your belly’s sticking out. Your thighs look bigger in this angle. Everyone had an opinion. Strangers behind screens dissecting her like she was public property.
“Good. Push through it. Breath in… and longer exhale.”
Sometimes it felt like her body wasn’t hers—just a project people kept revising. Pilates helped. The slow burn in her muscles. The discipline of breathing through discomfort. The way it forced her into her body instead of out of it. And right now? It was helping with the Jungkook situation too.
She stretched her leg higher against the machine’s pull. The trainer hovered, hands ready to adjust.
Ding.
Her eyes squeezed shut.
Fuck. Hell no.
She didn’t need to look at the phone resting on the counter. She knew that pattern. Repeated ding. Relentless follow-ups. Overuse of “please” like the word was losing meaning by the second.
Ding. Ding. The sound cut through the calm studio like a glitch in a meditation app.
The instructor glanced over gently. “Do you need to take that?”
“No,” Y/n replied quickly, breath steady even though her chest wasn’t. “I’m good.”
She wasn’t really. Y/n exhaled sharply. Her core tightened. She wouldn’t look. Wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. She extended her leg again, jaw tight. Muscles trembling. Sweat sliding down her temples.
Jungkook had turned into a notification storm. A persistent ache. A mosquito you couldn’t slap. The phone kept lighting up, his name demanding attention. She let it. Let it buzz. Let it beg. Let it stack up. If it wanted to act like a ticking bomb, fine. Let it tick. Y/n didn’t care if it exploded.
Her muscles trembled slightly as she held the stretch. Sweat gathered at her temples, sliding down her neck in thin, irritating lines.
Ding.
The sound started to feel personal. Like it was mocking her discipline. Like it was whispering, You’re not as unbothered as you pretend.
The trainer leaned down, adjusting the strap on Y/n’s foot. “Pull through your heel more. That’s it… perfect. Keep your shoulders down.”
Y/n exhaled, breath uneven. And then—
The bomb exploded.
Her phone started ringing.
Loud. Aggressive. Vibrating against the marble countertop like it was possessed. Every muscle in Y/n’s body tensed.
“Argh—goddamn it!” she hissed, jumping off the reformer. Barefoot on the cool floor, snatching the vibrating phone.
Jungkook.
Of course. His name flashed, unapologetic, bright.
“The audacity,” she muttered, pressing it to her chest for a second before throwing her hands to her sides.
The trainer blinked. “You…want me to finish the set with you later?”
“No. I…I got it,” Y/n replied, voice low, feral even. Her heart thudded like a drum in her ears.
She stared at his name like it was a dare. Her thumb hovered over the screen. This wasn’t just about annoyance anymore. This was about control. About dignity. She let the call decline itself. Her fingers moved. Settings. Contact. Block. Confirmation popped up. Cold. Final. She hesitated. Memories flickered—his laugh, that flirty way he said her name, the stupid grin she tried to ignore.
Her chest tightened. “Fuck,” she whispered.
Blocked.
The screen went still. No more dings. No more buzzing. Silence. The kind that settles heavy in your bones.
“Okay, let’s get back to it.”
🏎️. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ .
Jungkook was pacing his apartment, phone clutched like it had life in it. The walls seemed to shrink every time he glanced at the screen, each ding from his unanswered messages echoing like a punch in his chest.
“Dude, what the fuck?” he muttered to himself, voice low but sharp. “Why the hell is she not answering?”
Namjoon leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, expression deadpan as he sipped his black coffee. “Because she’s ignoring you, genius. Or maybe she’s busy. Or maybe she just doesn’t give a shit.”
Jungkook flopped onto the couch, hair falling into his eyes, jaw tight. “No. No, no. She’s not busy. She’s a model. She answers texts. She’s…she’s—” He groaned, running a hand over his face, “She’s out of my reach and I hate it.”
Taehyung, sprawled across the other couch with his legs over the armrest, smirked lazily. “Wow. So you’re really into it. Nice, bro. Really letting your dick—or your heart—take over here.”
“Shut the fuck up, Tae,” Jungkook snapped, tossing his phone onto the coffee table. “This isn’t about…whatever you’re saying. I don’t even—fuck, I don’t know what this is anymore.”
Namjoon’s eyebrow rose. “You know what it is, dumbass. You’ve been texting her nonstop for days, literally blowing up her phone. You like her. You’re attached. You’re—holy shit—you’re in love.”
Jungkook snapped his head to their direction. “Yeah, alright. Fuck it. I do like her. I like Y/n. There, I said it,” he muttered, voice low, frustration boiling over. “But that doesn’t make this any fucking easier.”
Taehyung laughed, kicking off the couch to sit cross-legged beside him. “Dude, you should see your face.”
“I don’t even know if she wants me thinking about her,” Jungkook muttered, voice cracking a little, frustration boiling over. “Maybe she hates me. Maybe she blocked me and I don’t even know it. Maybe she’s laughing at me with her friends right now. Maybe—fuck.”
Namjoon sighed, running a hand over his face. “Kook, chill. You’re spiraling. You’re acting like a fucking maniac. Do you want my advice? Well here it is,” Namjoon said, tone sharp but measured. “You either man the fuck up and figure this shit out, or you stay here crying into your own panic until she never even remembers your name. That’s the real choice.”
Taehyung chuckled, clapping Jungkook on the shoulder. “See? I like that one. Sounds like you’ve got a plan brewing. Finally, Kook. Action. I like it.”
Jungkook sat up straighter, fists tight on his knees, chest heaving. Namjoon’s words were fire in his veins. Taehyung’s smirk was a kick in the ass. She wasn’t answering because she didn’t have to. But he didn’t care anymore. He needed her to know. Needed to see her. Needed whatever the hell this was between them to stop being a ghost he was chasing.
“I’m going,” he said finally, voice low and steady, the storm inside him condensing into a single thought. Namjoon just nodded, finishing his coffee.
“Yeah. Go. And don’t get kicked out by her brother.” Taehyung laughed.
Jungkook grabbed his keys, phone in his pocket, heart hammering like an engine revving. The night was waiting, and Y/n wasn’t going to ghost him forever.
Jungkook’s car rolled to a stop outside the sprawling Min mansion. The streetlights glinted off the black paint, a subtle halo on the sleek curves of his ride. He leaned back in the seat for a second, exhaling through his nose like he was trying to push down the knot of nerves in his chest. The buzzer at the gate rang, piercing the quiet night. Jungkook stepped out, heels clicking lightly on the cobblestone driveway. He pressed the call button.
“Hello?” His voice was low, steady, trying to mask the edge of impatience.
“Yes, you are speaking to a house keeper,” came the soft, polite voice.
“I’m here to see Y/n,” he said, keeping his tone casual but firm. “She—uh, told me to come by.”
A pause, then: “Please wait a moment.”
Jungkook leaned against his car, fists stuffed in his pockets, the cool night air crawling under his jacket. He could hear the faint rustle of leaves, a distant car, the hum of the city beyond the walls. A few minutes later, a figure emerged from the shadows, Eric, the ever-composed butler, walking toward him with that measured, almost intimidating calm. Before Eric could ask for any identification, Jungkook hesitated just long enough to pull out his phone. He flashed Y/n’s contact into view, showing it to Eric. A single raised eyebrow from the butler, then a subtle nod.
“Very well. Right this way.”
The gate opened, a low metallic creak echoing across the driveway. The mansion loomed ahead, massive and cold, swallowing footsteps and whispers. Jungkook followed Eric inside.
“Wait here,” Eric said. He left Jungkook in the middle of the living room.
Jungkook’s clothes feet slid on the marble floor as he took a seat, arms laid on his thighs, phone in hand, thumb tapping idly against the back. He then settled near the window, eyes flicking to the silent clock on the wall. Seconds felt like hours. The silence wasn’t comforting—it was tense, electric, waiting. He waited. The silence of the mansion pressed down on him like a second skin, his thoughts bouncing off the towering walls.
Then the front doors swung open, followed by murmurings. Yoongi stepped in first, carrying that casual, predatory confidence he always had. Marquise, Jimin, and Hoseok followed close behind, laughing quietly, the sound bouncing against the emptiness of the living room. The familiar scent of Marquise’s perfume cut through the air, mingling with the faint musk of the room.
Jungkook’s pulse picked up. His eyes followed them, scanning, calculating. The tension was a live wire between them—the kind that could snap at any second. He shifted slightly, keeping his hands visible, trying not to look like a kid caught sneaking into a candy store.
Yoongi’s gaze caught his almost immediately. A slow, deliberate glance that carried years of shared history, ownership, and a subtle, unspoken warning. Jungkook straightened, jaw tight, already feeling the weight of what was coming. Yoongi’s eyes flicked past them all and landed on Jungkook, who had froze in the middle of the room, hands stuffed in his pockets. His pulse kicked. The air seemed to shrink around him.
Yoongi’s lips twitched, not quite a smile. “What the fuck are you doing in my house?” His brows slowly started to dip between his eyes.
Jungkook straightened, shoulders squared, jaw set. His heart was hammering like a drum, but his voice stayed low, steady, deliberate. “I need to talk to Y/n.” Not panicked nor pleading. Calm, sharp, and unshakable. He wasn’t leaving this mansion without seeing her, no matter what—or who—stood in his way.
The silence stretched, thick as molasses. Yoongi’s eyes narrowed, scanning Jungkook like he was some intruder, a predator in his territory. Marquise and Jimin were already snickering, whispering behind their hands, while Hoseok just listened, curious but cautious.
“You’re here at…what, midnight?” Yoongi said finally, voice low, controlled but with an edge. “For her?”
“Yeah. I—look, I just need a minute. I need to talk to her.”
Yoongi’s jaw tightened. He took a step closer, and the tension in the room snapped like a rope ready to fray. Marquise raised an eyebrow, smirking, whispering to Jimin who stifled a laugh while Hoseok smacked their arms to shut them up, but Jungkook didn’t notice. His entire focus was on the giant floating lit staircase at the side of the living room—the ones that led to Y/n.
Yoongi’s voice cut through the charged silence. “You’re not going anywhere near my sister without my say-so.”
Jungkook’s pulse spiked, chest tightening like it was being squeezed in a vice. His brows arched, eyes sharp enough to cut glass, voice low and dangerous. “I’m not leaving without talking to her.”
Yoongi took another step forward, his presence a wall of authority. “You think you can just walk into her life? Text-spamming her, showing up here? You’ve got some balls, Jeon, but you’re about to find out—this isn’t that kind of playground. And my sister’s no fucking barbie doll.”
Jungkook’s jaw set. His hands curled into fists in his leather pockets. “I don’t care about your goddamn opinions, Min. I’m here to see her, not hear your mouth move.”
Yoongi’s eyes flared, but before he could respond, Marquise laughed softly. “Oh, this is good. Kookie, you’re really brave. Or stupid. One of the two.” Hoseok just shook his head, a hand catching his falling forehead.
Jungkook stayed rooted, silent but ready, eyes glancing to the top of the stairs every five seconds. His heart hammered like it was trying to escape his chest. Every second, every movement, every subtle glance from Yoongi made it harder to breathe. He was here now. The air in the living room felt charged.
“So…this is how it ends. You barging in like some…” Yoongi shrugged lazily, but his eyes weren’t lazy. They dragged over Jungkook’s frame slow, calculated. “…prince charming?”
A crooked smirk tugged at Jungkook’s lips, offended but amused. He rolled his shoulders once, like he was loosening up before a match. “Prince charming? Nah. I’m just tired of being ghosted.”
“Ghosted?” Yoongi tilted his head, subtle shake. “You mean you can’t respect boundaries.”
Jungkook let out a dry scoff. “Boundaries?” He stepped forward, sneakers whispering against marble. “Maybe you should check yours. Whatever’s going on between me and your sister’s none your business.”
Yoongi’s fingers curled slowly at his sides. Not trembling. Just coiling.
Hoseok shifted awkwardly. “Jeon, just lea—”
“You really think you can just walk in here like you own her?” Yoongi cut in smoothly, nudging his chin up.
“I don’t think,” Jungkook said, taking another step. Their personal space evaporated. “I know I deserve a chance to talk to her.”
“Chance?” Yoongi barked a laugh. Cold. Sharp. Another step. “You think a few desperate texts make you entitled?”
“More than you do, apparently.”
That did it. Something feral flickered behind Yoongi’s eyes. His jaw locked so tight it looked painful. And then—like a glitch in the matrix—he moved. One second they were staring each other down. Next, Yoongi had Jungkook by the collar, fist twisted into white cotton, knuckles pressing against his throat. The sound of fabric stretching cut through the room. Jimin cursed under his breath. Jungkook didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. His hand shot up too, gripping Yoongi’s jacket, dragging him close enough that their foreheads nearly brushed. Their breaths collided—hot, angry, laced with ego.
