➳❥ Synopsis: you just moved into a new apartment complex, ready to reinvent your life and finish your final year of psychology. Until… your upstairs neighbor. loud, reckless, and running a life he keeps in the shadows. He becomes impossible to ignore. everything you’d clinically diagnose as a bad idea. but the closer you get, the more you see someone trying to outrun himself. and the harder you fall, the more you realize some things can’t be fixed only felt.
❤︎ Warnings: explicit language, explicit content & language, drug use & dealing, drug paraphernalia.
⚠︎ PLEASE READ THIS SERIES W/ CAUTION ⚠︎
- ♡ this series includes chapters with heavy topics.
- ♡ there will be warnings on said chapters
- ♡ please take care of your mental health and don’t do drugs ♡
↳ join the taglist
·········⋆༺𓆩❀𓆪༻⋆·········
❀ 001 : excuse you?!
❀ 002 : can you stfu.
❀ 003 : uhh are you okay?
❀ 004 : fml
❀ 005 : oh he got a friend too?
❀ 006 : this ain’t mine but I’m curious.
❀ 007 : what type of timing you on?
❀ 008 : I dont smoke random peoples weed
❀ 009 : knock knock
❀ 010 : I love my life
❀ chapters [11-??] 🔒👀
Note: heyy reader! This is my first ff so pls go easy on me 😭 I hope you enjoy what I have in store. I will most likely post 1 or 2 new chapters every week! I’m trying something new by adding a new song to describe each chapter for any readers who like to listen to music and read (like me). Enjoy reading! 💜 start date: 5/9/26
➻ authors note: this is NOT a romantic, cute story. please read the warning tags & if you're not into this, don't read it. every person in this story is an adult and into this. ➻ this chapter is shorter than the last ones, i apologise. i’m cooking up something special for part 7 tho heh 🖤
➻ important note: i use the help of chat gpt to edit my works. NOT to create them. these are my own ideas, thoughts and words. english isn‘t my first language and i‘m having a hard time with grammar and sometimes natural phrasings- that‘s why i use ai to help me edit my stories. here is a detailed explanation. if you are against this or can‘t accept it- that‘s fine, don‘t read it. but it‘s only fair you should know.
The next days you’re surviving on three hours of sleep a night- your hands shake badly enough that you nearly spill coffee down the front of your shirt twice before noon. In the morning you find yourself standing outside a classroom you’ve walked into a hundred times before while your brain completely refuses to remember why you’re there in the first place.
“You lost?”
The voice cuts through the thick fog inside your head just enough to make you blink.
Jungkook is standing a few feet away, one hand hooked around the strap of his backpack while he studies you with a faint frown.
“What?” The word leaves you automatically, genuinely confused.
Jungkook’s eyebrows pull together slightly. For a second he just looks at you, then his gaze shifts toward the classroom door.
“We’ve got English.”
Your brain struggles to catch up. English. Right.
You just stare at him and Jungkook stares back. Then something almost resigned crosses his face and he lets out a quiet sigh through his nose.
“Sit next to me,” he says. “I’ll take notes for both of us.” Another sigh leaves him before he closes the distance between you, gently taking hold of your wrist.
“C’mon, princess.” There’s no teasing in his words, no flirtation. Just… patience. The realization feels strangely unsettling.
You let him guide you into the classroom without protest, still feeling vaguely disconnected from your own body while Jungkook leads you toward the back row and drops into a chair. A second later he tugs lightly on your wrist again until you finally sit beside him.
The lecture starts and you remember almost none of it. The only thing you do remember is looking down halfway through class and realizing Jungkook’s notebook is twice as full as everyone else’s.
Because he’d actually been taking notes for both of you.
The botanical gardens are nearly empty by the time you arrive.
Evening has begun settling over the winding paths, painting everything in shades of amber and gold as sunlight filters through the trees in fractured ribbons of light, the kind of scenery people usually describe as peaceful. Couples wander lazily through the distant walkways. A few students occupy benches scattered throughout the gardens. Somewhere nearby, water trickles softly from a stone fountain.
It should feel calming, instead, every step makes your stomach twist tighter. Then you spot Levi.
He looks completely at ease sitting on one of the benches near the center path, one arm draped across the backrest as though he’s simply enjoying the evening rather than waiting for the person he’s been tormenting for weeks. The moment his eyes find yours, a smile spreads slowly across his face.
The kind of smile that makes something instinctive inside you recoil.
“There you are...” The words are spoken lightly, almost affectionately, and somehow that makes them worse.
You stop several feet away because you simply don’t want to sit next to him, not even be in his direct vicinity…
He simply leans back against the bench and looks at you the way someone might admire a painting they already own- the mere thought makes you nauseous.
For a few seconds neither of you speaks, so the silence stretches. Levi seems content to let it, he likes this; he simply likes making you stand there, likes watching you squirm and knowing exactly why you’re here. The realization settles unpleasantly in your stomach.
“Well?” he asks eventually. “Aren’t you going to sit down?”
“No.”
His smile widens. “Still got some fight left in you. That’s cute.”
Your jaw tightens. “I thought we could… talk.”
A laugh escapes him, low, amused. As though you’ve just said something truly entertaining. “Talk,” he repeats, stretching the word, „Sure.“
You hate him. You hate the way he manages to make every ordinary word sound filthy. Hate the way he looks at you and the fact that he knows you came anyway.
“Please, Levi…” you say before pride can stop you.
The change in his expression is immediate. “Oooh, there it is.” Your stomach drops. Levi slowly sits forward, resting his elbows on his knees while studying your face with unsettling concentration.
“I was wondering how long you’d hold out.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you don’t.” The amusement dancing in his eyes makes your skin crawl. “You’re finally desperate enough to say please.”
Heat floods your face- not ofembarrassment but because he’s enjoying this. Every second of it. Every ounce of your discomfort seems to delight him.
“I came because I want this to stop.”
Levi shoves his lower lip into a fake pout. “As if you’re the victim here.”
The words hit so hard that for a second you genuinely can’t respond. A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. There.
That reaction. That was what he wanted.
“You know,” he continues casually, glancing toward the trees, “Marc used to talk about you all the time.”
The mention of Marc feels like someone driving a knife between your ribs. Levi notices immediately; predators always notice where the wound is.
“There-” his voice softens, almost fond. “You make the saddest face whenever I mention him.”
“Levi.”
“No, keep making that face. It’s adorable.”
Your hands curl into fists. “Delete it.”
For the first time, his smile fades. Not because you’ve upset him. Worse. Because he’s bored now. As though you’ve interrupted a conversation he was enjoying.
“You still think that’s what this is about.” The shift in his tone sends a chill down your spine. Levi rises from the bench with unhurried ease, and suddenly the distance between you feels far smaller than it did a moment ago.
Instinctively, you take a step backward and his eyes immediately drop to the movement before he smiles again; slowly, hungrily- and somehow that smile feels far worse than any anger could have.
“You know what I find interesting?” he asks. “All semester you’ve been pretending to be this sweet little thing. The innocent one. The good girl.” He takes a single step forward. “And now look at you.”
Disgust crawls beneath your skin. “You blackmailed me.”
“That’s one way to phrase it.”
“That’s exactly what you’re doing.”
Levi laughs softly. “You make it sound so ugly.”
“It is ugly!”
His gaze drifts over you with slow, deliberate consideration. The look alone makes you feel filthy. “You know,” he says thoughtfully, “at first I thought I’d get bored.”
Your stomach tightens when he steps even closer. “But every time I think you’re finally going to break, you surprise me.” His smile returns.
“I just wanted a quick fuck at first but now? Now I think I‘m gonna keep you a bit longer, tugging on that invisible leash a bit more.“
Something cold settles in your chest because suddenly you understand: This isn’t about getting something from you. It never really was. The footage is just a leash. The real prize is watching you panic whenever he pulls it.
Watching you bargain. Watching you beg. Watching you stand in front of him knowing he has power over you.
Levi likes fear, he likes being the reason for it and the realization is somehow more terrifying than the blackmail itself.
“Please.” You hate how small your voice sounds, you hate even more that you’re saying it again.
Levi’s expression changes. Like he’s finally hearing exactly what he wanted. For several long seconds he simply stares at you. Then his smile widens.
“I knew you’d look pretty begging.” And just like that, he turns and walks away.
No deal. No answers. No compromise.
Leaving you standing alone beneath the fading sunlight while nausea churns violently in your stomach and humiliation burns hot behind your ribs.
You remain frozen long after he’s disappeared from view, staring at the path where he’d been standing as evening shadows stretch across the gardens and darkness slowly begins swallowing the last traces of gold.
Several paths away, concealed behind a dense wall of hedges and shrubs, Jungkook watches the space Levi just vacated. At first he’d only followed because something about the situation felt wrong.
First the text message you’d received during class: the way your expression had changed afterward. The fact that you’d spent the rest of the afternoon distracted and anxious before disappearing across campus without telling anyone where you were going.
Individually, none of it meant much. Together, it had been enough to catch his attention.
Now, standing partially hidden among the trees, he finds himself staring at the bench with a growing sense of unease. Because whatever he just witnessed wasn’t an argument between friends- the entire interaction had felt wrong from the beginning.
The way you’d approached this guy and the way you’d kept your distance… Your shoulders had remained tense the entire time. Most of all, it had been the look on your face.
Jungkook has seen people angry, embarrassed, heartbroken, jealous… What he’d seen on your face had been none of those things. It had looked frighteningly close to fear. Fuck.
His gaze drifts toward the path that fucker disappeared down. He hadn’t looked nervous once. Hadn’t looked uncertain. If anything, he’d looked fucking entertained.
And that detail bothers Jungkook more than anything else, because people don’t smile like that unless they think they’ve already won.
The thought follows him into the next morning and into the afternoon. Then into the day after that. By Wednesday he’s asking questions.
Not enough to attract attention, never enough to reveal why he’s interested. Just casual conversations scattered throughout campus, observations disguised as curiosity, names dropped into discussions whenever opportunities present themselves.
The answers begin accumulating slowly: A hesitation here, an uncomfortable laugh there. Expressions shifting the moment Levi’s name enters the conversation. Nobody seems surprised that Jungkook knows who Levi is. What surprises them is that he’d willingly bring him up.
By Thursday the pattern has become impossible to ignore: people don’t merely dislike Levi. They fucking avoid him.
The distinction matters- dislike is simple. Dislike is normal. But this? This feels different.
Every conversation leaves Jungkook with the same impression, as though everyone knows something but nobody wants to be the person who says it out loud. Cowards. Maybe.
Then rumors surface. Stories that don’t quite qualify as accusations. Warnings disguised as fucking jokes. Just enough fragments to suggest a much uglier picture hiding underneath.
And with every new piece, his thoughts return to the botanical gardens; to the way you’d looked standing across from Levi. The desperation in your posture. The expression on your face after he’d walked away.
By the end of the week, Jungkook stops asking whether Levi is a problem. The only question left is how dangerous that fucking problem actually is.
Because that little wanker is hiding something. Jungkook would bet money on it. And judging by the fear he’d seen in your eyes that evening, whatever Levi is hiding somehow leads directly back to you.
He doesn’t know how yet, doesn’t know why, but for the first time since this started, he has a direction.
And somewhere across campus, completely unaware of the attention quietly settling on him, Levi continues moving through life with the confidence of a man convinced he’s untouchable. Idiot.
Jungkook has met plenty of people like that.
None of them enjoyed what happened after he decided to shift his focus on them.
By friday afternoon, Jungkook tells himself he’s only still watching Levi because of you- the lie sounds reasonable enough in his head.
At first, the plan had been simple: figure out why you’d looked terrified in the botanical gardens, why you’d spent the last days moving through life like somebody was holding a knife to your future. And why you’d rather slowly tear yourself apart from the inside than ask for help.
Unfortunately, the more Jungkook learns about Levi, the uglier the picture becomes… On the surface, the guy is exactly what Jungkook expected: a spoiled little prick with too much confidence and not nearly enough substance. He sleeps through half his lectures, spends money he probably doesn’t have, drinks like his liver personally offended him, lies as naturally as breathing, and flirts with anything possessing a pulse and a functioning nervous system. Every interaction feels rehearsed, every smile manufactured, every apology delivered with the polished ease of somebody who has never once meant a fucking word coming out of his mouth.
The problem isn’t who Levi pretends to be- the problem is what keeps slipping through the cracks.
At the end of the week, Jungkook has memorized most of his routine without even meaning to. He knows which coffee shop Levi visits every morning, which campus buildings he cuts through between classes, which parking lot he disappears into whenever he thinks nobody is paying attention, and which groups of people he gravitates toward when he’s looking for an audience.
More importantly, Jungkook has started noticing the people Levi leaves behind: the girls.
There are always girls. Different faces and different conversations but always the same expressions in the end. At first, Jungkook thinks he’s imagining it, but it keeps happening- a flash of discomfort, forced smiles, nervous laughter. Their shoulders tense whenever Levi gets closer while their eyes dart toward exits. Entire conversations that somehow manage to look wrong from fifty feet away.
After a few days coincidences stop being a believable explanation and a cold feeling has settled permanently beneath his ribs.
At a little after four o’clock, he’s parked across from the humanities building with his motorcycle resting beneath him and his helmet balanced beside his leg while students stream through the glass doors in endless waves. His phone vibrates and the contact name immediately softens something inside his chest.
Princess: where are you? weren’t we studying today?
For a moment, Jungkook almost starts the bike. Almost.
The guilt hits instantly because he knows exactly what that message means. You don’t ask where he is because you’re impatient. You ask because you’ve spent the last week looking over your shoulder every five fucking seconds and somewhere along the way you’ve started checking for him without even realizing it. He fucking loves that you want him close and need him, even if you never admit it out loud, but he fucking hates that someone scared you so bad for it to happen.
Then movement near the entrance catches his attention. Levi.
The asshole exits the building while staring at his phone, smiling at something on the screen. He’s not alone.
A girl follows several steps behind him and Jungkook notices the distance immediately- not because it’s dramatic but because it’s deliberate. She’s clutching her bag tightly against her chest like it’s armor. Her shoulders are tense. Her gaze keeps flicking around the parking lot as though she’s searching for witnesses without wanting to admit she needs them. Every instinct Jungkook possesses starts screaming.
Another message appears.
Princess: you’re late.
His jaw tightens.
running late. sorry. be there soon.
The lie sends before he can reconsider it. Then he slips the phone back into his pocket and focuses on the scene unfolding below because something has changed.
The girl says something, something Jungkook can’t hear. Levi can. The smile vanishes from Levi’s face so quickly it almost looks unnatural. Interesting.
Levi takes two slow steps forward and she takes one back, her fingers burying even tighter into her backpack. Jungkook straightens slightly while his own fingers tighten around the edge of the seat.
The girl’s posture grows smaller while Levi’s grows larger. Not physically. Psychologically. Like a fucking predator sensing weakness. Like somebody who knows exactly how much space he occupies in another person’s head.
Levi says something- sharp enough that even from a distance Jungkook sees the reaction: She visibly flinches and Levi laughs. The sound carries across the parking lot. What a fucking annoying sound.
Jungkook’s jaw locks in pure anger. God, he wants to hit him. No warnings, no light punch… Hit him hard enough that he’d spend the next month drinking soup through a straw.
The girl finally shakes her head and Levi shrugs. Then his next words drift clearly across the open space. “You want me to leak it?” The girl visibly freezes.
Jungkook goes completely still, trying to gather even more from the conversation. Levi keeps talking. He‘s still calm and relaxed- like they’re discussing weather forecasts instead of whatever the fuck this is.
“Then get the money.” The girl’s eyes immediately fill with tears. “You have until tomorrow.” Levi checks his watch. “Last warning.”
The realization lands with a sickening certainty- not because Jungkook is slow. But part of him still wanted to be wrong. Blackmail. The little fucking psychopath is blackmailing her.
Not you.
Her. An entirely different girl. Which means this isn’t personal. It’s probably a habit. A routine even…
The girl starts crying and Levi instantly looks annoyed. Actually annoyed. As if her tears are inconveniencing him, as if she’s somehow making his day harder.
“Please,” she says, the word barely carrying across the distance. He rolls his eyes then reaches forward and hooks two fingers beneath her chin. The gesture is small- gentle, even. Which somehow makes it worse because nothing about it feels impulsive or emotional.
It feels practiced, like he’s done this before. Over and over again... The same conversation, the same fear, the same outcome. A hundred fucking times. Something ugly shifts deep inside Jungkook’s chest.
“Tomorrow.” Levi tells her once more. “Or don’t.” Another shrug, another filthy smile.
Another reminder that he genuinely doesn’t give a shit what happens to her afterward. Then he turns around and walks away. Just like he did with you in the botanical garden… Leaving her standing there.
She’s still crying long after he‘s gone. Jungkook can practically feel the fear and desperation radiating off her… after a while, she wipes at her face, turns and walks in the opposite direction where Levi walked off.
For a long moment, Jungkook doesn’t move. Students pass. Cars pull out. Conversations continue. Life keeps moving.
Meanwhile, something cold and deliberate begins assembling itself inside his head. Because now he understands the part that has been bothering him: Levi isn’t just a problem. Because problems have always been simple for Jungkook- problems have solutions.
Levi is a pattern. A system. A parasite that’s figured out exactly how much fear it takes to keep people quiet. And if he’s doing this to random girls on campus, then what the fuck has he been doing to you?
The thought hits hard enough to make Jungkook’s stomach twist. Suddenly all those late-night messages make sense. The panic in your eyes, the exhaustion during the day and at night during tutoring. The way you’d looked like a trapped animal every time Levi’s name came up.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
You’d been drowning right in front of him and he’d spent weeks calling you stubborn instead of realizing somebody was holding your head underwater.
His phone vibrates again. Another message from you appears on the screen.
Princess: you better have a damn good excuse.
For a brief second, despite everything, a smile threatens to appear but then it’s gone again. Somewhere across campus, Levi is still walking around like he’s untouchable. Like nobody is paying attention or putting the pieces together.
Fucking idiot.
Jungkook slides his helmet over his head and starts the motorcycle. The engine growls beneath him, low and vicious, while his eyes remain fixed on the corner where Levi disappeared. Whatever secret the bastard is hiding, Jungkook is going to find it.
And if Levi is stupid enough to keep threatening people while believing nobody is watching, then he’s about to discover exactly how dangerous that assumption can be.
By the time Jungkook finally arrives at the sorority house, he’s nearly forty minutes late, which is exactly why the front door swings open before he even has a chance to knock and finds you already standing there with your arms crossed and a look on your face that promises violence.
“You’re late.”
Jungkook glances lazily at his watch before lifting his eyes back to yours. “Observation skills. Nice.”
Your expression immediately darkens. “Actually, I think you should leave.”
A slow grin begins pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Before he can step inside, you plant your palm directly against his forehead and begin pushing with all the determination of someone who has already committed to the bit and refuses to back down now.
Unfortunately, Jeon Jungkook is built like a concrete wall. He doesn’t move. Not even a little.
You keep trying anyway. “I waited.”
The pressure against his forehead increases dramatically, which might have been intimidating if he weren’t actively fighting a laugh.
“Did you?”
“Forty minutes.”
“Sounds… unbearable. Did ya miss me that bad, baby?”
“You’re the worst.”
Jungkook finally catches your wrist before you can shove him again, the movement so effortless it only makes the situation more irritating. One second you’re aggressively attempting to evict him from the premises and the next your finger is trapped between his while he bends slightly at the waist until his face is level with yours.
“Careful, princess.” His voice drops lower, playful amusement curling around every word. “You need me.”
Heat flashes across your face so quickly it feels unfair. “The ego on this man.”
“I’m the tutor.”
“The self-delusion on this man.”
His grin only widens, entirely too pleased with himself. “I seem to remember somebody failing quizzes.”
The offended gasp that leaves you could probably be heard from three rooms away. Jungkook looks delighted.
“You wound me.”
“You wound yourself.”
“I’ll have you know I got a solid seventy-three last week.”
“Congratulations.” The sarcasm practically drips from him. “That’s almost a real grade.”
You make the most angry face you can manage before sticking your tongue out at him like a child. Jungkook blinks. Then blinks again. And suddenly a laugh escapes him. Not the quiet chuckle he usually hides behind a smirk, but a real laugh that lights up his entire face and catches you completely off guard. For a moment, all you can do is stare.
“Cute.”
Your stomach immediately decides to become a problem. “Shut up.”
“No.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
“You suck.”
“Like, on that sweet pussy? If you insist.” He gives you a shameless wink and you feel your cheeks heat up. He just keeps smiling.
The worst part is that lately you’ve started noticing every version of that smile: the smug ones, the teasing ones, the rare genuine ones that appear when he forgets himself for a second. Most importantly, you’ve started noticing when they’re directed at you.
Jungkook, unfortunately, notices things too- especially when those things involve you. His eyes narrow slightly. Then the grin returns with renewed strength.
“Aw.”
You immediately know where this is going. “No.”
“She’s blushing.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
“Jungkook.”
“Princess.”
A loud groan leaves you before you finally spin around and stomp toward the living room, abandoning the argument before he can make it worse. Behind you, Jungkook follows, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
Asshole.
The studying begins surprisingly well- for approximately seven minutes…
Then Jungkook glances down at something you’ve written. Then back at you, back at the paper, then back at you again.
Your eye twitches. “What.” He just remains quiet and it annoys you even more.
“What?” you repeat, more aggressively this time.
Jungkook slowly lowers the page. “This sentence is shit.”
You stare at him, he stares back, neither of you blinks for a few seconds. Finally, you place a hand against your chest.
“Wow.”
“Constructive criticism.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“I’m correct.”
“That’s not the point.”
“It literally is.”
You snatch the paper from his hand but he just grabs it back. You try to get a hold of it again but the page bends alarmingly between you.
“Stop fighting me.”
“Stop being wrong.”
“I’m not wrong.”
A long sigh leaves him, accompanied by the expression of a man attempting to explain basic survival instincts to someone determined to lick a power outlet.
“Princess,” he begins patiently, “you wrote four paragraphs and somehow managed to say absolutely nothing.”
Your jaw drops. “That’s rude.”
“It’s impressive.”
“You are so annoying.”
“You submitted this.”
You immediately launch a highlighter at his head. Without even looking, Jungkook catches it out of the air. Show-off.
“You know,” he says while opening your notebook again, “most students actually try to pass.”
“I am trying.”
“No, you’re improvising.”
“That’s basically the same thing.”
“It absolutely isn’t.”
The next thirty minutes disappear beneath arguments about thesis statements, grammar choices, sentence structure, citation formats, and whether Jungkook is intentionally making things difficult for his own entertainment.
The answer is almost certainly yes.
At some point, Minji wanders through the living room carrying a drink, pauses when she notices the two of you arguing over a textbook like a couple celebrating their fiftieth wedding anniversary through mutual irritation, then silently turns around and leaves without saying a word. Neither of you notices.
The strange thing is that nothing has actually changed. Levi still exists, the fear still exists. The pressure sitting permanently inside your chest hasn’t magically disappeared.
None of the real problems have gone anywhere.
And yet, somehow, the weight feels lighter- easy enough that you can breathe without feeling like your lungs are collapsing. Enough that laughter occasionally slips through the cracks.
Easy enough that when Jungkook eventually declares you a menace to higher education and you threaten to hit him with the nearest textbook, the familiar rhythm that always existed between the two of you settles naturally back into place.
The bickering. The teasing. The endless competition to have the final word. The comfort hidden beneath every insult and eye roll.
For the first time in days, everything feels familiar again, and for a little while, neither of you says a single thing about the subjects that actually matter.
By the end of the first hour, Jungkook is irritated. By the end of the second, he’s offended.
Somewhere during the third, while kneeling on Levi’s bedroom floor surrounded by enough junk to qualify as a biohazard, he seriously considers setting the entire mattress on fire out of principle.
Because there should be something.
There has to be.
The room isn’t spotless by any means. Levi still lives like a feral raccoon that somehow acquired a student loan and access to online shopping, but all the obvious places have already been checked. Every drawer has been emptied. Every shelf has been searched. Jungkook has flipped through textbooks, dug through storage bins shoved beneath the bed, checked jacket pockets, old backpacks, gym bags, and stacks of loose papers that looked important until they turned out to be useless.
Nothing.
No notebooks. No folders. No hidden collection of blackmail material waiting to be discovered. No convenient smoking gun. Just garbage.
Which is exactly why Jungkook keeps looking- because innocent people don’t spend their afternoons threatening girls for money. And Levi definitely isn’t innocent.
A floorboard creaks beneath his boot. The sound is subtle enough that most people wouldn’t even register it, but Jungkook freezes immediately, every instinct sharpening at once as his gaze drops toward the floor.
For several seconds he remains perfectly still. Then he slowly shifts his weight- the board creaks again. Interesting.
Nothing about it looks unusual. The wood isn’t damaged. There aren’t any visible pry marks. No scratches. No signs that anyone has been lifting it. Still, when Jungkook crouches and presses down near the edge, he feels something move. Just slightly.
A slow smile appears. “There you are.”
Two minutes later, the board comes loose and suddenly everything makes sense…
A second laptop sits hidden beneath the floor alongside several USB drives and an external hard drive, each item carefully wrapped in plastic as though Levi knows exactly how much trouble he’d be in if anyone ever found them.
For a moment Jungkook simply stares… then training takes over; his phone appears in his hand. A photograph. Another. The laptop, the serial numbers, the USB & hard drive. The compartment itself.
Every angle. Every detail. Every piece of evidence exactly where he found it.
When he’s finished, everything goes back beneath the floorboards. Taking it now would be stupid- Levi would notice and panic. And panicked people become reckless and even more dangerous
No. Jungkook needs him comfortable. Confident. Completely unaware that someone has already broken into the walls of his life and started pulling bricks loose.
Which is how he finds himself sitting inside Yoongi’s apartment an hour later.
The place looks exactly the same as always; coffee cups occupy every available surface. Multiple monitors cast pale light across the dark room. Half-finished projects litter the desk, and Yoongi himself appears to be functioning exclusively through caffeine, nicotine, and sheer stubbornness.
Jungkook drops into a chair and slides his phone across the desk. Yoongi scrolls through the photographs. Once. Twice.
Then reaches for his coffee. “Interesting.”
“Can you get into it?”
For the first time, Yoongi looks up. The expression on his face suggests he has been personally insulted.
“That’s what you’re asking?”
“Yes.”
A long pause follows before the older one gestures vaguely toward the screen.
“Jungkook.” Another pause. “That’s not even a challenge.”
Jungkook rolls his eyes.
Yoongi raises an eyebrow. “I need thirty seconds.”
“Show-off.”
“Correct. And that’s also why you came here.”
The plan comes together quickly after that because predictable people are easy to manipulate.
And Levi is painfully predictable- another night and the idiot disappears into another party.
Jungkook knows he won’t return for the rest of the night. He drinks way too much for someone who can’t handle his liquor well.
Around 2am the idiot is unconscious behind a row of fraternity bushes, covered in dirt, soaked in stale alcohol, missing one shoe, and sleeping dangerously close to his own vomit.
Jungkook stares while Yoongi stands next to him. Neither looks impressed.
“You know,” Yoongi says eventually, “I expected better.” Jungkook just shakes his head. Levi snores. The disappointment somehow deepens.
Twenty minutes later they’re back inside his room. This time they have time and the tools. Yoongi settles into the desk chair, powers on the hidden laptop, and waits for the password screen to appear.
Jungkook watches while Yoongi doesn’t look remotely concerned. A small device disappears into one of the ports, then code begins scrolling across the screen. Twenty-three seconds later the desktop appears.
Jungkook blinks, Yoongi takes a sip of coffee. “Told you.”
Then he starts opening folders and very quickly the room changes because they stopped looking for evidence… now they stare right at it.
Folder after folder appears across the screen:
Names. Dozens of them.
Each one labeled carefully, belonging to different persons. Videos. Photographs. Screenshots. Private conversations. Class schedules. Social media accounts. Secrets. Mistakes. Embarrassing moments. Painful ones.
Every insecurity, every vulnerability, every weakness meticulously catalogued and stored. Not memories or keepsakes. Weapons.
For several seconds, neither man speaks. The laptop fan hums softly beneath years of accumulated files.
Yoongi scrolls and scrolls before he slowly leans back. “Jesus Christ.” The words come out quieter than usual.
Jungkook just keeps staring; another folder, another victim. Another life Levi decided he had the right to own.
“What a fucking loser.”
Yoongi’s expression darkens. “Nah.” His eyes remain fixed on the screen. “This is worse than loser.”
The silence stretches, then he exhales. “This is psychotic.”
Jungkook barely hears him- he’s already noticed something else. One specific folder. It’s recent. His hand moves before he consciously decides to.
The folder opens and a quiet curse leaves his lips. There are dozens of photographs of… you.
You leaving lectures, carrying coffee across campus, laughing beside Soomin, walking toward the sorority house, sitting outside academic buildings, glancing over your shoulder.
You were completely unaware someone was following you.
Jungkook’s stomach drops, not because he’s surprised, but suddenly every missing piece clicks into place: Every exhausted expression. Every nervous glance. Every time you’d looked like you were carrying something too heavy to say out loud.
He scrolls through the folder until a video appears. The thumbnail is only in black and white, not very sharp and kind of grainy but he recognises it immediately. The library.
The way you were kneeling for him, looking up while he stroked your hair.
Levi had seen it too… and used it against you.
Beside him, Yoongi leans forward. “Holy shit.” His gaze moves between the screen and Jungkook’s face. “Is that little asshole blackmailing you?”
Jungkook’s jaw tightens hard enough to hurt, then he slowly shakes his head. “No.”
The answer is quiet. Understanding settles across Yoongi’s face almost immediately.
“Oh.” A long pause follows. “Oh, he’s blackmailing her.”
Jungkook doesn’t answer, doesn’t even move nor blink. His eyes remain fixed on the screen. On the thumbnail of the video.
“My girl.” The words leave him without thought. Not even possessive, not performative just certain. Like a fact.
Yoongi closes his eyes briefly before rubbing a hand down his face. “Idiot.”
Jungkook finally glances over.
“Not you.” the older one quickly adds. “Him.” Yoongi points toward the screen.
Neither of them speaks for a long time, both just stare at the screen, trying to process what kind of fucked up rabbit hole they dug up.
Yoongi glances toward his friend, and the look on the younger man’s face should scare him. In fact, it probably would scare anyone else… but Min Yoongi knew one thing: Jeon Jungkook rarely got loud or angry, and even more rarely got physical unless he had a damn good reason…
Finally, Yoongi leans back. “Just make sure you leave no evidence.” The room falls silent.
Jungkook’s hand stops on the touchpad. Slowly, he turns his head.
Yoongi shrugs and gestures toward the screen.“I’ve known you long enough.”
His gaze drifts back to your folder, back to the photographs. Back to the proof of what Levi has been doing.
“I know exactly what you’re thinking.”
Jungkook remains silent but a tiny twitch under his right eye tells Yoongi everything he needs to know.
Yoongi snorts. “Don’t give me that look.” The silence lingers for a few more seconds before his voice softens.
“Honestly…” He exhales slowly. “I get it.”
The words aren’t approval or encouragement. Not really. But they’re understanding. Because some people spend years building the walls of their own downfall. And Levi has spent years laying every single brick himself.
Yoongi finally looks back at him. “Just be careful.”A tiny humorless laugh escapes him. “You’re smart, so make sure you stay smart.”
Jungkook nods then carefully, almost deliberately, closes the laptop. “Good.”
Yoongi frowns. “Good?”
Jungkook slides the laptop back into the bag and into its hiding place under the floorboard. “Now I know.”
“Know what?”
For the first time all evening, something changes in his expression- and it’s colder than anything Yoongi has ever seen before on his friend’s face.
Something final.
The look of a man who has stopped asking questions and started making decisions.
“What kind of person he is.”
The answer sends a chill down Yoongi’s spine because it doesn’t sound like a discovery. It sounds like a verdict.
The day starts badly and somehow finds increasingly creative ways to make itself worse.
The first problem arrives shortly after lunch when one of the freshmen Levi has been leaning on for the better part of a month suddenly decides she doesn’t have the money. Not next week. Not tomorrow. Not after payday. Apparently she spent the entire amount on tuition and now breaks down crying every time he calls.
Pathetic.
Levi hangs up halfway through her latest sobbing apology and blocks the number without a second thought. If she’s stupid enough to force his hand, that’s her problem.
The second problem arrives during class when he realizes he’s probably going to fail another exam. The third when his professor asks him to stay behind afterward. And the fourth when he checks his bank account.
By the time evening rolls around, Levi is in a genuinely foul mood, which usually means somebody else is about to have a much worse night than he is.