“Me?” Yoongi seethed, voice low and lethal. “More entitled than your ass?” His grip tightened. “No fucking shit—I’m her goddamn brother. You’re nothing.”
The word nothing hit like a gunshot. Jungkook smiled. Not a friendly one.
“Oh yeah?” he murmured, voice dangerously calm. “Seems like the opposite when she’s wearing my hoodie…sitting in my car at night...crying in my arms when she’s drunk.”
That was gasoline. Yoongi’s fist twitched, rising fast—so fucking fast it almost kissed the silver of Jungkook’s lip piercing. Hoseok grabbed Yoongi’s right arm. Jimin caught the other.
“Hyung—fuck—chill! Not in the house!” Jimin hissed, struggling.
Marquise moved just as quickly, palm flat against Jungkook’s chest, shoving him back a step. His heart was slamming under her hand like it was trying to break out of his ribs.
“Enough, you assholes!” she snapped, voice sharp enough to slice glass. “Cut it out before Y/n hears you.”
“Hear what?”
Everything froze. The voice floated down the staircase like smoke. All heads snapped up. She stood at the top, one hand resting on the railing. Too calm. Wearing an oversized sweater, bare legs, hair falling loose around her shoulders. Jungkook’s grip loosened immediately. His eyes widened—hope flashing through them so raw it almost hurt to look at.
“Y/n,” he breathed. She looked at him first. Not at Yoongi. Not at the chaos. At him.
“What are you doing here…” she asked flatly. The monotone stung more than if she’d screamed.
“Y/n—we gotta talk—”
“No.”
Just like that. Clean. Precise. Surgical.
Jungkook blinked, like maybe he misheard. “Wha—what do you mean no? You’ve been ignoring my texts, my calls—” His hands moved helplessly, fingers flexing like he could grab the words back.
She tilted her head slightly. “She’s a waste of my time.” The quote dropped into the room like a brick through glass.
Silence. Yoongi’s smirk returned slowly. Jungkook’s face drained. Because those were his words thrown back at him like a blade.
She lifted a brow. “Is that correct?”
The marble floor may as well have opened beneath Jungkook.
He squeezed his eyes shut briefly, jaw clenching. “No. No—I wasn’t thinking. I was pissed. I was stupid—”
“Were you?” she cut in softly. Her voice wasn’t loud. That’s what made it worse. It was steady. Controlled. Detached. Like she’d already processed the damage and archived him under mistakes.
Yoongi crossed his arms. “You heard her.”
“Shut up,” Jungkook snapped, briefly looking at him. His eyes stayed locked on Y/n again. “Please. Just let me explain. Five minutes. That’s it.”
She looked at him for a long second. And for just a flicker of a heartbeat—Marquise saw it. The crack. The almost. Then it sealed shut again.
“Get the fuck out of my house.”
The words were clean. Final. And then she turned. Just like that. Disappearing down the hallway upstairs, swallowed by the mansion walls like she’d never been there at all.
“Shit—no—Y/n!” Jungkook took a step forward instinctively.
Yoongi stepped in front of him instantly, palm flat against Jungkook’s chest this time. Hard. “She said get out.”
Jungkook shoved his hand away. “Move.”
“Or what?” Yoongi’s voice dropped. “You gonna cry about it too?”
That one landed. You could see it. Not rage this time but something like disappointment. The kind that sinks slow and heavy into your stomach like swallowed stones.
Jungkook’s shoulders rose with a sharp inhale. His eyes flickered to the staircase again. Empty. Gone. He laughed once under his breath. Not amused. Just…defeated. He stepped back, running a hand through his hair roughly. The anger came back fast, like it was embarrassed to be replaced by hurt. Jungkook turned and walked toward the door. Not storming. Not dragging his feet. Just leaving. But Marquise noticed. The way his jaw kept flexing like he was biting back words. The way his hands opened and closed at his sides. The way he looked up at the staircase one last time before stepping out. That wasn’t ego or pride. That was someone who actually gave a shit.
The door shut behind him with a heavy thud. Yoongi exhaled through his nose, rolling his neck like he’d just finished a workout.
“Pathetic.”
Marquise shot him a look. “Was it?” she asked quietly. Yoongi didn’t answer. Upstairs, a bedroom door clicked shut. And the mansion felt even colder than before.
🏎️. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ .
Marquise had Y/n on speaker while she was pacing her bedroom.
“You good, love?” Marquise asked for the third time.
“I’m fine.”
Marquise rolled her eyes at the ceiling. “You told him to get the fuck out.”
“And?”
“And he looked like someone shot his dog.” In the background, Marquise could hear the faint hum of Y/n’s air purifier. The soft rustle of sheets. Maybe she was sitting on her bed. Maybe staring at the wall. That’s what she did when she was pretending not to feel things.
“He deserved it,” Y/n said finally.
Marquise flopped onto her bed. “Maybe. Doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.”
“It didn’t.”
“Bullshit.”
Another silence. Thicker this time. Like fog rolling in. Before Y/n could snap back, Marquise’s phone buzzed in her hand. The screen lit up.
Unknown number.
She frowned. “Hold on.” She switched lines. “Hello?”
A beat. Then—
“Marquise.”
Her spine straightened. She knew that voice. Low. Slightly hoarse. Controlled, but barely.
Her brows shot up. “Shit—you didn’t delete my number?” The annoyance came out automatically, but it wasn’t sharp. It was…confused. Almost impressed.
A soft exhale from the other end. “Thank God I didn’t.”
Marquise swung her legs off the bed, suddenly alert. “Are you serious right now, Jungkook?”
“I need your help.”
She rolled her eyes, dragging a hand down her face. “Goodness—what.” A heavy pause. It stretched long enough that she checked the screen to make sure the call hadn’t dropped.
“Can you…get Y/n to talk to me?” The words weren’t aggressive. Nor were they demanding. They were careful. And that almost pissed her off more.
Marquise leaned back against her headboard slowly. “You’ve got balls calling me.”
“I know.”
“She hates you right now.”
“I know.”
“You embarrassed her.”
Silence. Then quieter—“I know.”
That one landed differently. Marquise’s irritation cracked a little. “You really fucked up, Jeon” She muttered.
“I did.”
No excuses. No deflecting. Just ownership.
She exhaled sharply through her nose. “Why me?”
“Because she listens to you.”
“Not about you, apparently.”
Another pause.
“I’m not asking you to defend me,” Jungkook said. His voice dipped lower. Less sharp. “I just…need five minutes. That’s it. I’ll leave her alone after that if she still wants me gone.”
Marquise stared at the wall. Five minutes. That’s what he asked for earlier too. Consistency. Desperation. Same energy.
“You’re putting me in a shitty position,” she said.
“I know.”
“You always ‘know,’ huh?”
A faint, humorless huff from his end. “Yeah. Doesn’t mean I know how to fix it.”
That shut her up for a second. She hated that he sounded wrecked instead of crying or broken. Just hollowed out.
“You said she was a waste of your time,” she reminded him.
“I was angry.”
Marquise arched a brow. “That’s your excuse?” A scoff.
“No.” His voice tightened, not defensive — just exposed. “It’s not an excuse.” Silence. Then he exhaled, like he was forcing something up from deep in his chest. “I’ve got commitment issues, Marquise.”
That made her blink. “What?”
“I don’t…attach,” he said flatly. “I don’t let myself. I don’t date. I don’t build shit that lasts. I keep it simple. Physical. Detached.” There was no pride in it. No bragging. Just fact.
“You and I?” he continued. “We were fuck buddies because it was easy. No feelings. No expectations. Just good sex and we both walked away fine. Us ‘dating’ was just an excuse to fuck.” Marquise leaned back slowly against her headboard. “But that wasn’t because I didn’t respect you,” he added quickly. “It’s because I don’t do attachment. I avoid it.”
A small beat.
“I didn’t even like Y/n at first. Not like that. Yeah I did find something about her…alluring but I just thought she was hot. I wanted it to be the same thing. No strings. Just…fun.” His jaw clenched on the other end. She could hear the faint scrape of his breath against the mic.
“But she didn’t stay surface-level,” he said quieter. “She got in. And I didn’t notice until it was already too late.”
Marquise swallowed.
“So—when I said she was a waste of time…” His voice dipped lower. “That was me panicking. Not literally meaning it. Just trying to kill something before it could…root.”
That one sat heavy.
“I don’t know how to do this shit,” he admitted. “I don’t know how to want someone and not feel like I’m losing control.” No dramatics. No theatrics. Just a man realizing he’s been running his whole life and now he doesn’t want to.
“And now?” Marquise asked quietly.
“And now she won’t even look at me.”
Marquise pressed her lips together.
Damn him.
“Do you like her,” she asked bluntly. The question cut straight through the static. No hesitation this time.
“Yeah. More than I planned to.”
There was something raw in that confession. Like he hadn’t meant for it to slip out that easily. Marquise swallowed. On the other line, Y/n was still technically waiting. Two worlds hanging off one phone.
“You’re aware…Yoongi will kill us both if I help you,” she said dryly.
“Wouldn’t be the first time he’s tried.” Despite herself, she almost smiled. Almost.
“Give me a reason,” she said finally. “One good reason I shouldn’t hang up.”
Another pause. It felt like he was choosing his words carefully like they mattered.
“Cause…she didn’t look at me like she was done,” he said quietly. “She looked hurt…”
Marquise’s chest tightened.
“And I did that,” he continued. “So I should at least try to fix it.”
Silence filled her room again. Outside her window, cars passed. Life went on. Normal. Unbothered. Inside, everything felt like it was balancing on the edge of something fragile.
“You’re an idiot,” she muttered.
“Yeah.”
She inhaled slowly. “I’ll…I’ll see what I can do,” she said, already regretting it. On the other end, she didn’t hear relief. She heard a breath he’d been holding finally let go.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me just yet,” she warned. “If she throws something at me, I’ll make you my shield.”
A faint, tired chuckle. “Sure.”
She pulled the phone away, staring at the screen for a second before switching back to Y/n’s call.
“…You still there?” Y/n’s voice came.
Marquise closed her eyes briefly.
Yeah. This was about to get messy.
🏎️. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ .
Yoongi didn’t knock. The door swung open and he stepped inside already knowing what he’d find—Y/n sitting on the edge of her bed, shoulders pulled tight, spine stiff like she’d swallowed a metal rod. Her phone lay beside her, face down. Exiled. Banished. Dramatic as hell.
The room felt stale. Like emotions had been sweating in it for hours. The air conditioner hummed but did absolutely nothing for the heat crawling under her skin.
Yoongi leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest.
“Want me to punch him?” No hello. No soft entry. Just violence, offered casually like a bottle of water.
She didn’t look up. “Can you stop defaulting to assault for like five seconds?”
“I’m serious.”
Y/n looked at him. Her eyes weren’t glossy. They weren’t red because wasn’t crying. They were pissed. Bruised pride. Ego scraped raw like someone dragged it across concrete.
“He’s a dick,” she muttered.
Yoongi stilled. That was new. Usually she’d argue. Deflect. Defend whoever she was seeing out of pure stubborn loyalty. She’d die on a hill before admitting a man she thought she knew was trash. But not tonight.
“He really is,” she added, jaw tight. “I should’ve listened to you.”
Yoongi’s mouth pressed into a thin line. Not smug. Not triumphant. “Yeah,” he said flatly. “You should’ve.” She didn’t fight him on it. That’s how he knew it hit deep.
Silence thickened the room. It sat heavy on their shoulders like a weighted blanket soaked in regret.
Yoongi pushed off the wall slowly. “Hated him the first time I saw him,” he said, eyes drifting toward the floor like the memory lived there.
Y/n frowned faintly. “You never told me why.”
“You never asked.”
“Sorry I didn’t know about your illegal double-life.”
He exhaled through his nose. The memory flickered behind his eyes — headlights slicing through night, engines screaming like caged animals, asphalt hot even after sundown.
“He beat me that day.,” Yoongi said. Her brows lifted. “First time we met each other. He won.” There was no sadness in it. Just fact and acceptance. “He was good,” Yoongi admitted. “Fast. Clean and smooth like he was born behind a wheel. I respected it.” His jaw flexed.
That word — respected — sounded like it cost him something.
“I lost by half a fucking second.” The bitterness didn’t shout. It simmered. “And I don’t mind losing fairly,” he added quickly. “That’s not the point.” He rubbed the back of his neck, exhaling through his nose.
“I walked up to him after. Told him it was a good run. That he earned it.” Y/n listened carefully now. She’d never heard the story behind the rivalry.
Yoongi’s lip twitched, humorless. “He looked at me,” he said, voice flattening, “and said, ‘Come back when you’re actually competition.’” The words dropped like oil in water — dark, spreading.
“No handshake or nod. Just…that smug fucking look on his face like he’d just conquered the world instead of winning a street race.” Yoongi grumbled under his breath in a mocking tone.
“I wasn’t even mad he won,” he continued. “I was mad at the way he wore it. Like a goddamn crown. Like the rest of us were just extras in his highlight reel.” He leaned back against the dresser now, arms crossing again.
“And every race after that?” he scoffed lightly. “He drove like he had something to prove. Cutting it close—showing off—pushing too far.”
“It wasn’t competition,” he said, voice low. “It was ego.”
The word hung between them like smoke.
“I don’t hate him because he’s fast,” Yoongi said. “I hate him because he can’t stand not being the best in the room.”
Y/n stared at her hands. “And you?” she asked quietly.
“I don’t mind losing,” Yoongi said. “I mind losing against him. And I mind disrespect.” That one sat heavier. Because tonight wasn’t just about racing.
“He disrespected you tonight,” Yoongi added. “In my house.” Y/n decided to stay quiet. “And he disrespected you,” Yoongi pressed. “Calling you a waste of time? That’s not a slip. That’s him protecting his fragile little pride.”
She flinched. Not visibly dramatic. Just the tiniest tightening around her mouth. Because it sounded right.
“I told you,” Yoongi said. Not smug. Just solid. “Over and over—he doesn’t know how to handle things that matter.” She nodded slowly.
“I thought I could…” she admitted.
“Fix him?”
“Handle him,” she snapped, turning her head sharply toward him. “Not fix him.”
Yoongi scoffed softly. “Still not your job.”
Silence swallowed the room again. Y/n leaned back on her palms and stared at the ceiling. The white paint looked different tonight. Less innocent. Like even the walls were judging her. Her thoughts were loud. So fucking loud, like a room full of people arguing inside her skull.
You knew better. You ignored him. You liked him. You still like him.
“I feel stupid,” she said finally.
“You’re not stupid.” Yoongi shook his head in defence.
“I ignored your warnings.” She shot him a look.
“Okay—I’m not sugarcoating it,” Yoongi said. “But I warned you.”
He had. Side-eyes, comments, blunt “I don’t like him.” He’d said it so many times it had become general background noise and she’d brushed it off every single time because she thought she could outsmart the red flags. Because she thought she wouldn’t catch feelings. She thought she was immune.
“Fuck,” she whispered, dragging her hands down her face. “I should’ve just never gone out with him.”
Yoongi watched her carefully. “I knew you’d come around,” he muttered. She glared at him, but there was no real heat in it.
“You’re so fucking annoying.”
“And I’m still right.” He stepped closer now, looming slightly. “I don’t trust him,” he said quietly. “And I won’t. Not after that first day. Not after tonight. Not ever.”
She didn’t defend Jungkook or argue. Because right now? She was mad at him too. Mad that he embarrassed her, that he made her look weak in front of her own brother, that he made her feel something that still hadn’t fucking gone away. That was the worst part. Even after the insult. Even after the humiliation. Her heart was still beating a little too hard when she thought about him.
Disgusting.
Yoongi studied her for a long second.
“You liked him,” he said quietly.
She froze.
“Did not.”
“You did.”
She stood up abruptly, pacing away from him. “That’s not the point—he hurt my ego,” she snapped. “That’s what this is.”
Yoongi tilted his head slightly. “If it was just your ego, you wouldn’t be this quiet.”
She hated how well he knew her. She turned away from him, arms wrapped around herself now. Not cold. Just holding herself together.
“You don’t cry over people you don’t care about,” Yoongi said.
“I’m not crying.”
“Yeah and I’m not illegally racing.”
Her breath hitched, just slightly. He wasn’t accusing. He was stating facts.
“Another reason for me to hate that bitch,” Yoongi continued, voice lower now. “He gets under your skin.” The room felt smaller suddenly. “And I don’t like anyone who makes you doubt yourself,” he added. That softened something in her chest. Annoyingly.
Yoongi moved toward the door. “If you go back to him,” he said without turning around, “don’t expect me to clap.”
She rolled her eyes weakly. “Wasn’t planning on it.”
The door opened. “And if he hurts you again,” Yoongi finished, voice steady and cold, “I won’t be lending you a shoulder this time.” The door shut softly behind him. And suddenly the room felt too quiet. Too still.
Y/n laid there for a second, staring at nothing. Anger buzzed in her veins like static electricity. But underneath it, something softer and stubborn that refused to die no matter how much she tried to suffocate it.
Her gaze drifted to her table. To the hoodie. His hoodie. She walked over before she could stop herself. Touched the fabric. It still smelled faintly like her detergent — coconut and something warm. Something he’s probably unfamiliar with.
“Fuck,” she breathed. Her heart felt like a traitor. Like it was voting against her pride.
Yoongi was right.
Jungkook was an egoistic asshole.
But the problem? He wasn’t just that. And that’s what made this so much worse.
🏎️. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ .
The next day came too quick and passed even faster — like the universe hit fast-forward just to spite her.
Her room was a controlled disaster. The kind that looked chaotic if you didn’t know her, but every stack had intention. Clothes folded into clean, obedient piles. Passport placed dead center on her desk. Chargers coiled with military precision.
Four suitcases lay open on her floor like gaping mouths. Two for Tokyo. Two for LA. Brazil with Yoongi would’ve been easier. A clean escape. A continent between her and Jungkook. Out of sight, out of reach. But running felt obvious and she refused to let him think he’d pushed her out of her own city.
Her flight was at seven in the morning. It was 10:02 p.m. The house was quiet in that heavy, expensive way. Their father had left at dawn for his business trip. Yoongi barely spoke at dinner. Not cold. Not angry. Protective silence. The kind that said, ‘I’m still thinking about what happened and I don’t like it.’
Y/n didn’t like it either.
She zipped one suitcase shut with a sharp, aggressive pull. The sound ripped through the room like she was trying to cut something in half.
Her phone buzzed. She glanced at it lazily.
Marquise.
Her brows knit together. She wiped her palms against her slacks before picking it up.
Mar: y/n emergency!!!
Mar: come to 28 Sinheung-ro 01-gil, Seongdong-gu, Seoul
Y/n frowned.
Sinheung?
That stretch of industrial nowhere. Long roads. Fewer houses. The kind of place people only drove through — not to.
Y/n: wut? why?
The typing bubble appeared. Disappeared. Reappeared.
Mar: dont ask questions. just come.
Y/n: Is everything okay?
Typing again. Paused.
Mar: just shut up and get here.
That was not comforting.
Y/n stared at the screen like it might confess something else. Marquise wasn’t dramatic for no reason. If she said come, she meant come. Still…the address felt random and wrong. Like a door in a dream you shouldn’t open.
She moved anyway. Because curiosity had always been her fatal flaw and loyalty ran deeper than logic. What if Marquise actually needed her? But needed her for what? Pose for a desperate Instagram story? Hide a body? Who the fuck knew.
She changed quickly. Black fitted slacks that hugged her hips like they were tailored to her mood — sharp, clean, and unforgiving. A black tank that clung to her waist and dipped just enough. Hair down, pin straight. No perfume. No touch-up. Just her. Raw. She paused in front of the mirror. She looked composed. Maybe too composed. Her face gave nothing away. No heartbreak. No hesitation. But her eyes? Restless. Like they were waiting for something to jump out.
She grabbed her keys and slipped out quietly. The last thing she needed was Yoongi catching her creeping out like a teenager. The night air hit her like cool silk — thin and sharp and humming. The city’s distant noise felt muted, like Seoul itself was holding its breath. She slid into her car. The leather was cool against her skin. The engine purred to life, smooth and confident. She typed the address into navigation. The map loaded. No turning back now.
City lights blurred past her windows like smeared gold paint. Music played low but she didn’t register a single lyric. Every second stretched thin like gum pulled too far.
The city thinned out. High-rises turned into warehouses, neon signs turned into lonely street lamps standing ten meters apart like socially awkward cousins. Trees lined the road. Dark. Watchful. She swallowed. Her headlights carved through the night like blades.
“You will reach your destination on the left,” the robotic voice announced, too cheerful for the vibe.
There sat a row of garages. Rusted metal walls, low industrial buildings crouched under dim lights. One long horizontal banner that read ‘Mechanical Seoul’ in peeling letters.
And then she saw something. A matte-black Porsche parked slightly crooked. Like the driver hadn’t cared enough to fix it.
Her breath caught. Her pulse didn’t spike romantically. It punched. Hard. Annoyed. And betraying.
No.
Plenty of people own black Porsches. Right?
She squinted. The emblem glinted under the light. Her stomach flipped.
“You’re being dramatic,” she muttered to herself.
She parked a few spaces down, engine still idling and hands locked around the steering wheel like it might float away. Her phone felt heavy in her hand as she texted.
Y/n: im here..
She stared at the half-open garage door. Light spilling out like a secret. Shadow moving inside.
A vibration.
Mar: okay come in
That was it. No explanation. No reassurance. Just… walk into the lion’s den.
She killed the engine for silence to swallow everything. Even her own breathing sounded too loud. She stepped out as her slides scraped softly against the pavement. The night air felt colder now. Meaner. Goosebumps prickled along her arms.
“Mar?” she called as she stepped into the garage. Her voice bounced off metal walls and came back thinner. The place smelled like oil and iron and something burnt. Tools hung on walls like surgical instruments. Buckets, rags, a dusty cash register that looked like it hadn’t seen a customer in months.
No Marquise.
“Mar? Hello?” Her voice sharpened slightly.
Nothing.
Why the fuck would she call me here?
Her eyes caught a door slightly ajar at the far end. Light leaking from underneath. She crossed the space, her footsteps echoing. Each step sounded louder than it should’ve like the building itself was snitching. She pushed the door open.
“Mar I’m—”
The word fell apart in her mouth.
Not Marquise.
Jungkook.
He was seated on a low mechanic’s stool, back slightly curved, forearms resting against his thighs as he worked a wrench over the rim of a tire. The overhead light cast a harsh glow over him, sharpening every line — the ink winding over his arms, the veins shifting under his skin, the subtle flex of muscle each time he tightened his grip.
There was something almost unfair about how calm he looked. AirPods in, head slightly lowered. Focused and unrushed. Like last night hadn’t happened. As if he hadn’t detonated her pride and walked away from the debris.
For a few seconds she just stood there, rooted to the uneven concrete floor, staring at him in a way she’d never admit to. Her heart started pounding, not in some cinematic slow-burn way, but hard and annoyed, like it was scolding her for even being here.
He shifted slightly, tightening the bolt, and the movement made the tattoos along his forearm ripple like dark water. It was intimate in a way it shouldn’t have been. Watching him like this. In his space. Unaware of her.
She hated that her body reacted before her brain could catch up. Her slides scraped against the floor when she adjusted her stance the same time Jungkook released a grunt as he stood up slowly, wrench still in hand, wiping his palm on a rag before tossing it over his bare shoulder. His gaze finally met y/n’s
Time didn’t slow down. It stretched.
Recognition hit his face first — surprise flashing through his pupils before he masked it. He pulled one AirPod out slowly, like he needed to make sure this wasn’t some hallucination brought on by lack of sleep.
“…Y/n.”
Her name came out rougher than usual. Not cocky. Not smooth. Just raw.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
There was hesitation in his movements, subtle but there. The kind of hesitation someone has when they don’t know if they’re about to get slapped or forgiven.
“What—uh…what are you doing here?” He fluttered his eyes, keeping a careful distance like he knew the line he could cross.
“I’m looking for Marquise,” she said, arms crossed, the weight of her posture a shield.
Jungkook’s head dropped, a short, dry chuckle escaping. “And…why the hell would she be at a mechanic shop?” His piercing shifted slightly as he smirked, eyes flashing something unreadable.
Y/n raised a brow, sarcasm creeping back like smoke. “Oh, I don’t know—maybe you two are back to fucking each other with no strings attached?” Her head bobbled with mock indignation. “Is there a bed here? She in your bed? Mar? Mar!” She cupped her hand over her mouth, yelling toward every shadowy corner.
Jungkook tilted his head, almost amused, poking the inside of his cheek with the tip of his tongue.
Unbelievable.
“Yeah—no. Mar’s not here,” he said, voice calm, almost lazy.
Y/n stopped. Her arms stayed folded, but her eyes narrowed. “Then what am I doing here?” Her voice wavered, raw, real, cutting through the sarcasm.
“To see me?” He replied quietly, scratching the back of his neck. The gesture betrayed nerves he usually buried under that confident facade. “I don’t know—you’re the one who came all the way here.”
“Yeah?” she echoed, incredulous. “Yeah—that’s your explanation?”
“I’m guessing this is her helping me,” he shrugged.
“He—helping you?” Her voice rose with disbelief. Neck craning forward. “What the fuck do you even need help with?”