The thought improves his mood considerably.
As he walks back toward the fraternity house, gym bag slung over one shoulder, his mind begins drifting through possibilities. A photograph would probably be enough. Maybe a video if he’s feeling generous. Nothing catastrophic. Nothing that couldn’t be explained away later.
Just enough. Enough humiliation, just enough fear. Just enough pressure to remind people what happens when they stop cooperating.
The familiar feeling settles warmly inside his chest. Control. Consequences. Fear.
People always respond best to fear.
Whistling softly beneath his breath, he climbs the stairs toward his room, fishes his keys from his pocket, unlocks the door, and steps inside.
Then he freezes- a weird sensation hits him... not because anything is obviously wrong. Nothing has been overturned or appears to be damaged.
The furniture remains exactly where he left it. The room looks normal. And yet something deep inside him immediately recoils. Wrong.
The realization crawls slowly up his spine.
For several long seconds he remains standing just inside the doorway while his eyes move across the room. Everything looks exactly the same, which somehow makes it worse.
A strange pressure begins building beneath his ribs and his pulse picks up slightly, the same way animals know they’re being watched before they understand why.
Levi tells himself he’s being ridiculous and walks across the room. His movements feel strangely careful now. Like somebody entering a house that may or may not contain a stranger.
When he finally kneels beside the floorboard, the unease inside his stomach sharpens. The board comes loose easily. Too easily.
The compartment beneath it is empty.
For a moment, his brain simply refuses to process what he’s looking at…
The laptop should be there… the hard drive... the USB drives... They’ve always been there!
The empty space seems impossible. Unreal.
Like his eyes are showing him the wrong image. Slowly, he reaches inside- his fingers scrape against bare wood. Nothing.
His stomach drops. “No.”
His hands move faster now, searching corners, feeling beneath edges, as though the devices might somehow reappear if he looks hard enough. Nothing.
The compartment remains empty. Completely, utterly, terrifyingly empty.
A cold rush shoots down his spine as the room feels different: violated. Someone was here and found it. Found the one place nobody was ever supposed to find.
“No, no, no…”
His breathing starts quickening. The floorboard slips from trembling fingers and crashes against the floor with a sharp crack that echoes through the room.
Because another realization is already crashing into him: Photographs, videos, folders, entire conversations and files… Every secret and threat. Every victim. Everything.
Gone…
Levi stumbles backward so quickly he nearly loses his footing. His pulse pounds violently inside his ears. Someone has it- has all of it.
And suddenly every person he’s ever threatened begins flashing through his mind. Every girl. Every guy.
Every desperate plea. Every ruined life. Every enemy he’d created. The list is much longer than he’d like it to be.
A strained sound escapes him, part laugh, part panic. Because this isn’t happening. It can’t be.
Then he sees the note.
A single folded piece of paper resting neatly at the bottom of the compartment. The sight sends a fresh wave of nausea rolling through him- suddenly the missing files aren’t the most frightening part.
The note is.
Whoever took everything wanted him to know, wanted him to come home. To look. Wanted him to understand.
His fingers shake as he unfolds the paper:
OLD SWIMMING POOL, MIDNIGHT
For several seconds he simply stares. The room around him seems to disappear, silence feels suffocating. Something awful begins crawling slowly up his spine: whoever did this could have vanished… They could have gone to the police, could have exposed him and leaked everything.
Instead, they left an invitation. Or maybe it isn’t an invitation. Maybe it’s a summons.
A cold sweat breaks across the back of his neck because now he isn’t imagining administrators or police officers. Not even angry victims demanding justice.
He’s imagining something much worse.
Someone patient, methodical. Someone who already has every card in their hand.
Someone confident enough to tell him where to be and fully expect him to show up.
The realization lands like a punch directly to the chest. This isn’t a warning… warnings happen before consequences but this? This feels like the consequence itself.
Slowly, Levi lifts his gaze and looks around the room. For the first time since moving into the fraternity house, a thought occurs to him that nearly makes him sick. What if someone has been standing in this room while he slept?
The possibility lodges itself inside his head and immediately begins growing teeth. If they found the floorboard, what else do they know? What else have they seen? How many times have they been here? How long have they been watching? A shiver runs through him.
The room no longer feels familiar, doesn’t even feel like his. Every corner suddenly seems capable of hiding eyes. Every shadow feels occupied.
Outside, darkness slowly settles over campus. Midnight remains hours away. Far too many hours. Hours he will spend imagining every possible outcome, wondering who found him.
Hours he will spend realizing that for the first time in years, he has absolutely no control over what happens next.
Yet despite the fear clawing through his chest, he already knows one thing with complete certainty: He’s going.
Because the person who left that note now owns every secret he ever buried.
And somehow, as he stares down at those simple words, the thing waiting for him at the old swimming pool feels infinitely more dangerous than prison ever could.
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Summary - For years, they existed in the space between friendship and love, too close to be platonic, yet never enough to be real. He treated her like she was his in private, only to pull away the moment things became too serious.
The night she finally chose to walk away from the man who once consumed her entire world, she carried something else with her too.
Two years later, a little girl, or fate perhaps—bring them back to each other.
Genre : second chance romance, unrequited love (at first), slow burn, accidental pregnancy, Friends → strangers → lovers, angst, fluff
Themes : emotionally unavailable! Jungkook , unlabeled relationship, friends with benefits(kind of), fear of commitment, one-sided devotion, accidental pregnancy, absent father (he doesn’t know), girl dad! Jungkook, second chances, yearning, found family, angst with happy ending
Chapters :
Chapter1 - The Gravity Between Them
31.05.26 wc: 4.7k
Chapter2 - In Another Life.
04.06.26 wc: 4.2k
Chapter3 - The Life She Built
10.06.26 wc: 10k
Chapter4 -
Chapter5 -
Taglist : Taglist is closed!
Note : Hii! so happy to be back:) How are you guys doing? This story might flop but it is what it is. I hope you all like it.🫶🏼
Summary: Jeon Jungkook has everything from wealth, brains, and the reputation of the perfect heir. But behind all of that, he hides one secret: you.
Warnings: themes of stalking and obsession, angst, possessiveness, slow burn, violence.
Word count: 4793 | Status: Completed
a/n: since you guys voted for me to continue this story, I may or may not have spent all of Thursday and Friday writing just so I could finally post Chapter 1, I even did some business & investment research lmao. I rushed a bit because I really wanted all of you to get a feel of what the theme is going to be like. Hope you enjoy this one!
Jungkook was in his study, looking at the busy city below him through his floor to ceiling windows penthouse. He leaned back in his leather chair, eyes drifting to the rows of crystal vases with lilies, roses and chrysanthemums. He was enjoying his silence after reviewing some project his father had sent him.
But the silence didn’t last long, Jungkook’s phone vibrated, a message from his father’s secretary:
Jinyoung: your presence is requested by the chairman for dinner.
He exhaled through his nose, shutting the screen off.
Dinner with the Jeons was never chaotic.
The long dining table is placed under two big chandeliers lined with crystal glasses and cutleries polished to perfection. The staff moves quietly in the background, refilling water when the glass is a, and replacing dishes.
His mother is as elegant as ever, her posture straight, and her hands resting lightly on the table. His father is sitting at the head of the table dominating the space without raising his voice, a trait Jungkook learned from him.
Jungkook sits with a neutral expression looking like the perfect, attentive, respectful, and effortlessly handsome heir in a tailored suit.
“Jungkook,” his father’s voice broke through the silence, “the investment committee will be present tomorrow, I want you to join me.”
“Yes,” Jungkook replied simply, one word was all that was needed.
His father nodded in approval and his mother smiled softly.
This is just how Jungkook operates, he never overexplains, a single precise answer was enough.
He doesn’t need to dominate the conversation, his restraint was dominance in itself. When Jungkook speaks, people leaned in. When he is silent, they second guess themselves. He knows how to control a room with nothing but presence.
“Some of the directors are hesitant about the expansion to Hong Kong,” his father added, watching him carefully, “If they question the move, how should we respond?”
Jungkook set down his glass, “I wouldn’t argue,” he said calmly, “I would give them space to voice concerns, then I would ask what alternatives they are offering. They won’t have one and they will realize it themselves.”
A flicker of pride can be seen on his father’s eyes and is mother chuckled lightly, “You truly are your father’s son.”
But as his father started talking about a story on the Hong Kong property market, Jungkook’s phone buzzed silently in his pocket. He tilted the device slightly under the table, a message from Taehwan.
Taehwan: She just finished her shift and is now walking home.
Jungkook’s thumb hovered over the screen and Taehwan sent him another message.
Taehwan: Stopped by the convenience store, eating instant noodles and drinking bottled water, nothing else.
He stared at the words a second longer than necessary, ignoring the staff pouring wine into his glass. All he could think about is how you are not eating properly again.
Jungkook’s jaw tightened for a second as he slipped the phone face down on his thigh, but his expressions remained unchanged.
To his parents, he is the image of calm composure, listening as his father spoke about prices, but his mind was elsewhere, on a girl eating in a convenience store.
“Jungkook, what do you think?” his mother asked suddenly.
He looked up from his plate, eyes sharp, “About?”
“The merger prospects,” she smiled at him.
Jungkook leaned back slightly, letting a second silence fill the room, everyone at this table knew his silence meant calculation.
“Risky,” he finally said.
“And your solution?” “Wait,” his voice was firm, “two years and let them bleed on someone else’s dime, then buy them at half the price.”
The room went quiet before his father laughed, satisfied at his golden son’s answer.
“That,” he said, raising his glass, “is the Jeon bloodline.”
They drank to it, and Jungkook did too.
But when his phone buzzed again, his attention shifted immediately to his phone.
Taehwan: She’s home safe. Lights on, and curtains drawn.
Jungkook exhaled quietly, setting the wine glass down. His parents saw a perfect heir and a future CEO. The world would see the cold prince of the Jeon empire.
But in reality?
Jungkook is just a boy who couldn’t rest until he knows you are safe.
♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡
For five years, Taehwan have been working for Jeon Jungkook.
Not in the usual bodyguard sense, because the Jeon heir knows how to protect himself, though that was slightly part of it. When the Jeon family first assigned him, the instructions were simple: watch the heir, keep him safe, and report back if he gets into trouble.
After all, Jeon Jungkook is a notoriously private son.
At first, Taehwan thought it would be an easy job, protect a boy who hardly leaves the library or the gym? It’s babysitting, really.
But then he realized something.
Jeon Jungkook is not normal. Not in the way conglomerate sons usually are, he is far from entitled, arrogant, or spoiled.
No, Jungkook was entirely something else.
He is smart, scary smart, genius even.
Taehwan has shadowed plenty of rich brats in his career and none of them has the instinct this kid does. Jungkook could walk into a room and point out who was lying, who was nervous, and who was plotting. He rarely speaks but when he does, people scrambled to keep up.
Even his father, the Jeon group CEO, the chairman himself, listens to him. Taehwan respected him for that. Genius isn’t a word Taehwan throw around lightly, but Jungkook has it.
Still, there is just one thing about his boss that Taehwan could never quite wrap his head around.
Love.
Or whatever it was Jungkook feels for that girl.
Five years. Since Jungkook was eighteen until he is now twenty-three. That’s how long Taehwan has been tracking your movements, quietly and always from a distance, on Jungkook’s orders.
And for what?
For girl who works at a flower shop, studies on scholarship, and lives in a tiny apartment with peeling wallpaper, yes both Taehwan and his boss have been inside of your apartment. You aren’t like the women who usually circled chaebol heirs, dressed in designer labels, and trained to smile at the right time. You are just ordinary.
Yet Jungkook, the boy who has everything, spend his nights reading financial reports in one hand and your schedule in the other.
Weird, right?
His boss is brilliant, calculated, disciplined, and ruthless when it came to business, but when it comes to you, he is strange.
Sometimes, Jungkook would ask simple questions,
Did she eat? Did she make it home safe? Did she smile today?
And Taehwan would answer each of it.
Because Jeon Jungkook, the man who could silence executives with a glance, seems to unravel in your presence. You do not even know he has been following you for years.
Taehwan has kept guarded Jungkook’s secrets for years and he would keep guarding them for twenty more if that was what the job required. But deep down, he couldn’t help but wonder;
When the day comes that Jungkook finally steps out of the shadows and step into your life, would you even recognize him?
Would you even want him?
♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡
For most students, university is a stepping stone to a better career.
For Jeon Jungkook, it is camouflage.
He doesn’t need the degree.
He already sits and leads in board meetings, already understands investments and market dynamics better than most professors lecturing them. His father often said Jungkook can graduate tomorrow and step into the company as a director seamlessly, but he always mentioned how the degree can make him look more terrifying.
But Jungkook isn’t in a hurry to graduate or earn a degree.
That was the difference between him and the others.
Others rushed while Jungkook waited.
He is waiting for you.
When he overheard, no, when he arranged to overhear, that you would be taking Business Investment and Strategy this semester, he knows it was time.
It isn’t difficult to gain information. Taehwan followed you to campus, trailing a few steps behind as you conversed with a fellow scholarship student about course loads. You sighed, tired but determined, saying you would enroll in the investment and strategy course despite warnings about how grueling it was. And even if Taehwan couldn’t find out about the courses you were taking, Jungkook can easily access the University’s portal. After all, he’s the biggest donator in the university.
That was when he made his decision.
He has one elective left before earning his degree. He could have taken it last year, but he didn’t. He waited, purposefully leaving that final class for you. His parents never asked him why he’s getting his degree a year late, after all Jungkook is also working alongside his father.
To the world, it seems pretty normal, Jeon Jungkook, heir to a business empire, of course he would finish with a strategy course, it might be so predictable that no one would question it.
But to Jungkook, this class is anything but ordinary.
It is something inevitable.
His phone vibrated against the desk, dragging him out of his thoughts as he sees new message from Taehwan.
Taehwan: She’s home, studying late again, lights still on.
Jungkook’s lips twitched, almost forming a smile. He set the phone down and returned his gaze to the neat stack of books on his desk.
He could have finished this life chapter months ago, could have walked across the stage with a diploma in hand. But what was the point of finishing early, if it means leaving you behind?
No way in hell would Jungkook do that.
He would graduate when you do.
And when the semester begins, he would finally take his seat beside you.
♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡
The lecture hall is too bright for his liking.
White lights shining from the ceiling, bouncing off the walls and the polished wood desks. The room is already half full when Jungkook stepped inside, and students shuffled to their seats. He paused at near the doorway, his eyes sweeping across the rows to search for you.
Jungkook spotted you almost immediately. You sit near the middle, your body hunched slightly over your notebook as if you were trying to block the noise around you. Your hair was tied back, strands falling across your cheek as you scribbled something on the corner of a page.
Jungkook felt something shift in his chest.
Years of waiting, orchestrating schedules, and letting one last elective sit unfinished, it was all for this moment.
People noticed when Jeon Jungkook enters a room. They always do, some straightened their postures, others went quiet, and eyes flickering toward him before darting away. It wasn’t just his name, it was the way he carried himself.
But Jungkook does not give a single fuck about them.
He cares about the girl in the middle row who still hasn’t looked up.
He walked past empty seats, past murmured greetings from classmates who tried to catch his attention, and he gave nothing in return.
When he reached your row, he stopped.
There was an empty chair beside you.
Perfect.
Jungkook slid into it without a word, he set his notebook down, clicked his pen once, then leaned back slightly in his chair. From the corner of his eye, he caught you stiffen. You must have noticed him now.
“Is this seat taken?” His voice was low and calm. You blinked, startled by the sudden question and your eyes finally lifted, meeting his for the briefest second before you looked away.
“No,” you murmured.
Jungkook nodded once, as if that was all he needed. He didn’t smile, he barely does.
The professor entered a moment later, shuffling papers as the room quieted. Jungkook kept his gaze forward with a pen on his hand, and the perfect sitting posture. To the students looking at him, he is the model student, attentive and composed. But his mind isn’t on the lecture.
It is on you.
Every small movement from you drew his attention, the way you tapped you pen against your notebook when you are thinking, the way you pressed your lips together when writing quickly, and the focus face you pull when you tried to keep up with the professor’s pace.
He noticed everything.
When you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers twitched faintly against his pen. When your sleeve slipped slightly, revealing the edge of a wrist bruised faintly purple, probably from carrying heavy boxes at the shop, his jaw tightened.
He forced himself to look forward again.
He couldn’t give himself away. Not yet.
The lecture continued, numbers and models scrawled across the projector screen. Jungkook took notes, but his handwriting was neater than usual and his pace was slower. He wasn’t here for the lesson, he was here for proximity.
At one point, the professor posed a question to the class after presenting a case study. Silence followed, students shifting uncomfortably in their seats. Jungkook felt the professor’s gaze flick toward him.
He didn’t want to speak, not yet.
He wanted to give you a chance.
“I think the three main investment characteristics of this investment are,” you answered, hesitant at first, but gaining confidence as you continued, “growth, emphasis on liquidity, and discretion to fund managers on what they could buy.”
The professor smiled, nodding in approval, “Exactly, very well said.”
Jungkook turned his head slightly, watching you as you ducked your head in embarrassment. No one else seemed to notice, but Jungkook did, the flush creeping up your neck, the way you gripped your pen tighter as if you were afraid of being noticed.
He knew you were smart, even smarter than half the room combined. He felt something stir again, sharp and possessiveness.
When the lecture ended, students began packing up their bags, but Jungkook remained seated, he wasn’t in a rush. Beside him, you gathered your things quickly, as if eager to leave before anyone could start a conversation with you. You slipped your notebook into your bag, stood up, and turned to leave.
Jungkook let you go.
For now.
Years of watching in silence and now he was here. Beside you, breathing the same air.
It is only the beginning.
Jungkook stood up, straightening his shirt as he walked out, phone vibrating faintly in his pocket, he already knew the message would be from Taehwan.
Taehwan: Do you want me to follow her?
Jungkook typed in his reply within seconds.
Jungkook: Yes.
And with that, he stepped into the hallway, blending seamlessly into the world that expected him to be Jeon Jungkook, the heir.
But inside, all he could think was:
You are finally within reach.
♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡
The second week, Jungkook arrived to class earlier than usual.
The lecture hall half empty, students scattered across the rows, laptops already opened, and he didn’t need to scan the room this time; he knew where you would be sitting.
Middle row, same spot.
Sure enough, you were there, notebook open, hair falling forward as you flipped through your notes. Jungkook noticed it in the way he noticed everything.
He slid into the seat beside you, exactly as he had last week.
You glanced up, surprise flickering across your face before looking down again. You didn’t say anything and neither did he.
The professor began the lecture, talking about portfolio diversification. Jungkook listened halfheartedly, his pen moving across the page writing down what he doesn’t even need to write. But the moment he has been anticipating for, something he might have arranged with the unit coordinators, is finally happening.
“Pair up with the person next to you,” the professor instructed, “and discuss the risk-return tradeoff in last week’s case study, I’ll give you ten minutes.”
The room was filled with noise of students’ movement and voices as they turned to one another. Beside him, you hesitated as your fingers tightened on your pen. Jungkook could feel you weighing the options; Should you ask him? Should you pretend to work alone?
He decided to answer for you.
“Explain your answer first,” His tone was low, sounding like a command rather than a request. You blinked, startled, and turned to face him fully for the first time.
“I, uh, well, I think the company chose the lower risk investment because their debt is already too high,” you explained slowly, “If they chose the other project, it could have jeopardized them, sometimes stability matters more than maximizing profit.”
Jungkook studied you as you speak, the way you look far ahead when trying to concentrate, the way your fingers tapped lightly against your thigh. You weren’t reciting something you memorized; you were thinking it through.
“Not bad,” he responded.
Your lips parted slightly, as if you weren’t sure whether to take it as praise or dismissal, “What about you?”
Jungkook leaned back in his chair, crossing one arm over his chest, “I would’ve taken the other project, the other option.”
“Why?” “Because the company’s brand equity is strong enough to secure additional financing if the project failed.” You looked at him surprised, then, slowly you nodded, “That makes sense.”
The corner of his mouth almost twitched, almost.
For a few minutes, the both of you went back and forth. You challenged some of his points, hesitant at first, then with confidence. Jungkook responded evenly, never raising his voice, and he didn’t give you the satisfaction of a smile or encouragement, but inside, every second of it thrilled him.
This was the first real conversation he has had with you.
When the professor called for attention again, you quickly turned back to your notes, scribbling something down. Jungkook picked up his pen, but his focus was elsewhere, on the faint pink rising in your cheeks, the way your shoulders relaxed just slightly after the discussion.
He wanted to ask you more. About what you’re thinking, your classes, your work, why you aren’t getting enough sleep, but he stayed silent.
Patience.
The lecture ended not long after. Students packed their bags, voices filling the room again.
You stood up quickly, ready to leave, but this time Jungkook stopped you.
“You argued well,” he said.
You froze, glancing at him, your eyes searched his face, as if trying to figure out whether he was serious, “Oh, thanks.”
He gave a small nod, then turned away, slipping his notebook into his bag, as he knew he didn’t need to say more.
As you walked up the steps, Jungkook leaned back in his chair, watching you go.
Years of silence, distance, and of watching from the shadows.
Now, piece by piece, he was stepping closer.
For the first time in years, your voice lingered in his mind not as a memory from a long time ago, but as something fresh.
You even challenged his ideas, listened to him, and looked him in the eye.
And this was only the beginning.
♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡
Business Investment and Strategy wasn’t a class you wanted.
But here you were, notebook open, pen in hand, pretending not to be intimidated by words like equity leverage and risk-return tradeoff.
You are used to feeling out of place, especially ever since your father’s scandal. You’ve been feeling like you don’t belong everywhere, on campus, in stores, and even among people you once called friends. But this class wasn’t just filled with normal students; it was filled with rich kids. Kids who would inherit companies and kids who could afford to fail.
And sitting beside you was one of them.
Jeon Jungkook.
You didn’t know he would be in this class, to be frank you thought he already graduated, but not until he slid into the seat beside you.
Everyone knew the Jeon family, they are old money, and have helped built the country with their business. But he is different from the other rich kids. He doesn’t laugh loudly, doesn’t try to show off, doesn’t fidget with expensive watches or whisper about cars.
He is quiet.
And quiet made you nervous.
The second week, when the professor told the class to pair up, your stomach dropped. Everyone else turned to their friends but you didn’t have that luxury because none of your friends wanted to pick this ruthless class. So, your only option was him.
You hesitated, unsure if you should say something first. But before you could, his voice cut through the noise. You discussed the case study, he demanded for you to answer first, and you asked him to explain his answer afterwards. The difference between you and him during the discussion was that he demanded while you asked.
But his answer wasn’t the kind of shallow answer you expected from someone like him. It was sharp, logical, and maybe even right.
The both of you went back and forth for a few more minutes, your nerves easing slightly as the discussion goes on. Jungkook never interrupted you, he listened and responded in precise sentences like he didn’t like to waste words and every word felt deliberate.
It was unnerving to say the least.
Jeon Jungkook is strange and intimidating.
You told yourself it doesn’t matter. He probably wouldn’t sit beside you again. Probably had dozens of other friends he could pair with or probably didn’t even care who he sat next to.
And yet, for the rest of the day, you couldn’t stop hearing his voice in your head.
Not bad.
You argued well.
♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡
The third week of the Business Investment and Strategy class began like any other, but the moment you stepped into the lecture hall, you felt the shift in the air.
Jeon Jungkook is already there.
Sitting in the exact same seat as last week, your seat partner.
You swallowed hard, sliding into the chair beside him because, well, where else were you supposed to go? It wasn’t like you could casually sit somewhere else without making it obvious that you were avoiding him. And besides, it wasn’t like he cares.
He doesn’t look at you when you sat down, he didn’t greet you, the only thing he did was flip open his notebook.
If you didn’t speak to him last week, you would’ve thought he was mute.
The lecture started. For the first twenty minutes, the professor was going through the theories and students typing and writing furiously. Next to you, Jungkook was calm, he never slouched, never fidgeted, and never checked his phone even once.
And then it happened.
“Alright, listen up,” the professor said, clapping his hands once, “we are going to start our semester projects and for the first one you will be working in pairs.”
Groans rippled through the class, group projects are the pain of every student’s existence.
“You’ll stay with the person you partnered with last week,” the professor continued. “The discussion last week was a test run to see how you both work with each other.”
Your stomach dropped. Beside you, Jungkook finally lifted his gaze from his notes and for a brief second his eyes met yours. Unreadable as though he knew this would happen all along.
Oh no.
Oh no, no, no.
You just realized you are going to have to work with Jeon Jungkook. For weeks.
The professor began distributing the assignment briefs, pairing names with companies and projects. Then he reached your table, “Jungkook and y/n. You will be analyzing Hyundai’s overseas expansion into Europe, the presentation is due in six weeks and don’t forget the written report, of minimum ten pages.”
You almost groaned out loud.
When the class broke into pairs, you glanced sideways, but Jungkook was already turning to you. “We’ll meet tomorrow,” he said. Not a suggestion, a statement.
You blinked, “Tomorrow?” “Yes,” his tone left no room for argument, “library at 5 PM.”
You opened your mouth then closed it again. There were a dozen reasons you could have said no but something in his voice stopped you in place, “Fine.”
He gave a single nod, before turning back to his notes as if the matter was settled.
♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡
The next day, you find yourself arriving at the library at 5:05 PM, clutching your laptop against your chest. You weren’t sure what to expect, maybe he would be late, maybe he would blow you off entirely, but of course, he was already there.
Sitting at a table in the corner.
You froze as you stare at him from afar. He looks like he belongs in a boardroom not a library. Buttoned white shirt with his sleeves rolled just enough to reveal the veins and tattoes in his forearms, and his dark hair falling slightly into his eyes as he skimmed through the case study.
He didn’t even look up when you approached, just gestured to the seat across from him with a flick of his fingers, “Sit.”
You sat.
For a moment, the only sound you could hear is the faint sound of the air conditioning and the scratch of his pen across paper, then Jungkook broke the silence, “You’ll handle the financial analysis.”
You frowned at how he just decided without discussing it with you first, “Excuse me?”
“You explained it well in class,” his eyes flicked up to yours, “I’ll cover the strategic expansion models.”
You blinked, he concluded your strength from a ten minute discussion? “Okay,” you replied, “but we’ll need to coordinate, it has to flow.”
“Obviously.”
Your jaw tightened. He wasn’t exactly rude, but he wasn’t friendly either.
He speaks like everything is a conclusion, like he already has the whole project mapped in his head.
For the next hour, the both of you divided sections, cross checked the deadlines, and created an outline. Jungkook barely looked at you, his focus was on the assignment but when he did glance up, his gaze was so intense it made you shift in your seat.
It was exhausting.
But it’s also efficient because by the end of the hour, the both of you have made more progress than most groups would in a week.
Across from you, Jungkook was flipping through reports with the same precision he seems to do everything with. His posture is perfect, his handwriting is neater than yours, and everything he does is just unnerving.
He looks like he belongs at an expensive woodened desk in some corporate tower not into a university library with you.
You tried to focus on your notes, but it was impossible not to notice him. The rolled sleeves exposed his tattoos, the dark hair falling across his forehead, and the way his eyes flicked over each page like he was memorizing it in seconds.
He didn’t fidget, he just kept on working, finally, he sets down his pen as his eyes lifted, landing on you, “Give me your number.”
Your head snapped up, “Excuse me?”
His expression didn’t change, “Your number for coordination.”
“Oh,” heat crawled up your neck. Right. The project. Of course, you were being ridiculous, “Sure.”
You typed down your number on his phone and a seconds later your phone buzzed.
Unknown number: Save this.
You blinked down at your phone screen. His message was short and commanding, just like him. You hesitated before typing back:
You: Okay.
Jungkook: Good.
That was it, then he returned to his notes as if he didn’t just completely thrown you off balance.
You stared at your phone, lips pressing together, who even asked for someone’s number like that? No please or explanation, just “give me your number”.
And the strangest part was, you weren’t sure if you were annoyed or curious. Across from you, Jungkook’s pen resumed moving, after he asked for your number, the air between you feels heavier somehow. But he didn’t fidget or sigh the way most people do when studying, Jungkook is perfectly composed.
After nearly twenty minutes of silence, he finally looked up, his eyes met yours, “You’re distracted.”
“What?” you replied.
“You’re not paying attention to what you’re writing,” he tapped your notebook with his pen, “you wrote the ratio wrong, twice.”
Heat crept up your face, you checked what was written on your book and he was right, “Oh. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. Fix it.”
You froze for a second, his tone wasn’t cruel but it was so blunt in a way that made you feel exposed. When you corrected the numbers, he glanced at your book once before giving a small nod, “Better.”
You rolled your eyes before you could stop yourself, “Do you always talk like that?”
His brows lifted slightly, “Like what?”
“Like you are grading people.”
Something changed in his expression, like an amusement, then he replied, “Only when they need it.”
You scoffed under your breath but didn’t push it further.
He wasn’t welcoming any other question, and honestly, you weren’t sure you wanted the answers.
Pairing: Royal Guard!Jungkook x Fem!Princess!Reader, Prince!Jimin x Fem!Princess!Reader. (ft. Yoongi & Hoseok)
Warnings: fluff, angst, arranged marriage, historical period, old traditions, angst (again), love, forbidden love, royal au, historical au, love triangle (?)
In which you, princess of the Gyeongdong Dynasty, were in the middle of wedding plans. An arranged marriage that would guarantee your father's bloodline to stay in the royal family.
Or in which you were assigned a new royal guard that swore to protect you with his life. Jeon Jungkook. That's his name. A name you could never forget. A name that, slowly but surely got engraved not only in your memories but also in your heart.
Love, politics, betrayal and desire. All in ancient history. A love that never should have happened, two souls that wouldn't be allowed to be together.
Total word count: 63.8k words
~Moodboard
Teaser
Pt 1. Summer |9.4k words|
Pt 2. Autumn |16.6k words|
Pt 3. Winter pt. 1 | Winter pt. 2 |27.4k words|
Pt 4. Spring |10.4k words| |finale|
~Jungkook's Poetry
Taglist is open for this fic!
~Taglist for Four Seasons: @valhallawhispers @lovingkoalaface @seokout @ackercute @jksusawife @jjanjankook
~Masterlist
☕Caffeinate me so I can keep on writing! ☕
**I do NOT give my consent for this or any of my works to be posted or translated into any other platforms or languages.
Funny how a car crash at the Monaco Grand Prix ended up crashing everything else too.
jeon jungkook SMAU✮⋆⭒˚.⋆ Masterlist
F1 racer!jungkook, Songwriter!oc, childhood bestfriends to lovers, racing accidents/crashes, public scrutiny, friends to lovers, hate comments, emotional dependency, jealousy, miscommunication, angst, toxic fan culture, media pressure, arguments, alcohol consumption, anxiety, emotional burnout, slowburn, smut.
word count:
⋆social media handles
⋆ch1
⋆ch2
⋆ch3
⋆ch4
desclaimer: this is a fictional story and does not reflect the real personalities or lives of any idols, drivers or celebrities mentioned. pls remember this is all fake and made for fun !!
note: guysss i've been trying real hard to wait till i finish my first series before uploading this. But i can'tttt, i've been in love with this idea eversince i got it months ago, and now i'm finally gonna write abt it wohoo. Like imagine an F1 ferrari racer jungkook, uughhhh, i'd do anything for him no shit. Also the overall theme of the fic is so differant from curent theme, but i didn't really wanna change it for now. let's see, i might do it in a while. anyways, i hope ya'll like it, i'm really excited for this one!! Love ya'll mwah mwah<3
everyone knows you as the good girl/nerd. except you’re so fucking tired of that image. (and you’re also very… horny.) so when you decide to be bold and finally go after hoseok — things don’t really go as planned. instead, you end up tangled in a fake relationship with his best friend/campus favorite fuckboy: jeon jungkook.
:: genre/tropes/au :: smau + written , fake dating / fake relationship , slow burn , strangers to friends (a little bit of frenemies?¿) to fuckbuddies to lovers
:: warnings :: no love triangle, university au, frat boys/frat parties, alcohol consumption, judgy!oc - oc is lowk mean, jungkook who’s full of himself, mutual pining, bad decisions, jealousy, eventual written smut, silly ahh fic.