He exhaled slowly, setting the wrench down. Metal clinked against the table—it sounded like a bell toll in the quiet garage. “Well, didn’t think you’d come if I asked.”
Her jaw tightened. Arms crossed tighter. She wanted to be angry, but the honesty scraped at her chest, and she hated the pull. “Y-yes…you’re right. I wouldn’t have came.”
“That’s why I asked Marquise to help me,” he murmured.
She blinked, then suddenly snapped, voice sharp. “She said she didn’t have your number!”
“No—I reached out to her myself,” he corrected.
Y/n froze, then blinked rapidly, trying to reclaim her tough exterior. “Exes don’t keep in touch,” she muttered.
Jungkook coughed out a short, incredulous laugh. “That’s your concern? Still can’t accept we dated?”
Her face stayed calm, unbothered, fake unbothered—but her pulse skipped. “Not the fucking point.”
“Hah—okay then.” He finally moved, rolling the rag from his shoulder onto the table. Muscles flexed in the light. Heat rose from his body. She blinked, half in disbelief. The garage suddenly felt smaller, the air thick.
“Do you think this is funny?” Her voice cut the hum of neon and distant traffic.
“No,” he said immediately. Fast. Honest.
He stepped closer, but then froze, remembering the last night, the collars, the pride bruised. He perched on the hood of the car, legs spread, hands flat, head bowed slightly. “I just needed to talk to you,” he said finally. “And you blocked me.”
“That’s right,” she spat. The words were sharp, like breaking glass. They hung there. His jaw flexed. He nodded once, accepting it. She studied him properly now. There were faint shadows under his eyes. His hair wasn’t styled the way it usually was when he showed up for a race or a party. But he still looked dashing. And that annoyed her more than if he’d shown up smug.
“And you decided to show up at my house unannounced and—what—put up another show?” Y/n’s tone now more agitated.
“Well what did you want me to do, Y/n—you’re stubborn as fuck.”
“You embarrassed me,” she suddenly cried, voice steady but low. “You hurt my pride.”
His gaze dropped, no confidence to look at her right now. “I know.”
“A you called me a waste of time.” She said it low, but every word sliced through the cold air between them.
“Don’t say that…” he whispered, almost to himself.
“Say it again,” she pressed, voice trembling just under the surface as she stepped forward.
Jungkook blinked slowly. Shook his head. “Don’t.”
“Say it!” Her command was sharper this time, more desperate than she intended. “Call me a waste of time…”
“I was lying,” he admitted quietly.
A dry, humorless laugh escaped her before she could stop it. “Bullshit excuse!”
“Okay—fuck! I wasn’t lying. I just—” His voice cracked. Palms pressed flat on the hood, head hanging low. “I…panicked…okay?”
Her chest dropped, a sharp inhale. The honesty hit like a fist wrapped in silk.
“You were getting too close,” he said, voice raw, low. “I don’t let people get near…or stay. You were starting to.”
Her mind went blank. No comebacks. No sarcasm. Just his words, slicing through her armor.
“I’m not even close with my friends,” he continued, eyes still down. “Yes, we seem close. But they don’t know my family, my childhood. Nothing. They just know I don’t get close. With Marquise, it was just sex. Simple. You however…you weren’t simple.”
Her breath caught. Every pulse in her body shouted at her to run, to scream, to laugh at the vulnerability, but she stayed. She needed to hear this. Needed it because it hurt, it mattered.
“You weren’t…” He exhaled slowly. “…a waste of time…Y/n. You were becoming something I couldn’t control. I only said it because if I convinced you that…you didn’t matter, maybe I wouldn’t have to admit you did.”
The garage was suddenly warmer, though the chill from the outside still clawed at her skin. The words wrapped around her, pulling at something stubborn she refused to give.
“So…what? You have attachment issues or something?” Her voice was steady but wary.
“Yes, Y/n,” he nodded, gaze soft, honest. “I have attachment issues.” He swallowed. Every nerve on edge, every muscle taut. He needed her to understand and see past the walls he’d built.
“My dad…he introduced me to racing. Every weekend, he’d take me out in his sports car. That’s how I learned to love the adrenaline, the thrill, winning. He was the first person I ever wanted to impress.” His lips twitched with a faint, sad smile. Eyes cast to the floor, lost in memory. She leaned closer involuntarily. The story sounded like confession that burned.
“After he died…” His throat tightened. “I missed him. Badly. I thought I’d never survive losing someone else. So…anyone I let close? I couldn’t let go.” He finally looked at her. No tears. Just honesty that was broken and raw.
“You’re not a waste of time,” he murmured, voice low, trembling with sincerity. “You are the first thing after my dad I didn’t want to lose. I said it…to push you away, to protect myself. Because if I let you in, I’d be fucked if anything happened to you.”
Y/n’s grip on her arms slackened. The cold breeze of the night no longer mattered. She was burning from inside, heart racing, chest tight, every nerve screaming at the raw truth standing in front of her.
For the first time, she didn’t feel angry at him. She didn’t feel the sting of pride or humiliation. She felt…everything. Vulnerability, ache, longing, the sharp sting of love she’d tried to bury. She just stared. And for a moment, nothing moved but the hum of fluorescent light, the soft drip of oil, and two hearts thundering in tandem.
He had explained himself. He had told her he panicked. That he didn’t expect it to feel that intense. The hills, the car hood, the way she looked at him that night — it hit him harder than he was prepared for. She understood. And somehow, that made it worse. Y/n let out a hollow laugh.
“So that’s it?”
Jungkook’s brows pulled together. “Wha-what do you mean—”
“Your feelings scared you so I just get…collateral damage?” she snapped, stepping forward. “You don’t get to bleed on me because you’re afraid of your own heart.”
There it is. They’re back in it.
He straightened from the hood now — not backing away, not defensive. Just tense. Face to face.
“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he shot back. “You think I enjoyed saying that? You—you think I didn’t replay it a hundred fucking times after?”
“That doesn’t erase it, Jungkook!” she yelled. “You still said it. You still looked me in the eye and told me I was a waste of your time and energy.”
His jaw tightened. “That’s not what I meant.”
“But that’s what I heard.”
Silence again — shorter this time, sharper.
Her chest heaved. “You don’t get to say those things and then stand here acting like explaining it fixes it. It doesn’t. It felt like a slap in the face, Jungkook. After that night in the hills. After you told me I was different.”
His eyes flickered at that.
“And I meant that,” he said, lower now. “I meant all of it.”
“And that’s exactly why it hurt.” Y/n spat back, leaning ever so slightly forward like she was pushing her words of frustration into his stupid face. “You don’t get to make me feel special and then disposable in the same breath!” she shouted.
He ran a hand through his hair, frustration cracking through. “I didn’t think it would hit me like that, okay? I didn’t expect you to matter like that. And when I realized you did, it felt like someone knocked the air out of me.”
She stared at him, stunned and furious all at once.
“So I’m what?” she challenged. “Your emotional punchline? Your…your practice round?”
“No!” he barked, getting his ass off the hood. “You’re the first person in a long time that made me feel out of control. And I hate that. I fucking hate not being in control.” He jabbed his finger into the curve of his chest.
Y/n was overwhelmed with all her mixed emotions of anger, frustration, guilt and maybe pity. She turned on her feet and clutched the front of her hair. Grip so tight, if she were to yank her hands down, her scalp would bleed.
“You’re not just some…thrill! You’re different, Y/n. You hit me in ways I didn’t even know existed! And yeah, I panicked—I’m not perfect! I fuck up, I overthink, I run when I shouldn’t!”
Her head whipped back. “Yeah you run! You acted cold towards me, Jungkook! I had to watch you—ignoring me, act weird, calling me a waste of time—and I just…just sat there, wondering what the fuck I did wrong!”
I said it to protect myself. To make it easier to walk away before I…before I get destroyed!” His voice dropped, barely above a growl, but it carried across the garage like a punch.
“And what? Make me feel like shit?” Y/n screamed, stepping closer and stoping at least half a meter away from him so now their breaths brushed. “Do you even know how much I…how much I—” She stopped, shook her head, hair whipping in front of her face, then shoved it back.
Y/n had to physically clamp her mouth shut. The words were right there. Sitting on her tongue. Heavy. Loaded. One wrong move and they’d fall out and ruin her. It was too dangerous to say them right now. Not when her chest felt split open and her pride was hanging on by a thread. So she didn’t finish. She just stood there, staring at him.
Tears pooled slowly at her lash line, glassy and stubborn. They didn’t fall — not yet. They just clung there, threatening. Her gaze flickered between his eyes like she was trying to decide which version of him she was looking at. The asshole. Or the boy who was terrified.
Her silence stretched. Jungkook cracked first.
“I’m…fucked up. Okay?” he breathed out, slamming his palms against his thighs like he was grounding himself, like he needed the sting. “Your brother probably told you that already.” A bitter exhale left him.
Y/n’s chest rose and fell, still shaky from almost saying too much. From almost slipping. She felt like she was balancing on ice that could split any second. But she listened. Because for once, he wasn’t hiding behind ego.
“I just…” He swallowed. His voice lost its edge. “I didn’t want to experience hell again. Loss. That empty, hollow feeling.”
His eyes locked onto hers — not wandering, not defensive. Just locked. Close enough now that he could see every detail in her face. The tiny crease between her brows. The faint flush in her cheeks. The mole under her eyebrow he’d somehow never noticed before. His lips twitched at that — soft, almost disbelieving. Like he couldn’t believe he’d almost walked away from something so detailed.
“If we kept talking…if we actually got close,” he continued, quieter now, “if this turned into something real…” His voice faltered. “…I don’t think I’d be strong enough to watch you walk away from me.”
That last part came out like a confession dragged over broken glass. Barely audible. Almost ashamed. And it hit her. Not like a knife. Like warmth. Like someone pressing their palm gently against a bruise.
Her heart didn’t shatter — it softened. It pulled apart slowly, like cotton being teased loose. It felt dangerous in a different way. She wanted to scream at him. Shove him. Call him selfish for making his fear her problem. But her body betrayed her. Instead of stepping back, her feet carried her forward. Anger and longing tangled inside her veins like barbed wire wrapped in silk. Reckless. Confused. Honest.
“You scared me,” she whispered. Her voice cracked on the edges, thin and exposed. “And I hate…that I care this much.”
There it was. Not ‘I love you’. Not ‘I forgive you’. Just the truth.
Jungkook’s expression shifted like something inside him gave out. The anger was still there — but dulled now. Fragile. Human.
“I didn’t want to,” he said, shaking his head slightly. “I didn’t want any of this. I didn’t plan for you. I didn’t plan to feel like this.”
He stepped closer without even realizing.
“But I can’t stop, Y/n.” His voice dropped, rough and helpless. “I can’t fucking pretend I don’t feel it. Not with you.”
Her hands trembled at her sides. She was close enough now to see the tiny flecks in his eyes. Gold bleeding into brown. Close enough to feel the warmth of his breath hitting her lips. Close enough that the air between them felt charged — like it was waiting for a match.
“Y/n…” he said softly.
Just her name. Like a question. Like a prayer he wasn’t sure he deserved an answer to. And God, that almost undid her.
“Forgive me,”
Slam. Y/n’s head whipped back, a sharp jolt of whiplash meeting the aggressive pull of his hands at her waist. Jungkook didn’t just kiss her; he collided with her. His lips were a sudden, soft contradiction to the violence of the movement, made even sharper by the cold, clinical bite of his lip ring catching against her lower lip. One of his hands slid up, tangled into the hair at her nape and anchoring her, while the other burned through the fabric at the small of her back.
Y/n froze. Her fingers hovered near his biceps, curled like claws but lacking the nerve to sink into the inked skin of his right arm, the intricate sleeve shifting like a second skin under her touch.
The air between them was thick enough to choke on—heavy with the scent of his cologne and the metallic tang of a night that had already gone to shit. Jungkook was waiting, his heartbeat thrumming a frantic rhythm against her chest, but the silence from her end was deafening. He was just throwing himself at a brick wall at this point, and the realization tasted like ash.
He pulled back, just a fraction, leaving a gap that felt like a damn canyon. His eyes scanned hers, taking in the way her lips quivered like a dying flame.
“Y/n…?” he breathed, his voice cracked and desperate. “Damn—say something...” His thumb brushed her cheek.
The hesitation snapped.
Y/n didn’t talk; she reacted. She shoved his shoulders back—hard—sending him thudding against the hood of the car again. Before he could even grunt, she was on him. Her lips crashed into his, messy and frantic, finally finding the friction she’d been craving—the metal of his piercing clicking against her teeth in a way that made her blood hum. One hand dove into his long hair, grappling at the strands like a lifeline, while her other palm cupped his cheek, her thumb digging into that slight softness there.
“Shut up,” she muttered against his mouth. “Just shut the hell up.”
Jungkook let out a low, wrecked sound in his throat, his hands sliding back to her waist. His palms were massive, practically mapping out her entire circumference, the dark ink on his right hand stark against her skin as his slender fingers bruised the skin through her thin tank top.
The kiss turned hungry. It wasn't some poetic, cinematic bullshit but teeth and tongue and a desperate need to consume. It was the sound of lips smacking in the dead-quiet night—a rhythm that drowned out the ringing in their ears. Every scream they’d swallowed during the fight, every jagged insult they’d spat at each other, every pathetic 'I hate you'—the kiss devoured it all. It was a goddamn exorcism.
Jungkook’s thumb hooked under the hem of her top, his skin searing against hers, a silent question she answered by pulling him closer until there wasn't a molecule of oxygen left between them.
When they finally broke apart, it wasn't graceful. They were both wrecked, chests heaving in a synchronized, ragged beat. The heat rolling off them could’ve melted the damn engine block they were leaning against. Neither of them moved. Their gazes were locked on each other’s swollen, reddened lips before finally flickering up to meet eyes that looked absolutely shattered. The night was still cold, but with his warm hands still clamped onto her like she might vanish, Y/n felt like she was burning alive. And she didn't want him to put the fire out.
Her fingers were still twisted in his hair when she leaned in again — not to kiss him this time, but to breathe him in. Her forehead pressed against his, noses brushing, lips barely touching.
He was still holding her like she’d disappear if his grip loosened. His thumb moved unconsciously against her waist now, slow back-and-forth strokes over the thin fabric of her tank top. Not even sexual. Just grounding. Like he needed the motion to convince himself she was solid.
Her hand slid from his cheek to the side of his neck, then into the ends of his hair. She absentmindedly combed through the strands at the nape, smoothing them down before curling them lightly around her fingers again. His hair was softer than it looked. Always had been. She felt the frantic pulse under his skin. He wasn’t composed. He wasn’t in control. He was unraveling right in front of her.
Good.
Let him.
She tilted her head slightly, lips brushing the corner of his mouth when she spoke. “What makes you think I’d leave you just like that?”
His thumb paused against her waist. The question hit him like cold water. She studied him up close now — really looked at him. The faint crease between his brows that only showed when he was thinking too hard. The way his lower lip was slightly swollen from kissing her, the silver ring glinting. The dark ink on his right hand flexing when his fingers tightened — that sleeve crawling up his arm like something alive under his skin. He looked dangerous. But right now, he just looked scared.
“You would,” he said automatically. His gaze flickered over her face — searching. Scanning every micro-expression like he was waiting for her to flinch. “Everyone does eventually.”
She pulled back just enough to look at him properly. “Don’t project your past onto me,” she whispered, thumb pressing under his jaw so he had to meet her eyes. “I’m not them.”
“You don’t know that,” he muttered.
“And you don’t know that I would.”
Silence again — but softer.
His thumb resumed its slow motion at her waist, this time more careful. Almost reverent. He was memorizing the shape of her there. His grip softened — not letting go, just less desperate. As if he was realizing he didn’t have to cage her to keep her.
“I’m not easy,” he admitted. His gaze dropped briefly to her lips before flickering back up. “I get in my head. I shut down. I push. I say shit I don’t mean.”
“No shit,” she muttered. A broken, quiet laugh left him.
She stepped closer, their bodies aligning again — but slower this time. Intentional. Her fingers slid from his hair down to rest her arms at the crook of his neck, feeling the warmth there.
“You don’t get to decide I’ll leave before I even have the chance to stay,” she said. “That’s not how this works.”
His eyes searched hers again, slower now. Less frantic. He noticed the faint red in her waterline from crying. The tiny mole under her brow he’d clocked earlier. The way her lashes clumped slightly from tears.
She was still here.
“And what if I fuck it up again?” he asked quietly.
“You will,” she said bluntly. He blinked. “And I’ll probably scream at you again,” she added, fingers lightly combing through the top of his hair once more. “But that doesn’t mean I’m walking away.”
Something shifted in his face. Not relief. Not quite. But something close to surrender.
“You’d stay?” he asked, softer than he’d been all night.
She leaned in until their lips barely grazed again, her breath warm against his mouth.
“I’m still here, aren’t I?”
His grip changed. Not tighter. Just steadier. His tattooed hand slid slightly up her back, fingers spreading like he was holding something precious instead of bracing for impact.
“Fuck,” he breathed, forehead dropping against hers. “You’re gonna ruin me.”
A faint smirk tugged at her lips. “You already tried ruining us first.”
He huffed a quiet laugh, eyes closing briefly as if the truth of that stung and soothed at the same time.
“Yeah,” he admitted. “Guess I did.”
There were no sharp edges left in the air now. Just heat and something steadier underneath it — like the fire had stopped raging and started warming. He kissed her again. Slow. Intentional. His thumb still tracing her waist. Her fingers still tangled in his hair. His lip ring cool against her mouth. His hands anchoring her like he was finally done running.
And this time, it didn’t feel like collision. It felt like choice. And she chose him back.
After discovering her brother's secret life as the leader of an underground racing crew, Y/N is pulled into a world of speed, danger, and rivalry. That's where she meets Jeon Jungkook - the fearless leader of the opposing crew, the one her brother can't stand, and the last person she should ever get close to. But Jungkook is impossible to ignore. And Y/N is impossible for him to forget. Because in a world where every choice could end in flames...falling for each other might be the most dangerous race of all.
pairing: racer!jk x model!reader
warnings: brother's enemy, somewhat forbidden love, smut, angst, fluff, obsession, jealousy, possessiveness, masturbation, unprotected sex, sexting, bodily fluids, rough sex, multiple positions, public sex, degradation kink, dirty talk, sexual tension, sexual teasing, smoking, violence, illegal activities, mentions of blood, control
sha’s note: so…this is kinda my first series here on tumblr. i got inspired to write this after relistening to ohmami by chase atlantic (i love ca to death) and also afterrewatching culpa mia hehe. i’m hella scared to see how this turns out cus tumblr is filled with incredible writers and i’m a newbie. please be nice to me 🥹🙏
The rain had left the streets slick, glittering like broken glass under the fluorescent parking lot lights. Jungkook’s car stopped with a soft hiss of tires on wet concrete, droplets sliding down the windshield in lazy rivulets. He sat there, hands falling off the steering wheel, staring at nothing.
Y/n.
The memory of her drunkenly blabbering bullshit in his arms burned in his chest. Her soft weight, the faint scent of vanilla and liquor, the way her lips had mumbled nonsense about Chanel being cheaper than Louis Vuitton—all of it replayed like a damn highlight reel he never asked for.
The memory hit like a punch to the chest, and for the first time, he realized the pull wasn’t just physical attraction anymore. Not just some electric, fleeting fixation that had him chasing adrenaline on the streets.
This was different. Dangerous. Terrifying.
For him at least.
He could feel it coil in his chest, tightening like a vice. He’d always known the moment he let someone close, grief would get him. But…he wanted her anyway.
God, he wanted her.
He groaned and shoved his face into his hands. “Fuck,” he muttered, voice swallowed by the rain. “The hell is wrong with me?”
His phone buzzed, harsh and demanding against the soft patter of the storm. A notification from his mother:
ma: you home yet, guk?
ma: the rain is insane!
ma: text me immediately once you’re home
He stared at it, the familiar guilt and irritation warring in his chest.
Reply? No. Not now. Not with this spinning chaos in his head. He shoved the phone into his pocket.
And that’s when his eyes fell to the passenger side.
A pair of heels.
Nude, glossy, red-backed. One of Y/n’s. Probably some designer nightmare that cost more than rent, but hell, it wasn’t the price that mattered. It was her. That perfect, infuriating, stubborn girl, almost asleep in his arms just earlier, drunk and rambling about Chanel being better than Louis Vuitton, her words as chaotic and alive as her body had been pressed against him.
He leaned forward, fingers hooking at the back. Jungkook almost swore he could feel her warmth still radiating off it.
“Shit,” he growled under his breath, jaw clenching so tight it ached. “Fucking left her heels…” He slammed the side of the heel against his palm, just enough to make a sound like thunder.
The rain outside mirrored the storm inside him—relentless, cold, and unforgiving.
“Damn it…don’t do this to me,” he muttered, voice rough, as though saying it out loud would expel some of the madness twisting his insides.
He swung the heels around his fingers like weapons and pushed the car door open, rain sounds immediately piercing his eardrums. Lightning flashed, brief and blinding, but he barely flinched.
The world was loud, wet, chaotic—but nothing compared to the mess inside him.
Jungkook tucked the heels under one arm, fumbling with his keys. The car locked with a harsh click, echoing like a judge’s gavel. He paused, glancing back at the empty passenger seat, the place that had been hers, now cold and hollow. A pang shot through him.
Before his thoughts could spiral any further, Jungkook gave his head a small shake, like that might physically knock them loose. It didn’t work, but he let his body take over anyway — heels hooked on his fingers, shoulders tense, feet moving on instinct. He didn’t look back. He just kept walking until the noise thinned out and the streetlights blurred together, until he was unlocking the door to his small rental apartment and shutting the world out behind him.
The door clicked shut, perfectly timed with the thunder cracking outside — like the sky was mocking him for thinking he could outrun anything.
Jungkook exhaled long and slow, shoulders slumping as he dropped Y/N’s heels onto the grey couch. They landed soft, almost delicate, before he followed suit, letting himself fall back hard enough to make the cushions bounce beneath him.
The apartment greeted him the same way it always did: small, sterile, silent. Too clean. Too empty. A place that looked lived in but never felt like it. No warmth. No clutter. No proof that anyone stayed longer than they had to.
He preferred it that way.
He always had.
Ever since that one moment in childhood — the kind that rewires you permanently, that hollows you out and leaves something feral in its place — Jungkook had learned how to survive by not lingering. Not in places. Not in feelings. Not in people. His passion had grown out of that loss, twisted and sharpened until it turned into something illegal, something dangerous, something that paid the bills and kept his hands busy.
But Jungkook doesn’t dwell. Didn’t look back.
What happened, happened.
Bare feet kicked up onto the low coffee table as he grabbed the remote and flicked on the TV. Some random series filled the room with noise — engines revving, metal screaming, adrenaline bleeding through the screen.
Cars.
Good.
He hoped the sound would be a tsunami, something loud enough to drown out the static piling up inside his skull. And for a moment, it worked.
Until his eyes betrayed him.
They drifted, slow and traitorous, to the couch beside him — where her heels lay abandoned. The long, elegant stems crossed over each other like they were relaxed. As if they belonged there.
He clicked his tongue, annoyed. No curse. No explosion. Just a heavy rise of his chest as his hands laced together beside his head, fingers restless, fidgeting like they didn’t know where to go.
It felt like his mind — no, his heart — was trying to tell him something he refused to hear.
That no matter how hard you ignored someone, how deep you buried them, they always found a way back. A smell. A sound. A pair of stupid fucking heels on your couch.
The phone rang and Jungkook stilled.
Ma.
The name glowed on his screen like a warning sign. He stared at it, jaw tightening.
Speaking of people he ignored.
With a dramatic huff, he picked up the call and pressed the phone to his ear.
“Mmm. Ma.”
“Jungkook? Are you home yet?” Her voice crackled through the line — sharp, worried, wrapped in that unmistakable maternal edge. “You didn’t reply my text and it’s pouring out.”
His lips tugged into a smile that didn’t reach anywhere meaningful. “Yeah. I’m home.”
“Oh, good…good.” Her tone softened instantly. “I just wanted to make sure. The rain’s awful tonight.”
A beat.
“How was work?”
He let the silence sit there, stretching, heavy. Licked his lips. Nodded to no one.
“Yeah. Me and Joon had…a shit ton of cars to fix at the garage today.”
“That sounds exhausting, sweetheart. At least you’re getting paid.”
Hopeful. Gentle. Useless.
“Anyway, Guk,” she continued, hesitant now. “I wanted to ask when you’re free.”
“Why?”
“Your father’s birthday is coming up. I thought maybe we could do something. Together. The three of us.”
Something inside him seized. His breath hitched — not enough to notice unless you were looking for it. He blinked once. Twice. His throat dried out like it had been sandblasted.
When he spoke again, his voice was calm. Too calm.
“Why?” he said.
“Dad’s dead.”
The silence on the line was thick, suffocating.
His mother sighed — quiet, broken. “I know, but—”
“Ma.” His jaw clenched. “He’s dead. He’s—he’s gone, okay? We need to get over it.” The words came out sharp, cruel, honed. “See—this is what happens when you love too much.”
A pause.
“I’m not celebrating shit just to walk away feeling empty.”
“But, Seoyeon—”
“Bye.”
He hung up before she could finish.