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index:
𑣲 teaser [written]
𑣲 ch: 01 been on my worst [smau]
𑣲 ch: 02 don't need no savior [written]
𑣲 ch: 03 way outta line [smau]
𑣲 ch: 04 kinda like the way i feel [ lwritten]
𑣲 ch: 05 don’t give a fuck [smau]
𑣲 ch: 06 i’ll be there in five [smau]
𑣲 ch: 07 talk too much [written]
𑣲 ch: 08 show each other [smau]
𑣲 ch: 09 other ways to catch you up [smau]
𑣲 ch: 10 on the phone [smau]
𑣲 ch: 11 can you keep it secret? [smau]
𑣲 ch: 12 this time i know [smau]
𑣲 ch: 13 i’ll stay with you [written]
𑣲 ch: 14 just promise you won't [smau]
𑣲 ch: 15 no pics, no postin’ us [smau]
𑣲 ch: 16 just in my nature [written]
𑣲 ch: 17 to be a littlе troublemaker [smau]
𑣲 ch: 18 so wrong but so right [smau]
𑣲 ch: 19 you really likе the way i [smau]
𑣲 ch: 20 when we kiss [written]
𑣲 ch: 21 you reminisce [smau]
𑣲 ch: 22 this ain’t the last time [written]
𑣲 ch: 23 just stay by my side [smau]
𑣲 ch: 24 this ain’t no game [written]
𑣲 ch: 25 won’t play with you [smau]
⤷ch: 25.5 (extra) girl talk [written]
𑣲 ch: 26 you won’t say nothin’ [smau]
𑣲 ch: 27 don’t you be actin’ like that [smau]
𑣲 ch: 28 postin’ us [written]
𑣲 ch: 29 this love just ain’t disposable [smau]
𑣲 ch: 30 just take what’s yours, don’t run from it [written] the end.
a young man returns to a small town he hasn't seen in years, and a house he hasn't lived in since before the last president was born, only to find that a stray cat has given birth to kittens in his closet.
pairing: vampire!jeongguk x nerdy f veterinarian!reader (with a special interest in the science and biology aspect of the supernatural lol)
genre: sorta scifi-ish, fluff, minor angst, some smut later on
word count: 4.7k
warnings: none in this part (maybe anatomy talk/vet talk?), but there's gonna be like... inspection kink-stuff later on 🤪 more detailed warnings to come <3
You’re halfway through your lunch when Namjoon pokes his head into the break room, a stethoscope around his neck and thick-rimmed glasses low on his nose.
“Reception just got a call about a home visit.”
“Today?” you ask, your mouth full of chicken sandwich as you glance at your wristwatch. You and Namjoon are way too close for you to care about being ladylike.
“Mhm.”
You pause. Not many clinics in your small town offer home visits, and even fewer do it on short notice. For your clinic, it’s usually about an old dog being put to rest at home—incredibly sad, but not an emergency.
“Is it urgent?”
“Not on the minute, but needs done today.”
You glance at the patient chart on the table in front of you. “I think this’ll be quick. I’ll go after this one.”
“You sure?” Namjoon asks. “Technically, it’s my turn.”
“Yeah, it’s fine. You should see Oakley when he comes; he’s not very fond of me.”
Oakley, a returning patient with chronic stomach issues, has managed to spray paint you a yellowy brown on three different occasions. From both ends. It’s like he aims.
Namjoon snorts. He hasn’t been hit once.
Checking your watch again, you push the last bite of your sandwich into your mouth, chewing it while you grab the chart. Namjoon is already on his way to greet another patient and their owner, and you take a second to swallow and wipe any crumbs off your scrubs before you follow his lead, heading into the waiting area.
“Millie?” you call, smiling when a young woman rises from a chair, her red dachshund's nose practically glued to the clinic floor.
It’s two-thirty when you pull out of the clinic parking lot, the clinic’s old station wagon rattling faintly as you steer onto the main road. The address in the confirmation email is farther out than you expected but still technically within the town limits, and you watch the short apartment buildings give way to larger, more spaced-out houses as you drive.
You don’t often find yourself in this part of town these days, although you’re very familiar with at least one house here. Many Halloweens were spent here back in the day, kids dressed up as various creatures daring each other to fight through the overgrown lawn and peek inside the dark windows. Countless stories were told about the abandoned house, each one slightly more insane than the last. Of course, you were like… eight, and a large, seemingly empty white house with a big, black gable was doomed to be haunted.
Still, you’re very surprised when you stop at the red pin on your phone’s screen, and it’s outside that very house. Momo, who works the reception, must’ve forgotten to fill out the pet owner’s name on the confirmation form she sent you, so all you have is this address and a brief line of patient info.
Even though the sky is gray—fittingly enough threatening September rain—it’s not as scary as you remember. Probably because it’s not a dark Halloween night, and you’re not a kid anymore. It also doesn’t actually seem to be abandoned. To be fair, it was never really run-down aside from the lawn, but now there’s a big black SUV parked outside.
Getting out of the car, you grab the rectangular veterinary kit bag, accidentally shutting the trunk a little too hard. The sound echoes down the quiet street, letting anyone who wasn’t already aware know of your arrival. A chilly breeze has you pulling your softshell jacket tighter over your light blue scrubs as you lock the car.
When you turn back to the house, you pause to take it in once more. It’s a pretty house—two-story, painted white probably a long time ago but still holding up surprisingly well. Black shutters frame the dark windows, and the tall, black gabled roof reaches impressively toward the gray sky. The lawn has either been trimmed within the last few years, or your childhood imagination really exaggerated it because you can clearly recall it looking more like a thicket with tall grass than just… an overgrown lawn. You distinctly remember more... shrubs.
Climbing the shallow steps, you stop in front of the black-painted door and raise your hand to knock. As you wait, you tilt your head back, once again letting your gaze linger on the house. Who exactly are you here to meet? Maybe it’s some introverted old woman who rarely leaves her house? Or a grumpy old man? But then again, the SUV looked awfully modern. Maybe the ancient resident has a grandchild visiting?
A short moment later, the door opens with a slight creak.
It’s not an old lady; it’s a young man. A tall young man—probably the most attractive one you’ve ever seen—looking down at you. He’s broad-shouldered and lean, visibly fit even despite the thick, black hoodie and baggy jeans he wears. You try not to stare at the shadow created in the fabric between his pecs, or the way the oversized hoodie still somehow manages to cling to the top of his bicep as he keeps one hand on the door handle. His black, relatively straight hair doesn’t look styled, just like it naturally falls into its part, the sides of it a little shorter than the top. Everything about him screams effortless, like he just wakes up looking like that.
One thing’s for sure: he wasn’t who you expected to open the door.
“Uh, hi,” you introduce yourself, telling him your name, “Did you… call for a vet?”
For some reason, he looks almost as surprised as you. “Hey. I did, yeah. I’m Jeongguk.”
Though he smiles politely, he doesn’t offer his hand for you to shake. It’s not something you dwell on. Quite a few of the pet owners you meet prefer not to shake hands.
“Come in.”
You nod and step inside, having to almost squeeze past him in the narrow hallway as he shuts the door behind you. Like always when you enter a strange man’s home alone, you say a little prayer in your head. If it came to it, you’ve got a bunch of pointy things in your bag, but you’d still prefer it if he wasn’t crazy to begin with.
As you move past him, you’re almost surprised that you don’t… smell him. Men—at least in this town—are very fond of their colognes and sprays, but you don’t catch even the slightest whiff of him. You wouldn’t say that you particularly enjoy the strong… scents, but the total lack of one from a hunk like this is almost disappointing.
When you go to slip your shoes off, he stops you.
“Keep them on,” he says, voice kept low due to the distance. Or rather, the lack thereof. “It’s… not very clean.”
There’s something in the casual smile he gives you besides an attractiveness you’ve never seen before. Maybe it’s a tad of… sheepishness? It doesn’t matter; your skin still heats under his gaze
“Oh, okay,” you say, trying to remain unbothered and professional while waiting for him to take the lead. Luckily, you don’t think he notices.
Even with the heads-up, you’re not sure what surprises you more as you follow him into the house—the layers and layers of dust, or the Edwardian, neoclassical interior design. The faded, beige walls are paneled, and as he leads you toward a staircase, you catch a glimpse of what appears to be the living room through an open archway. In it, you spot a pale green velvet sofa and two upholstered armchairs, fitting right in. There’s also a rectangular fireplace, a gold-framed mirror above it, and what catches your interest the most: a chandelier. Its size is impressive, and so is the fact that it looks like it was made for real, live candles. The same goes for the brass wall sconces placed on either side of the fireplace. You’ve only ever seen those in movies.
“They’re up here,” he says, and you nod, reaching for the wooden railing as you follow him up the stairs.
The steps creak loudly beneath your weight—another reminder of just how old this house probably is. At the landing, he turns, leading you to a bedroom. It’s surprisingly small for a house this size, but it’s cozy and warm in a way you weren’t expecting. You guess the clouds outside have eased up a little because the smallest ray of sunlight filters through the practically sheer beige curtains and highlights the dust particles floating in the air.
The four-poster bed is made from dark wood, its canopy rails bare and the headboard curled softly. Like most things, the white sheets appear pretty much untouched, and the only real signs of life are the footsteps disturbing the dust on the floor. You've followed a path all the way from the door, and when you look closer, you see paw prints venturing outside it.
Noticing your lingering gaze, Jeongguk scratches the back of his neck.
“I haven’t been here in a while.”
You figured. It doesn’t look like anyone’s been here since… the late 1800s. Although it’s certainly a stylistic choice—and one you wouldn’t have expected from someone so young and otherwise modern-looking—it has its charm. Even if you’re not sure there’s even electricity or running water.
“I arrived earlier today and found them here,” Jeongguk continues, approaching a standalone wooden wardrobe placed against the wall. One door is already slightly ajar, but when he carefully opens it wider, you see them. The cat with kittens. “I read that you’re not supposed to move them.”
The mother cat, who looks to be all black, has made a little nest on top of a crisp white shirt that’s fallen from its hanger above.
“Oh,” you breathe, crouching slowly to get a better look. “They’re brand new.”
“Yeah. And I think one is smaller than the others.”
Your eyes travel over the small beings, each with varying patches of white to go with the black. None of them, from what you can tell, have even opened their eyes yet. The mother cat stops licking one of the kittens to give you a warning hiss. You listen, rising to your feet and turning away, a plan already in mind.
“Okay, I brought some food that might help lure her out,” you say, setting the bag down on the floor and crouching to reach into it. “This stuff’s usually pretty irresistible…”
But when you look back at the man—a jar gripped in your hand—he’s already holding the mother cat. Just straight around her middle, as if he’s never held a cat before. She doesn’t seem to mind very much, just hangs there, looking around.
Jeongguk looks at you, a little surprised too.
“Oh, okay. She seems to like you better,” you smile. You can’t help but think that he looks… sweet. A big, clearly very muscular and attractive man who’s liked by animals? It’s definitely both a green flag and a personal weakness for you.
The food goes back into the bag, and you reach for the equipment you’ll need instead. With a stethoscope around your neck, a small kitchen scale, and a thermometer, you kneel in front of the wardrobe. In the meantime, Jeongguk sits down on the bed, the cat perched on his lap. He keeps his large hands around her, gently keeping her in place in case she changes her mind.
Very gently, you reach for the smallest kitten first. It squirms in your hands, mouth open and paws sticking out in a silent protest.
“Sex is notoriously tricky to tell on kittens, especially this small, so I’m not even gonna try,” you say with a smile, giving the kitten a general once-over before focusing on its face. It’s a sweet little thing, crying a little as you inspect it. This one is mostly black but with two white front paws.
“Well, I’d definitely say they’re only a day or two old. This one has a suckle reflex but hasn’t opened its eyes yet. That usually happens between day five and fourteen. The umbilical stump is still attached too, and that usually falls off around day two to four.”
“So that’s… good?” Jeongguk asks, and when you look at him, the mother cat is bumping her head against his abdomen. He peers down at her on his lap, extending his veiny hand in a wordless offer. She accepts it, rubbing her head against his palm and letting him pet her.
“Yeah. That’s normal.”
You return your focus to the little being in your hands, carefully looking into its mouth again to check its gums and palate.
“Pink gums and no cleft. That’s good, too.”
With one hand, you grab the stethoscope from your neck, putting the earpieces in place. Getting a clear heart or lung reading on kittens this tiny isn’t easy. Their heart rate is fast, making it easy to miss abnormalities, and their small, wriggling bodies make it hard to even position the chestpiece properly in the first place.
Focusing, you hold the kitten still, placing the stethoscope on the left side of its chest just behind the elbow. Then you listen closely, trying to ignore the soft purring from the adult cat.
It sounds… good. Alright, at least. Shifting the stethoscope slightly, you first listen to one lung and then the other. You don’t notice anything abnormal there, either.
“Heart and lungs sound okay,” you declare, slipping the stethoscope back around your neck.
“What’s next?”
“Temperature,” you answer, reaching for the digital thermometer.
“What should their temperature be?”
“Somewhere between thirty-six and thirty-six point five degrees Celsius.”
“Isn’t that a little low? I mean, compared to a human?”
“Adult cats are more similar to humans, but kittens generally run a little colder,” you explain, focusing on getting the reading right. “They don’t have the ability to regulate their body temperature properly for the first couple of weeks.”
The thermometer beeps.
“Thirty-six point two,” you mumble. “So that’s within the range. A little low, but not necessarily dangerous.”
With one hand, you reach for the kitchen scale, setting it on the floor in front of you. It powers on, and once it’s ready, you place the kitten on it, keeping your hand floating above in case the little animal tries to wiggle off the tray.
The number settles, and you read it out loud. “Eighty-one grams.”
“Too small?” Jeongguk wonders.
“On the lower side, but not dangerously so. At least not yet.”
You take the kitten and carefully place it back in the makeshift nest for the moment. Before reaching for another kitten to examine in the same way, you grab a small notebook in your bag, quickly jotting down the numbers so you don’t forget them.
Jeongguk looks on as you inspect the rest of the four kittens, occasionally asking another question. It’s not unusual for pet owners to ask questions, but considering these aren’t even his cats—and from what you gathered, he only found them today—it makes your chest warm. Not everyone would go to such lengths for stray cats. It also doesn’t help your growing soft spot that you get to talk about animals and their anatomy to someone who seems to want to listen. After all, you’re a bit of a nerd, and this is your number one fascination.
One by one, the kittens get their clean bill of health and are placed back on the shirt, and then you shift your focus to their mother. She’s standing on Jeongguk’s lap, still headbutting his chest. While she’s preoccupied, you quietly reach into your bag for the microchip scanner, but the moment you try to get close, she notices and hisses.
“Give it a try, please?” You hold the scanner out to Jeongguk, keeping as much distance as you can. “Press this button and move the scanner over her, focusing on her neck and back.”
Jeongguk takes the scanner from your outreached hand, doing as you instructed and pressing the button. It beeps, and he begins to move it over her.
“Like this?” he asks, his eyebrows furrowed almost angrily as he focuses.
You nod encouragingly. “Yeah.”
“Is it to see if she has an owner?”
“Yes. But sometimes, even if they are microchipped, there's not a registered owner. But we can hope.”
He continues to search for a chip, but when nothing happens, he looks at you with those dark eyes, silently asking what to do.
“Try her belly and even her legs. Sometimes, they migrate.”
Adjusting his grip on the scanner, he moves it lower.
“Doesn’t seem like it,” he says a moment later, handing the scanner back to you.
“Yeah,” you sigh, taking it to put it back in the bag. Although disappointed, you’re not surprised. “Would you mind helping me check her out? She seems to really like you. A whole lot better than she likes me, at least.”
He matches the soft smile you give him. “Sure.”
“Okay, well, she seems to be in okay condition, but I need to rule out any birth-related injuries.
“What do I do?” he asks, scooting closer to the edge of the bed, the cat still happy to receive his attention.
“Just… hold her like that… Yes, exactly. And with your other hand, move her tail away for me?”
A little awkwardly, he follows your instructions again, and while you don’t think the cat particularly enjoys it, she doesn’t fight it. You move closer, trying to get a better look while doing your best not to stare at his veiny hands instead. In any other setting, they’d be way too much of a distraction, but knowing that this cat depends on you to evaluate her health, you divert your gaze.
“Alright… I don’t see anything... unusual, no swelling, no blood, no discharge. If she were injured, you’d usually spot it, but she’s not thrilled with me, so I won’t push it,” you chuckle, leaning back.
Having animals dislike you is unfortunately part of the job. Sometimes, it hurts your heart a little, but when you remember that it’s easy for an animal to associate the scrubs or equipment with something unpleasant and maybe even painful, it makes more sense. Briefly, you wonder if this cat has ever been to a vet or if her dislike for you stems from something else. It’s definitely normal for new mothers to have a bit of an attitude, but you’d think that would include every human in the room. Or maybe she doesn’t dislike you in particular; maybe she just really likes Jeongguk. Which... you know, fair.
Almost as if sensing that the examination is over, the black cat jumps down from Jeongguk’s lap, leaping past you to get to her babies.
“Alright,” you say, wiping your hands on your pants before you stand up. “It’s important not to disturb them too much, but they’ll still need some supervision—especially the small one—just to make sure they continue to eat and grow. And they’ll need a better place to nest, somewhere a little warmer, softer, and less… dusty. No offense.”
Jeongguk chuckles, standing up as well and brushing some cat hairs from his hoodie. “None taken.”
“So, if you want me to, I can take them with me. We have a foster program and a few great volunteers.”
Jeongguk looks down at you, his brows furrowed in confusion this time. “I thought they were too small to be moved?”
“Yeah,” you nod, bending down to quickly gather the rest of the used equipment and put it back in the bag. “Ideally, they wouldn’t need to be. But I understand if you can’t or don't want to look after a stray cat and her kittens.”
“No, it’s… uh… It’s fine,” he says, appearing to land in a decision and sticking by it, his eyes traveling to the little bodies nestled into the white shirt. “It’s not that hard, right? Just keep an eye on them? If you think I can do it, of course. I already have a litter box.”
You blink, a little surprised. “You just happened to have a litter box?”
“No, I asked some neighbors after I called you. I figured you'd have some tips about the other stuff. Like food and such.”
Your smile grows as you watch him. He is… oddly endearing. “Yeah. Of course,” you say, your voice softening. The fewer cats and kitten taking up the very limited space at the volunteers', the better. “Okay.”
You begin drafting an email to send to him. It includes everything you've talked about plus cat food recommendations for the mother cat and a link to a cat bed that’s cheap but comfortable enough for a nursing litter. While you write, you talk him through everything again, like what to watch for, when to weigh them, and what to do if anything seems off.
He asks a few questions, making it very clear—if it wasn’t already—that he doesn’t really have any experience with animals. While he’s never appeared scared or nervous during your visit, you can tell that he’s not quite sure what to do. He moves slowly, almost a little awkwardly around the cats, but it’s more like he doesn’t want to scare them.
“You really like animals,” he points out, watching you tuck your notebook back into the bag.
You glance up at him. His tone isn’t mocking but more... curious. Still, you nod, a little self-conscious of how nerdy you can be.
“Yeah, animals are incredible. Not only because they’re such good companions—some of them at least—but, they’re so fascinating? How they function and how they’ve evolved.”
But there’s something else in his curious gaze that you finally pick up on, and it dawns on you.
“You think I’m a freak too, don’t you?” you say with a smile, pulling the stethoscope you’d forgotten to pack from around your neck and tucking it into the bag as well.
“No, no,” he shakes his head.
You lift an eyebrow. “But you know about it? My paper?”
His eyes are so dark. “Yeah…”
You look away, trying not to let it affect your professionalism. Speaking about it brings up memories you’d rather not be reminded of. “I thought you said you hadn’t been here in forever?”
It’s weird, right? If he doesn’t live here and hasn’t been around in a long time, how would he know the gossip?
“Town called a few years ago. About the electrical wiring needing to be upgraded. So I came here to fix it.”
Oh. That makes sense, you guess. A few years ago was when it first happened. That’s probably also why the yard looked different from what you remembered.
“And you heard about it?”
He smiles apologetically. “Yeah. It’s a small town, I guess.”
“It’s not like I think Ariel is real. Or that dragons roam the sky or that Dracula lives in a dark castle somewhere, wearing a black cape over a white, frilly shirt,” you defend, slinging the bag over your shoulder. “I just wrote about how much we don’t actually know about the living organisms around us and how some of the 'supernatural' traits aren't really that crazy, anatomically speaking.”
“No, I get that,” he assures, sounding like he genuinely didn’t mean to upset you. “I found it very interesting.”
“So is that why you looked so surprised to see me? Because you recognized me?”
“No. Or… well, yeah. I spoke to the receptionist, and she told me a man’s name—Namjoon, I think—would come.”
“Oh.”
“But I did also vaguely recognize you, I think. From the image.”
Lifting your wrist, you glance at the watch. “I should start to head back. Lock the clinic up.”
“I didn’t mean to offend you,” Jeongguk says, and when you meet his dark eyes again, he looks genuine. “I don’t think you’re a freak, I promise.”
“It’s alright,” you say, offering him a quick smile. “I’m not supposed to be out this long anyway. I have to get back and finish up the bill. I’ll email it to you along with the advice, is that okay?”
He nods, clearly accepting that he did in fact upset you to some degree. “Okay. Thank you for the help.”
You smile again, relaxing your shoulders and taking a deep breath. Maybe you should cut him some slack. Technically, he wasn’t even the one to bring your paper up; that was all you. And besides very, very handsome, you haven’t once thought of him as anything other than sweet.
"No problem."
The drive back to the clinic is quiet. You don’t even turn the prehistoric radio on. It doesn’t matter because your thoughts are loud enough anyway, circling back to one thing. One thing and one person.
The paper you wrote in vet school was a mistake. Not that it was bad per se—it was a perfectly science-based paper, focused on the more unusual biological traits found in the animal kingdom.
Unfortunately, you made the grave mistake of connecting some of those traits to various mythical creatures and their ‘unbelievable’ biology. Some of your peers—predominantly men—found it absolutely ridiculous and teased you for it. The more you tried to defend yourself, the funnier they thought it was.
You’d think it at least would’ve stayed within whatever small circle vet med is, but when your small town happens to be known specifically for the vet med program, a surprisingly large chunk of the population has some connection to it. You’re lucky that not many wish to stay in town after graduating, or you would’ve been last on the list to get a job. You still remember your current boss’s inspecting eyes as she interviewed you, trying to make sure you weren’t actually batshit crazy. That was maybe five or so years ago, and you haven’t really had to think about the paper in probably at least a year.
Until today. Again, it wasn’t Jeongguk’s fault, you don’t think he even meant for it to be brought up. It still caught you off guard, though, because even if you don’t know him, he didn’t give off the same vibe as the people who laughed at you.
And now, you can’t stop thinking about him. About his build, and how the oversized clothes hung off his strong, muscular body. Or his large, veiny hands as he gently pet the mother cat. His dark eyes, sharp jaw, and strong eyebrows. Even his nose—with its straight bridge and softly rounded tip, creating such a striking, masculine profile—had a way of completely mesmerizing you.
Not only is he probably the most attractive man you’ve seen in a long time—maybe ever, but he seemed… warm. You wouldn’t expect a man like him to care for a stray cat and her newborn kittens, much less call a vet out to help, but he did.
Back at the clinic, you take a seat in front of the desktop computer, typing your notes into the chart and updating the bill. Besides the obviously tragic parts of dealing with sick and injured animals, the worst part is probably billing the owners. You need money to live just like everyone else, but you’ll always feel wrong charging worried owners to care for their family members. Even now, as you’re adding the services to… Jeon Jeongguk’s bill, you think about how the cats don’t even belong to him.
The cursor hovers over his name. Who is he? How did he come to be the owner of that house, and why own it if he’s not living there or at least visiting regularly? Why bother even fixing the electrical wiring if it’s just gonna stay empty? And just how long had it been empty?
The questions whirl in your head. Though it’s not really any of your business why he returned, maybe you could’ve at least asked him where he’s from? It would’ve been acceptable small talk, right? Could you also have asked why he felt the need to take care of the cats, even when you offered to take them off his hands, or would that have been rude?
Realizing that you’re not getting anywhere, you bill him for a standard home visit of half an hour—even though you stayed closer to one—and for the gas just so you don’t lose money on the visit. You don’t add the same day fee or charge him for the used materials.
<previous | next>
author's note: i hope you liked it and are excited for the rest because i think it's gonna be good!!! i also had some moodboard pics of the house made so let me know if you'd like to see them <3
In which you come to Seoul for a summer law internship already drowning in the pressure of qualifying as a solicitor, only for your carefully planned life to become ten times harder when you keep crossing paths with an annoyingly attractive stranger named Jungkook. You don’t know he’s South Korea’s most beloved star, and he doesn’t know why the only person unimpressed by him is suddenly the one he can’t stay away from.
Pairing: Idol!Jungkook x Law student!reader
Genre: Forced proximity | Romance | Slice of life | Slow burn | Fluff | Enemies to lovers | Comedy
Warnings/content: Jungkook x Reader, Law Student Reader, Summer Internship, Study Abroad, Hidden Identity, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, Celebrity Romance, Secret Relationship, Opposites Attract, Tension, Flirting, Late Night Talks, Protective Jungkook, Jealousy, Emotional Slow Burn, Kisses, Mutual Pining, Seoul Summer, Career Pressure, Comfort, Angst, Fluff, Drama, Happy Ending
Word Count: 9.3k
A/N: This was such a fun one to write because as a law student myself the idea of spending a summer studying abroad has always sounded like a dream to me, so creating this story felt like living that fantasy a little. There’s just something about putting two stubborn people together and watching the tension build that makes me obsessed already, and i honestly loved writing a reader who has her own ambitions and goals outside of romance too. Sooo if you liked it, please drop me a like and repost, and let me know in the comments if you want a part 2 ;))
The second the sliding doors of Incheon International Airport opened, a wave of warm air hit your face, thick with summer heat and the unfamiliar scent of somewhere new.
You barely registered any of it.
Your suitcase bumped uselessly behind you while your eyes stayed locked on your phone, thumb scrolling through your emails before switching back to LinkedIn for the hundredth time that day. Empty inbox. No updates. No responses. No signs of life from any of the firms you’d applied to.
Then suddenly—your phone was gone.
“Oi—” You looked up sharply. “Are you insane?”
Hikari held your phone above her head with one hand, sunglasses slipping down her nose. “Are you insane? Babe, we just landed in South Korea and the first thing you do is open LinkedIn.”
“I was checking something.”
“You were checking unemployment.”
“I was checking my future.”
She barked out a laugh. “Your future can wait five minutes. There are men walking around built like final bosses and you’re reading rejection emails that haven’t even arrived yet.”
“No because that’s the issue,” you groaned, reaching for your phone and missing. “There aren’t even rejection emails. It’s been weeks since I sent like a hundred applications and not one firm has replied. At least tell me no so I can heal and move on.”
Hikari clutched her chest. “That is cruel. That is emotionally abusive.”
“Thank you.”
“That’s workplace harassment before you’ve even got the job.”
“Exactly!”
She handed your phone back at last. “You need serious help.”
“I need a training contract.”
“You need a man.”
You stopped dead in the middle of the pavement. “I need you to shut up.”
“I’m being so serious.” She hooked her arm through yours and dragged you toward the taxi rank. “You’re twenty-one, smart, mildly attractive on a good day—”
“Mildly?”
“Focus on the compliment. You literally know Korean. Utilise it.”
You stared at her in disbelief. “You know damn well I had no choice but to learn Korean for my poly-language course. I didn’t do it to hunt men.”
“Missed opportunity.”
“I did it to escape the trenches of public law.”
The two of you fell silent for a moment before physically shuddering in sync.
Hikari grimaced. “Don’t say that subject name around me again.”
“Judicial review,” you muttered.
She gagged dramatically. “You are vile.”
“Delegated legislation.”
“Stop talking.”
You laughed despite yourself, the tension in your chest loosening for the first time in weeks. Around you, taxis lined the curb, neon signs glowed in the distance, and the city hummed with energy that made your pulse quicken.
Maybe this was exactly what you needed. A few months away from deadlines, applications, and the constant fear of failing before you’d even begun.
Hikari squeezed your arm. “Calling it now. By the end of this summer, you’re either getting a job offer or getting railed.”
You nearly tripped over your suitcase. “Hikari!”
She shrugged. “I’m just manifesting options.”
You shook your head, muttering something about needing new friends as the two of you joined the taxi queue outside the airport. Around you, people moved in quick, purposeful streams—families reuniting, business travellers already on calls, tourists dragging suitcases twice their size. Everything felt fast, polished, awake.
You, on the other hand, were one inconvenience away from lying down on the pavement.
Hikari raised a hand the second a black taxi pulled forward. “See?” she said smugly. “The universe provides.”
“The universe is a licensed driver.”
“It’s still on my side.”
The driver stepped out to help with your luggage, and before you could stop her, Hikari cheerfully gestured to you. “Go on. Use your Korean.”
You blinked at her. “Why am I suddenly customer service?”
“Because I’m pretty and useless.”
“At least you’re self-aware.”
Suppressing a laugh, you greeted the driver in Korean and confirmed the hotel address. He nodded politely and loaded your suitcases into the boot while Hikari watched you like a proud stage mother.
“That,” she said as you climbed into the back seat, “was deeply attractive.”
“I said hello.”
“You said it internationally.”
The taxi pulled away from the terminal, merging into a stream of traffic as the airport lights gave way to long stretches of road and, eventually, the first hints of the city skyline. Tower blocks glimmered in the distance, neon signs flashing between darkened streets, everything looking cinematic in a way that felt almost unreal after months of grey lecture halls and library fluorescent lighting.
For a moment, neither of you said anything.
Then Hikari leaned over dramatically. “Do you think this driver knows any rich men?”
You closed your eyes. “I need silence.”
“You need networking.”
“I need eight consecutive hours of unconsciousness.”
She gasped. “You’re so negative.”
“I’m jet-lagged.”
“You’re spiritually jet-lagged.”
You turned to look at her. “What does that even mean?”
“It means your aura needs moisturising.”
“You make me tired.”
She patted your knee sympathetically. “That’s because I challenge you.”
The driver’s shoulders shook slightly, like he was trying not to laugh.
“Oh my God,” you whispered. “He understands English.”
Hikari straightened immediately. “Sir, if you know any successful single men under thirty, please let me know. My friend is in crisis.”
You lunged across the seat. “Ignore her!”
The driver finally laughed outright, and humiliation burned hot across your face while Hikari looked delighted with herself.
“This is why no firm emails me back,” you muttered. “Bad karma.”
“No,” Hikari said, checking her reflection in the window. “It’s because they fear powerful women.”
“They don’t know me.”
“They sense it.”
The hotel came into view twenty minutes later—glass-fronted, modern, far nicer than anything you’d expected when booking on a student budget. You sat up straighter immediately.
“Oh,” you said. “Wait. This is nice.”
Hikari smirked. “Obviously. Did you think I’d let us stay somewhere tragic?”
“I thought we were staying somewhere affordable.”
“Same thing if you’re strategic.”
“That sentence means nothing.”
Once inside, the lobby was all marble floors, soft gold lighting, and the kind of expensive scent that made you suddenly conscious of how creased your clothes were. Staff moved around with impossible elegance while you dragged your suitcase behind you like a goblin.
Hikari, meanwhile, somehow looked refreshed.
“How do you still look normal?” you asked while she approached reception.
“Discipline.”
“You have mascara under one eye.”
“Fashion.”
Check-in was smooth, and the second you were handed the room key card, relief nearly made you emotional.
The lift ride up was quiet except for Hikari taking selfies in the mirrored walls while you stared blankly at your own reflection.
“I look like I’ve seen war,” you said.
“You look travelled.”
“I look damp.”
The room itself was compact but gorgeous—two neatly made beds, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, crisp white sheets, and air conditioning cold enough to heal trauma.
You dropped your bag by the door, kicked off your shoes, and threw yourself face-first onto the nearest bed.
The mattress accepted you instantly.
“This,” you mumbled into the duvet, “is where I live now.”
“Like hell you are.”
You felt the mattress dip as Hikari launched herself onto the opposite bed, then immediately bounced back up with renewed purpose. “We, my friend, are going to explore the city. Starting with what it has to offer my stomach.”
You didn’t move. “Tell your stomach I said congratulations.”
“It says thank you and get up.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.”
“No, physically I’m past that point. My body has clocked out.”
She stood over you with her hands on her hips. “You are being dramatic.”
“I am being realistic.”
“You’re horizontal in jeans.”
“That’s how serious this is.”
Hikari grabbed one of the pillows and smacked you with it.
You lifted your head just enough to glare at her. “Violence. In a foreign country.”
“Get dressed.”
“I am dressed.”
“You look like you lost a custody battle.”
You groaned and rolled onto your back, staring up at the ceiling. “Can we please just order room service and rot in peace?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because we did not come all the way to Seoul for you to fuse with hotel linen.”
“I came here for an internship.”