The apartment swallowed the silence whole. Jungkook tossed the phone aside and stared at the ceiling, chest tight, pulse loud in his ears. Outside, the rain kept coming down — relentless, unforgiving — like it knew he deserved it.
And beside him, Y/N’s heels stayed exactly where they were.
Waiting.
🏎️. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ .
“No—fuck—I swear I kicked them off right here before I slept!”
Y/n yanked her sheets back like they’d personally betrayed her, the fabric whipping through the air. She dropped to her knees, palms flattening against the floor as she checked under the bed even though the space beneath it was barely more than a shadow.
As if a pair of Louboutins could just…evaporate.
She even tugged up the corner of her rug, ridiculous and desperate, like the heels might be hiding under there out of spite.
“Y/n,” Jin said, voice sharp with disbelief, “those are heels. How the hell do you lose those?”
Y/n snapped upright so fast her spine cracked.
Her arms flew out wide, frustration spilling out of her like water from a tipped glass.
“I don’t know, dude!” she barked. “All I remember is wearing them to the party, coming back drunk as shit, and then I woke up in my bed.” Her palms slapped against her bare thighs when she dropped her arms, the sheer sleeves of her top brushing her skin like ghost fingers.
Jin stared at her for a second, then something clicked behind his eyes. His brows furrowed. His arms crossed over his chest.
“How did you even get home last night?”
Y/n froze. Her brain stalled, gears grinding.
“I don’t know…” she mumbled, shrugging as she turned back to the crime scene of her missing shoes. “Jungkook sent me.”
Jin let out a loud, unimpressed snort. “Pfft. And you say you don’t know.”
“Oh my God,” Y/n groaned, whipping her head toward him. “Okay—whatever. He sent me home, alright? I was drunk.”
“Didn’t I tell you to call me?”
“Didn’t exactly come to mind when I was busy chugging liquor down my throat like it was fucking water and ruining my life choices,” she shot back.
Jin sighed, long and theatrical, like he was carrying the weight of her stupidity on his shoulders. He dragged a hand through his hair, gripping it at the nape.
“Okay. You know what? I’ll find you another shoe that matches the look while you settle this.” He turned toward her walk-in closet like a man going into battle.
Meanwhile, Y/n’s cheeks puffed out as she exhaled, exhausted from squatting and crawling around like a raccoon looking for treasure.
She dropped onto her messy bed, the mattress dipping under her weight. A groan dragged out of her throat.
“Ughhh…”
She pushed her hair back, slouching, staring blankly at the ceiling as if it might replay last night for her.
She tried—she really fucking tried—to remember. The party. The drinks. Jungkook’s voice. His hands steadying her.
Did I even kick them off myself?
Or…
Her stomach twisted.
She reached for her phone, thumb hovering before she scrolled to his contact. The name sat there like a dare.
She hit call. It rang.
Once.
Twice.
“Hello?”
Y/n blinked.
Huh.
No teasing. No pet name? No smug little, ‘Miss me already?’
Just…flat and tasteless.
Her lips went dry instantly.
“Jungkook…” she started, quieter than she meant to. “I…needed to ask—uh—do you remember what I did with my…heels?” Her voice climbed at the end, betraying her nerves.
A pause. Then, monotone as a dead radio station—
“Your heels are here.”
That’s not what threw her. Not the heels. His voice. It sounded like someone had scraped all the warmth out of him. Like as if he had warmth in the first place.
He kind of did.
“O-oh,” she stammered. “They are! Okay—great!”
God, she sounded stupid.
On the other end, Jungkook hummed. The sound vibrated low, unsettling, like a door half-closed.
“Well then…uh…can I have them back?”
“Yeah.” Another pause, like he was doing something else. Like she wasn’t his full attention “You coming to the race next Friday?”
Y/n’s brows lifted.
Race?
She hadn’t even known there was another one. She wasn’t planning to go. But her heels—
“Uh…yeah,” she lied automatically, nodding like he could see her. “I’ll be there.”
“Bet. I’ll see you then.”
Her chest tightened. Something about the way he said it felt like a dismissal.
“Thanks, by—”
Peep.
Peep.
Peep.
The line went dead.
Y/n stared at her phone like it had personally slapped her.
“…What the fuck?” Her voice came out small, incredulous.
Did he just—hang up?
Before she could even say bye?
The quiet in her room suddenly felt too loud, pressing against her skin. And for the first time since she met Jungkook, Y/n didn’t feel amused. She felt…uneasy. Like she’d just reached for something warm—
And found nothing there.
“Found it!”
Y/n’s head snapped up at Jin’s voice echoing from inside her closet. The sliding doors parted to reveal him holding up a pair of knee-high black leather pumps, the heels sharp, unapologetic.
“These,” Jin said, nodding to himself. “These Dior heels would fit the concept way better.”
He tossed them into the open Louis Vuitton duffle on her bed.
Y/n blinked once. Then again. Her head tilted, just a fraction.
“Wait—” She cleared her throat. “You never told me what the concept was.”
Jin paused, hand hovering over the bag. “Uh…” His brows pulled together as he thought. “The board said something like…biker? Or edgy? Something aggressive—I don’t know.” He waved a hand vaguely, as if that solved it. “Same vibe.”
Y/n pressed her lips together, then dragged her tongue over them, slow. She let herself fall back against the mattress, staring up at the ceiling.
She shook her head once, sharp, like she could physically dislodge the lingering feeling from the call.
“I’m supposed to be on a break,” she muttered, forearm flopping over her eyes. “Why the hell are they calling me back in?” She sounded tired. Not dramatic. Just… worn.
Jin sighed, planting his hands on his hips. “Uh, because I need money?” He raised a brow. “If you don’t work, where exactly am I supposed to get my income from, huh?”
He smacked her thigh lightly.
“Ow—what the hell?” Y/n yelped, jolting upright.
Jin dropped onto the bed beside her, unfazed. “You’re welcome.” She shot him a look, but it didn’t have the usual bite.
“And anyway,” he continued, leaning back on his palms, eyes scanning her face. “Look at what this holiday’s done to you.”
Y/n frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Jin tilted his head, studying her. “You come home thinking it’s gonna be quiet. Instead—” He ticked it off on his fingers. “You find out your brother’s the leader of some illegal street racing thing.”
She winced.
“Then,” he went on, “you go on a date with his arch nemesis.”
“It wasn’t a—”
“And then,” Jin cut in smoothly, “you start hanging around those punks—except Marquise, she’s cool—”
“She is,” Y/n said automatically.
“—you get drunk,” he continued, “and suddenly you’re trusting that… what’s-his-name—”
“Jungkook.”
Jin snapped his fingers. “Him. You trust him to take you home.”
His hands flapped in emphasis, but his eyes stayed sharp.
The room fell quiet.
Y/n didn’t respond right away. Her jaw tightened—not defensive, not angry. Just thoughtful.
He wasn’t wrong though.
This break was supposed to be nothing. A pause. A reset. Instead, it had peeled things open she didn’t know existed—her brother’s double life, the underground scene, the way danger didn’t always look loud or reckless. Sometimes it looked cocky. Annoying. Familiar.
She swallowed.
“I didn’t trust him because he’s nice,” she said finally. Her voice was steady. “I trusted him because he didn’t push.”
Jin studied her again, longer this time.
“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”
She shrugged, small. “I don’t know. I’m just saying.”
Jin exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “You’re in deep, Y/n.”
She scoffed softly. “I didn’t even do anything.”
“That’s what worries me,” he said.
She looked away then, eyes drifting to the duffle bag, to the black leather heels sitting on top like a decision already made.
Friday hovered unspoken between them. The races. Him. The version of herself that hadn’t existed a week ago.
🏎️. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ .
A few days passed.
Not in any way that felt significant at first. The kind that slipped by quietly—meals eaten standing up, unread notifications, nights that ended too late and mornings that started too early.
And yet. It started small.
Yoongi’s sports car engine snarling past her window at night. The smell of gasoline near a convenience store. Someone laughing low behind her in line, voice careless and familiar in the wrong way.
She never said his name.
Didn’t need to.
Her phone stayed face down more often than not. She told herself it was habit. Told herself it meant nothing when she checked it anyway—thumb hovering, stupidly hopeful, before she caught herself and locked the screen again.
She shouldn’t miss the attention. That was the part that irritated her the most.
It wasn’t like anything happened. There was no promise, no expectation. Just a presence that had slipped in too easily, then pulled back without warning—leaving space where she hadn’t realized she’d made room.
By the fourth day, she stopped pretending she wasn’t thinking about him. Work came anyway.
The studio buzzed with quiet urgency—headsets murmuring, shoes scuffing against concrete, the smell of hairspray and warm lights settling into the air.
Y/n stood still at her mark.
The Dior boots grounded her, black leather hugging her calves, heels sharp enough to command the floor. The rest of the outfit followed suit—sleek, dark, intentional. Armor, dressed up as fashion.
Jin stood in front of her, fingers quick as he adjusted her collar. “Chin up,” he murmured. “This crease needs to sit clean.”
She obeyed without thinking.
To her left, her hairstylist leaned in, the cool end of a comb nudging her hair aside with precision, tucking a strand back into place.
“Hold,” they said softly.
Y/n met her standing reflection in the mirror that was mostly blocked by the number of people surrounding her.
Makeup flawless. Hair perfect. Expression composed in a way she’d practiced for years. She looked untouched. Unbothered.
No one could see the way her mind drifted—how, for half a second, she wondered if he’d recognize her like this. If he’d look longer. If he’d say nothing at all.
“Okay,” Jin said, stepping back, satisfied. “She’s ready.”
Y/n inhaled once. Slow. Controlled.
Whatever she was thinking, whatever had followed her here, it stayed behind the camera.
“It’s here!” someone shouted from the back—one of the crew with a headset clamped over their hair, mic angled toward their mouth.
The studio shifted instantly.
The main director’s face split into a grin. “Alright,” he said, already moving. “There she is.”
Y/n and Jin both turned, craning past light stands and bodies to see what the sudden crowding was about. A few crew members hovered near the backdrop, circling something tall and black like it had just rolled in with its own gravity.
“C’mon, chop chop!” The director clapped, the sound cracking sharp through the air. Conversations cut off. “Vogue wants Y/n, and we want it fucking perfect.”
Jin lifted two fingers, wordless, already herding her forward. Y/n followed automatically, heels clicking against the concrete—measured, deliberate. Like every step was making a point she hadn’t decided on yet.
Then she saw it. She stopped so abruptly Jin nearly walked into her back.
The Rolls Royce sat dead center on set, black paint gleaming under the lights, its front angled toward the camera like it knew it was being watched. Polished. Untouchable. Mean in that quiet, expensive way.
Jin glanced at her, panic flickering across his face. “Hey—hey, what?” he asked, voice dipping. “What’s wrong? You good?”
Y/n didn’t answer right away.
It wasn’t the car. Okay—maybe it was a little the car. You don’t expect a fucking Rolls Royce in the middle of a fashion shoot unless someone’s trying to make a point.
But that wasn’t what lodged in her chest.
What got her was the image that followed too easily—the way her brain filled in the driver’s seat without asking permission. Broad shoulders. One hand lazy on the wheel. Tattooed knuckles. A smirk he wore like he didn’t care who noticed, decorated with lip piercings.
She almost scoffed at herself.
Get a grip.
“If Jin hasn’t filled you in yet, love—” The director stepped up beside her, oblivious, hands tucked into his pockets. “The concept we pitched to Vogue is a badass woman driver. Racer. Whatever label makes them feel edgy this week.” He chuckled, crow’s feet folding into his grin.
Y/n blinked, eyes sliding back to the car.
She hated how immediate it was. How her body reacted before her brain could catch up. Like some fucked-up reflex she hadn’t trained out yet.
For half a second, she genuinely wondered if she was losing it—if exhaustion had finally tipped her into hallucinations. Because she could see Jungkook there. Clear as day. Like he belonged in that seat in a way she didn’t want to unpack.
Why the hell are you thinking about him?
No—worse.
Why was he thinking about her less, and why was that suddenly the problem?
If he could pull away like it meant nothing, why couldn’t she do the same? She’d been good at that. Great, even when he used to stuff his face into her sight. Somewhere along the line, the balance had flipped. And she hated that she noticed.
“You’ll start inside the driver’s seat,” the director continued, snapping her back into the room. “We’ll shoot through the windshield, side angles, a few close-ups. Then we’ll move you onto the hood—strong, unapologetic. Like she owns the damn road.” He gestured toward the car, already envisioning the shots.
Y/n inhaled. Slow. Controlled.
“Mhm! Got it.” She said, voice steady enough to fool anyone listening.
She fluttered her lashes once, more habit than flirtation, and stepped forward. The leather of her boots creaked softly as she moved, heels clicking again—louder now, sharper.