“You came here for character development.”
“I came here because every firm in London decided to collectively ignore me.”
The joke landed flatter than usual.
Hikari’s expression softened a little. She sat down at the edge of your bed and nudged your ankle. “Hey.”
You looked away toward the window. “I know it sounds stupid.”
“It doesn’t.”
“It does. We literally just got here and I’m sulking over emails.”
“You’re stressed,” she said simply. “There’s a difference.”
You exhaled slowly.
“It’s just…” You rubbed a hand over your face. “Everyone keeps acting like if I don’t get everything sorted now, I’m behind already. Vacation schemes, training contracts, applications, networking, grades. It never stops.”
Hikari was quiet for a second, then flicked your forehead.
“Ow.”
“Firstly, dramatic. Secondly, you are the smartest person I know.”
“That’s terrifying for society.”
“I’m serious.” She pointed at you sternly. “You work harder than anyone, you somehow survive on iced coffee and panic, and you’re going to qualify one day whether those firms reply this week or next year.”
“Next year would be suboptimal.”
“My point,” she said louder, “is don’t let silence from a few dusty firms convince you you’re failing.”
You snorted despite yourself. “Dusty firms?”
“Yes. Dusty, musty, probably using microsoft word 2007. They don’t deserve your tears.”
“I wasn’t crying.”
“You were spiritually close.”
You smiled into the pillow.
“Even smart people need breaks,” she continued. “Even future solicitors need to eat dumplings and touch grass.”
“I hate when you’re right.”
“I know. It’s my burden.”
She sprang up suddenly and clapped once. “Now get up.”
“No.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t test me.”
“I have nothing left to lose.”
That was apparently the wrong answer, because she seized your wrist and began dragging you across the mattress.
You immediately went limp.
“Oh my God,” she snapped. “Did you just dead-weight me?”
“Yes.”
“You’re evil.”
“You’re stronger than you look.”
“You’re heavier than you look.”
“That was personal.”
With a heroic grunt, she managed to yank you upright until you were sitting on the edge of the bed looking deeply offended.
“There,” she said, panting slightly. “Vertical. We’re making progress.”
“I’ll remember this betrayal.”
“You can journal about it over dinner.”
Ten minutes later, after Hikari physically handing you a cleaner top and threatening to leave without you, the two of you were back in the lift heading downstairs.
You leaned against the mirrored wall. “If I collapse in public, tell people I died pursuing culture.”
“I’ll tell them you died being stubborn.”
The city hit differently at street level. Warm air, bright signs, traffic humming, groups of friends laughing outside convenience stores, music drifting from somewhere unseen. Everything felt alive.
You tucked your hands into your pockets as Hikari looked around like she’d personally built the place.
“Where are we even going?” you asked.
“Somewhere with food.”
“That narrows it down.”
“Somewhere cute with food.”
“Still broad.”
“Somewhere with food and potential husbands.”
“There it is.”
She linked arms with you and began steering you down the pavement. “You joke now, but one good bowl of noodles and one handsome stranger later, your whole attitude could change.”
“My attitude is grounded in reason.”
“Your attitude is grounded in fear.”
“My attitude is grounded in case law.”
Both of you shuddered.
“Disgusting,” she muttered.
“Public law,” you whispered back.
She recoiled. “Don’t ruin the evening.”
For the first time in weeks, your chest felt lighter. The emails, the deadlines, the pressure—they were still there, waiting somewhere beyond this trip. But right now there was only the city, your ridiculous best friend, and the smell of food drifting through the street.
Maybe that was enough for one night.
The streets were quieter than they’d looked from the hotel window, the late hour thinning the crowds to scattered groups of students, delivery drivers, and people who looked far too awake for two in the morning. Most shopfronts were dark, shutters pulled down, chairs stacked on tables behind glass.
You yawned as Hikari dragged you past another closed café. “So your brilliant plan,” you said, “was to search for food at two a.m. in a city we don’t know.”
“My brilliant plan,” she corrected, “was to trust destiny.”
“Destiny appears to be shut.”
She ignored you, peering dramatically left and right like a detective on a case. “There has to be something open. This city loves me too much to let me starve.”
“This city doesn’t know you.”
“It can feel my presence.”
You pulled your phone from your pocket, instinctively opening your inbox. Still nothing. Then Outlook. Still nothing there either.
Before you could refresh for the third time, Hikari snatched the phone clean out of your hand.
“You absolute menace—”
“No.” She held it away from you. “We are not doing corporate self-harm in the middle of the pavement.”
“I was just checking.”
“You checked six minutes ago.”
“A lot can happen in six minutes.”
“Not in graduate recruitment.”
You reached for it. She dodged you with offensive agility.
“Give it back.”
“When you stop acting like outlook is your situationship.”
“It’s not a situationship.”
“It leaves you on delivered and ruins your mood. That’s textbook.”
You hated how accurate that was.
Hikari tucked your phone into her bag for safekeeping and looped her arm through yours before you could protest. “There. Free at last.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“I’m necessary.”
You wandered another block, passing a convenience store glowing fluorescent white and a group of lads laughing outside a karaoke bar. Somewhere in the distance, music thumped through a wall. The city felt softer now—less like a postcard, more like something alive and still moving long after it should’ve slept.
Then Hikari stopped so abruptly you nearly walked into her.
“There,” she breathed.
Across the street, tucked between a closed stationery shop and a laundrette, was a tiny restaurant lit entirely in pink and blue neon. Steam fogged the windows, and a handwritten sign in Korean hung crookedly by the door.
Hikari clutched your arm. “That one is calling my name.”
“You’re insane.”
“Don’t you hear it?” She tilted her head. “It’s literally whispering… Hikari…”
“It’s probably the fridge humming.”
“No. It wants me.”
“It wants paying customers.”
She gasped. “Why do you always reduce magic to economics?”
“Because I study law.”
“That explains so much.”
Before you could say another word, she tugged you across the road.
“You know,” she said casually, “places like this are where life-changing things happen.”
“You mean food poisoning?”
“I mean meet-cutes.”
“I rebuke that energy.”
“You’re too closed off.”
“I’m realistic.”
“You’re twenty-one and allergic to whimsy.”
“I’m allergic to men who say ‘what do you bring to the table?’”
She shuddered. “Fair.”
You reached the door, and she paused to inspect your face. “Actually, maybe tonight’s the night.”
“For what?”
“You meet someone mysterious. Brooding. Beautiful. Emotionally available but with edge.”
“You’ve just described a fictional man.”
“They exist.”
“Name one.”
She opened her mouth. Closed it. “That is not the point.”
You smirked. “Exactly.”
Hikari pushed the door open anyway, warm air and the smell of grilled meat rushing out to meet you. “Come on,” she declared. “Worst case scenario, no husband. Best case scenario, noodles and character development.”
You stepped inside after her. “Why is everything to you either romance or personal growth?”
She grinned over her shoulder. “Because both look good on you.”
The restaurant was small but warm, the kind of place that felt lived in. A few tables were occupied by night-shift workers and students hunched over steaming bowls, low conversation humming beneath the clatter of dishes from the kitchen. Neon light from outside painted the windows pink and blue.
Hikari slid into the booth first and immediately grabbed a menu.
“Oh my God,” she whispered reverently. “Look at this.”
You sat opposite her, shrugging off your jacket. “It’s a menu.”
“It’s an opportunity.”
“It’s laminated.”
She ignored you, eyes scanning wildly. “They have dumplings. They have fried chicken. They have noodles. They have rice bowls. They have desserts.”
“That tends to be how restaurants work.”
“I want everything.”
“You physically cannot have everything.”
“Watch me.”
“Hikari.”
“No, because imagine limiting yourself when life is this short.”
“Slow down before the waiter comes over and you embarrass us both.”
She gasped. “I have never embarrassed anyone in my life.”
You stared at her.
“Okay,” she amended, “not intentionally.”
A server approached with a polite smile and notepad in hand. Hikari instantly shoved her menu toward you.
“Your time to shine,” she whispered.
“You are shameless.”
“I am adaptive.”
You ordered in Korean, asking for two portions of dumplings, spicy noodles, fried chicken to share, and drinks. The server nodded, repeated the order back, then left with a small smile.
Hikari looked at you like you’d just levitated.
“Excuse me?” she said. “Since when was your Korean that good?”
You blinked. “What?”
“That was smooth. You sounded like you belong here.”
“I literally asked for food.”
“In another language.”
“Thank you.”
“No, seriously.” She pointed at you accusingly. “Why do you act like being impressive is casual?”
You laughed. “I learnt it for my degree, remember? International studies required a language component. I picked Korean.”
“And then just became fluent in secret?”
“I’m not fluent.”
“You just ordered chicken with confidence. That’s fluency.”
“That is hunger.”
She leaned back in her seat dramatically. “Brains, beauty, employable, bilingual. It’s honestly sickening.”
“Please stop trying to auction me off.”
“I’m just saying, if the law thing fails, marry rich.”
“The law thing is not failing.”
“It was a joke.”
“It wasn’t funny.”
“It was a little funny.”
You tried not to smile. “Maybe a little.”
She smirked. “There she is.”
The drinks arrived first, and the two of you immediately reached for the same one.
“Hands off,” she said.
“You ordered the wrong thing.”
“I ordered adventure.”
“You ordered peach soda.”
“Exactly.”
You laughed and took your own glass instead.
“So,” she said, stirring her drink, “how do you think your final assignment went?”
You groaned instantly. “Don’t bring academia into my safe space.”
“It’s a genuine question.”
“I think contract law went well.”
“Show off.”
“I said I think.”
“You say ‘I think’ when you know you ate.”
“I did not eat.”
“You devoured.”
You rolled your eyes. “Public law was rough.”
Both of you visibly recoiled.
“Vile subject,” Hikari muttered.
“Deeply unnecessary,” you agreed.
“Professor Bennett ruined constitutional theory for me.”
You frowned. “Bennett’s a man.”
“I know. I’m warming up.” She pointed a finger. “Dr Patel though? That woman hates me personally.”
You burst out laughing. “She does not know you.”
“She does. Every seminar she looks directly at me before asking the one reading I didn’t do.”
“That’s because you sit in the front row wearing sunglasses.”
“It’s confidence.”
“It’s insolence.”
Hikari clutched her chest. “Last month she asked me to define parliamentary sovereignty and when I paused she sighed like I’d killed her family.”
You were laughing too hard to respond.
“I’m serious,” Hikari insisted. “That woman has beef with me.”
“She has standards.”
“She has jealousy.”
“Of what?”
“My aura.”
You nearly choked on your drink.
At that exact moment, the food arrived in a wave of steam and glorious smell, cutting off your laughter. Dumplings, glossy noodles, crispy chicken piled high.
Hikari looked down at the table with tears in her eyes.
“See?” she whispered. “This city loves me.”
You looked down at the spread, then back at her. “This city tolerates you at best.”
“It nourishes me,” Hikari corrected, already reaching for a dumpling. “There’s a difference.”
“Can you at least wait two seconds?”
“No. Survival instincts.”
She bit into one immediately, then closed her eyes like she’d ascended.
“Oh wow.”
“You’re so dramatic.”
“This is a religious experience.”
You picked up your chopsticks and tried the noodles, heat and spice hitting almost instantly. Your eyes widened.
“Okay,” you admitted. “That’s incredible.”
Hikari pointed triumphantly with half a dumpling in hand. “Exactly. Trust me more.”
“I trust you selectively.”
“You wound me.”
“I protect myself.”
The next few minutes were spent in near silence apart from the occasional hum of appreciation and Hikari trying to steal from your plate every time you looked away.
“Why are you touching my food?” you asked, catching her hand mid-reach.
“Because yours looks better.”
“It’s the same dish.”
“It tastes different when it’s yours.”
“That sentence was nonsense.”
“It was intuition.”
You pushed the chicken farther from her. “Have boundaries.”
“Boundaries are western.”
“That is not true.”
She laughed and leaned back in her seat, satisfied for all of ten seconds before speaking again. “So... what’s the actual plan for the internship?”
You wiped your hands on a napkin. “Orientation Monday. Then I’m placed with their comparative constitutional team for six weeks.”
Her mouth dropped open. “That sounds sexy.”
“It sounds like unpaid labour.”
“It sounds impressive.”
“It sounds like I’ll be formatting documents until my hands cramp.”
She shrugged. “Still. International law girl summer.”
You snorted. “That is not a thing.”
“It is now.”
You looked down at your drink, tracing the condensation on the glass. “I just hope I’m good enough.”
Hikari’s expression changed immediately. Softer. Sharper. The nonsense dialed down.
“You are.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I literally do.”
“It’s different there. Everyone else applying probably has better grades, better experience, better everything.”
“Wrong.”
“That’s not an argument.”
“It’s enough from me.” She leaned forward. “You do this thing where you decide everyone else is more qualified before they’ve even opened their mouths.”
You said nothing.
“And meanwhile,” she continued, “you’re clever, hardworking, bilingual, doing a summer placement abroad, and somehow still convinced you’re behind.”
“I’m not convinced. I’m observing.”
“You’re spiralling.”
“I’m being realistic.”
“You’re being annoying.”
That pulled a laugh out of you. “There she is.”
“I never left.” She reached over and tapped your wrist with her chopsticks. “Listen to me. Some random firms not replying does not define your future.”
“They’re not random.”
“They are to me.”
“I hate when you simplify my problems.”
“I hate when you inflate them.”
You smiled despite yourself.
She smiled back. “Good. Better.”
Then, without warning, she reached into her bag and pulled out your phone.
You sat up. “Why do you still have that?”
“Because you can’t be trusted.”
She glanced at the screen and gasped theatrically. “Oh my God, she’s opening Outlook at the table.”
“I was not!”
“You absolutely were in your spirit.”
“Give it back.”
“No.” She tucked it under her thigh. “Phone jail until dessert.”
“There is no dessert.”
“Then sunrise.”
“Hikari.”
“Eat your noodles.”
“You’re a tyrant.”
“I’m a visionary.”
You glared at her for another second before taking another bite.
“Also,” she added casually, “if you do become a big-shot solicitor one day, I expect compensation for emotional support rendered.”
“You’ve caused most of my emotional distress.”
“Exactly. Full-circle healing.”
You laughed so suddenly you nearly inhaled a chilli flake.
She grinned, pleased with herself. “There it is again. That noise. Keep making it this summer.”
Something warm settled in your chest that had nothing to do with the food.
Hikari was mid-laugh—head thrown back, chopsticks still in hand—when someone bumped into her hard enough to knock her slightly sideways.
“Hey—what the hell?” she blurted, steadying herself on the table.
You looked up instantly.
A girl had just rushed past your booth without even apologising, phone clutched tight in her hand, eyes wide with something between panic and excitement.
Then another followed. And another.
Within seconds, the calm hum of the restaurant shifted. Chairs scraped. Conversations cut off mid-sentence. People started standing.
And then—movement outside.
A sudden wave of footsteps. Fast. Coordinated. Almost like a stampede.
“What is happening?” you said slowly, putting your chopsticks down.
Hikari leaned toward the window, squinting. “Why does it look like Black Friday but emotional?”
Another group of girls rushed past the glass, pressing close to the street outside. Some were filming. Some were running. All of them were heading in the same direction.
The staff inside the restaurant started glancing toward the door too, murmuring to each other in quick Korean.
You and Hikari exchanged a look.
“…We’ve been in the country for like three hours,” you said.
“And already there’s a cult forming outside,” she replied.
“That’s not what that is.”
“It might be.”
A loud wave of screaming erupted from somewhere down the street—sharp, excited, overlapping voices that made the hairs on your arms rise slightly.
Hikari slowly set her chopsticks down.
“Okay,” she said. “That is not normal food enthusiasm.”
You shifted in your seat, craning your neck toward the window. “Is there like… a sale?”
“At 2 a.m.?”
“Midnight capitalism?”
Before Hikari could respond, another burst of screaming cut through the air—closer this time—followed by a sudden surge of movement outside the restaurant windows.
People were running past now. Not walking. Running.
Phones up. Voices high.
Your stomach dropped a little.
“…Okay,” Hikari said slowly, turning fully toward the window now. “Something is definitely happening.”
You stood up slightly, peering through the glass. “Why does it look like everyone is chasing the same person?”
“Or running from the same person,” she muttered.
A beat of silence.
Then you both looked at each other at the exact same time.
“No,” you said immediately.
Hikari pointed at the window. “Don’t say no like that didn’t cross your mind.”
“It did not cross my mind.”
“It sprinted across mine.”
You grabbed your phone off the table instinctively, then stopped yourself mid-motion.
Hikari noticed immediately. “Don’t you dare open Outlook in a crisis.”
“I wasn’t!”
“You were spiritually logging in again.”
Outside, the crowd thickened—more voices, more flashing screens, the street suddenly packed in a way that didn’t match the quiet, sleepy vibe from earlier.
A chair somewhere inside the restaurant scraped loudly as another customer stood to look.
Hikari leaned closer to the glass, narrowing her eyes.
“…Okay,” she said again, slower this time. “Either someone very important just walked past…”
She trailed off.
You leaned in beside her. “Or what?”
Hikari swallowed. “Or we’re about to find out what this city is actually like at 2 a.m.”
And for the first time since you’d arrived, neither of you had a joke ready.
The flashes hit first.
Not inside the restaurant—but outside.
Bright, rapid, almost violent bursts of white light strobed through the windows like lightning trapped in glass. Conversations inside the restaurant faltered. Someone near the counter let out a confused laugh. A chair scraped back.
Hikari squinted. “Okay… why does it look like we’re being photographed by angry lightning bugs?”
You were already standing again, instinctively edging closer to the window. “That’s not normal.”
Another wave of screams rolled down the street—closer now, louder, more concentrated. The kind of sound that didn’t belong to confusion anymore, but certainty. Like everyone out there knew exactly who they were chasing.
And then the door of the restaurant opened.
A sharp rush of cold night air swept in.
First came a man dressed completely in black—cap pulled low, face covered with a black mask, moving with the kind of controlled urgency that made the entire room shift its attention without thinking. Behind him, a blonde-haired boy followed quickly, equally guarded, glancing back toward the door like he was used to this kind of chaos. Two security guards entered after them, scanning the room instantly.
The atmosphere changed.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just… tense.
Like everyone suddenly remembered how to breathe quietly.
Hikari, however, was not part of that collective silence.
“Oh.”
You turned your head slowly. “Oh what.”
She was staring straight at the blonde boy like she’d just discovered oxygen. “Oh mama likey.”
You slapped her hand immediately. “No.”
“What?” she hissed, not looking away. “I’m appreciating art.”
“That’s a human being.”
“A very aesthetically curated human being.”
One of the security guards spoke briefly to the staff in quick Korean, and the staff immediately nodded, flustered, motioning toward a table further inside the restaurant.
The masked man didn’t sit yet. He paused near the entrance, scanning the room once—slowly, carefully.
For a second, the noise outside felt very far away.
Hikari leaned closer to you, whispering loudly, “Okay but blonde one? That’s my type.”
“You don’t even know him.”
“I know enough.”
“You know hair.”
“I know potential.”
You nudged her again as she tried to lean forward for a better look. “Stop objectifying strangers.”
“You’ve created an entire personality from three seconds of walking.”
“I’m efficient.”
The blonde boy glanced briefly in your direction while being guided to sit, then looked away again, slightly overwhelmed but polite. Hikari actually sighed.
“I’m in love,” she declared.
“You are insane.”
“Do you think they’re famous or something?” you murmured, eyes still fixed on the masked man as he finally stepped further inside.
Hikari didn’t even hesitate. “Either famous or running from a crime scene.”
“That’s not helpful.”
“It’s realistic.”
Outside, more screams erupted, louder again, like the crowd had just shifted direction. Phones pressed against the glass from the street, silhouettes clustering tightly outside the restaurant now.
One of the security guards stepped toward the door and shut it firmly, blocking the view of the chaos outside.
Inside, everything felt suddenly too quiet.
Hikari leaned back slowly. “Okay,” she said. “So we’re either in a restaurant…”
She paused.
“Or we’re in the opening scene of something very expensive.”
You swallowed slightly, still watching the masked man as he finally lowered himself into a seat deeper inside the restaurant, posture calm despite everything happening outside.
“…I don’t like this kind of quiet,” you admitted.
Hikari hummed. “Me neither.”
Then, softer—just for a second—she added, “But at least dinner got interesting.”
The two of them settled into the booth behind you almost silently—like they were trying not to disturb the air itself.
You felt it more than saw it at first. The shift. The presence.
Hikari, on the other hand, saw everything.
The second they sat down, she leaned forward slightly, eyes wide, trying to peek past your shoulder without being obvious about it—except she was absolutely failing at being subtle.
“Stop moving,” you muttered under your breath.
“I’m not moving.”
“You are vibrating.”
“I’m observing.”
“You’re staring.”
She pressed her lips together like that would somehow make her less obvious, but her attention kept flicking behind you every two seconds.
“Okay,” she whispered, voice barely contained. “The blonde one just sat down and I feel like I’ve been chosen by the universe personally.”
You tilted your head slightly, blocking her view with your shoulder on purpose. “We just got here. Please allow yourself to breathe before you start planning a wedding.”
“I’m not planning a wedding.”
“You said ‘chosen by the universe.’ That’s basically engagement.”
Hikari slapped your arm lightly. “Move. You’re tall, use it for good.”
“I am using it for good. I’m shielding the public from you.”
She tried to lean again, and you gently pushed her back into her seat.
“Behave.”
“I am behaving.”
“You are absolutely not.”
Hikari opened her mouth to argue, but then—mid-sentence—she stopped.
Completely froze.
Her expression changed so fast you almost laughed.
“…Okay,” she whispered. “Wait.”
“What?”
She didn’t answer. Just stared. Over your shoulder. Focused. Still.
You followed her gaze this time, turning slightly.
The blonde boy had stood up.
And now, without the mask, he was walking toward the counter at the front of the restaurant.
Up close, he was… unfair.
Not just attractive in a generic way—there was something almost unreal about how put together he looked even in a loose, late-night outfit. Blonde hair slightly messy, falling just enough into his eyes like it had been styled and then abandoned halfway through the night. He wore thin-framed glasses that made his features sharper somehow, more defined.
And as he turned slightly, you caught it—
A tattoo just behind his ear. Small. Clean. Intentional. Like it meant something.
He moved with quiet confidence, but not arrogance. More like someone used to being aware of every room he entered without needing to acknowledge it.
Hikari exhaled sharply.
“Oh,” she said.
You glanced at her. “Oh what.”
She didn’t look away. “Girl… I got a date with destiny.”
You blinked. “You don’t even know his name.”
“I don’t need it.”
“Yes you do.”
“No I don’t. The city already told me.”
“What city—?”
She grabbed your wrist briefly, eyes still locked forward like she was witnessing prophecy unfold. “I told you. This city loves me.”
“You’re delusional.”
“I’m intuitive.”
The blonde reached the counter, speaking quietly to the staff. Polite. Controlled. Nothing about him matched the chaos outside anymore. Like he’d stepped into a different world entirely.
Hikari leaned forward again, completely ignoring your attempts to physically contain her.
“Okay,” she whispered urgently, “if I don’t talk to him, I will regret it for the rest of my life.”
“You will regret it for five minutes and then forget.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is absolutely true.”
She finally tore her gaze away just long enough to look at you. “Do you think he likes confidence?”
“I think he likes peace.”
“Perfect. I’m peaceful.”
“You are currently plotting a romantic takeover.”
She sat back dramatically. “I’m not plotting. I’m aligning.”
You shook your head, laughing despite yourself. “We came here for food.”
“And I am getting food,” she said proudly. “And possibly destiny.”
The blonde laughed softly at something the staff said, the sound faint but noticeable even from across the room. Hikari immediately clutched your sleeve.
“Oh my God. He has a nice laugh too.”
“You’ve known him for twelve seconds.”
“And I already respect him.”
You sighed, leaning back. “Please just don’t embarrass me.”
Hikari gasped. “I would never embarrass you.”
A beat.
“…In public.”
You closed your eyes. “That is not reassuring.”
She leaned closer again, voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper.
“If I go over there and come back with his number, you owe me silence for a week.”
“You will not go over there.”
“I might.”
“You will not.”
“I’m feeling brave.”
“You’re feeling hungry.”
“I’m feeling fated.”
You opened your eyes slowly. “Hikari.”
She grinned. “Relax. I’m just saying hello.”
“You never just say hello.”
Behind you, the blonde finished at the counter and turned slightly, as if preparing to return to his table.
Hikari straightened immediately, energy switching like a light bulb flicking on.
“Okay,” she whispered, gripping the edge of the table. “If I survive this, I want it noted I died doing what I loved.”
“You are not dying.”
“I might be socially.”
And before you could stop her again, she stood up.
The blonde had barely settled back into his seat when Hikari made her move.
You saw it happen in real time—no hesitation, no internal debate, just pure Hikari instinct kicking in like a switch had flipped. She wiped her hands on a napkin, straightened her posture like she was about to walk into a job interview, and stood up.
“Hikari—no,” you hissed, already halfway out of your seat. “Absolutely not.”
She didn’t even look back.
“Relax,” she called over her shoulder. “I’m just saying hi.”
“That is how horror stories start!”
But she was already walking.
At the table behind you, the blonde looked up first—mid-conversation with the man beside him—expression shifting from neutral to slightly surprised, then politely attentive. The man in black reacted instantly, body tightening, shoulders squaring as Hikari stopped directly in front of them like she belonged there.
“Hi,” she said brightly, clasping her hands together. “I’m Hikari.”
There was a beat of silence.
The man in black didn’t move for a second. Then slowly, he lifted his cap just enough to see better, and tugged his mask down so his voice came through clearer.
His eyes were sharp. Focused. The kind of look that didn’t miss details—it analysed them.
“If you’re a sasaeng,” he said flatly in Korean, “you need to stop following people like this. It’s an invasion of privacy.”
The temperature at the table dropped instantly.
Hikari blinked.
Once.
Twice.
“…I’m sorry?” she said, still polite, but now visibly confused.
The blonde immediately reacted—reaching out and lightly smacking the man’s arm.
“Bro,” he said, switching effortlessly into English, tone more amused than hostile. “That’s not nice.”
Then he looked at Hikari and softened immediately, offering a quick, reassuring smile. “Don’t worry about him. Be nice to the pretty lady. She’s clearly not from here.”
That did it.
Hikari visibly short-circuited for half a second at “pretty lady,” like her brain had paused buffering.
Then she recovered instantly, posture resetting.
The blonde tilted his head slightly, still smiling. “Hi, I’m Park Jimin.”
Before Hikari could even react properly, the man in black let out a quiet scoff and turned sharply toward him.
“Are you serious?” he said, switching into English now, voice lower but edged with irritation.
Jimin blinked. “What?”
“You know damn well there are foreign sasaengs too,” the man in black continued, tone controlled but sharp. “They act clueless like they don’t know us, and next thing you know they’re trying to break into your house, telling security they’re your friends.”
Hikari went completely still.
You could see it—she didn’t understand every word, but she understood enough. The tone. The accusation. The assumption sitting under it like a weight.
Her expression shifted immediately from excitement to offence.
And something in your chest snapped into focus.
You were already standing.
“Hikari,” you said quickly under your breath, but she didn’t hear you.
Or didn’t register it.
So you walked.
Not rushed. Not aggressive. Just firm—cutting cleanly through the space between tables until you were directly in front of her.
You positioned yourself without thinking, shoulder slightly angled to shield her.
Then you looked at the man in black.
Up close, the intensity was worse. Not threatening—but guarded. Like someone who had learned to assume danger first and apologise later. Cap low, dark clothing, jaw set in a way that suggested he was already regretting having to deal with this situation.
You spoke in Korean, calm but firm.
“My friend is not a stalker,” you said clearly. “And she would never break into anyone’s house. We don’t even know who you are. So maybe don’t assume the worst of people and—” your eyes narrowed slightly “—pipe down on the ego a bit.”
Silence.
The blonde—Jimin—snorted softly under his breath, leaning back in his chair like he’d just witnessed something mildly entertaining.
“Okay,” he muttered, half-laughing. “She got you there.”
The man in black blinked once, caught slightly off guard—not by the words, but by how directly they landed. His gaze flicked briefly between you and Hikari like he was recalculating the entire situation.
Jimin tilted his head, still amused. “You really needed that.”
Hikari, still behind you, whispered urgently, “Wait—am I in trouble or did I just get defended?”
“Both,” you muttered without looking back.
The air at the table shifted. Less sharp now. Less hostile. More… uncertain.
Not resolved. Just recalibrated.
You exhaled slowly through your nose, then reached back and grabbed Hikari’s wrist.
“Come on,” you said firmly. “We’re done. Sit down. Finish eating. We’re leaving.”
“I didn’t even get to introduce my personality properly,” she protested as you tugged her back.
“You introduced enough.”
She stumbled slightly as you guided her back into the booth, still twisting her head over her shoulder like she was trying to process the entire encounter in real time.
“Okay,” she said slowly once seated. “That was… not on my bingo card.”
“Yes,” you replied flatly.
She picked up her chopsticks again like nothing had happened. “But also… I think I just got called pretty by Park Jimin.”
“You got accused of breaking into someone’s house.”
“Details.”
You stared at her. “That’s not details. That’s the main issue.”
Hikari leaned forward slightly, lowering her voice like this was suddenly a private conversation again.
“I don’t think he meant it,” she said gently. “He was just… defensive.”
“That doesn’t make it okay.”
“I know.” She reached across the table and covered your hand with hers, grounding. “But I’m fine.”
You frowned slightly. “I don’t like people speaking to you like that.”
Hikari squeezed your hand once. “I know.”
A pause.
The noise of the restaurant slowly filled the space again—the clatter of plates, low conversation, the faint hiss from the kitchen. The world moving on like nothing had just shifted.
Then Hikari nudged your foot under the table.
“Also,” she said lightly, “you fully just told off a man in Korean like it was a court cross-examination. That was kind of terrifying in a hot way.”
You let out a short, reluctant laugh despite yourself. “Don’t start.”
“Oh I’m starting a campaign,” she said immediately. “Future solicitor energy. Ten out of ten intimidation factor.”
“I want to leave the country.”
“After dessert.”
You were still staring at the table when Hikari nudged your foot again, gently this time.
“Okay,” she said, voice lighter, deliberately pulling the air back up. “We are not spiralling. We are resetting.”
“I’m not spiralling.”
“You’re doing the silent angry chewing thing. That’s spiralling.”
You paused. Slowly swallowed. “It’s just… unbelievable.”
“I know,” she said immediately, softer. “But it’s done. Gone. Out of our timeline.”
“That’s not how time works.”
“It is in my system.”
You let out a breath through your nose, finally picking up your chopsticks again. The food was still warm, untouched chaos on the table between you.
Hikari leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. “So. Internship.”
You looked at her. “What about it.”
“This is me redirecting your brain before it turns into legal rage soup.”
“I don’t have legal rage soup.”
“You absolutely do. It’s simmering.”
You huffed a laugh despite yourself. “I’m in comparative constitutional law for six weeks. It’s going to be reading, note-taking, and pretending I understand twenty-page judgments in one sitting.”
“That sounds sexy,” she said instantly.
“It sounds like suffering.”
“It sounds like future lawyer main character arc.”
You shook your head, finally relaxing back into the booth. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m supportive.”
“You’re delusional.”
“I’m optimistic.”
There was a pause, then Hikari tilted her head. “Okay but imagine. You walk into the firm, everyone’s stressed, everything’s formal, and then you walk in like—” she straightened her posture dramatically, voice dropping “—‘Good morning, I understand constitutional frameworks and I will ruin your ego in litigation.’”
You snorted. “That is not what I sound like.”
“It is in my dreams.”
“That’s terrifying.”
She grinned. “You’re going to be fine, though. You always are.”
You picked at your noodles. “I hope so.”
“You will be.” She said it more firmly this time. “You’re not the type to not figure things out.”
You glanced up at her. “That’s a lot of faith in someone who almost died emotionally over no internship replies.”
“I said almost.”
You rolled your eyes, but your shoulders had loosened now. “What about you, then? What’s your plan for this trip? Besides traumatising strangers in restaurants.”
“I don’t traumatise—”
“You absolutely do.”
“Fine,” she conceded. “Besides enriching the local economy and being culturally immersive.”
“You mean flirting.”
“I mean networking.”
“Same thing in your vocabulary.”
Hikari smiled, unbothered. “I’m going to find you a nice Korean man.”
You froze mid-bite. “Absolutely not.”
“Why not?”
“Did you miss the entire last ten minutes of my life?”
“That man was one experience,” she said, waving a hand. “We don’t judge an entire population on one emotionally constipated individual.”