Jin leaned in as she passed him. “You sure you’re okay?” he murmured. “You scared the shit out of me for a second.”
She didn’t look at him. “I’m fine,” she said. “Just… wasn’t expecting that.”
He nodded, buying it. Or choosing to.
Y/n reached the car, fingers brushing the door handle before she caught herself. Cool metal. Solid. Real. She slid into the driver’s seat.
The door shut with a heavy thud that echoed through her chest.
For a moment—just one—she sat there, hands resting in her lap, surrounded by leather and silence and the stupid thought that maybe she was more affected than she wanted to admit.
Then the director’s voice rang out again. “Alright, Y/n—eyes up. Let’s make them nervous.”
She lifted her gaze. And whatever she was feeling, whatever name it had, she buried it deep and gave them exactly what they came for.
“Yes—nice nice!”
🏎️. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ .
The cars revved and shot forward, engines screaming as rubber kissed asphalt. They were already tearing into the iconic sixth turn—crowd leaning, breath held. And as always, Jungkook fucking owned it.
He cut the curve clean, no hesitation, body loose like the car was an extension of him. His opponent lagged half a second behind, then a full one. Might as well have been a mile.
The crowd erupted as Jungkook blasted toward the finish line.
He crossed it first.
Cheers cracked through the air. Whistles. Phones raised. Someone slapped the side of his car as he rolled to a stop. When Jungkook climbed out, helmet off, sweat damp at his hairline, Taehyung was already there—grabbing him by the shoulders, shaking him like a lunatic.
“Did it again, man!” Taehyung yelled, laughing. “You’re actually insane.”
Jungkook laughed too, that easy, boyish grin flashing for the cameras and the crowd, adrenaline still buzzing in his veins. He dapped Taehyung, then Namjoon, chest still rising fast.
Behind them, his opponent stood stiff beside his own car, getting chewed out by his leader. Jungkook didn’t look back. Not even once.
They started toward Taehyung’s car, parked dead in the middle of the chaos—music blaring, people everywhere, the night alive and feral.
Then Namjoon stopped short. He hit Jungkook lightly in the chest with the back of his hand, sharp enough to pull his focus.
Jungkook followed his gaze. And just like that, the noise dimmed.
“Y/n…” Jungkook muttered.
She stood a few feet away, arms crossed, posture relaxed like she hadn’t just walked into his territory. Black fabric hugging her like it belonged there. Dior boots catching the floodlights. Face unreadable. Eyes on him—but not soft.
Marquise hovered just behind her, tense, watching Jungkook like he might explode.
Jungkook’s grin died where it stood.
Y/n tilted her chin up slightly, gaze cool, distant—almost bored.
“My heels,” she said. Simple. Flat. Commanding.
The same tone he’d used on her during their last call.
Two could play that game.
Taehyung bit back a laugh. Someone else muttered, “Shit...”
Jungkook didn’t react. Not visibly. He just nodded once.
“Of course,” he said. Polite. Neutral. Empty of flavor.
He turned on his heel and headed back toward his car without looking to see if she’d follow.
She did.
His guys stepped aside instinctively, making a clean path for her. Marquise hesitated.
“I’ll find you later,” Y/n said quietly, not breaking stride. Marquise didn’t argue.
Y/n’s boots clicked against the concrete as she followed Jungkook—sharp, deliberate, each step landing like punctuation.
Jungkook heard every single one.
He didn’t slow down. Didn’t look back. But his jaw tightened anyway. And for the first time that night, the adrenaline in his chest wasn’t from the race.
Y/n stopped a few steps away from Jungkook’s car.
The crowd had thinned here, peeled back toward the music like a tide retreating. Engines ticked as they cooled. Neon lights flickered overhead, buzzing faintly, like the night itself was irritated.
She crossed her arms, weight sinking into one hip, jaw set. She looked carved out of defiance.
Jungkook didn’t look at her.
He leaned into his open window, torso bent, one arm braced on the door as he reached across the passenger seat. The interior light flicked on briefly, washing his knuckles in white.
He pulled back with a soft grunt.
Her Louboutins dangled from his fingers—nude leather, red soles catching the glow like a warning sign.
Neither of them moved.
Five seconds stretched. Six. Seven.
The air felt thick, like it was holding its breath. Finally, Jungkook extended his arm, offering the heels out to her.
Y/n’s gaze dropped to them… then slid back up to his eyes. She stepped forward and reached for them. He pulled back. Just enough.
Her eyes snapped up, sharp as glass.
“Jungkook,” she said tightly. “My heels.”
“And my sweater?” he asked. No smirk. No tease. Just flat.
She frowned. “You had the chance to take it back that night why didn’t you?”
His jaw flexed. “Okay, I want it back now.”
Annoyance flashed across her face. She blinked, slow, disbelieving, then shrugged like she couldn’t be bothered.
“Okay. Next time.”
He tilted his head slightly, gaze dropping beneath his lashes, voice steady but unyielding.
“My heels.”
Jungkook looked down at them, then placed them—firmly—into the warmth of her palms.
Their fingers brushed. Static.
Y/n shot him one last glare, then turned on her heel and walked away—model stride sharp, spine straight, every step loud against the concrete.
Jungkook leaned back against his car, eyes tracking her until the darkness swallowed her shape.
Only then did he breathe. A slow exhale, like he’d been underwater too long. He turned back toward his door and suddenly slammed forward.
“Yo—what the fuck—?!”
He spun, fury flaring—Y/n stood there again. Eyes blazing. Jaw tight. Her heels clutched in one hand like a weapon. One of them had just stabbed into his back.
“What the actual fuck…is wrong with you?!” she snapped.
“What?” he shot back, genuinely thrown.
She shoved him hard in the chest, forcing him back against the car. Metal rattled.
“You…drag me into your space,” she said, shoving him again, “act like you want me—”
Another shove.
“—take me out, look at me like I’m something—heck even treat me like I’m special—”
Another.
“—then suddenly you can’t even pretend to give a shit!?”
Jungkook laughed once, sharp and bitter, turning his head aside. “You’re reading too much into—”
“Don’t,” she snapped. “Don’t fucking do that.” She shoved him again. He didn’t stop her.
Didn’t grab her wrists. Didn’t bark back. Part of him wanted to grab her wrists, ground her, tell her to calm the fuck down. Jungkook just stood there and took it.
Because some ugly part of him thought maybe this was punishment. Maybe this was balance.
“This is why I don’t trust guys like you,” she said, voice cracking now. “This is why I don’t fucking let you in so easily,” she continued, anger splintering. “Guys like you are always full of bullshit.” Her chest rose and fell hard.
“I don’t like being played, Jungkook.”
Something flickered in his eyes. Not anger. Fear. And then out of nowhere—
“Hey—hey!”
Her heat was suddenly ripped away from Jungkook. Yoongi’s arm locked around her waist, yanking her back hard.
“That’s enough, Y/n.” Yoongi snapped, voice low and dangerous.
Y/n struggled. “Let go of me!”
Jungkook straightened slowly, back still against the car, chest tight—not from the shoves, but from the words she’d thrown like knives.
He didn’t look at Yoongi nor did he look away from her. He met her eyes over Yoongi’s shoulder.
“You done?” he asked quietly. That calm—that distance—hurt worse than if he’d screamed. Because it told her everything she didn’t want to believe. And for Jungkook, it confirmed exactly why he should’ve never let her get this close.
Yoongi shoved Y/n backward, palm firm at her shoulder, steering her toward Hoseok, Jimin, and Marquise like he was moving a liability out of traffic.
“Watch her,” he snapped without looking back.
Marquise caught Y/n by the arm. Hoseok stepped in front of her instinctively, a quiet wall. Jimin hovered close, eyes darting between the two men like he was watching a fuse burn down.
Yoongi turned back to Jungkook. Jungkook hadn’t moved. Hadn’t squared up. He just stood there with his back half against the car, shoulders loose, expression flat—like he was already tired of a fight that hadn’t even started yet.
“I probably wasn’t fucking clear the first time,” Yoongi said, jabbing a finger hard into Jungkook’s chest. “Stay…the fuck away from my sister, Jeon.”
The touch landed. Hard. Jungkook didn’t flinch. Didn’t swat his hand away either.
He just looked down at the finger pressed into him, then back up at Yoongi, eyes dark and exhausted, like violence was a language he’d spoken too many times tonight.
“I didn’t fucking go after her, okay.” Jungkook said. His voice was low, scraped raw, patience hanging by a thread.
Yoongi laughed once—sharp, humorless. “Then what the fuck is she doing here, huh?” He gestured wildly. “Shoving you? Screaming at you? You think that shit just happens?”
Jungkook exhaled through his nose, jaw tightening. Rainwater dripped off his hair, slid down his neck, soaked into his collar. The neon lights painted him in bruised colors.
“She wanted something from me,” he said. “That’s it.”
Yoongi scoffed. “Bullshit.”
Jungkook’s eyes flicked past him—to Y/n. She stood rigid between her friends, arms tense, chin lifted like she refused to be the weak link in the room. Something in his chest twisted.
“Look,” Jungkook said, gaze snapping back to Yoongi, irritation finally cracking through. “You want me off her ass? I’ll gladly fucking do it.” A beat. Then, colder. “She’s wasting my energy anyway.”
The words landed wrong. Too sharp. Too deliberate.
The air shifted—like someone had sucked all the oxygen out.
Hoseok’s brows shot up. Jimin’s mouth parted slightly. Even Yoongi paused, grip loosening, surprise flickering across his face before suspicion crept back in.
Y/n laughed. A short, hollow sound that didn’t match her face.
She lifted her heels, fingers tightening around them like weapons, and turned sharply, storming off across the concrete. The sound of her boots faded into the noise, swallowed by engines and bass and chaos.
No one stopped her.
Jungkook watched her go. Didn’t chase. Well he couldn’t since Yoongi was in the way. Didn’t call her name. Even if he wanted to.
Something hollow opened in his chest—quiet, ugly, familiar.
Yoongi stepped into his space again. “If you ever—”
“I said. I’m done,” Jungkook cut in, finally pushing off the car. He looked at Yoongi now, really looked at him, eyes stripped of everything but warning. “You got what you wanted.”
Yoongi searched his face, like he was trying to decide whether to hit him or believe him.
Jungkook didn’t care which one he chose. Because his eyes had already drifted back to the dark stretch where Y/n disappeared.
For the first time all night, the race felt like the easy part.
The party didn’t even stutter. Bass still pounded like a bruised heart refusing to quit. Neon lights kept flickering, drunk on their own chaos. Engines revved, laughter cracked, bottles clinked. Life went on like nothing important had just snapped clean in half.
Jungkook stayed by Taehyung’s car, shoulder pressed into the metal, a plastic cup sweating in his grip. He’d been nursing the same drink for ten minutes. It tasted like nothing. Might as well have been water—or gasoline—for all he cared.
“Bro,” Namjoon muttered, glancing at him. “You good?”
Jungkook didn’t answer. Just tilted his head back and stared at the sky, clouds hanging low and heavy like they were eavesdropping.
She’s wasting my energy.
The words replayed in his head, warped and distorted, like a track scratched to hell.
He didn’t regret saying them. That truth sat ugly and loud in his chest. Didn’t regret it—but fuck, it didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.
Across the lot, Y/n looked carved from ice and rage. Not crying. Not shaking. Just sharp. All edges.
She brushed Marquise off when she reached for her. Shot Hoseok a look that could cut glass. Even Yoongi, usually all teeth and temper when it came to his sister, didn’t say shit. He watched her for a long second, jaw tight, then turned away like he knew better.
That scared Jungkook more than yelling ever would’ve.
Then the call went up.
“Next race!”
“Yoongi versus Jungkook!”
“Oh shit—someone’s dying tonight!”
The crowd surged like blood rushing to a wound.
Jungkook straightened automatically, body moving before his head caught up.
Racing had always been his refuge. The one place where everything went quiet. Where the world narrowed down to rubber, asphalt, and instinct.
Tonight? His mind was a fucking riot.
He slid into his car, door slamming shut, sealing him inside the familiar cocoon of leather and heat and fuel. The engine hummed under his palm, loyal as ever.
Don’t fuck this up, he told himself, jaw tightening.
Yoongi’s car rolled up beside him—low, predatory, confident. Jungkook didn’t look over. Didn’t trust himself to.
The trigger pulled. They launched.
The world blurred into speed and sound. Tires screamed. Neon lights stretched into molten lines. Jungkook took the first turns clean—too clean. Almost aggressive. Like he was trying to outrun something inside his chest.
Focus, he barked at himself. Just fucking drive. But her voice cut through the roar of the engine.
I don’t like being fucking played, Jungkook.
His grip tightened. Then his own words followed, colder. Meaner.
She’s wasting my energy.
“Fuck,” he muttered, shaking his head like that might knock the thoughts loose. “Shut up—shut the fuck up!”