“I am judging him specifically.”
“Fair. He was rude.”
“He called you a stalker.”
“He assumed incorrectly,” she corrected. “But still. We move.”
You stared at her. “We are not ‘moving’ into me finding a man.”
“Why are you so against it?”
“Because I didn’t come to Seoul for romance. I came for law. And peace. And maybe slightly less academic burnout.”
Hikari leaned in again, smiling mischievously. “And yet somehow you still got emotionally adopted by chaos in under three hours.”
“That was not adoption.”
“That was destiny.”
You pointed at her with your chopsticks. “Do not start that again.”
She raised both hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. No destiny. Just vibes.”
“Better.”
“But I am serious about one thing,” she added, softer now. “You need to stop letting one rude guy in a restaurant ruin your whole night.”
You exhaled. “He didn’t ruin my night.”
“You were two seconds away from prosecuting him in public.”
“He deserved it.”
“He might have been stressed too.”
“That’s not my problem.”
Hikari smiled gently. “Exactly. It’s not your problem.”
You looked at her properly then, tension slowly fading again. “You’re trying to distract me.”
“Yes.”
“It’s working a little.”
“I know.” She tapped her glass lightly against yours. “Now eat your food before I decide your next emotional crisis is dessert-based.”
You laughed under your breath. “That’s not a thing.”
“It can be.”
“You’re exhausting.”
“And yet,” she said proudly, “you love me.”
You shook your head, finally picking up another dumpling. “Unfortunately.”
“Good,” she said brightly. “Because tomorrow, we’re exploring properly. No phones, no LinkedIn spirals, no existential dread.”
“I don’t spiral.”
“You spiralled in the airport.”
“That was research.”
“That was despair.”
You were still halfway turned toward Hikari when you muttered, “I’m going to go pay before you decide dessert is a personality trait.”
Hikari didn’t even look up, just casually twirled her chopsticks like she had all the time in the world. “Too late. It already is.”
You shot her a look. “You’re actually impossible.”
“And yet,” she said, finally glancing up at you with a completely unbothered smile, “you’re still sitting here.”
“That’s not a choice. That’s survival.”
She laughed under her breath and waved you off. “Go. Before I order something dramatic.”
“You already did.”
“I can always escalate.”
You shook your head and walked to the counter.
The front of the restaurant was quieter—warmer somehow, like the noise from your table hadn’t fully reached here. The staff were moving slowly, cleaning up between orders. The woman at the register looked up with a polite, practiced smile.
You spoke in Korean, softer but clear. “Hi, can I get the bill for table—”
She glanced at the screen, then back at you.
“It has already been paid for,” she said gently.
For a second, you just stood there, trying to make that sentence fit into any version of reality that made sense.
“…That’s not possible,” you said slowly. “We literally just finished eating.”
“Excuse me.”
The voice came from just behind you.
Not loud. Not aggressive.
Just close enough that it cut cleanly through your thoughts.
You turned your head first—then fully turned.
And there he was.
The black-haired man from earlier.
But now, without the mask, without the cap, without the barrier of distance or chaos, he looked different in a way your brain didn’t appreciate.
Up close, his features were sharper—defined jaw, straight nose, lips that had a silver ring through the lower one that caught the restaurant lighting every time he moved. A small eyebrow piercing sat above one eye, subtle but impossible to ignore now that you’d seen it. His hair was dark, slightly messy, falling forward in a way that looked unintentional but somehow suited him too well.
His jacket was off, hanging loosely from one hand, revealing more of his frame and the full sleeve of tattoos running down his arm—intricate patterns layered like they meant something personal rather than decorative.
And his eyes—calmer now. Less defensive than earlier, but still alert, like he didn’t fully trust how this conversation was about to go.
He cleared his throat once, a small, controlled sound that made the space feel like it had shifted slightly toward him.
“I paid,” he said, voice steady but a little careful, like he was choosing every word. “For your table.”
You blinked once.
Then slowly turned your head toward the counter again like there was a second explanation hiding somewhere behind the register.
“…You paid…” you repeated flatly.
“Yes.”
You blinked.
Then immediately scoffed. “Why?”
His brows lifted slightly. “Because I wanted to apologise.”
You let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “No. That’s not an apology. That’s you trying to outsource accountability with noodles and guilt money.”
Behind him, the blonde at the table leaned back like he was watching the best free entertainment of the night.
The black-haired man exhaled through his nose. “That’s not what I’m doing.”
“It’s exactly what it looks like,” you shot back. “You don’t get to call my friend a stalker, embarrass her in public, and then think you can just… pay your way out of it.”
“I didn’t say I was buying forgiveness,” he replied, sharper now.
“You didn’t have to,” you snapped. “You did it anyway.”
A beat.
Then he tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing. “You always like this? I’m starting to think you fight people for a living. You secretly in the special services or what?”
Then you stepped forward slightly, expression completely flat.
“Even worse,” you said.
He blinked.
You held his gaze dead steady.
“Law student.”
Silence.
Even the blonde stopped laughing for a second.
The black-haired man stared at you like he was recalibrating everything he thought he knew about the last five minutes.
“You’re a law student,” he repeated slowly.
“Yes,” you said. “So when I tell you you can’t just assume things about people and fix it with money, I’m not being difficult. I’m explaining reality to you.”
A faint exhale left him—half laugh, half disbelief.
“Oh,” he said. “That explains the attitude.”
Your eyes narrowed immediately. “Attitude?”
“Yeah,” he said, a small smirk forming now despite himself. “The whole ‘I will cross-examine you in public over noodles’ energy.”
“I’m holding you accountable,” you corrected.
“Same thing.”
“It is not the same thing.”
“It feels like the same thing.”
You stepped closer. “It feels like that because you’re wrong.”
He let out a quiet breath, shaking his head slightly. “You’re actually unbelievable.”
“And you’re actually insufferable,” you shot back.
Behind him, the blonde leaned forward again, clearly enjoying how quickly this had escalated again.
The black-haired man didn’t look back this time. His focus stayed on you.
“You really think you can just lecture strangers like that?” he asked.
“I think I can correct disrespect when I see it,” you said immediately.
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It’s called having standards.”
“It’s called entitlement.”
That landed sharper.
You pointed at him. “Entitlement? From you? You accused my friend of something serious, and then tried to erase it with a restaurant bill.”
“I already told you that wasn’t the point.”
“It doesn’t matter what your point was,” you snapped. “It’s still wrong.”
A pause.
He nodded slowly. “You’d be terrifying in court.”
“I know,” you said immediately.
That actually made him pause.
Then, almost like he was testing you now, he added, “You plus that ugly wig would honestly be lethal.”
Your expression went very still.
“Oh my God,” you said slowly. “First of all, those wigs are for barristers, not solicitors.”
He smirked, clearly amused that he’d touched a nerve.
You pointed at him. “Don’t get smug.”
“You were loud.”
“I was accurate.”
“You were rude.”
“I was cautious.”
“You were wrong.”
“I apologised.”
“That’s not enough.”
“What do you want then?” he asked, voice edging a little sharper again. “A formal apology? A written statement? A whole courtroom drama?”
You leaned in slightly. “Don’t tempt me.”
That made him pause.
Then he let out a short laugh. “You actually would enjoy that.”
“I would enjoy you understanding consequences.”
He looked at you for a second longer, then exhaled slowly like he’d decided this conversation was never going to end peacefully.
“You’re very intense,” he said, not as an insult this time, more like an observation he couldn’t ignore.
You scoffed immediately. “And you’re very comfortable insulting strangers you don’t know.”
“I didn’t insult—”
“You did,” you cut in. “You assumed intent without knowing anything about the situation.”
His lips pressed together briefly, then he nodded once. “Yeah. I did.”
That answer threw you off for half a second.
Not the denial you expected.
But you didn’t soften.
“Right,” you said instead. “So we agree on that part.”
A pause hung between you.
Then he spoke again, slightly lighter but still careful. “I’m Jeon Jungkook.”
He said it like it mattered.
Like it was supposed to land in a certain way.
You looked at him for a second, expression unchanged.
“Okay,” you said simply.
That clearly wasn’t the reaction he expected.
His brow lifted slightly. “That’s it?”
You shrugged faintly. “Should there be more?”
“I told you my name.”
“And I didn’t ask for it,” you replied evenly.
That made something in his expression twitch—half disbelief, half amusement trying to surface.
He leaned slightly on his heel, eyes still on you. “So you’re just not going to tell me yours?”
You tilted your head. “Why would I?”
A faint smirk appeared on his face now, like he was starting to enjoy this despite himself.
“Seems fair,” he said, voice a little lighter. “But still.”
You crossed your arms. “Still what?”
“You’re just going to leave me with nothing?”
You gave him a look. “You’re a stranger I argued with for ten minutes. I think you’ll recover.”
That made him actually huff a quiet laugh.
From behind him, the blonde leaned back further in his chair, clearly entertained now.
Jungkook glanced over briefly, then back at you, the smirk still there but softer at the edges.
“You don’t usually introduce yourself?” he asked.
“Not when I’ve just been accused of being in a hostage situation at dinner, no.”
His expression flickered—like he was reminded of earlier.
“…That wasn’t what I meant,” he said.
“It’s what you said,” you replied instantly.
Another pause.
Then he exhaled slowly. “You really don’t let things go, do you?”
You stepped slightly closer to the counter, grabbing your bag from where it rested. “I don’t let disrespect slide, no.”
He watched you for a second, then tilted his head slightly again.
“So what, I’m just supposed to accept being wrong and move on?”
“Yes,” you said simply.
“I apologised.”
“That was avoidance.”
He stepped slightly closer now, not aggressively, just enough that the conversation tightened again.
“You’re loud,” he said again, like he was revisiting the earlier conclusion.
“I’m clear,” you corrected immediately.
“That’s just loud with structure.”
“I’m going to ignore that sentence.”
“You can’t just ignore it.”
“I just did.”
He smiled slightly wider now. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re still standing here arguing with me,” you shot back.
Then he said, quieter but amused, “So are you.”
That landed in a different way.
You stared at him for a second longer, then shifted your bag onto your shoulder.
Hikari had already gotten up behind you, hovering like she had no idea whether to be impressed or terrified.
You grabbed her wrist without looking away from him.
“Come on,” you said flatly.
“Wait—my food—” she started.
“You’ll survive.”
“I was in the middle of—”
“I don’t care.”
You finally looked away from him, just slightly, as you started walking.
No goodbye.
No closure.
Just the sound of your steps and Hikari stumbling slightly behind you.
Behind you, you could hear him still.
Not following.
Just watching.
And, just before the door, his voice cut through once more—lighter now, almost amused.
“You still didn’t tell me your name.”
You didn’t turn around.
“Pity.” you said instead before smashing the door closed behind you.
[ 🐚 ] : stranded in an abandoned lighthouse in the middle of the ocean surrounded by blood hungry sharks, two enemies are forced from wanting to kill each other into survival, where desire slowly begins to take place between their pain and hatred, with no way to escape or call for help things grow even more terrifying when they realize they aren’t the only ones in the lighthouse, someone is sabotaging them.. almost feeding off their fears, who will strike first — the thing hunting them or their own feelings?
✶ PAIRING › shark specialist!jungkook x investigator!f.reader
✶ GENRE › survival au, forced proximity, enemies to lovers, grumpy x grumpy, dark romance, marine biologist!jungkook, forensic investigator!reader, one night stand, slowburn, psychological horror, mystery thriller, fwb, forbidden attraction, pining and yearning, love/hate relationship, crime, romance, smut, fluff, angst
✶ WARNINGS › 18+, explicit sex scenes, mature themes, emotional abuse and trauma, dark aspects, paranormal aspects, violence, blood and gore, drowning themes, shark attacks and details of injury, paranoia, panic attacks, fear play, masochism, mention of deaths, smoking and alcohol consumption, fear of love, self-harm, love confessions and confrontation, each chapter contains their individual warnings (reader discretion is advised due to the dark and potentially triggering content)
Summary: Your best friends sets you up to an Blind date.
What you don´t know is that your date is none other than Jeon Jungkook.
A/N: I hope you guys like it, I never wrote storys longer than one chapter but after my last one got so much love I tried it again.
The steam from the spicy tteokbokki rose between you and Minho, blurring the neon lights of the small, crowded eatery. It was one of those dinners you had every few weeks a tradition that usually involved Minho complaining about his choreography and you complaining about your boss.
"You're doing that thing again," you said, pointing your chopsticks at him.
Minho paused, a piece of fish cake halfway to his mouth. "What thing?"
"The 'I’m-about-to-mess-with-your-life' face. Just say it."
Minho grinned, leaning over the table. He looked around to make sure no one was eavesdropping before dropping his voice. "I’m setting you up. Blind date. This Friday."
You groaned, leaning back into the plastic chair. "Minho, no. The last time you set me up, the guy spent forty minutes explaining the 'lore' of his NFT collection. I'm still recovering."
"This is different," Minho insisted, his expression shifting into something unusually serious. "He’s a good person. Genuine. But he’s… well, he’s in a position where it’s hard for him to meet people who don't want something from him. I told him about you. I told him you’re the most grounded person I know."
"Who is he?" you asked, suspicious of the sudden mystery.
"I’m not telling you his name. If I do, you’ll look him up, you’ll get in your head about it, and you’ll ruin the vibe. Just show up at The Gilded Lily at 8:00 PM. Wear something nice, but be yourself."
You squinted at him. "Is he a criminal? Why the secrecy?"
"The opposite," Minho laughed, picking up his phone. He started typing rapidly, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "I’m actually texting him right now to confirm. I’m telling him exactly who he’s dealing with."
"What are you saying?"
Minho read the screen aloud as he typed: "She’s like a little sister to me, so if you're awkward, I’ll find out. But more importantly, if you break her heart, I’m the one who’s going to make your life miserable."
"Minho!" You reached for his phone, but he pulled it away, laughing.
"I’m serious, Y/N," he said, his tone softening as he tucked his phone back into his pocket. "He’s a big deal to the rest of the world, but he needs someone who sees him for who he is. Just promise me you'll give him a chance. No research, no googling. Just a dinner."
You sighed, looking at your reflection in the window of the shop. "Fine. One dinner. But if he talks about NFTs, I’m calling you to come 'rescue' your best friend."
"Deal," Minho smirked. "But somehow, I don't think you'll be calling me for a rescue this time."
The nervous energy was finally starting to settle in your chest as you stared at the contents of your wardrobe. Friday had arrived far too quickly, and Minho’s cryptic warnings were playing on a loop in your head.
With a frustrated huff, you grabbed your phone and hit the video call button. Naemi’s face popped up almost instantly, her screen shaky as she propped her phone up against a pile of books.
"The time has come!" she squealed, not even waiting for you to say hello. "Show me the options. And don't you dare suggest that oversized beige sweater."
"Minho said 'nice,' but not 'trying too hard,'" you murmured, holding up a floral wrap dress and then a silk skirt.
"Boring. Next," Naemi countered, leaning closer to her camera. "Y/N, this guy is a big deal according to Minho. You need to look like the girl who is completely unfazed by a big deal."
After ten minutes of debating, your eyes landed on something at the back of the closet. You pulled it out: a black, long-sleeve midi dress. It was made of a soft, ribbed material that hugged every curve of your silhouette, ending just below the knee with a subtle side slit.
"That's the one," Naemi said, her voice dropping to a whisper of approval. "Put it on. Now."
While you changed, you kept the conversation going. "I'm still annoyed Minho won't tell me his name. It feels like I'm walking into an ambush."
"Or a fairytale," Naemi countered. "Just think... if Minho is acting this protective, the guy must be someone special. Now, what are we doing with the hair?"
You sat down at your vanity, unpinning the large clips you’d used to set your hair. As you brushed it out, thick, glossy waves tumbled over your shoulders. You decided to leave it open, the dark strands contrasting perfectly against the black fabric of the dress.
"You look incredible," Naemi said, her expression softening. "Seriously, Y/N. You look like a dream. Whoever this mystery man is, he’s going to be the one who's nervous, not you."
You took a final look in the full-length mirror. The dress was sleek, the waves were soft, and you felt more like yourself than you had in weeks.
"Okay," you breathed out, grabbing your small clutch bag. "I'm heading out. Wish me luck."
"You don't need luck," Naemi winked before hanging up. "Just don't forget to text me the second you see his face!"
You took one last deep breath, checked your reflection, and headed for the door. The Gilded Lily was waiting, and so was he.
The cool evening air of Seoul hit your face as you stepped out of the subway station. Even in your heels, the walk to The Gilded Lily was short. You navigated the bustling sidewalks, the black fabric of your dress catching the glow of the overhead neon signs.
As the restaurant's elegant gold-trimmed door came into view, your heart did a nervous little somersault. You smoothed your dress one last time and pushed through.
The interior was draped in soft amber light, smelling of expensive wine and roasted herbs. You scanned the room, your eyes landing on a table in a private corner.
Your breath hitched.
Sitting there was a man who looked like he had been pulled straight from a cinematic masterpiece. Even in a simple, crisp button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up and dark jeans, he radiated an effortless, magnetic energy. His dark hair was styled softly, framing a face that was too beautiful to be sitting alone at a blind date table.
There’s no way, you thought, feeling a sudden urge to turn around and check if you were in the right restaurant. Minho must have sent me to the wrong place.
Someone like Jeon Jungkook doesn't get set up on blind dates.
You hesitated, frozen near the host stand, when his eyes met yours. A look of recognition and then a genuine, shy smile broke across his face. He stood up immediately, his movements graceful yet slightly nervous.
"Y/N?" he asked, his voice a smooth, low melody that made your toes curl in your shoes.
"Yes," you managed to breathe out, finally finding your feet and walking toward him. "And you’re... Jungkook?"
"I am," he said, stepping out from behind the table to greet you. Instead of a stiff handshake, he gave a polite, respectful bow, his eyes never leaving yours. "Minho didn't lie. He said I’d recognize you the moment you walked in because you’d be the one making everyone else in the room disappear."
Well he was charming.
He pulled out your chair for you, his hand briefly hovering near the small of your back in a protective, gentlemanly gesture.
"I hope the subway wasn't too crowded," he added softly as he sat back down, leaning in as if there was no one else in the world but you. "Thank you for coming. I know Minho was being... difficult with the details."
"Difficult is an understatement," you laughed, finally starting to relax under his warm gaze. "He treated your name like a state secret."
Jungkook chuckled, a rich, boyish sound. "In his defense, I asked him to. I wanted tonight to just be... us. Not the big deal he probably warned you about. Just Jungkook."
As the waiter approached, you realized that despite his fame, the man sitting across from you wasn't looking for an audience. He was looking at you, and for the first time all night, the drama of who he was felt miles away.
The waiter left two menus on the table, and for a moment, a heavy, silence settled between you. It was that classic, awkward first date tension, the kind where you’re suddenly hyper-aware of how you’re sitting, where your hands are, and the fact that you’re essentially strangers tasked with being charming.
The fact that he was Jeon Jungkook added a layer of surrealism, but the awkwardness was human. It was the way he fiddled with the corner of his cloth napkin, and the way you took a very long, unnecessary sip of water.
"So," you both said at the exact same time.
Jungkook let out a breathy laugh, ducking his head. "You go first."
"I was just going to say," you started, giving him a small, sheepish smile, "that Minho told me I wasn't allowed to Google you. So, I spent the whole train ride here trying to fight the urge to open Safari."
Jungkook’s eyes lit up, his shoulders finally losing some of their rigidity. "And? Did you win the fight?"
"I did. But mostly because the 3G in the tunnel was terrible," you joked.
He laughed, a genuine sound that reached his eyes, crinkling the corners. "I’m glad. It’s... it’s actually a relief. Usually, people have a whole biography of me memorized before we even say hello. It makes me feel like I’m auditioning for my own life."
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. The sleeves of his shirt were pushed up, revealing the intricate ink on his arm, but his expression was soft.
"To be honest," he admitted, lowering his voice, "I’ve been sitting here for fifteen minutes rehearsing how to say hello without sounding like a dork. Minho is like a brother to me, and he was very clear that if I messed this up, he’d make me do extra choreography for a month."
You felt a bridge forming over the awkwardness. "He told me the same thing. He said if you were boring, I should call him for a 'rescue.'"
Jungkook tilted his head, a playful smirk dancing on his lips. "And? Are you reaching for your phone yet?"
"Not yet," you replied, meeting his gaze. "The night is young, Jungkook. You still have time to tell me about your NFT collection or something equally tragic."
He let out a loud, delighted bark of laughter that drew a few eyes from the neighboring tables, but he didn't seem to care. The stiff idol energy was gone, replaced by a warmth that felt surprisingly intimate.
"I promise," he said, raising a hand as if taking an oath, "no NFTs. Just good food and hopefully... a version of me that isn't on a poster."
As the waiter returned to take your order, the blind date jitters began to melt away, replaced by the effortless hum of a conversation that felt like it had been waiting to happen for a long time.
The appetizers arrived a delicate beef tartare but the food quickly became secondary to the rhythm of the conversation. You realized that the best way to handle his fame was to simply ignore it, treating his stories about world tours with the same casual interest you’d give a friend talking about a business trip.
"You're remarkably calm," he noted, tilting his head as he watched you expertly navigate the conversation. "Usually, when I mention the members or a stadium, there’s a flicker of... something. But you just want to know if the catering was any good."
"Well, was it?" you asked with a grin. "I have my priorities, Jungkook. High-production sets are cool, but a cold buffet is a tragedy."
He grinned, leaning back. "It was actually pretty good. But honestly? I’d rather be in my kitchen at home. I’ve been getting really into making my own ramen broth lately. It takes like twelve hours, and I just sit there watching it simmer like a madman."
"A perfectionist in the kitchen," you teased. "I should have guessed."
"It's therapeutic," he admitted, his eyes sparkling. "Just like gaming. Sometimes I lose track of time. I’ll start a round at 10:00 PM and suddenly the sun is coming up, and I realize I’ve been yelling at a monitor for six hours. It’s the only time I’m not 'Jungkook' I’m just a guy getting frustrated by a laggy connection."
As the main course was served, he pulled out his phone, but not to check social media. "Wait, I have to show you the real boss of my house."
He flipped the screen around to show a photo of a massive, sleek Doberman with soulful eyes. "This is Bam. He looks intimidating, but he’s basically a giant, oversized lap dog. He’s the only one who doesn't care about my schedule or my awards. He just wants his ears scratched."
You leaned in, looking at the photo of the dog leaning against Jungkook's leg. "He’s beautiful. He has your eyes."
Jungkook let out a bright laugh, tucking the phone away. "I’ll take that as a compliment."
The conversation drifted naturally. He told you about the quiet moments in Busan, the smell of the sea, and how he sometimes misses the simplicity of just being a kid. There were moments where his reality seeped in mentioning security protocols or the strange feeling of seeing his own face on a bus but he said it without ego.
It was just his "normal," and you listened without making it a spectacle.
By the time the dessert menus arrived, the initial awkwardness had completely vanished. You weren't thinking about his millions of followers or his chart-topping hits.
You were thinking about the way he gestured with his hands when he was excited about a new game, and how he seemed genuinely curious about your life in return.
"You know," he said softly, stirring his coffee, "Minho was right about you."
"Oh? What did he say?"
"He said you wouldn't be impressed by me," Jungkook smiled, his gaze intense yet kind. "And that's exactly why I’d actually be able to talk to you. He was right. This is the first time in a long time I haven't felt like I'm on a stage."
You felt a flush creep up your neck, the black fabric of your dress suddenly feeling a little warmer. "I’m glad, Jungkook. You’re much more interesting than a poster anyway."
As the dinner came to an end, the waiter discreetly placed the bill on the table. Before you could even reach for your clutch, Jungkook had already tucked his card into the leather folder with a practiced, effortless flick of his wrist.
"Jungkook, wait—" you started, but he held up a hand, a playful but firm smile on his lips.
"Don't," he said softly. "It’s been a long time since I got to just be a guy taking a girl out for a great dinner. Let me have this."
You gave him a mock-reproachful look but relented. As you both stood up and headed toward the exit, the cool night air of Seoul greeted you again. The street was quieter now, the city lights reflecting in the dark windows of the boutiques.
Jungkook turned to you, his hands tucked into his denim pockets. He looked effortlessly cool, but there was a flicker of hopefulness in his eyes. "My car is parked just around the corner. Can I drive you home, Y/N? It’s getting late."
You looked at him for a moment, then slowly shook your head with a small, knowing smile. "It was a wonderful night, Jungkook. Truly. But I have a rule: I don't let dates drive me home on the first night. It keeps things... grounded."
Jungkook paused, clearly surprised for a split second, before a wide, boyish grin broke across his face. He let out a soft chuckle, nodding his head in respect. "Grounded. I like that. Honestly, I should have expected that from a friend of Minho’s."
"It’s just a few stops on the Green Line," you added, adjusting your bag over your shoulder. "I'll be fine."
"Promise to text me when you’re inside?" he asked, stepping a bit closer. The scent of his subtle, woody cologne caught in the breeze.
"I'll text you," you promised.
He stood there, watching you as you began to walk toward the glowing entrance of the subway station.
Just before you descended the stairs, you turned back. He hadn't moved an inch; he was still standing under the streetlamp, a lone, handsome figure in a simple shirt and jeans, looking like a dream you might wake up from.
He raised a hand in a small wave, his grin still visible even from a distance.
As you swiped your card at the turnstile and waited for the train, your heart was thumping a rhythm that had nothing to do with the city's pace. You pulled out your phone and saw a message from Minho: 'Is he a dork? Should I come get you?'
You smiled to yourself, typing back: 'Put your phone away, Minho. He's definitely not a dork.'
The train pulled into the station, and as you stepped on, you were already thinking about the way Jungkook’s eyes crinkled when he laughed and wondering if there would be a second time.
Once you were safely inside your apartment, the silence of the room felt loud compared to the hum of the evening. You kicked off your heels with a sigh of relief and immediately reached for your phone.
To: Jungkook
Just walked through my door. Thank you again for tonight, the food was amazing, but the company was even better. Sleep well!
You watched the screen for a moment. Almost instantly, the "typing" bubbles appeared.
A small, fluttering feeling took hold in your chest. You set the phone down and headed to the bathroom, pulling your hair back into a messy bun. As you swiped a cotton pad soaked in micellar water across your skin, removing the makeup Naemi had helped you perfect, your phone began to vibrate on the counter.
It was Minho. You picked up on the second ring.
"So?" his voice boomed through the speaker, sounding far too energetic for the hour. "Do I need to find a new best friend or a new brother?"
"Hi, Minho," you laughed, leaning against the sink and looking at your bare face in the mirror. "No one needs to be replaced. Yet."
"He texted me," Minho said, his tone shifting to one of pure smugness. "All he said was: 'She didn't let me drive her home. I like her.' You really pulled the first date rule on a global superstar?"
"He’s not a 'superstar' when he’s talking about his dog and burnt ramen, Minho. He’s just a guy. A very polite, slightly nervous guy."
"He was nervous?" Minho sounded delighted. "Good. He should be. But seriously, Y/N... you liked him? The real him?"
You softened, tracing the edge of the sink with your finger. "Yeah. I did. He’s... he’s a lot more than I expected. He’s grounded, despite everything. It didn't feel like a blind date with a celebrity. It just felt like a date."
"I knew it" Minho murmured, and for once, there was no teasing in his voice. "He needed someone who wouldn't treat him like a trophy. And you needed someone who could actually keep up with you."
"Don't get ahead of yourself," you warned, though you couldn't stop smiling. "It was just one dinner."
"One dinner that ended with him 'still smiling,'" Minho countered. "I’ve known that kid for years, Y/N. He doesn't say things like that just to be polite. Get some sleep. I have a feeling your phone is going to be busy tomorrow."
After you hung up, you finished your skincare routine and crawled into bed. Just as you were drifting off, your phone buzzed one last time. It wasn't Minho.
From: Jungkook
I’m heading to Busan for a few days to see my family. It’s quiet there. I’d love to show it to you properly while I’m there?
You bit your lip, the moonlight filtering through your curtains. The drama of his world felt far away, but the spark of something new was very, very close.
You stared at the message, a playful spark lighting up your eyes. You knew Busan was his sanctuary, a place away from the flashing lights of Seoul, and the fact that he was already mentioning it made your heart do a little somersault.
You typed out your reply, keeping the tone light and just a bit teasing.
To: Jungkook
Busan? You’re moving fast, Mr. Jeon. Do you usually take every girl you meet to your hometown after just one dinner? 😉
You paused, then added another line:
But honestly, I’ve always wanted to go to Busan. I’ve heard the ocean air there is different.
You hit send and tossed your phone onto the pillow, rolling onto your side. A few minutes later, the screen lit up again.
From: Jungkook
Only the ones who make me forget my own name for a second. And you're right the air is different. It’s better. I’ll start planning.
You fell asleep with a smile on your face, the sound of the city outside your window fading into dreams of crashing waves and pepperoni pizza.
The next morning, the sunlight streaming through your window felt a little brighter than usual. You were lounging on your sofa with a cup of coffee when your phone buzzed. Naemi’s face flashed on the screen. You took a deep breath, bracing yourself; you knew she was going to grill you for every single detail.
"Spill! Everything!" she screamed the moment you picked up. "I stayed up until 1:00 AM waiting for a text! Did he have two heads? Was he a weirdo? Please tell me he was at least handsome."
You leaned back, a small smile playing on your lips. "He definitely didn't have two heads, Naemi. And yes... he was incredibly handsome. Like, 'forget-how-to-breathe' handsome."
"Oh, thank god," Naemi sighed dramatically. "And? Was he boring? Did he talk about his crypto-wallet?"
"Not once," you laughed. "Actually, he was the opposite. He was shy, really polite, and we ended up talking for hours about... normal things. Cooking, his dog, how much he loves gaming. He’s actually a huge dork."
"A handsome dork? That’s the most dangerous kind," she warned, though you could hear her grinning. "So, who is he? Minho acted like he was the King of Korea. Is he a CEO? An actor? A secret billionaire?"
You hesitated. You weren't ready to drop the 'Jungkook' bomb just yet. You wanted to keep this feeling the feeling of him just being a guy you liked a little longer before the reality of his fame crashed in.
"He’s... successful," you said vaguely. "In a creative field. Minho was being dramatic because they've known each other for a long time. But honestly, Naemi, it didn't feel like a big deal date. It just felt like... a connection."
"You're being suspiciously mysterious, Y/N," Naemi narrowed her eyes at the camera. "But I'll let it slide for now because you look happy. You have that first date glow. So, is there going to be a second one?"
"He actually already asked," you admitted, your heart fluttering again. "He’s in Busan right now visiting family, and he suggested I come down there to see it with him."
"Busan?! On a second date?" Naemi shrieked. "Girl, he is not playing around! That’s a serious move. Are you going?"
"I think I am," you whispered, looking at the text from Jungkook still sitting on your screen. "I’ve always wanted to see the ocean there."
"Well," Naemi smirked, "just make sure you pack that black dress. Or maybe something even better. If this guy is taking you to the coast, you need to look unforgettable."
You laughed and chatted for another hour, keeping his identity tucked away like a precious secret. You knew the drama would come eventually, but for now, it was just you, a girl with a crush, and a train ticket to the sea.
The excitement was a low hum in your veins as you pulled your small weekend bag from the top of the closet.
You folded a breezy, sundress in a soft cream color, perfect for the coast, and tucked in a pair of minimalist strappy sandals. A few essentials, a light cardigan for the sea breeze, and your favorite book went in next. As you zipped the bag, you felt a flutter of nerves. This wasn't just a trip to the beach it was a trip into his world.
You pulled up the KTX booking app on your phone, scrolling through the departures from Seoul Station. Once you found a seat on the Saturday morning express, you took a deep breath and opened your chat with Jungkook.
To: Jungkook
I just finished packing. I hope you’re ready, because I officially booked my ticket. I’ll be arriving at Busan Station on Saturday at 11:30 AM. Don't worry, I brought comfortable shoes just in case you try to make me hike a mountain.
You stared at the sent icon, feeling a mix of adrenaline and shyness. A minute later, your phone vibrated.
From: Jungkook
11:30 AM. Noted. I’ll be the one waiting at the platform looking way too excited. And don’t worry about hiking the only thing I have planned involves zero cardio and a lot of carbs. See you soon, Y/N. Safe travels.
You leaned back against your bed, clutching your phone to your chest. The reality was setting in: you were going to Busan. You were going to see his home, the place that shaped him before the world knew his name.
As you looked around your quiet apartment, you realized that whatever happened next, the normal life you had before that dinner at The Gilded Lily was already starting to change.