The crowd came into view ahead, faces smeared together into one pulsing mass—and then—
Her.
Y/n stood near the barricade, lit half in red, half in shadow. Arms crossed tight like she was holding herself together by force. Chin lifted. Eyes burning.
She wasn’t cheering. She was staring straight at him. Their eyes locked. Just one second. It hit him like a pothole to the chest. Something in him stuttered—like the engine skipped a beat. Like his heart forgot what it was supposed to do.
Don’t look at her, he ordered himself, breath hitching.
Jesus fucking Christ—don’t—
He tore his gaze back to the road, pulse roaring louder than the engine.
The sixth turn loomed ahead. His turn. The one everyone talked about. The one he owned. He’d taken it blind a hundred times, trusted muscle memory like gospel.
Tonight, his hands hesitated. Just a fraction.
Too fucking late.
“Shit—fuck!”
The car clipped the turn wrong. Tires screamed in protest, metal shuddering like it was cursing him out. Yoongi shot past in a blur of taillights and smoke.
The crowd exploded.
“What the fuck was that?!” Taehyung yelled.
“No way—did Jungkook just miss that?!”
He corrected fast—too fast. Pushed harder. Chased the gap like it hadn’t already swallowed him whole.
But the damage was done. The finish line came up brutal and final. Yoongi crossed first. Clear. Clean. Undeniable.
Jungkook slowed, pulling off to the side as the engine ticked beneath him, hot and disappointed. His hands were still locked on the wheel, knuckles white, veins screaming.
He didn’t look at the crowd. Didn’t look for her. Because for the first time in his life, losing didn’t spark rage. It sparked something worse.
Realization.
And as he sat there, chest rising and falling like he’d just survived a wreck, one thought settled heavy and unavoidable in his bones. She wasn’t a distraction. She was the reason. And that scared the living shit out of him.
Yoongi’s side detonated. Cheers burst out like fireworks—raw, loud, unapologetic. Hoseok whooped and tackled Yoongi in a half-hug, half-body slam. Jimin jumped on his back, nearly knocking the breath out of him.
“You fucking did it!” Hoseok laughed, shaking him like a soda can.
“Sixth turn, baby!” Jimin yelled. “I told you—karma’s a bitch!”
Yoongi grinned, breathless, sweat-slicked and victorious, chest heaving like he’d wrestled the night itself and won. Someone shoved a drink into his hand. Another clapped him on the back hard enough to bruise.
The crowd swarmed. But just a few steps away, Y/n stood still. Stranded. Like the noise had hit an invisible wall around her.
Her gaze stayed locked on Jungkook. He didn’t look back.
He just walked off, one arm swinging loose at his side, shoulders tight, posture screaming restraint. The kind of walk men did when they were holding themselves together with duct tape and pride. The neon lights slid over his back like they were trying to grab him—failed every time. Each step he took felt like a door slamming shut.
Her chest tightened.
Coward, she almost thought.
Before she could sink into it—before she could do something stupid like follow him—Marquise’s arm looped around her waist.
“Hey,” she said, soft but firm, tugging her closer. “C’mon. Don’t stand there like a ghost.”
Y/n blinked, snapped back into her body like she’d been yanked by a leash. Her eyes flicked away from Jungkook just in time to see his silhouette disappear into the darker edge of the lot.
Gone.
Marquise pulled her straight into the chaos.
“Winner, bitches!” Hoseok yelled, throwing an arm around both Marquise and Y/n.
Yoongi turned, still buzzing, grin wide—then faltered when he really looked at his sister.
“…You good?” he asked, voice lowering, cutting through the noise just for her.
Y/n forced a smile. The kind that sat wrong on her face. “Yeah. I’m fucking fantastic,” she said, grabbing a drink from someone’s hand and lifting it. “You won. Congrats. Gold star. Big man shit.”
Jimin raised his cup. “To Yoongi!”
“To Yoongi!” the group echoed.
Glasses clinked. Liquid sloshed. Someone laughed too loud.
Y/n drank. Didn’t taste it though. Didn’t feel it.
Her eyes drifted again—traitorous, disobedient—back toward the shadows where Jungkook had disappeared.
The party roared on around her. But somewhere between the bass and the victory chants, something settled heavy in her chest.
This wasn’t over. She didn’t want it to be.
🏎️. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ .
Y/n chugged her fourth glass like she was timing herself for something she couldn’t afford to lose.
The alcohol burned down her throat, sharp and temporary, like a match struck in the dark — bright enough to distract, not nearly enough to warm. Her chest still felt tight. Still felt loud.
Yoongi noticed from the crowd the way storms notice shifts in air pressure. Not because she was drinking — she always drank — but because she was drinking like she wanted silence. Like she wanted her thoughts to finally shut the fuck up.
He’d already clocked her earlier, shoving Jungkook into his car, her voice slicing through the night like glass dragged across concrete. The lecture about ‘why the hell are you here’ was sitting on his tongue, heavy and loaded — but it wasn’t the priority.
Her face was. The tension pulled too tight around her mouth. The way her shoulders sat like armor instead of posture.
Yoongi shoved through bodies slick with sweat and adrenaline, the music pounding like a reckless heart. He slid in beside her and hooked an arm around her shoulders without asking — muscle memory, instinct, blood.
Y/n stiffened. Then relaxed when she realized who it was.
“Walk with me,” he said, already moving. She let herself be guided.
They drifted away from the chaos, toward the edges of the parking lot where the night thinned out into mist and oil-slick air. The bass softened here, muffled and distant, like a heartbeat heard through walls. Their footsteps sounded heavier, more honest, echoing against concrete that didn’t pretend to care.
Yoongi didn’t speak right away. Let the quiet stretch. Let it breathe. Then—
“What did he do?”
The question landed slow but deep, like a stone dropped into water.
“Why were you fighting?”
Y/n’s eyes locked onto the ground like it was safer than looking anywhere else. Her fingers rubbed absent circles into her arms, Yoongi’s hold grounding her — an anchor she didn’t realize she’d been drifting toward.
“You can tell me,” he added, softer. “I swear I won’t yell. Or scold. Or go…full asshole.” A ghost of a laugh slipped out of him. It didn’t quite land.
“I don’t know…” she said finally. “He was just… being a dick.”
Yoongi glanced at her.
“Told ya.”
Her glare snapped up, sharp enough to bruise.
“Okay—yeah—rub it in. It’s not like I’m gonna talk to him again.”
“Damn right I am,” he muttered, squeezing her cheek between his fingers. “I warned you.”
“I know the type,” he snapped back. “I race with them. I bleed with them. I bury people like them.” The word bury dropped between them like a dead weight.
Her chest stuttered. “Jesus, Yoongi.”
“I’m not being dramatic,” he said, voice lowering. “This isn’t a fucking movie.”
He exhaled through his nose, jaw grinding like he was chewing on something bitter.
“Guys like Jungkook don’t ruin your life all at once,” he continued. “They chip at it. Little pieces. No contact. Weird moods. That silence that creeps in and makes you feel crazy for noticing.”
Her stomach twisted.
Check. Check. And check.
“And then one day,” Yoongi said, “you’re standing there wondering why you feel like shit when he technically hasn’t done anything wrong.”
That one hurt in a quiet way. The kind that sinks under skin and stays there.
He hadn’t cheated. Hadn’t lied. Hadn’t crossed a line she could point to. But her chest still felt bruised. Like something had pressed too hard and walked away pretending it didn’t notice the mark it left.
Her pride folded inward, small and sore.
“You don’t know him,” she muttered again, but it sounded thinner now. Like a defense she didn’t fully believe.
Yoongi stopped walking. He turned her toward him, hands firm at her arms — not aggressive, just real.
“Y/n,” he said, shaking her once. “I didn’t like seeing you like that. In fact—I don’t.”
She looked away, jaw locked tight enough to crack teeth.
“I don’t like seeing you angry,” he said.
“You don’t like seeing me angry,” she echoed, bitter.
“No,” he said quietly. “I don’t.” His voice cracked — just enough to give it away “Because when you’re angry like that,” he continued, “it means you care. And I fucking hate who you’re caring about.”
Something in her loosened. A knot she didn’t know she’d been clenching. Her face softened before she could stop it. Yoongi saw.
“I’m not mad at you,” he said. “I knew you’d go against me anyway. You always do.”
She huffed weakly.
“I’m mad at the situation,” he went on. “And I’m scared of what happens when you start caring about people who don’t know how to hold you.”
“I don’t need protecting,” she whispered.
“Yes,” Yoongi shot back, “you do. Because it’s exhausting watching you walk straight into shit I already know will burn you.”
She let him talk. Because every word rang true, sharp as exposed wire.
And she hated that.
“He’s trouble,” Yoongi said finally.
Then he held out his pinky. The sight of it hit her harder than expected. That stupid promise. The one they made as kids. The one that always meant something.
“Promise me,” he said. “You won’t go back to him.”
Her gaze dropped to his hand. If she didn’t take it, he’d keep trying. If she did… she already knew she’d break it.
Slowly, she wrapped her pinky around his. Yoongi smiled — small, relieved, like he’d just exhaled after holding his breath too long. He let go, then smacked her back hard.
“Oof—fuck,” she groaned.
He laughed, arm swinging back around her shoulders like it always had.
“C’mon,” he said. “Before you drink yourself into a regret montage. You’re not supposed to be here by the way…”
🏎️. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ .
Jungkook had left before anyone could stop him.
Before Namjoon or Taehyung could hold Jungkook back for at least two more races, he’d already slipped into his car while the night is still loud enough to not notice one less engine breathing.
The road out of the lot curves like it always does. The neon lights of Seoul soon started to bleed into his windows. Streetlights stretching and snapping past his windshield.
He doesn’t turn the music on. That’s how you know he’s fucked.
The engine hums low and steady. Unlike him. His hands are tight on the steering wheel, veins popping, knuckles pale. He loosens them. Tightens them again. Like he’s testing whether control is still something he owns.
It should feel good. Leaving early. Walking away.
He’s done that his whole life.
So why does his chest feel like someone left a door open in winter?
The road ahead is straight, boring, forgiving — and his brain, traitor that it is, drags him right back to that goddamn moment. The way the car hesitated. Not slid. Not failed.
Hesitated.
Cars don’t hesitate. People do.
He exhales hard through his nose, jaw clenching. “Fuck,” he mutters, like the word might erase it. It doesn’t.
He sees her again — not even clearly. Just flashes. Arms crossed. That look on her face. The way her anger had weight to it, like it had been sitting there for a while, waiting for him to fuck up just enough to let it out.
He didn’t regret what he said.
That’s the worst fucking part.
He meant it. Every cold syllable. Every ounce of distance he threw at her like a shield.
Still.
The realization hits him sideways, no warning, no mercy.
He didn’t lose the race because Yoongi was better. He didn’t lose it because the road was slick. He lost it because his mind wasn’t empty.
Because it had her in it.
Something pulled at him from the crowd — not loud or desperate — just there. Existing and fucking him up.
And Jungkook doesn’t fuck things up unless he cares.
That truth sits heavy in his gut, like swallowed glass.
He laughs once. Sharp. Bitter. “You’re such a fucking idiot,” he tells himself, staring at the road like it personally betrayed him.
Caring has never ended well for him. Caring is how you get people taken from you, how you lose focus, how you start driving differently.
He thinks of how easily she got under his skin. How fast it happened. No buildup. No warning signs. Just—boom. Presence. Weight. Consequence.
That scares him more than the crash ever could.
He presses harder on the gas, like speed might outrun the thought. It doesn’t. Because deep down — beneath the engines, the races, the walls he built brick by brick — he already knows the answer.
He’s attached.
And attachment means distance is the only thing that’s ever kept him alive.
His phone buzzes in the cupholder. He doesn’t look.
The city opens up ahead of him, wide and indifferent, and Jungkook drives straight into it — already grieving something he refuses to touch, already pulling away from someone who never even asked him to stay.
His phone buzzed again. And again.
The vibration rattled in the cup holder, obnoxious, insistent. He glanced down briefly at the screen when the car stopped at a red light.
Missed call.
Missed call.
Missed call.
Same name.
He scoffed under his breath, dragging a hand down his face. Of course. Timing had always been a cruel little bitch.
The phone buzzed again. Jungkook cursed quietly, flicked his blinker on without thinking, pulled over halfway down an empty stretch of road. The engine idled, restless. So was he.
He stared at the phone like it might bite him.
Distance.
That was the rule.
Distance was how he survived people.
He picked it up anyway.
“Yeah, Seoyeon-ah.”
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hiyya luvs!! im so happy to get back to overdrive. i think this chapter could be one of my favourites maybe cus we get to know more about jungkook and probably how fucked up he can be. i hope you guys liked this chapter as much as i did<3