The next morning, the sun was barely over the horizon when you dragged your weekend bag to the front door. You checked your reflection one last time casual, light makeup, and a comfortable outfit for the train ride.
You picked up your phone and dialed Minho. He had insisted on being your official chaperone for this journey, mostly because he wanted to tease you one last time before you left his sight.
"I’m outside," Minho groaned into the phone, sounding like he hadn't had nearly enough coffee. "And you owe me big time for this, Y/N. Driving at this hour is against my religion."
You laughed, heading down the stairs. "You're the one who set this up! Consider this your duty as a matchmaker."
When you climbed into his car, Minho was hidden behind a pair of dark sunglasses and a hoodie. He looked over at your small bag and then at your face.
"You look nervous," he noted, pulling out into the quiet Seoul streets.
"I am," you admitted, staring out the window at the passing city. "It’s just... it’s Busan, Minho. It’s his home. It feels like a big step for a second date."
Minho softened, his grip on the steering wheel relaxing. "Look, Jungkook doesn't do things halfway. If he asked you to come down there, it’s because he feels safe with you. Just... keep being yourself. Don't let the BTS stuff get in the way. To his mom and his brother, he’s just the kid who eats too much and leaves his socks everywhere."
"I'll try to remember that," you smiled.
The drive to Seoul Station was quick. As Minho pulled up to the curb, he turned to you, his expression unusually serious. "Have fun, Y/N. And seriously... text me if you need anything. I’m only a couple of hours away."
"I will. Thanks, Minho. For everything."
You stepped out of the car and headed into the massive, glass-walled station. The energy of hundreds of travelers blurred around you, but you were focused on one thing: the platform for the KTX to Busan.
As you settled into your seat and the train began to hum, picking up speed until the Seoul skyline was a distant memory, you pulled out your phone.
To: Jungkook
Just left Seoul. Minho says hi, but mostly he just complained about the traffic. See you in a few hours.
You leaned your head against the cool glass of the window, watching the green countryside of Korea fly by, wondering what the boy from Busan had waiting for you at the other end of the line.
The train slowed to a rhythmic halt, and as the doors hissed open, the salty scent of the sea seemed to drift through the station, even before you reached the exit. You gripped the handle of your bag, your stomach doing nervous flips as you followed the crowd toward the arrivals platform.
Then, you saw him.
Jungkook was leaning against a pillar, looking remarkably casual. He was wearing loose, comfortable shorts and an oversized black long-sleeve shirt that made him look cozy and approachable. A baseball cap was tucked low over his eyes, but it didn't hide the way his face lit up the second he spotted you.
He didn't wait for you to reach him. He stepped forward, effortlessly closing the distance between you.
"You actually came," he said, his voice warm and filled with relief.
"I told you I’d be here," you laughed, feeling the tension in your shoulders melt away at the sight of his grin.
He reached out, naturally taking your bag from your hand. "I know, but I’ve spent the last twenty minutes pacing this platform thinking maybe I dreamt the whole dinner in Seoul."
"Well, I’m definitely real," you teased, brushing a stray wave of hair behind your ear. "And I'm definitely hungry."
"Good," he said, adjusting his cap. He looked around for a split second, a quick, instinctual check for cameras, before turning back to you with a soft expression. "Because the first stop isn't fancy, it´s just my favorite place"
As you walked beside him toward the exit, his hand occasionally brushed against yours. In the crowded station, no one seemed to realize that one of the most famous men in the world was walking right past them, carrying a girl's weekend bag and talking about the best pizza place in Busan.
After he stowed your bag in the back of his car, he took you to a small, hidden gem of a restaurant tucked away in an alley near the coast. It was the kind of place that didn't have a flashy sign, just the smell of incredible food and the sound of the locals chatting.
As you both sat at a small wooden table, digging into steaming bowls of Dwaeji Gukbap (pork soup), the conversation picked up exactly where it had left off in Seoul. He seemed even more relaxed here, the salt air of Busan doing wonders for his spirit.
"You know," he said, setting his chopsticks down and looking at you with a shy, hopeful glint in his eyes. "This lunch... it was just the welcome to my city part. It doesn't officially count as our second date."
You raised an eyebrow, a playful smile tugging at your lips. "Oh? So this is just the orientation phase?"
Jungkook laughed, leaning in across the table. "Exactly. I was thinking... if you aren't too tired from the train ride, maybe we could start the actual date tonight? I have a spot in mind. No fancy suits this time, just the beach, some wine, and the best pizza in the city."
He paused, his thumb tracing the edge of his water glass as he waited for your answer. Even though he was a global star who performed for millions, he looked genuinely nervous about whether you'd say yes to a second night in a row.
"A picnic on the beach with pizza?" you asked, tilting your head.
"And wine," he added quickly. "I checked the weather it’s going to be a clear night. We can actually see the stars out here."
You looked at him, really looked at him and saw how much he wanted to share this quiet side of his life with you. "I think Date Two sounds perfect, Jungkook."
His entire face brightened, that famous bunny-smile making a full appearance. "Great. Then eat up. We have a few hours to kill before sunset, and I want to show you the view from the cliffs first."
As you finished your meal, the weight of his fame felt lighter than ever. In Busan, away from the frantic energy of the capital, it felt like you were finally getting to know the boy behind the name.
And as the afternoon sun began to dip lower in the sky, you realized that you were just as excited for this date as he was.
The afternoon turned into a blur of laughter and salt-crusted air. As you walked along the coastal paths, Jungkook pointed out landmarks from his childhood, telling you stories of how he used to run around these cliffs long before the world knew his name. He was funny, surprisingly clumsy at times, and made you feel so comfortable that you almost forgot he was someone who sold out stadiums.
As the sky began to turn a bruised purple and gold, he pulled the car over near a secluded stretch of the beach, far away from the main tourist spots.
"Stay here," he said, holding up a finger as he turned off the engine. "No peeping."
"Jungkook, it’s a car, not a blindfold," you laughed, but you stayed put, watching his silhouette move around the trunk and head down toward the sand.
Ten minutes later, he jogged back and tapped on your window, looking slightly out of breath but wearing a triumphant grin. "Okay. The VIP lounge is ready."
You stepped out of the car and followed him down to the shore. On a small patch of sand, tucked away between two large rocks, he had laid out a mismatched, slightly frayed blanket.
In the center sat two steaming pizza boxes and a bottle of red wine propped up in a shallow hole he'd dug to keep it from tipping over.
There were no fancy picnic baskets or crystal glasses just a stack of napkins he'd clearly grabbed in a hurry and two plastic cups.
"It’s a bit trashy, I know," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck as he sat down and patted the spot next to him. "I realized halfway through that I forgot real wine glasses. And the pizza place didn't have any plates left, so... we're going caveman style."
"It’s perfect," you said sincerely, settling onto the blanket. The contrast was striking the most famous pop star on the planet, sitting on a sandy blanket with a plastic cup of wine and a box of pepperoni pizza. "Honestly, if it were too perfect, I’d think you hired a professional."
"Just me," he smiled, popping the lid of the pizza box. The steam hit your faces, smelling like heaven. "I wanted it to be real. No managers, no stylists, just us."
As you both ate, the atmosphere shifted from the playful energy of the afternoon into something more intimate. The sound of the waves hitting the shore was the only music you needed.
"You know," he said softly, staring out at the dark horizon where the sea met the sky. "People think my life is all gold and lights. And sometimes it is. But sitting here, getting sand in my shoes and eating lukewarm pizza with someone who actually wants to talk to me... this is the only time I feel like I can actually breathe."
He looked over at you, the moonlight reflecting in his dark eyes. The playful dork from the afternoon was gone, replaced by a man who was opening up his world to you, one quiet confession at a time.
The air was getting cooler as the sun disappeared entirely, leaving only the silver glow of the moon dancing on the waves. You shifted on the blanket, drawn to his warmth, and slowly leaned your shoulder against his. To your surprise, he didn't pull away; instead, he adjusted his posture so you could rest your head comfortably against his arm.
"You know, Jungkook," you whispered, watching a distant ship on the horizon. "For someone who has the whole world watching him, you’re actually pretty cool."
He let out a soft, breathy laugh that vibrated through his chest and against your shoulder. He tilted his head slightly, his temple resting against the top of your hair.
"Cool, huh?" he teased, his voice dropping an octave in the quiet of the night. "Most people use words like 'unreachable' or 'intimidating.' I think 'cool' is my new favorite."
He went quiet for a moment, the only sound being the rhythmic pull of the tide against the sand. You felt him shift slightly, and then his hand found yours on the edge of the blanket, his fingers lacing through yours with a gentle, hesitant pressure.
"You're pretty cool too, Y/N," he said softly, turning his face toward you. "Actually, you're more than cool. You’re the first person in a long time who hasn't looked at me like I’m a finished painting. You look at me like I’m still being sketched out. I like that."
You looked up at him, and in the dim light, the distance between you felt non-existent. The pizza was forgotten, the wine was untouched, and for a few minutes, the rest of the world, the fans, the tours, the fame was just noise. Here, on a sandy blanket in Busan, he was just a boy who felt understood, and you were the girl who had managed to see past the gold.
"Do you really mean that?" you asked.
"Every word," he promised, squeezing your hand. "I think Date Two is going even better than Date One. Which is a relief, because I have no idea how I’m going to top this for Date Three."
You smiled, closing your eyes and breathing in the scent of the sea and his woody cologne. "Don't worry about topping it, Jungkook. Just being here is enough."
The wine had made you feel light, but the sound of the crashing waves made you feel alive. Without a second thought, you reached down and tugged off your shoes and socks, tossing them carelessly onto the edge of the blanket.
"What are you doing?" Jungkook asked, his eyes widening with a mix of surprise and amusement.
"I’ve never seen the ocean this close before," you shouted over your shoulder, already sprinting toward the dark, shimmering shoreline. The sand was cool and damp beneath your bare feet, and the moment the icy Busan water swirled around your ankles, you let out a breathless gasp of pure joy.
You turned back to see him still sitting there, silhouetted against the moonlight. "Come on, Superstar!" you laughed, gesturing wildly. "Don't tell me you're afraid of a little salt water!"
That was all the provocation he needed. Jungkook kicked off his own shoes and was on his feet in a second. He was fast terrifyingly fast. You shrieked and began to run along the shoreline, your feet splashing through the shallow surf, but he was gaining on you with effortless, athletic strides.
"You're going to pay for that Superstar comment, Y/N!" he yelled, his voice full of boyish mischief.
You tried to pivot, but the wet sand was slick. Just as you felt his hands reach out to catch your waist, your heel hit a soft patch of silt. You lost your balance, letting out a yelp of surprise as you tumbled backward. Jungkook, unable to stop his momentum, tried to grab you to steady you, but instead, he ended up going down with you.
Splash.
The shock of the cold water hitting your back made you lose your breath for a second. You surfaced, drenched from head to toe, your cream-colored dress clinging to your skin. Jungkook was right there next to you, sitting in knee-deep water, his black long-sleeve soaked through and his hair dripping into his eyes.
For a heartbeat, there was silence. Then, Jungkook pushed his wet hair back and started to laugh a deep, chesty sound that echoed off the rocks.
"I thought we agreed on zero cardio!" he choked out, wiping salt water from his face.
"You pushed me!" you accused, though you were laughing so hard your stomach hurt.
"I tried to save you!" he countered, splashing a bit of water toward you. He looked at you then, his laughter softening into a warm, wet glow. "You're a mess, Y/N."
"We're both a mess," you replied, looking at his dripping clothes.
He reached out, his hand wet and cold but his touch incredibly gentle, and brushed a wet strand of hair away from your cheek. The playfulness lingered, but as you sat there in the surf, the waves bubbling around your waists, the atmosphere shifted.
He was looking at you with an intensity that made the cold water feel like it was simmering.
"Best second date ever" he whispered, his face just inches from yours.
A violent shiver raced through your body. Your teeth began to chatter, the adrenaline of the fall fading into the reality of the freezing water.
Jungkook noticed immediately. His playful expression vanished, replaced by instant concern. "Wait right here," he said firmly, standing up and wading out of the surf with much more grace than before. He jogged back to the car, his own wet clothes clinging to him, and pulled a thick, oversized wool blanket from the backseat.
He was back at your side in seconds. He didn't just hand you the blanket, he stepped behind you and wrapped it tightly around your shoulders, tucking the edges in so that you were completely cocooned in the warmth.
"I'm sorry," he murmured, his voice laced with guilt as he rubbed his hands over your arms through the fabric to generate heat. "I should have been faster. I shouldn't have let you fall."
"It was... worth it," you managed to say through your shivering, looking up at him.
He let out a small, relieved huff of air, his forehead resting against yours for a brief second. "You’re freezing. Come on, let's get you back to the car. I’m turning the heater on full blast."
As he led you back toward the car, his arm stayed firmly around your waist, holding you close to his side. Despite the wet clothes and the shivering, there was a warmth radiating from him that had nothing to do with the car's heater. You realized then that for all the Superstar titles he held, the way he was looking at you right now full of protective, genuine care was the most impressive thing about him.
The moment you stepped into the car, the blast of the heater felt like a warm embrace. Jungkook quickly adjusted the vents toward you, making sure the heat reached your shivering frame. He reached for the console, and a second later, a soft, acoustic melody began to play low enough to be intimate, but loud enough to fill the comfortable silence.
You sank into the leather seat, wrapped tightly in the wool blanket, feeling a deep sense of contentment. Despite the wet hair and the cold sand between your toes, you were genuinely happy.
Jungkook glanced over at you, a soft smile playing on his lips as he saw you relaxing. "Feeling a bit better?" he asked softly, his hand lingering near the gear shift. "I don't want you catching a cold."
"I'm okay now," you laughed, pulling the blanket closer to your chin. "It’s actually really cozy in here."
He nodded, though his eyes remained focused on you for a beat longer than necessary. "I should probably get you somewhere warm where you can take a hot shower. Where am I taking you, Y/N? Which hotel are you staying at?"
"It’s just a small place near Gwangalli Beach," you told him, giving him the name of the boutique hotel you had booked. "It’s not far from here."
"I know the spot," he said, shifting the car into gear. "It’s quiet. Good choice."
As he drove through the winding streets of Busan, the city lights blurred outside the window.
When he pulled up to the front of the hotel, he turned off the engine and looked at you. "I'll wait here until I see you’re safely inside. And Y/N?"
"Yeah?"
"Today was... it was exactly what I needed," he said, his voice sincere. "Thank you for not making me feel like a superstar tonight."
You smiled, reaching out to squeeze his hand briefly. "Goodnight, Jungkook. Get some dry clothes on."
"I will," he promised. "I'll text you tomorrow."
The hotel room was warm, and the scent of the hotel’s lavender soap lingered on your skin after a long, steaming shower. You were huddled in a plush white robe, drying your hair with a towel, when your phone lit up with a video call request.
Naemi.
You propped the phone up on the desk and hit accept. Her face appeared, illuminated by the glow of her laptop. She was wearing a sheet mask and holding a glass of wine.
A giggle escaped your lips.
"Finally!" she exclaimed, leaning into the camera. "I've been staring at my phone for hours. How is Busan? Did the mysterious creative guy sweep you off your feet, or did he turn out to be a local fisherman in disguise?"
You couldn't help the massive grin that spread across your face. "It was... incredible, Naemi. Better than the first date."
"Ooh, look at that blush!" she teased, pointing a finger at the screen. "Details. I need details. What did you do? Did he take you to a fancy yacht club?"
"Actually," you said, tucking a damp strand of hair behind your ear, "we had a picnic on a secluded beach. Pepperoni pizza and red wine on a beat-up blanket. It was the most trashy-chic thing I’ve ever done."
Naemi paused, her brow furrowing under the sheet mask. "Wait. A picnic? On a blanket? That sounds... surprisingly normal. I thought you said he was a big deal."
"He is," you said, trying to keep your voice steady. "But he’s also just... really grounded. We ran into the ocean well, I ran, he chased meand we both ended up falling into the surf. I'm pretty sure I ruined my favorite dress, and he’s probably sneezing right now, but I haven't laughed that hard in years."
"He fell in the water with you?" Naemi’s eyes widened. "Okay, he’s definitely a keeper. Most guys wouldn't want to mess up their hair. So, what’s his vibe? Is he still being all mysterious?"
"He's just... sweet," you whispered, leaning your chin on your hand. "He wrapped me in a blanket and turned the seat heaters on in his car until I stopped shivering. He’s very protective, but in a quiet way."
"You’re falling for him," Naemi stated, her voice softening. "I can see it in your eyes. Y/N, when am I going to get a name? Or at least a photo? I’m starting to think you’re dating a ghost."
"Soon," you promised, a playful glit in your eyes. "I just want to keep him to myself for a little bit longer. Before the rest of the world gets involved."
"Fine, keep your secrets," she huffed, though she was smiling. "But if Date Three involves a private jet, you’re calling me immediately. Deal?"
"Deal," you laughed. After you hung up, you looked at your reflection in the mirror. You knew the secret couldn't last forever especially once you went back to Seoul but for tonight, in this quiet hotel room in Busan, he was still just the boy who liked pizza and his dog.
The sleep that followed was deep, influenced by the salt air and the lingering warmth of the heater, but your mind wouldn't let go of the evening.
In your dream, you weren't at a crowded restaurant or a dark beach. You were in a vast, sun-drenched studio filled with blank canvases. The windows were open, and you could hear the distant, rhythmic crashing of the Busan waves, but the air smelled like expensive oil paints and fresh laundry.
Jungkook was there, but he looked different older, perhaps, or just more at peace. He wasn't wearing a cap or a mask. He was standing by a window, the sunlight catching the gold in his skin, and he was painting. Not a landscape or a city, but a flurry of colors that looked like the way laughter feels.
In the dream, you walked up behind him, and without turning around, he reached back and found your hand, lacing his fingers through yours just like he had on the beach.
"I was waiting for you to wake up," he whispered, his voice echoing as if it were underwater.
He turned then, and his eyes weren't the eyes of a pop star or a "big deal." They were just dark, warm pools of sincerity. He leaned in, his face inches from yours, and you could feel the ghost of a breath against your lips a promise of something that hadn't happened yet in the real world.
Just as his lips were about to touch yours, the scene shifted. Suddenly, you were back in the surf, the cold water splashing against your skin, and you heard him calling your name, his voice fading into the sound of the tide.
You woke up with a start, the morning light of Busan filtering through the hotel curtains. Your heart was drumming against your ribs, and for a split second, you reached out to the empty side of the bed, half-expecting to feel the wool of his blanket.
You sat up, pushing your hair back, the dream still vivid behind your eyelids. You realized then that the "drama" wasn't just the paparazzi or the fame it was the fact that he was starting to occupy the spaces in your head where you usually kept yourself safe.
Your phone buzzed on the nightstand.
From: Jungkook
Good morning. I hope you didn't catch a cold. I’m already thinking about Date Three... I hope you like cooking, because I want to show you my 'chef' side back in Seoul.
You smiled, the dream fading as the reality of him took its place. The kiss in the studio had been a dream, but as you started typing back, you had a feeling it wouldn't stay that way for long.
You looked at your phone, a playful spark in your eyes as you sat up in bed. He was certainly confident, wasn't he? You decided to tease him just a little bit, keeping the ball in your court.
To: Jungkook
You sound very sure of yourself, Mr. Jeon. Why are you so certain there’s going to be a Date Three? I haven't even given you a review of Date Two yet! 😉
You tossed the phone onto the duvet and walked over to the window, opening the curtains to reveal the stunning view of Gwangalli Beach. The ocean was calm today, a sparkling blue that reminded you of the night before.
A few minutes later, your phone chimed.
From: Jungkook
Because I’m a high-achiever. And also because you didn't run away when I accidentally dragged you into the ocean. Most people would have called a taxi right then, but you stayed and shared a blanket with me.
The "typing" bubbles appeared again almost immediately.
From: Jungkook
Plus... I haven't made you my signature ramen yet. It’s my secret weapon. You can’t leave me without at least considering it.
You laughed softly to yourself, leaning against the window frame. He was charming, there was no denying that. He wasn't relying on his fame or his status; he was relying on his cooking and his personality.
To: Jungkook
A secret weapon, huh? Bold claim. I guess I'll have to stay on my guard. Get some rest, Jungkook. I’ll see you back in Seoul.
From: Jungkook
Count on it. Safe trip back. See you soon, Y/N.
As you started to pack your bag, you realized that despite your teasing, you were already looking forward to seeing what his chef side looked like. The transition back to the reality of Seoul was coming, but for now, the warmth of the Busan sun was enough.
As the KTX pulled into Seoul Station, the transition from the quiet, salty air of Busan back to the frantic energy of the capital felt like a bit of a shock. You navigated the crowds with your weekend bag until you spotted a familiar tall figure leaning against a sleek black SUV.
Minho was leaning against the door, checking his watch, looking every bit the high-powered agent. But the second he saw you, he broke into a smirk and waved you over.
"Look at you," he teased as you reached the car, taking your bag and tossing it into the back. "You’ve got sand in your shoes and that I just spent the weekend with a heartthrob glow. I’m almost offended I didn't get a play-by-play text every hour."
"I was busy, Minho," you laughed, climbing into the passenger seat. "Actually enjoying the scenery for once."
"Right, the 'scenery,'" he mimicked, pulling out into the Seoul traffic. "I’m starving. Since I’m the one who provided the shuttle service and the romantic lead, you’re coming with me to get some real food. My treat."
He took you to a quiet, high-end barbecue place in Hannam-dong, a spot where the booths were deep and private the kind of place where people in the industry went to talk without being overheard.
As the waiter laid out the side dishes and started the grill, Minho leaned forward, his playful demeanor shifting into something a bit more curious. "So, seriously. How was it? I know he took you to the beach. He told me he was nervous about the trashy picnic idea."
"It wasn't trashy," you defended, a smile tugging at your lips as you remembered the cold wine and the soggy pizza. "It was perfect. We actually fell into the ocean."
Minho stopped mid-pour of his water, staring at you. "You what?"
"We fell in. Both of us. Completely soaked," you explained, unable to stop laughing at the memory. "He looked like a drowned cat, but he was so worried about me getting cold. He’s... he’s really not what I expected, Minho. He’s so normal when the cameras aren't there."
Minho watched you for a moment, a genuine, soft smile crossing his face. "That’s exactly why I set it up, Y/N. He’s lived in a bubble since he was fifteen. Most people treat him like a god or a product. You treat him like a guy who’s clumsy in the surf. He needs that."
"He asked for a third date," you admitted, poking at a piece of kimchi. "He wants to cook for me back here in Seoul."
Minho whistled low. "The cooking date? Wow. He’s bringing out the big guns. Just a heads up if he makes the ramen, clear your schedule for the next day. He takes that broth very seriously."
He grew a bit more serious then, glancing toward the door. "But listen, Y/N. Now that you’re back in Seoul... it gets trickier. Busan is his fortress, but here? People are always looking. Just be careful, okay? I want this to stay normal for you guys as long as possible."
"I know," you sighed, the weight of the city pressing in. "But for now, I’m just looking forward to the ramen."
Monday morning hits you like a bucket of cold water. You’re back at your desk, the hum of the office and the click of keyboards replacing the sound of the Busan waves. But as you look around, you realize you can’t escape him not even here.
There’s a BTS calendar on your coworker's desk. A Jungkook themed coffee mug sits by the printer. Even the background music in the office kitchen is a remix of one of bts tracks. Before, these were just pop culture artifacts, part of the background noise of living in Seoul. But now? Now it feels crazy.
You find yourself staring at a poster in the hallway, your eyes drifting to the center. There he is Jungkook. He’s wearing leather, his hair perfectly styled, his gaze intense and "unreachable," exactly like he told you people see him.
That’s the guy who forgot the wine glasses.. you think to yourself, a suppressed smile tugging at your lips.
That’s the guy who looked like a drowned cat in the surf and worried about me catching a cold.
It’s a surreal disconnect. To the rest of the world, he’s an icon, a symbol of perfection. To you, he’s a guy who yells at his computer screen when his game lags and talks to his dog like it’s a human being.
Your phone buzzes in your pocket. You pull it out, shielding the screen from prying eyes.
From: Jungkook
Found a new game last night. It’s terrible, but the graphics are cool. Also, I’m currently staring at a mountain of groceries. Operation: Date Three is officially in motion. Try not to work too hard.
You look back at the Superstar on the poster, then down at the text message. The contrast is almost overwhelming. You realize that you’re holding a secret that millions of people would die for, but to you, the most valuable part isn't the fame it’s the fact that he feels comfortable enough to be terrible at games with you.
"Y/N? Are you okay? You've been staring at that wall for three minutes," a colleague asks, walking by with a stack of papers.
"Oh! Yeah," you stammer, quickly locking your phone. "Just... thinking about what to have for dinner."
"Relatable," she laughs, nodding toward the BTS calendar. "I wish I had a dinner date with one of them."
You just nod and head back to your desk, your heart racing. If only she knew.
You bite your lip, trying to maintain a neutral expression as your colleague, Min-ji, practically vibrates with excitement. She pivots her chair toward you, her eyes wide as she taps frantically on her phone screen.
"Y/N, did you see them? The new high-res shots from the Calvin Klein campaign?" she gasps, turning the phone toward you. It’s a shot of him in denim cool, effortless, and undeniably a global heartthrob. "I mean, how is he even real? Look at that jawline. He’s literally a god walking among us."
You look at the photo, and for a second, you’re paralyzed by the surrealism of it all. This is the man who, just forty-eight hours ago, was sitting on a sandy blanket with you, picking pepperoni off a pizza and laughing about his wet socks.
"He... yeah, he looks great," you manage to say, keeping your voice as casual as possible.
"Great? He looks like a masterpiece!" Min-ji continues, oblivious. "I heard he’s back in Seoul now. Can you imagine just bumping into him at a cafe? I think I’d actually stop breathing. I’d probably faint right on the spot."
You feel a weird mix of guilt and amusement. You want to tell her that he’s actually quite shy and that he worries about his ramen broth being too salty, but you know that would be like dropping a thermal detonator in the middle of the office.
"I don't know, Min-ji," you say, turning back to your computer to hide your face. "Maybe he’s just a normal guy who puts his pants on one leg at a time."
"Please," she scoffs, rolling her eyes. "Jungkook doesn't do anything normally. Everything about him is legendary."
Your phone vibrates in your lap. You glance down, hidden by the desk.
From: Jungkook
Just accidentally dropped a whole bag of flour on the floor. Bam is currently licking it up and now he looks like a ghost. This cooking date might be a disaster. Send help.
A small, genuine laugh escapes your throat before you can stop it. Min-ji looks at you, suspicious. "What’s so funny?"
"Nothing," you say, your heart thumping. "Just... a funny meme. Back to work, right?"
As you type away at your spreadsheets, the legendary image on Min-ji's phone feels like a character from a movie, while the ghost dog story in your pocket feels like home. The double life is officially getting complicated, but as you think about seeing him tonight, you wouldn't trade it for anything.
The tension in the office is the perfect cover for a little bit of mischief. While Min-ji is still gushing over his billboard-sized abs, you decide to test just how much the Superstar can handle when things get a little real.
He’s been blowing up your phone all afternoon, clearly excited about his "Chef JK" debut.
From: Jungkook
Okay, the flour is cleaned up. Bam is back to his normal color. Everything is set. So... are we officially on for tonight? Date Three? I need to know when to start the broth.
You wait. Ten minutes. Twenty. You watch the clock tick as you sip your lukewarm office coffee. Finally, you type back, keeping your face a mask of professional boredom.
To: Jungkook
I don’t know, Jungkook. I’ve been thinking a lot today... seeing your face everywhere in the city is a lot. Honestly? I’m starting to wonder if we’re even a good match. We live in completely different worlds. Maybe we’re just too different.
You hit send and put your phone face down. You feel a little mean, but you want to know if he’s willing to fight for this "normalcy" he claims to crave.
Five minutes later, your phone starts vibrating. It’s not a text. It’s a call. You decline it. Then another text.
From: Jungkook
Wait, what? Y/N, what do you mean? Is it the Calvin Klein stuff? I can explain that, it’s just work! Please tell me you’re joking. I’ll cancel the billboards! (Okay, I can’t do that, but I’ll try!). Did I do something wrong in Busan?
He’s spiraling. You can practically hear the panic in his typing. Suddenly, your phone rings again, but this time the caller ID says Minho.
You step into the hallway to answer. "Hello?"
"Y/N! What the hell did you say to him?" Minho’s voice is frantic, but there’s a hint of suppressed laughter in the background. "Jungkook just called me sounding like the world is ending. He’s pacing his kitchen so loud I can hear it through the phone. He’s convinced you're breaking up with him before the third date even starts!"
"I just told him I wasn't sure if we were a match," you say, struggling to keep your voice flat.
"He’s in full panic mode, Y/N! He just asked me if he should send a truck with flowers to your office. I told him that would definitely make the 'different worlds' problem worse. Are you actually serious or are you just torturing the poor kid?"
"Maybe a little bit of both," you admit, a smile finally breaking through.
"You're dangerous," Minho sighs, though he sounds relieved. "Look, just put him out of his misery soon, okay? He’s currently staring at a pot of water like it’s his last hope for happiness. And for the record? He’s never been this stressed about a girl. Ever."
You hang up, feeling a warm glow in your chest. He isn't the untouchable icon from the posters; he’s a guy who’s terrified of losing the one person who treats him like a human being.
You head back to your desk and pick up your phone.
To: Jungkook
Stop pacing, you’ll ruin the floor. And tell Bam I’m sorry for the flour incident. I’ll be there at 7:00. But that ramen better be life-changing, Superstar.
The reply comes back in less than three seconds.
From: Jungkook
I hate you. (I don't). 7:00. Don't be late. I'm doubling the garlic just for you.
You stand in front of your mirror, taking a final look. The satin skirt catches the light with every movement, hugging your silhouette before falling elegantly, perfectly contrasted by a simple fitted top and your cleanest sneakers.
Then, the address arrives via text. It’s a luxury complex in Hannam-dong, a place where the air itself seems to cost more.
When you arrive at the massive iron gates, your heart sinks. This isn't just an apartment building; it’s a fortress. Two stone-faced security guards in sharp suits step out of the booth, looking at your casual sneakers with professional disdain.
"I'm here to see... a friend," you say, your voice sounding smaller than you intended. "In the penthouse wing."
The lead guard checks his tablet, his brow furrowed. "Name?"
"Y/N."
He scrolls slowly, his expression hardening. "You aren't on the cleared list for today, Miss. And the resident has strict 'no-visitor' protocols in place."
"Can you check again? Jeon Jungkook? He’s expecting me," you plead, feeling the heat rise in your neck.
The guards exchange a look—the kind of look that says they’ve dealt with a thousand "delusional fans" before. "Look, we get this every day. No name, no entry. You need to move your car; you're blocking the private lane."
The embarrassment hits you like a physical weight. After your joke earlier, this feels like a cold slap of reality. You’re standing outside a literal wall, being treated like a trespasser, while the man inside lives behind layers of protection you'll never truly understand. The "different worlds" argument you used to tease him suddenly feels painfully, hauntingly true.
You turn away, blinking back tears of frustration. You aren't going to beg. You pull out your phone, your fingers trembling as you start to type.
To: Jungkook
I’m at the gate, but I’m not on the list. The security is treating me like a stalker. Honestly, Jungkook, maybe this was a mistake. I think I’m just going to go home.
You’re already halfway to the sidewalk, looking for a taxi, feeling foolish for ever thinking a satin skirt and some sneakers could bridge the gap between your life and his.
You are just about to raise your hand to hail a passing taxi, your heart heavy with the realization of how difficult this "normal" relationship actually is, when you hear the frantic scuff of leather shoes on pavement.
"Miss! Wait! Please, wait!"
You turn around to see the lead security guard, the one who had been so cold just moments ago, actually jogging toward you. He looks breathless and, more notably, terrified. His professional mask has completely shattered, replaced by a look of sheer panic.
"I am so incredibly sorry," he gasps, bowing so low it’s almost a 90-degree angle. "There was... a massive oversight. Mr. Jeon just called the main office. Personally."
He looks like he’s just survived a hurricane. "Please, follow me. We have an elevator waiting. Truly, Miss Y/N, we had no idea... he was very clear about your importance."
You walk back toward the gate, feeling a strange mix of vindication and shyness. As you pass the security booth, you see the other guard standing at attention, looking straight ahead as if he’s afraid to even blink in your direction. Whatever Jungkook said over that phone line, it clearly carried the weight of a king protecting his queen.
The elevator ride is silent and swift, whisking you up to a floor that requires a private keycard. When the doors finally chime and slide open, you find yourself standing in a foyer that looks like something out of an architectural magazine minimalist, expensive, and smelling faintly of that same woody cologne from the beach.
Jungkook is standing right there. He’s wearing a simple apron over a white t-shirt, his hair a bit messy, and he’s holding a wooden spoon like a weapon. He looks stressed, but the moment he sees you, his shoulders drop in a massive exhale of relief.
"Y/N," he says, stepping forward and taking your hands. His palms are slightly damp maybe from the steam, or maybe from the panic of almost losing you at the gate. "I am so sorry. I’m such an idiot. I was so focused on the sauce that I forgot to update the registry. I almost ran down there in my slippers to fight them myself."
He looks into your eyes, his expression soft and pleading. "Please tell me you're not still thinking about going home. I've been stirring this broth for three hours, and Bam really wants to meet the girl who 'bullied' his dad today."
You look at him the apron, the spoon, the genuine worry on his face and the frustration from the gate melts away. You realize that while the world builds walls around him, he’s doing everything in his power to pull you through the door.
"The sneakers stay on," you say with a small, teasing smile. "And the ramen better be worth the drama."
"It is," he promises, leaning in to kiss your forehead before leading you into his world. "I promise."
"I've seen enough of the kitchen for now," you say, a playful spark returning to your eyes. "I want to see the real star of this apartment. Where’s Bam?"
Jungkook’s face breaks into a proud, slightly nervous grin. "Oh, he’s been waiting. He knew someone was coming the second the elevator chimed."
He walks over to the heavy glass doors leading into the expansive living room and slides them open. For a split second, there’s silence—and then, a blur of dark fur comes charging across the polished floor. Bam, a massive, energetic Doberman, doesn't just greet you; he practically launches himself at you, his tail wagging so hard his entire back half is wiggling.
"Whoa!" you yelp as seventy pounds of pure excitement hits your legs, nearly sending you stumbling back into the foyer.
Jungkook’s eyes go wide. "Bam! No! Down, boy!" He reaches out instinctively, grabbing your arm to steady you, his face pale with sudden worry. "I’m so sorry, Y/N! I should have leashed him. Is he too much? Did he hurt you? He’s a giant, I know, I should have—"
His frantic apologies are cut short by the sound of your laughter. It’s a loud, genuine sound that echoes through the high-ceilinged room. You’re already down on your knees, despite the satin skirt, letting Bam lick your face while you scratch behind his floppy ears.
"He’s perfect!" you laugh, buried under a flurry of happy nudges and wet nose boops. "He’s just like his dad, a total sweetheart with zero chill."
Jungkook freezes, his hand still hovering in the air. Seeing you on the floor, completely unfazed by the giant dog, seems to do something to him. The tension drains out of his face, replaced by a look of pure, unadulterated adoration.
"You're not mad about the skirt?" he asks softly, leaning against the doorframe as he watches the two of you.
"It’s just fabric, Jungkook," you say, looking up at him with a bright smile while Bam tries to climb into your lap. "Besides, I think I have a new favorite Jeon."
Jungkook laughs, a deep, relaxed sound. "Hey, watch it. I’m the one making the food. Bam only offers emotional support and hair on your clothes."
He walks over and crouches down beside you, his hand resting on Bam’s head, but his eyes stay locked on yours. "You’re amazing, you know that? Most people are terrified of him because of his size. But you... you just dove right in."
"I told you," you say, giving Bam one last pat before standing up. "I’m not 'most people.'"
"I'm starting to realize that," he whispers, standing up with you. The kitchen timer beeps in the distance, breaking the moment. "That’s the broth. Come on, let's see if I can actually live up to the hype."
He reaches into a drawer and pulls out a spare black apron, stepping behind you to loop it over your head. His hands linger for a second as he ties the strings around your waist, his chest brushing against your back, before he hands you a knife and a pile of green onions.
"Alright, sous-chef," he says with a playful wink. "Show me your skills. And try to keep your fingers intact, Minho will kill me if I send you home with a bandage."
As you both stand side-by-side at the massive marble island, the atmosphere is light and domestic. You find yourself laughing as he tells you a dramatic story about a cooking fail he had during a livestream, gesturing wildly with a wooden spoon. But as the conversation flows, your focus starts to shift from the vegetables to the man beside you.
You pause for a moment, resting your knife, and just watch him.
He’s focused on dicing garlic, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows. The harsh kitchen lights catch the sharp lines of his profile, but it's his hands that hold your attention. As he applies pressure to the knife, the veins in his forearms and the backs of his hands become prominent, corded and strong. There's a raw, effortless masculinity in the way he moves, a stark contrast to the soft, apron-clad "chef" he’s trying to be.
He looks so incredibly attractive in this lighting, stripped of the stage makeup and the designer clothes, just a man in his kitchen with messy hair and a concentrated gaze.
Jungkook must feel your eyes on him, because he tilts his head, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth without him even looking up.
"Is my chopping technique that impressive?" he asks, his voice dropping into that low, honeyed tone that always makes your heart skip. "Or do I have flour on my face again?"
"Neither," you admit, your voice a little breathier than you intended. "I was just thinking that the Superstar look has nothing on the Chef look."
He finally stops, turning fully toward you. He leans one hip against the counter, the veins in his arms still standing out as he crosses them over his chest. His gaze is intense, dark, and filled with a heat that has nothing to do with the stove.
"Careful, Y/N," he says softly, stepping a fraction closer. "If you keep looking at me like that, the ramen is definitely going to burn."
You feel the heat rush to your cheeks, turning them a deep shade of crimson as you quickly look back down at the cutting board. You start dicing the green onions with a sudden, renewed intensity, trying to hide the fact that your heart is practically doing gymnastics in your chest.
"Just... finish the sauce, Jungkook," you mutter, though you can’t keep the smile off your face.
Beside you, you hear him let out a soft, triumphant chuckle. He knows exactly the effect he has on you, but he mercifully turns back to the stove to give you a moment to recover.
While his back is turned, you feel a heavy weight settle against your leg. You look down and see Bam sitting perfectly still, his large brown eyes tracking every movement of your hand with laser-like focus. He’s the picture of a "good boy," but his tail is thumping a rhythmic thud-thud-thud against the floor.
You glance over your shoulder. Jungkook is busy adjusting the flame under the pot, humming a soft melody to himself.
Quick as a flash, you grab a small, choice scrap of beef from the beef broth. You lower your hand behind your skirt and drop it. Gulp. It’s gone in a literal blink. Bam licks his chops, looking at you with what can only be described as pure, undying devotion.
"What are you two doing back there?" Jungkook asks, turning around just as you pull your hand back up.
"Nothing!" you say, perhaps a bit too quickly, as you toss the onions into a bowl. "Just... bonding."
Jungkook narrows his eyes, looking from you to the suspiciously happy Doberman. "Y/N... did you just feed my dog? He has a very strict diet, you know."
"I have no idea what you're talking about," you say, reaching over to pat Bam’s head. Bam, the traitor, lets out a small, satisfied burp.
Jungkook bursts out laughing, shaking his head as he walks over to you. He stops just inches away, the scent of garlic and his warm cologne wrapping around you. "First you bully the dad, then you bribe the son. You really are a piece of work, aren't you?"
He reaches out, his thumb catching a stray smudge of flour on your cheek, his touch lingering just a second too long for it to be accidental. "Good thing I like your style."
You freeze, your breath hitching as he steps into your personal space. The distance between you disappears until you can feel the warmth radiating from his chest. He leans down slightly, his gaze dropping to your lips and then back to your eyes, his hand moving from your cheek to cup the back of your neck. His touch is firm yet incredibly gentle, and for a moment, the entire world, the kitchen, the city outside, even Bam simply ceases to exist.
Jungkook’s eyes flutter shut as he begins to tilt his head, his nose brushing against yours. You can feel the ghost of his breath on your skin, and you instinctively lean in, closing the final inch between you...
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
The oven timer blares with a sharp, piercing shrillness that cuts through the romantic tension like a knife.
Both of you jump, startled. Jungkook flinches so hard he nearly hits his head on the kitchen vent, and you stumble back, your face burning a shade of red that would put a tomato to shame.
"The... the pork!" Jungkook exclaims, his voice an octave higher than usual. He frantically spins around, grabbing a pair of oven mitts and fumbling with the oven door as a cloud of savory steam billows out.
From the corner of the room, Bam lets out a sharp, confused bark, wondering why the mood suddenly shifted from "soulmates" to "emergency response team."
"I, uh... I should probably check that," Jungkook mumbles, his ears glowing bright red as he hunches over the oven. He looks completely flustered.
You lean against the counter, trying to catch your breath and steady your racing heart. You let out a small, shaky laugh, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "Saved by the timer, Jeon. I think the universe is telling us that the ramen needs to come first."
Jungkook glances back at you over his shoulder, a sheepish, lopsided grin on his face despite his embarrassment. "The universe has terrible timing, Y/N. Truly terrible."
You move over to the sleek, minimalist dining table that overlooks the sparkling lights of Seoul. Jungkook follows shortly after, carefully carrying two steaming bowls of ramen. The presentation is surprisingly professional, perfectly placed soft-boiled eggs, charred pork belly, and bright green onions.
"Here we go," he says, setting the bowl down in front of you with a nervous pride. "Operation: Date Three is officially served."
"Thank you, Jungkook. It looks incredible," you say, genuinely impressed.
He smiles, the tension from the almost-kiss still lingering in the air, making every movement feel a bit more charged. He reaches for a bottle of red wine and pours two glasses, the deep crimson liquid catching the soft glow of the apartment's mood lighting.
As you pick up your chopsticks, a soft, lo-fi beat begins to pulse through the hidden speakers in the room. You recognize the style it's one of BTS´s unreleased tracks, something raw and acoustic that he’s probably been tinkering with on his soundboard. It’s intimate, like he’s sharing a piece of his private thoughts with you.
"To the chef," you say, raising your glass.
"To the girl who survived the Busan ocean and my security team," he counters, clinking his glass against yours.
The first bite is a revelation. The broth is rich and complex, warming you from the inside out. "Oh my god," you whisper, closing your eyes. "Jungkook, this is... you weren't kidding about the secret weapon."
He leans back, watching you eat with a look of pure satisfaction. "I told you. I don't lose when it comes to ramen." He takes a sip of his wine, his eyes never leaving yours. "So, does this mean I'm officially 'good enough' for you, despite the billboards?"
You look at him the way the music seems to wrap around both of you, the warmth of the meal, and the way he’s looking at you like you’re the only person in the world and you realize the different worlds don't feel so far apart anymore.
You lean back in your chair, swirling the last bit of wine in your glass, a playful yet genuine smile on your face. "Alright, I'll admit it," you say, looking at him across the table. "Date Three isn't so bad. In fact, between the ghost dog and this broth, you might actually be winning me over."
Jungkook beams, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He looks incredibly relieved, the earlier panic of the different worlds conversation finally fading away. "Only 'not so bad'? I’m going to have to work even harder for Date Four then," he teases.
He notices your bowl is empty and immediately stands up. "Wait, you can't stop now. I made enough to feed a small army, and you haven't even tried the extra spicy oil yet."
Before you can protest, he’s already back at the stove, humming along to the low music coming from the speakers. He returns with a second, smaller portion, carefully topping it with another perfectly marinated egg.
"Here," he says, sliding the bowl toward you. "A little extra for the sous-chef."
As he sits back down, the atmosphere in the apartment feels incredibly cozy. The city lights of Seoul are flickering outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, but in here, with the soft beats and the smell of savory broth, it feels like your own private bubble. You realize that despite the fame and the chaos, he’s managed to make this high-end penthouse feel like home for the evening.
"You're going to have to roll me out of here," you laugh, picking up your chopsticks again.
"That's fine by me," Jungkook replies softly, resting his chin on his hand as he watches you eat. "I’m not in any rush for you to leave."
You set your chopsticks down, the warmth of the second bowl still lingering. "You know, it hit me today at the office," you say, shaking your head slightly. "My colleague, Min-ji... she's completely obsessed. She was showing me your new Calvin Klein campaign and talking about you like you're some kind of untouchable myth. It was so surreal sitting there, knowing I was texting the guy who was currently covered in flour and panicking over his dog."
A small, thoughtful smile plays on your lips. "It made me realize just how huge your world is. To her, and to millions of others, you’re this perfect icon. It’s a little intimidating when I actually stop to think about it."
Jungkook’s expression softens, turning a bit more serious. He leans back, swirling the wine in his glass as he looks out at the glowing Seoul skyline.
"I get it," he says quietly, his voice dropping a notch. He nods slowly. "It’s a blessing and a curse, honestly."
He looks back at you, his eyes searching yours. "The blessing is the love, the music, and being able to do what I love on such a massive scale. I’m grateful for it every single day. But the curse..." He sighs, a short, tired sound. "The curse is that the 'myth' usually swallows the person. People stop seeing me. They see the posters, the stage, the 'Superstar.' Sometimes it feels like I’m living inside a gold-plated cage where everyone is watching, but no one really knows me."
He reaches across the table, his fingers lightly brushing the back of your hand. "That’s why Busan was so important. And why tonight is important. With you, I don't have to be the masterpiece your colleague was talking about. I can just be the guy who’s bad at dicing garlic and forgets to update the security list."
He gives your hand a small, reassuring squeeze. "The myth is for the world, Y/N. But the normal guy? He's the one who’s really glad you stayed for the second bowl of ramen."
You stand up and start gathering the bowls, ignoring his protests. He keeps telling you to leave it for the housekeeper or that he'll do it later, but you just give him a firm look. "You cooked, I clean. That’s the rule, Superstar," you tease.
As you stand at the sink, the warm water running over your hands, the soft lo-fi track from his soundboard shifts into a slow, melodic rhythm. The apartment is quiet, save for the hum of the city far below and the gentle clinking of the dishes.
Suddenly, you feel a presence behind you.
Slowly, almost tentatively, two strong arms reach around your waist. He doesn't pull you in tight immediately; instead, he rests his hands lightly against your stomach, his touch hesitant, as if he’s waiting for a sign that it’s okay. It’s a side of him that the world never sees the vulnerable man behind the icon, asking for permission to be close.
You let out a soft breath and lean back, resting your head against his shoulder. Taking the hint, Jungkook exhales a long sigh of relief, his grip tightening just a fraction as he pulls you flush against him. You can feel the steady, rapid thrum of his heart against your back.
The two of you begin to sway slowly to the music. It’s not a formal dance it’s just a gentle, rhythmic movement in the middle of the kitchen. There are no cameras, no screaming fans, and no security gates between you. Just the scent of his cologne, the warmth of his body, and the quiet magic of the moment.
"This," he whispers into your hair, his voice vibrating through your chest. "This is better than any award show."
You close your eyes, letting the music carry you both. For the first time since you met, the noise of his fame feels miles away, replaced by the simple, beautiful reality of being held by the man who made you ramen. You just stay like that, drifting together in the dark, enjoying a peace that belongs only to the two of you
Slowly, you turn around within the circle of his arms, never breaking the connection. You reach up, lacing your fingers behind his neck, pulling yourself just a little closer. He reacts instantly, his hands sliding down to rest firmly on your waist, drawing you into the slow, rhythmic pulse of the music.
Being this close to him is overwhelming. His scent a dizzying mix of expensive woodsy cologne, clean laundry, and a faint hint of the savory kitchen spices is absolutely undoing you. It’s warm and masculine, and it seems to wrap around your senses until all you can focus on is him.
The lighting in the kitchen is dim, casting long shadows across his face and making his dark eyes appear even deeper, more intense. As you sway together, his gaze never leaves yours. He looks at you with a mixture of awe and raw affection, as if he still can't quite believe you're standing here in his kitchen, in his arms.
"You're making it very hard to focus on the music," he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that you feel in your very bones.
He leans down, his forehead coming to rest against yours. The tip of his nose brushes yours, and you can feel the slight heat of his skin. Every time you move, the soft fabric of your satin skirt brushes against his legs, a gentle friction that only adds to the electricity between you.
In this moment, the superstar from the billboards is gone. There is only this man, the weight of his hands on your hips, and the way he’s holding you as if you’re the most precious thing he’s ever touched. You find yourself tightening your grip on his neck, pulling him down just a fraction more, completely lost in his scent and the quiet, private world he’s built for you tonight.
The air between you is thick, charged with the kind of tension that makes your skin tingle. Jungkook’s gaze drops to your lips, his thumb tracing a slow, rhythmic circle against the satin of your skirt. He starts to lean in, his movements slow and deliberate, giving you every chance to pull away.
You can feel the heat radiating from him, that intoxicating scent of his pulling you closer like a magnet. But just as his lips are a breath away from yours, you tilt your head back slightly, a playful, challenging smirk playing on your mouth.
"Just one kiss," you whisper, your voice steady despite the way your heart is hammering against your ribs. "The rest... well, the rest has to be earned, Mr. Jeon."
Jungkook pauses, a surprised but delighted huff of a laugh escaping him. He looks at you, his eyes dark with a mix of frustration and deep admiration. "You really like to make me work for it, don't you?"
"I think you're used to getting things a little too easily," you tease, your arms still looped around his neck. "I like to keep things interesting."
"Fair enough," he murmurs, his voice dropping into a low, husky register that makes your knees weak. "Challenge accepted."
He doesn't wait another second. He closes the distance, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that is soft, lingering, and tastes faintly of the wine you shared. It’s a gentle exploration, a promise of everything that’s still to come, but it’s over almost as soon as it began.
He pulls back just an inch, his forehead resting against yours, his breath hitched. He looks slightly dazed, his hands still anchored firmly on your waist.
"One kiss," he repeats, a lopsided, breathless grin spreading across his face. "Okay. But just so you know? I’m a very fast learner, and I’m definitely planning on earning the rest."
He gives you one last, lingering look before reluctantly letting go of your waist, though he keeps one of your hands in his, lacing your fingers together as the music continues to play softly in the background. The boundary has been set, but the look in his eyes tells you he’s more than ready for the chase.
The cool night air of Seoul greets you as he leads you out onto the sprawling balcony. The city stretches out below like a sea of neon lights, but the atmosphere out here is quiet, shielded by the height of the penthouse.
Jungkook sits down on one of the oversized, plush outdoor chairs and gently pulls you down with him. You end up right on his lap, your satin skirt draping over his knees. One of his arms curls around your waist, holding you securely, while his other hand rests on your thigh.
He leans his head back against the chair, looking up at the stars for a moment before letting out a long, dramatic sigh.
"Okay, I’ve been thinking about it for exactly three minutes," he murmurs, his voice vibrating against you. He looks up at you, his dark eyes sparkling with a mix of mischief and genuine longing. "How do I do it? What’s the fastest way to earn another one? Do I need to cook a five-course meal? Learn a new dance? Win a gold medal in something?"
He pouts slightly. "Tell me the criteria, Y/N. I’m very competitive."
You look down at him, watching the way the moonlight softens the lines of his face. He looks so hopeful and so completely focused on you that your "strict" rules melt away in an instant. You can't help but grin at how charmingly desperate he’s acting for someone who literally has the world at his feet.
"Actually," you whisper, leaning down until your face is just inches from his. "I think you just earned one for being cute."
Before he can even process the words, you press your lips to his.
This kiss is different from the one in the kitchen it’s deeper, more confident, fueled by the quiet intimacy of the balcony and the way you’re tucked perfectly into his space. Jungkook makes a low sound of surprise in the back of his throat before his hand moves to the back of your head, deepening the contact, his fingers tangling in your hair.
When you finally pull back, both of you are a little breathless. He looks up at you, dazed and wearing a triumphant, toothy grin.
"If that's the reward for being cute," he whispers, pulling you closer into his chest, "then I'm never acting like a cool superstar again."
You lean your head against his shoulder, watching the tiny lights of the cars moving far below like glowing ants. The silence of the night feels heavy, but in a comfortable, grounding way. You trace the edge of his sleeve with your finger before looking up at him, your expression becoming a bit more soft and serious.
"You know," you say, your voice barely a whisper in the cool breeze. "I actually had a rule. A pretty strict one, actually."
Jungkook tilts his head, his curiosity piqued as he brushes a stray lock of hair from your forehead. "A rule? About what?"
"About this," you gesture between the two of you. "I told myself I’d never kiss anyone before a fourth date. I always thought you needed that much time to really know if someone was worth the trouble. It was my safety net."
Jungkook stays silent for a moment, his dark eyes searching yours. The teasing smirk he had a moment ago softens into something much more genuine. He shifts slightly, pulling you a little tighter against his chest, as if he’s trying to absorb the weight of what you just admitted.
"So..." he starts, his voice low and incredibly tender. "I broke the safety net on Date Three?"
"You did," you admit with a small, helpless laugh. "I don't know if it was the Busan ocean, the flour-covered dog, or that ridiculous secret-weapon ramen, but... you made me forget about the count."
Jungkook exhales a breath he seemed to be holding, a look of pure, humble pride crossing his face. He doesn't brag or make a joke this time. Instead, he leans down and presses a soft, lingering kiss to your temple.
"I'm glad," he murmurs against your skin. "Because I don't want to be someone who just fits into a rule, Y/N. I want to be the exception. Thank you for letting me be the one to break it."
He rests his chin on your shoulder, both of you looking out at the city, and for the first time, the "Superstar" doesn't feel like a title he's carrying he just feels like the man who managed to win your heart a little ahead of schedule.
The night stretches on, the frantic pace of the world below feeling like a distant memory.
You talk about the small things your favorite childhood memories, the songs that make you cry, and the things that actually keep you up at night. He tells you about the pressure of always being "perfect" and how he sometimes misses the simple smell of the sea in Busan. You tell him about your dreams, the ones you haven't shared with your colleagues, and how you sometimes feel like you're just playing a role in your own life.
Deepening the Connection, Jungkook opens up about his fears of the future and the loneliness that often comes with fame. You realize that behind the tattoos and the sold-out stadiums is a man who just wants to be understood.
You find out he’s surprisingly good at drawing, and he finds out you have a secret talent for mimicry. He makes you laugh until your sides ache, and you make him feel a sense of peace he hasn't felt in years.
Sometimes, the talking stops, and you both just sit there, listening to the muffled sounds of the city and the steady rhythm of each other's breathing. It’s the kind of silence that doesn't need to be filled the kind that only happens when two people are truly comfortable.
As the clock ticks toward the early hours of the morning, Bam eventually trots out onto the balcony, letting out a soft whine and resting his large head on Jungkook’s knee.
"I think he's jealous," Jungkook whispers, his voice thick with a mix of tiredness and affection. He looks down at you, his eyes reflecting the city lights. "I don't remember the last time I just... sat and talked like this. Thank you, Y/N. For not treating me like that.'"
You reach up, tracing the line of his jaw. "Thank you for the ramen, Jungkook. And for being exactly who you are."
He pulls you closer, tucking your head under his chin. The world is vast and complicated, and tomorrow the security guards and the billboards will still be there but for tonight, in this quiet bubble high above Seoul, it's just the two of you and a very sleepy Doberman.
You shift slightly in his lap, the cozy warmth of his body making your eyelids feel incredibly heavy. As much as you want to stay in this bubble forever, reality is starting to tug at your sleeve.
"Jungkook," you mumble softly, your voice thick with sleepiness. "If I stay here any longer, I’m going to fall fast asleep right on your shoulder. I should probably head home while I can still keep my eyes open."
He doesn't let go immediately. Instead, he tightens his hold for a brief second, burying his face in the crook of your neck with a quiet, reluctant hum. "Just five more minutes?" he pleads, his voice vibrating against your skin. "The city looks better with you here."
"I have work tomorrow, Superstar," you remind him with a small smile, pulling back just enough to look at him. "And unlike someone I know, I can't just show up whenever I want."
He sighs, a dramatic but sweet sound, and finally nods. "Fine. You're right. I don't want you falling asleep at your desk and blaming my ramen for it."
He helps you stand up, steadying you as you find your balance in your sneakers. As you walk back through the quiet penthouse toward the door, the atmosphere has shifted from high-energy tension to a soft, lingering intimacy.
At the door, he grabs his keys and a hoodie. "I'm calling a private car for you, and I’m walking you down to make sure those guards don't give you a hard time again. Actually," he adds with a mischievous glint in his eyes, "I want them to see exactly who they almost turned away."
"Jungkook, you don't have to—"
"I want to," he interrupts gently, taking your hand and interlacing his fingers with yours. "I'll see you all the way to your door."
As the elevator descends, he doesn't let go of your hand. The night might be ending, but the way he's looking at you makes it clear that Date Three was just the beginning of something much bigger.
The elevator ride down is quiet, the digital numbers ticking away the final moments of the night. Jungkook doesn't let go of your hand for a single second. When the doors slide open, the lobby is silent, bathed in soft moonlight and the glow of security monitors.
The guards from earlier snap to attention, their eyes widening as they see the "Superstar" himself personally escorting you out, his hand firmly interlaced with yours. Jungkook doesn't even look at them; his focus is entirely on you as he leads you to the sleek black car waiting at the curb.
The cool night air hits your face, waking you up just enough to realize the night is truly over. He stops by the open car door, turning to face you. The streetlights catch the sparkle in his eyes and the slight, nervous curve of his lips.
"Text me the second you're inside," he says, his voice low and protective. "I won't sleep until I know you're safe."
You look up at him, feeling a wave of warmth that has nothing to do with the temperature. You reach up, cupping his face with your hands, and pull him down for a soft, lingering kiss. It’s gentle a quiet "thank you" for the effort, the honesty, and the way he made a billionaire's penthouse feel like a home.
"It was a beautiful evening, Jungkook," you whisper against his lips, pulling back just enough to see his stunned, happy expression. "Truly."
He looks a little breathless, a faint blush creeping up his neck. "Yeah," he breathes out, a dazed smile spreading across his face. "It really was."
He stands there on the sidewalk, hands shoved into his hoodie pockets, watching as the car pulls away. As you look through the back window, you can see him waving a lone figure under the streetlights, looking less like a global icon and more like a guy who just had the best night of his life.
The cool sheets feel amazing against your skin as you collapse into bed, but your mind is anything but restful. Every time you close your eyes, you feel the ghost of his touch on your waist and the incredible softness of his lips. You’re still wearing that faint scent of his cologne, and it’s making your heart race all over again.
Your phone buzzes on the nightstand. You don't even have to guess who it is.
Jungkook:
I’m staring at the empty chair on the balcony. It looks lonely. Bam is currently moping by the door because his favorite 'bribing' guest left.
You:
Maybe Bam just misses the snacks. And I'm pretty sure that chair is fine, it’s a very expensive chair.
Jungkook:
It’s not the chair, Y/N. It’s the person who was sitting in my lap. My heart is beating so loud I’m surprised you didn't hear it down the street. Is it weird that I already miss you?
You:
A little bit... but only because I feel the same way. My rule about Date Four didn't stand a chance against you tonight.
Jungkook:
I’m going to spend the whole night thinking about that kiss. And the way you looked in that skirt. And how you laughed at me when I panicked over the security guards. I’m completely gone, aren't I?
You:
We both are, Jungkook. It's a disaster.
Jungkook:
The best kind of disaster. I’m serious, though..I’ve never felt this normal and this crazy at the same time. Get some sleep, beautiful. Dream of me (and maybe a little bit of the ramen).
You:
Goodnight, Superstar. I think the ramen has some serious competition for my dreams tonight.
You set the phone down, clutching your pillow to your chest with a wide, helpless grin. You’re staring at the ceiling, completely lost in him, knowing that somewhere across the city, a global icon is doing exactly the same thing.
The different worlds don't feel like a problem anymore. Tonight, you were just two people, one kitchen, and a kiss that changed everything.
The next afternoon, you're sitting in a small, tucked-away cafe with Naemi. You’ve been trying to act "normal," but you’re glowing so much that even the steam from your latte can’t hide it.
Naemi narrows her eyes at you over her cup. "Okay, spill. You’ve been staring at your phone and smiling like a lunatic for twenty minutes. How was the guy last night?"
"It was... a lot," you say, trying to stay vague. "He made ramen. We sat on his balcony. It felt very real."
"Ramen? On a balcony?" Naemi leans in, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Y/N, is he rich? Does he live in a nice place? Is he a secret CEO?"
"Not a CEO," you laugh, the memory of him in that apron hitting you. "He's just... he’s very intense. And he has this dog, Bam, who is basically a giant teddy bear. We ended up dancing in the kitchen and—" You bite your lip, the words slipping out before you can catch them. "And his kiss was literally the best thing that's ever happened to me."
Naemi’s jaw drops. "You kissed him?! On Date Three? What happened to your legendary Date Four rule? Who is this guy, James Bond?"
You feel your face heating up. "His name is Jungkook, okay? And he’s not James Bond, he’s just... Jungkook."
The name hangs in the air for a second. Naemi’s eyes go wide. She freezes, her spoon halfway to her mouth. "Jungkook? As in... Jeon Jungkook? The Golden guy? The one whose face is currently on a three-story billboard outside my office?"
You realize your mistake instantly. You reach across the table, grabbing her arm. "Naemi, please! You cannot tell anyone. Especially not Min-ji! I wasn't supposed to say his name."
"ARE YOU SERIOUS?" she shrieks, then immediately covers her mouth as people turn to look. She leans in so close you can smell her peppermint gum. "You are dating the Jungkook? The superstar? And you're telling me you were making ramen and kissing him on a balcony while the rest of the world is literally screaming for a glance at his tattoos?"
She looks like she’s about to have a physical meltdown. "Y/N, I need details. Everything. Does he smell like heaven? Is he actually that muscular? Oh my god, wait... you meet the dog? The famous Bam?!"
You bury your face in your hands, half-laughing and half-terrified. "Yes, he smells amazing, yes, the dog is huge, and yes, I'm a complete goner. But if this gets out, I’m dead. He’s just a guy to me, Naemi. A very sweet, very panicked-about-security guy."
Naemi just stares at you, shaking her head in disbelief. "A 'guy.' She calls a global legend a 'guy.' I need another coffee. Or a shot of tequila. My best friend is dating the most famous man on earth."
Naemi takes a long, slow breath, visibly trying to bring her heart rate back down to a human level. She reaches across the table and firmly squeezes your hand, her expression turning from pure shock to fierce loyalty.
"Okay," she whispers, her voice low and steady. "I’m locking this in a vault. I promise. I won't say a word not to Min-ji, not to my mom, not even to my diary. Your secret is safe with me."
She looks around the cafe one more time to make sure no one is eavesdropping before leaning back in her chair. "But Y/N... be careful. Not because of him, but because of everything around him. If my brain just short-circuited hearing his name, imagine what the rest of the world would do."
You nod, feeling a weight lift off your shoulders. Having one person know the truth makes the whole thing feel a little more grounded and a little less like a fever dream.
"I know," you say softly. "That’s why he’s so protective. He just wants to be a normal guy for a few hours. And honestly? When he’s pouting because I won't give him another kiss, it’s easy to forget who he is to everyone else."
Naemi giggles, shaking her head. "You’re the only person on the planet who would make Jeon Jungkook 'earn' a kiss. I think that’s exactly why he’s so obsessed with you. You don't see the billboard; you just see the guy who’s bad at dicing onions."
She takes a sip of her coffee, a mischievous glint returning to her eyes. "But just so we're clear... if you ever need a double date, I am available. I’ll even bring my own ramen."
"Don't push it, Naemi," you laugh, finally feeling like you can breathe again.
Your phone vibrates on the table. A text from him. You don't even have to look to know you're smiling, and Naemi just rolls her eyes. "Go on," she sighs dramatically. "Answer your Superstar. I'll just sit here and pretend my life is half as exciting as a K-Drama."
Four days have passed, filled with endless text messages that kept your phone glowing late into the night. The anticipation for "The Official Date Four" has been humming in the background of your entire week.
True to his word, Jungkook didn't just send a text; he sent a handwritten note delivered via his private driver. It simply said:
The safety net is gone, and I’ve had four days to plan. Wear something comfortable but warm. I’m picking you up at 7 PM. No ramen tonight, I’m taking you to my favorite place in the world.”
When 7:00 PM rolls around, the familiar black SUV is idling outside your apartment. But this time, Jungkook isn't hiding in the back. He’s standing by the car, wearing a bucket hat pulled low and an oversized leather jacket. The moment he sees you, his entire face lights up, that bunny-smile breaking through his incognito look.
"You're on time," he teases, opening the door for you. "I was worried you’d make me wait just to keep me on my toes."
"And miss seeing what you have planned? Not a chance," you reply, sliding into the seat.
As the car moves through the city, you realize you aren't heading toward the glitzy district of Gangnam or his penthouse. Instead, the car winds its way toward the outskirts of the city, eventually pulling up to a private trailhead near the Han River, far from the usual tourist spots.
"A hike?" you ask, looking at the dark path lit only by the moon.
"A walk," he corrects, reaching into the back for a small backpack. "And a view."
He takes your hand, his grip firm and warm, and leads you up a gentle incline. After about fifteen minutes of walking and easy conversation, you reach a small, secluded wooden deck overlooking the river. The entire skyline of Seoul is spread out before you, reflecting off the dark water like a million fallen stars.
There’s a blanket already laid out with a small lantern and a thermos.
"Since I already earned the kiss on Date Three," he says, stepping closer until your shoulders touch, "I decided Date Four should be about this. No billboards, no managers, no security guards within earshot. Just the wind, the river, and us."
He looks down at you, the moonlight catching the silver of his piercings. "I told you I wanted to be the exception to your rule. So, how am I doing so far?"
You let out a soft, surprised giggle as he reaches into his backpack. Instead of more snacks or wine, he pulls out two small, portable canvases and a compact set of acrylic paints.
"Painting?" you ask, eyebrows raised in amusement. "You know I’ve seen your sketches, Jungkook. This feels like a trap. You’re a professional, and I haven't picked up a brush since middle school."
He grins, the moonlight making his eyes sparkle with mischief. "It’s not a competition! Well... maybe a little bit. But the rule is: you have to paint me, and I have to paint you. No looking at the other person's canvas until we're finished."
He hands you a brush and sets up the small lantern between you so you can see your palettes. You sit cross-legged on the blanket, the cool night air nipping at your nose, but the warmth of his presence keeps you perfectly comfortable.
For the next hour, the only sounds are the gentle rustle of the wind in the trees and the soft scritch-scratch of brushes against canvas. You find yourself peeking over the top of your frame, trying to capture the exact curve of his nose and the way his hair falls over his eyes. Jungkook is intensely focused, his tongue poking out slightly in the corner of his mouth a habit he only has when he's deeply concentrated.
"No cheating!" he scolds playfully, catching you staring.
"I’m not cheating, I'm observing my subject!" you defend yourself with a laugh.
Finally, he claps his hands together. "Done. Okay, on the count of three. One... two... three!"
You flip your canvases around at the same time.
Your painting of him is... well, it's spirited. You captured his big eyes and his bunny teeth, even if the proportions are a little wonky. But when you look at his canvas, your breath hitches.
He hasn't painted a realistic portrait. Instead, it’s a beautiful, atmospheric blend of colors—mostly deep blues and purples like the night sky—with a silhouette of you in the center, glowing with a soft, golden light. It captures exactly how you felt on the balcony four days ago.
"Jungkook..." you whisper, touched by the raw emotion in the piece. "It’s beautiful."
He looks at your version of him and lets out a hearty, melodic laugh, pulling you closer until your side is pressed against his. "I love mine too. It really captures my... essence."
He sets the canvases aside and looks at you, his expression turning soft and serious. "I wanted to paint you because I wanted to show you how I see you. Not as a rule, or a date, or a person I met by accident. But as the light in all this darkness."
He leans in, his hand cupping your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek. "So, did I earn another one yet?"
You nod breathlessly, and before he can even finish his sentence, you close the gap. This isn't the soft, hesitant thank you kiss from the sidewalk. This is the culmination of four days of frantic texting, the tension of the kitchen, and the raw honesty of the night air.
The moment your lips meet, the kiss intensifies. It’s deep, hungry, and slightly desperate, as if you’re both trying to make up for all the rules and barriers that have stood in your way. His hand, previously gentle on your jaw, slides back into your hair, his fingers tangling in the strands to pull you closer, while his other arm locks around your waist.
With a low, guttural groan that vibrates against your lips, Jungkook shifts, lifting you effortlessly and pulling you onto his lap. You straddle him, your hands sliding from his neck to his chest, feeling the frantic thrum of his heart through his leather jacket.
The world around the small wooden deck disappears. The city lights, the river, the paintings none of it matters. There is only the heat of his body, the scent of his skin, and the way his hands are now gripping your hips, anchoring you to him.
He pulls back for a fraction of a second, his breath hitching, his forehead resting against yours. His eyes are dark, hooded, and completely focused on you. "Y/N," he rasps, his voice a low, rough shadow of itself. "I told you... I’m a fast learner."
He doesn't give you a chance to respond before he’s claiming your lips again, his touch becoming more confident, more demanding. The cool night air is forgotten, replaced by the electric heat radiating between the two of you. In this hidden spot, far away from the cameras and the noise, the Superstar is completely gone, leaving only a man who has finally found exactly what he’s been searching for.
The air on the secluded deck is thick with a heat that defies the cool night breeze. Jungkook’s hands have found their way under the hem of your top, his palms warm and slightly calloused against the sensitive skin of your waist. He pulls you even tighter, lifting you so you’re pressed flush against his chest, leaving no space between your racing hearts.
His kisses transition from your lips to your jawline, trailing fire down to the crook of your neck. A soft, involuntary moan escapes you as his teeth graze your skin, and his grip on your hips tightens, his breathing coming in ragged, shallow hitches. You can feel the tension in his muscles, the raw strength he’s trying so hard to keep in check, but the way he’s holding you tells you he’s just as lost in this as you are.
Every touch feels electric, amplified by the silence of the forest around you. Your hands slide under his jacket, feeling the warmth of his shoulders, your fingers tracing the firm lines of his back. He groans low in his throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated want that sends a shiver straight down your spine.
Just as his hand begins to wander higher, seeking more of you, and your head lolls back to give him better access to your throat—
BRRRRRRT. BRRRRRRT. BRRRRRRT.
The vibration is violent against the wooden deck, echoing like a jackhammer in the quiet night.
Jungkook freezes, his lips still pressed against your collarbone. He lets out a frustrated, muffled growl against your skin, refusing to move for a few seconds.
BRRRRRRT. BRRRRRRT.
"Ignore it," he rasps, his voice deep and thick with desire, his eyes dark as he looks back up at you. He tries to lean back in for another kiss, but the phone starts a third round of relentless vibrating.
"Jungkook," you breathe out, your face flushed and your hair a mess. "It might be important. Nobody calls this late unless it’s an emergency."
With a heavy sigh that practically rattles his ribs, he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out the glowing device. He looks at the screen, and his expression immediately shifts from passion to utter annoyance.
"It’s Namjoon-hyung," he mutters, rubbing a hand over his face. He looks at you, then back at the phone, then back at you his gaze lingering on your swollen lips. "If he’s calling to ask where I put the studio headphones, I’m actually going to retire."
He answers with a sharp, "Hyung, this better be a life-or-death situation," but he doesn't let you off his lap. He keeps his arm wrapped firmly around you, pulling you back against his chest as if to make sure you don't go anywhere while he deals with the real world for a moment.
The harsh reality of the phone call acts like a bucket of ice water. Even though you’re on a secluded deck, the sudden intrusion of the real world via Namjoon’s voice makes the surrounding shadows feel a little too open. Your heart is still thudding against your ribs, but the spell is broken.
You gently disentangle yourself from his arms, sliding off his lap. The cool air hits your heated skin instantly, making you realize just how far things had escalated.
Jungkook looks up at you, his eyes still dark and dazed, his hand reaching out instinctively as if to pull you back. He’s still holding the phone to his ear, listening to Namjoon, but his focus is entirely on your sudden retreat.
"I... I should eat something," you whisper, smoothing down your clothes and tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. You reach for the small container of snacks he’d brought, your fingers trembling slightly as you pick up a piece of fruit.
Jungkook watches you, his expression a mix of lingering heat and sudden concern. He realizes the shift in your energy the way you’re now looking around at the dark trees instead of at him. He speaks quickly into the phone, his tone clipping Namjoon’s explanation short.
"Yeah, Hyung. I get it. I'll check it when I'm back. Okay. Bye."
He ends the call and tosses the phone onto the blanket with a frustrated thud. He doesn't get up immediately; he just sits there, his elbows on his knees, watching you eat in silence.
"Y/N," he says softly, his voice finally losing that rough edge. "We're safe here. I checked it myself. No one knows about this spot."
He crawls forward a few inches on the blanket, stopping just short of your space, respecting the distance you just created. "Are you okay? Did I... did I go too fast?"
You shake your head quickly, wanting to ease the look of worry crossing his face. You reach out, placing a hand on his knee to ground both of you.
"No, Jungkook, it’s not that," you say softly, your voice gaining more confidence. "I enjoyed it. Really. You’re... you're amazing." You feel your cheeks heat up again, but you meet his eyes. "It’s just that the phone call reminded me that we’re not actually in a vacuum. It made me realize where we are."
Jungkook lets out a long, relieved breath, his shoulders finally dropping. He covers your hand with his own, his thumb tracing the back of your knuckles. "You scared me for a second," he admits with a small, lopsided smile. "I thought I'd messed up the Date magic."
He reaches for a piece of the fruit you were eating, popping it into his mouth before leaning back on his elbows. The tension has shifted from something heavy and heated into something much more comfortable and sweet.
"I get it," he says, looking out at the river again. "It’s hard to switch it off. One minute I’m just a guy on a date, and the next, I’m BTS Jungkook answering a work call. I hate that it broke the moment for you."
He turns back to you, his eyes soft. "But I'm glad you liked it. Because I've been thinking about doing that since the moment you walked into my kitchen and told me my ramen was okay."
You laugh, the last bit of nerves finally melting away. "It was better than okay, and you know it."
"The ramen or the kiss?" he teases, moving closer again, though this time he just settles next to you, shoulder-to-shoulder, as you both look out at the city lights.
"Both," you admit, leaning your head on his shoulder. "But definitely the kiss."
He kisses the top of your head, resting his cheek there. For the rest of the night, the phone stays face-down on the blanket, completely forgotten, as you finish the snacks and talk about everything and nothing at all.
The walk back to the car is quiet and comfortable, with Jungkook’s hand firmly anchored in yours. But the moment he slides into the driver's seat and pulls off his oversized leather jacket, the comfortable vibe shifts back into something much more dangerous.
He’s wearing a simple, well-fitted black t-shirt now, and as he starts the engine, the dim glow of the dashboard lights up the sharp angles of his jaw and the focused intensity in his eyes. He throws the car into reverse, resting his right arm on the back of your headrest as he looks over his shoulder to back out of the trailhead.
Watching him drive is a complete sensory overload. He drives with a relaxed, effortless confidence, one hand casually on the steering wheel while the other rests on the gear shift.
You find yourself mesmerized by the way the muscles in his forearm flex every time he turns the wheel, and how the light catches the intricate tattoos on his hand.
He catches you staring at him from the corner of his eye and a small, knowing smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.
"You're very quiet over there," he murmurs, his voice low and smooth over the soft hum of the engine. "Something on your mind, or am I just that interesting to watch?"
"You're just... very good at driving," you manage to say, trying to sound casual, though your heart is doing that familiar double-thump again.
He lets out a low, melodic chuckle, his fingers tapping a rhythmic beat against the steering wheel. "I'll take that as a compliment. Just keep looking at me like that, and I might accidentally take the long way back to your apartment."
He reaches over, briefly squeezing your hand before returning it to the wheel, but the look he gives you dark, heated, and full of unspoken promises tells you that even though the date is technically winding down, he's nowhere near ready to let the night end.
The car is stopped at a red light, the interior filled with the soft, rhythmic clicking of the turn signal. The tension from earlier the heat of the balcony and the intensity of his driving finally boils over. You unbuckle your seatbelt and lean across the center console, your hand finding the back of his neck, where his hair is softest.
You kiss him one more time, and it’s deep and lingering, tasting of the night air and the sweet fruit you shared. Jungkook lets out a low, surprised hum of approval, his hand leaving the gear shift to cup your cheek, his thumb grazing your lower lip as he pulls you closer into his space. For a few seconds, the high-end SUV feels like the smallest, most private world in all of Seoul.
The light turns green, and a car behind you honks, breaking the moment. Jungkook pulls back with a breathless, boyish grin, looking completely ruffled and thoroughly satisfied. "You're definitely trying to make me crash," he mutters, though he looks like he wouldn't mind at all.
When he finally pulls up to the curb of your apartment building, the playful energy settles into something more tender. He kills the engine, and the silence of the street wraps around the car.
"I'm not leaving until I see your light go on," he says, his voice dropping into that protective, low register. He leans over, brushing his lips against your forehead. "Thank you for tonight, Y/N. Date Four was... everything I hoped it would be."
You step out of the car, the cool air hitting you, and walk toward your entrance. As you reach the door, you turn back to see the dark SUV still idling at the curb. Through the tinted windshield, you can just make out the silhouette of him watching you, making sure you’re safe.
Once you’re inside, you head straight to your window and flick the lights on and off twice, your secret signal. Only then do you hear the low growl of the engine as he finally pulls away, leaving you alone in your quiet apartment, still feeling the heat of his touch and the weight of a night that changed everything.
The next day, you’re back with Naemi, hiding away in the corner of a quiet park with some takeout coffee. You can’t stop fidgeting with your sleeves, the adrenaline from last night still humming under your skin.
"He is so incredibly attractive, Naemi," you breathe out, staring blankly at the grass. "I mean, I knew he was handsome the whole world knows.. but when he’s just there, driving the car or looking at you in the dark... it’s completely different. It’s overwhelming."
Naemi nudges your shoulder with a smirk. "So, I’m guessing Date Four lived up to the hype? You look like you’ve been struck by lightning."
Your smile fades slightly, replaced by a flicker of genuine nerves. You lean in closer, lowering your voice. "It was perfect. But that’s the problem. Things got... intense. And now I’m starting to panic."
Naemi frowns, her playful tone shifting. "Panic? Why? He seems like he’s head-over-heels for you."
"He is, and I am for him too," you admit, twisting your coffee cup. "But Naemi... I’ve only ever been with one person. My experience is basically zero. And look at him. He’s this global icon, he’s confident, he’s powerful... I’m terrified that when the time comes, I’m going to be a total disappointment. What if he expects someone who knows exactly what they’re doing? I’m scared to sleep with him because I feel like I’m going to ruin the magic by being so... inexperienced."
Naemi watches you for a moment, her expression softening into something very grounded and supportive.
"Y/N, listen to me," she says firmly. "That guy didn't spend four days planning a painting date because he’s looking for a 'pro.' He’s looking for you. From everything you’ve told me, Jungkook is the one who’s been nervous around you. He’s the one asking for permission and trying to earn your kisses."
She takes a sip of her drink and looks you straight in the eye. "If he’s as into you as he seems and trust me, he is! he’s not going to care about your 'stats.' He’s going to care about the connection. Just be honest with him when the time feels right. Someone like him probably finds your sincerity way more attractive than some rehearsed performance."
You let out a long, shaky breath, wanting to believe her. "I hope you're right. It’s just hard not to compare myself to the idea of who people think he should be with."
"Forget the 'Superstar,'" Naemi reminds you. "Just focus on the guy who made you ramen. He’s the one who’s waiting for your next text."
You pull your coat tighter against the evening chill as you walk out of your office building, the first thing on your mind being the sound of his voice. You dial his number, and he picks up on the second ring, though the background is filled with the muffled, heavy beat of a bass track and the squeak of sneakers on a dance floor.
"Hey," he breaths out, sounding completely winded. "Y/N. I was just thinking about you."
"Are you still at the company?" you ask, leaning against a lamp post. "I was calling to see if you were free to grab dinner or just... see each other for a bit."
You hear him let out a frustrated groan, followed by the sound of him walking into a quieter hallway. "I’m so sorry. We’re deep into choreography for the new tour. The instructors are being real perfectionists today. I probably won't be out of here for another three or four hours."
You can hear the genuine disappointment in his voice, and for a second, you feel that sharp tug of longing. But you don't want to be the reason he feels guilty for working.
"Oh, Jungkook, it’s no big deal! Truly," you say, trying to sound as cheerful as possible. "You’re a busy man, I get it. I’ll just head home, order some food, and have an early night. Don't overwork yourself, okay?"
"I hate this," he mutters, his voice dropping into that low, intimate register that always makes your stomach flip. "I finally get to call you mine and I’m stuck in a practice room with six sweaty guys instead of with you. Are you sure you're not mad?"
"I'm 100% sure. Go back in there and kill it. We’ll see each other soon."
"Soon isn't fast enough," he sighs. "Text me when you're home? I’ll call you the second I’m in the car, even if it’s 2:00 AM."
As you hang up and head toward the subway, you feel a mix of pride for him and a little bit of that lingering nervousness. Part of you is almost relieved to have a night to yourself to process everything Naemi said but the larger part of you already misses the way he looks at you.
The train ride home feels longer than usual. You stare at your reflection in the dark subway window, Naemi’s words echoing in your head. He’s not looking for a pro. He’s looking for you.
You try to convince yourself of that, but the image of him in the dance studio sweaty, focused, powerful only fuels your intimidation. By the time you get to your apartment, the silence feels heavy. You’ve just changed into your oversized pajamas and a pair of thick socks when your phone pings. It’s a video clip.
It’s only ten seconds long. It’s Jungkook in the practice room, his hair damp and sticking to his forehead, wearing a loose sleeveless shirt that shows the full sleeve of his tattoos. He looks exhausted but incredibly sharp. He looks at the camera, wipes sweat from his brow, and blows a kiss before the video cuts off.
Jungkook:
Thinking of you keeps me going through the 100th run-through of this choreo. Eat something delicious for me, okay?
You spend the next few hours trying to distract yourself with a book, but around midnight, your phone rings. It’s a FaceTime call. You hesitate your hair is a mess and you have no makeup on but you answer anyway.
His face fills the screen. He’s in the back of a car, the streetlights of Seoul blurring past behind him. He looks drained, leaning his head back against the seat, but his eyes brighten the moment he sees you.
"There she is," he rasps, his voice even deeper from exhaustion. "I missed that face."
"You look tired, Jungkook," you say softly, tracing the screen with your thumb. "You should just go straight to sleep."
"I will. But I needed to hear you first." He studies you through the camera, his expression turning curious. "You're quiet tonight. Is everything okay? You didn't sound like this on the phone earlier."
You bite your lip, the familiar wave of insecurity hitting you. "I'm just thinking. About... everything. About how different our lives are. Sometimes I see you in videos like the one you sent, and I remember who you are to the world. It’s a little intimidating."
Jungkook is silent for a moment, his gaze intense even through the digital connection. He leans closer to his phone. "Y/N, look at me. In that video, I’m 'Jungkook of BTS.' But right now? I’m just a guy who’s so tired he can barely sit up, and the only thing making me feel better is talking to you."
He pauses, as if sensing there’s something more you aren't saying. "Whatever you're worried about... we'll figure it out. Together. Okay?"
You nod, feeling a little bit of the tension melt. You don't tell him about your fear of the first time yet, but the way he looks at you even through a tiny screen makes you feel like maybe, just maybe, Naemi was right. To him, you aren't a "stat" or a "case." You're the person he chooses at 2:00 AM.
The anticipation for Date Five is different. It’s not about the thrill of a secret location or the adrenaline of a grand gesture; it’s about the quiet intimacy of just being together.
When you arrive at his penthouse, you’ve opted for a low-effort look. You’re wearing loose, comfortable lounge pants that hang low on your hips, paired with a fitted, ribbed white tank top. It’s casual, but the thin fabric hugs your curves perfectly, highlighting the shape of your breasts in a way that is effortlessly enticing.
The moment the door clicks open, you aren't greeted by the superstar, but by a frantic, tail-wagging Doberman.
"Bam! Hey, big guy!" you laugh, dropping to your knees immediately.
The dog is all over you, his giant paws thumping against the floor as you wrestle with him, scratching behind his ears. Your top shifts as you move, the neckline dipping slightly as you lean over to kiss the top of Bam’s head. You’re so distracted by the dog’s excitement that you don't notice Jungkook standing in the hallway, leaning against the doorframe.
He’s wearing oversized sweatpants and a simple tee, but he’s gone completely still. His gaze is locked on you or more specifically, the way you look on the floor, flushed and laughing, with the light catching the soft curves emphasized by your tight top. He swallows hard, his throat moving visibly.
"I'm starting to think he likes you more than he likes me," Jungkook finally says, his voice a bit huskier than usual.
You look up, still breathless from playing, and give him a bright smile. "Can you blame him? I give better ear scratches."
Jungkook walks over, reaching down to give you a hand up. As he pulls you to your feet, his eyes linger on your chest for a split second longer than intended before he meets your gaze. The air in the room suddenly feels much warmer.
"You look... really good, Y/N," he murmurs, his hands staying on your waist a beat too long after you're standing. "I thought we were just doing a 'lazy' movie night."
"I am lazy!" you tease, gesturing to your pants. "This is my peak comfort level."
"Well," he says, his thumb absentmindedly brushing against the side of your ribs, sending a jolt of electricity through you. "Your version of 'comfortable' is very dangerous for my concentration."
He leads you over to the massive, cloud-like sofa where he’s already set up a mountain of pillows, blankets, and of course an array of snacks. But as you settle in next to him, the movie feels like a very secondary thought. The way he’s tucked you into his side, his arm draped over your shoulders and his fingers tracing patterns on your arm, tells you that Date Five might be the night where all your fears and his patience finally meet.
You’re both snuggled deep into the cushions of his oversized sofa, a glass of red wine in your hand and the glow of the TV flickering across your faces. A Spider-Man movie is playing, and as Tom Holland appears on screen during an action sequence, you lean back and let out a thoughtful hum.
"You know," you say, taking a sip of your wine, "I never realized it, but he’s actually really good-looking. There’s something so charming about him."
Beside you, Jungkook stiffens almost imperceptibly. He reaches for a handful of popcorn, his eyes narrowing slightly at the screen. "He's okay," he mutters, his tone suddenly flat. "I mean, if you like that 'boyish' look, I guess."
You peek at him over the rim of your glass, catching the way his jaw is set and how he’s pointedly not looking at you. He’s actually jealous. The global heartthrob, the man millions dream about, is pouting because of a movie star.
It’s the most adorable thing you’ve ever seen.
You set your wine glass down on the coffee table with a soft clink. The liquid courage is buzzing in your veins, making you feel bold. You turn toward him, looking him dead in the eye, and then slowly crawl across the cushions until you're straddling his lap.
Jungkook’s breath hitches. His hands fly to your waist to steady you, his eyes wide and dark as they search yours. The movie is completely forgotten.
"He's charming," you whisper, leaning in until your nose brushes against his. "But he doesn't look like this."
You trace the line of his tattoos with your fingers before sliding them up to cup his face. You don't give him a chance to respond. You lean down and kiss him deep, slow, and full of the intent you've been hiding all night.
The jealousy vanishes instantly, replaced by a low, hungry groan. Jungkook’s grip on your waist tightens, his fingers digging into the fabric of your leggings as he pulls you flush against him. His tongue sweeps against yours, demanding and possessive, as if he's trying to erase any thought of anyone else from your mind.
Your heart is hammering against your ribs. You can feel his heat through your thin tank top, and for a moment, the fear of your inexperience is drowned out by the sheer, overwhelming pull of him. He tastes like the wine and looks like everything you've ever wanted, and right now, in the dim light of his living room, the rest of the world has ceased to exist.
The movie on the screen is nothing but a blur of flickering light and distant noise as Jungkook’s focus narrows entirely to the woman in his lap. The jealousy from moments ago has morphed into a raw, territorial heat. He pulls back from the kiss just enough to look at you, his pupils so blown that his eyes appear almost entirely black. His large, tattooed hands slide from your waist, slipping beneath the hem of your ribbed tank top. The sensation of his skin against yours makes you gasp, his palms warm and slightly rough as they travel upward, molding over the undersides of your breasts. He groans into your neck, his teeth grazing your collarbone, while his thumbs rhythmically brush against your nipples through the thin fabric, making them ache with a sudden, sharp need.
He doesn't stop there. One hand remains anchored to your back, pulling you flush against his chest, while the other slides down, disappearing into the waistband of your loose lounge pants. You let out a broken whimper against his lips as he finds the damp heat blooming between your thighs. Jungkook is patient, his long, slender fingers moving with a devastating precision that belies his own frantic breathing. He finds your center, his touch feather-light at first, circling and teasing until you are arching your back against him, your fingers tangling desperately in his hair. He begins to slide two fingers inside you, the length of them filling you so perfectly that your head lolls back, your eyes fluttering shut. He uses his thumb to maintain a relentless, rhythmic pressure above, and the combination sends jolts of electricity through your entire body.
"Jungkook," you sob out, your hands clutching at his shoulders as the tension in your core winds tighter and tighter. He watches you with a fierce intensity, his jaw clenched, as he picks up the pace. His fingers move deep and rhythmic, perfectly attuned to the way your body trembles and clenches around him. The world begins to tunnel, the only thing real being the friction and the heat and the low, encouraging murmurs he’s whispering against your ear. When the peak finally hits, it’s a violent, white-hot explosion that leaves you breathless, your internal muscles spasming around his fingers in a long, agonizingly beautiful release. You collapse against him, your forehead resting on his shoulder as you sob for air, your body still twitching with the aftershocks of the most intense sensation you've ever felt.
As your breathing slowly begins to level out, the vulnerability of the moment hits you, but it’s quickly replaced by a fierce desire to give back the pleasure he just gave you. You shift, sliding off his lap and down onto the plush rug between his knees. Jungkook watches you, his breath coming in ragged hitches, his hands resting on the edge of the sofa as he stares down at you. You look up at him, your lips swollen and your eyes glazed, before your hands reach for the drawstring of his sweatpants. You pull them down, freeing his length, which is already straining and slick with anticipation. You take him into your hands, marvelling at the heat and the weight of him, before leaning forward to take him into your mouth. The sound he makes is a raw, guttural animal noise, his head snapping back against the sofa cushions as his fingers dig into the fabric. You move with a slow, deliberate focus, using your tongue and the suction of your lips to drive him to the same edge he just showed you, relishing the way his entire body trembles under your touch.
The air in the room is heavy and still, the only sound the ragged, uneven rhythm of your shared breathing. As Jungkook reaches his limit, his hands find their way into your hair, his fingers gripping gently but firmly as he lets out a low, shuddering groan that seems to vibrate from deep within his chest. When he finally releases, you stay there for a moment, the intimacy of the act settling over you both like a warm blanket.
You eventually pull back, wiping your lip with the back of your hand, looking up at him through your lashes. Jungkook looks completely wrecked. His head is still resting against the back of the sofa, his eyes half-closed and his skin glowing with a light sheen of sweat. He looks down at you, and the sheer tenderness and gratitude in his gaze make your heart swell even more than the physical act did.
"Y/N," he whispers, his voice nothing more than a raspy shadow. He reaches down, hooking his arms under your pits to lift you back up into his space.
You collapse against him, your head tucking into the crook of his neck. You're completely speechless. Any lingering fear you had about your inexperience or "not being good enough" has been incinerated by the last twenty minutes. You feel empowered, connected, and thoroughly exhausted in the best possible way.
"That was..." you start, but the words fail you. You just shake your head against his skin, breathing in the scent of his cologne and the heat of his body.
"I know," he murmurs, his arms wrapping around you so tightly it's as if he's trying to pull you inside his own ribcage. He kisses the temple of your head, his lips lingering there. "Don't say anything. Just stay right here."
He reaches for the discarded blanket on the floor, draping it over both of you, shielding you from the rest of the world. For a long time, neither of you moves. The movie has long since reached the credits, the white text scrolling silently over a black screen, but in the quiet of his living room, everything feels loud and clear: the Superstar and the Rule are gone. There is only this.
You are completely under his spell. Lying there in the quiet aftermath, wrapped in the warmth of his arms and the soft weight of the blanket, everything else feels like a distant memory. You feel a sense of belonging that scares you and thrills you all at once. You are utterly, hopelessly fallen.
The heavy, romantic silence is suddenly shattered by a wet nose poking insistently at your shoulder.
Bam, who had been patiently waiting in the corner of the living room, has decided that the humans-doing-nothing portion of the evening has gone on quite long enough. He lets out a sharp, playful bark and starts zoomie-ing around the massive sofa, his paws thumping rhythmically against the hardwood floor.
He skids to a halt, head tilted, before pouncing on the edge of the blanket and trying to tug it away with his teeth, his tail wagging so hard his entire back half is wiggling.
The sheer absurdity of the moment breaks the tension. You burst into a genuine, tired laugh, your shoulders shaking against Jungkook’s chest.
"Bam! No! Not now!" Jungkook groans, though he’s laughing too, his deep chest-rumble vibrating against you. He tries to grab the corner of the blanket back, but the Doberman is faster, leaping back and letting out a "woof" that sounds suspiciously like a challenge.
"I think he's jealous," you manage to say through your giggles, sitting up slightly and trying to fix your hair, which is a complete disaster. "He wants in on the cuddle pile."
"He's a menace," Jungkook says, but his eyes are full of affection as he watches his dog act like a puppy. He reaches out and ruffles Bam's ears, then turns back to you, his expression softening as he catches the sight of you flushed, messy, and laughing in his living room.
"See?" he whispers, leaning in to give you a quick, sweet kiss on the tip of your nose. "Even he knows you belong here."
You look at him, still slightly breathless from the laughter and the lingering heat of the night. As much as you want to stay in this bubble, the habit of being careful is hard to break.
"Will you drive me home?" you ask softly, your hand resting on his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart. "It’s late, and I don't want to get in the way of your schedule tomorrow."
Jungkook doesn't move. His grip on your waist actually tightens a fraction, and he looks at you with an expression that is so sincere it makes your breath hitch. He doesn't look like he's ready to let go of the warmth between you just yet.
"Stay," he murmurs, his voice low and a little bit vulnerable. "Sleep here tonight. I have plenty of room, and Bam clearly won't let you leave without a fight anyway."
He leans in, resting his forehead against yours, his dark eyes searching yours. "I don't want to drop you off at a cold apartment and then drive back to this big, empty place alone. I just want to wake up and see you there. No pressure, no expectations. Just us, some coffee, and maybe a very confused dog."
He brushes a stray hair from your face, his touch incredibly tender. "What do you say? I have a spare toothbrush, and I promise I’m an excellent cuddler."
The offer is tempting so tempting that the fear of your inexperience or the rules of the relationship feels a thousand miles away. You look at his expectant face, then at Bam, who has finally settled down at the foot of the couch, and you realize there's nowhere else you'd rather be.
"Okay," you whisper, a small smile spreading across your face. "I'll stay."
Jungkook’s entire face lights up with that triumphant, boyish grin. He pulls you into one last, lingering kiss before standing up and offering you his hand. "Best decision you've made all night. Come on, let's get you settled."
The hot water feels like a dream against your skin, washing away the lingering salt and heat of the night, but it does nothing to calm the butterflies in your stomach. After drying off, you spot the oversized black T-shirt he left out for you. You pull it on, and it’s so large it reaches mid-thigh, the fabric heavy and soft, smelling exactly like his signature woody, slightly spicy cologne. It feels like a warm embrace before you’ve even stepped back into the room.
When you finally push open the heavy door to the master bedroom, you’re struck by how perfectly the space is. It’s a sanctuary of dark, moody aesthetics and high-end luxury. The walls are a deep charcoal, the lighting is dimmed to a soft, golden amber, and the floor-to-ceiling windows offer a breathtaking, silent view of the Seoul skyline. Everything from the state-of-the-art speakers tucked into the corners to the massive, plush bed that looks like a dark cloud screams comfort and sophistication.
Jungkook is already in bed, propped up against a mountain of pillows with a tablet in his hand, likely checking his schedule one last time. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung black pajama pants. The sight of his bare, tattooed chest and the way the dim light plays over his muscles makes you pause in the doorway.
He looks up, and the moment his eyes land on you in his shirt, the tablet is forgotten. It clatters onto the nightstand.
"Wow," he breathes out, his gaze traveling slowly from your damp hair down to your bare legs. A soft, satisfied smirk tugs at his lips. "I think that shirt looks significantly better on you than it ever did on me."
He reaches out, patting the empty spot beside him. The luxury of the room is intimidating, but the look in his eyes is nothing but warm and welcoming.
"Come here," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. "I’ve been waiting to see how you fit in this bed."
You climb in, the silk sheets cool against your skin, but the moment you slide next to him, he pulls you into his side. You rest your head on his chest, listening to the steady, calm beat of his heart. Out there, he’s the world’s biggest star, but in this dark, luxurious room, he’s just the man holding you tight, finally letting out a long sigh of contentment.
As you settle against him, the steady rhythm of his heart acting like a lullaby, Jungkook reaches for his phone on the nightstand. You expect him to just set an alarm or check a final message, but instead, he angles the camera toward the two of you.
You look up, blinking sleepily at the lens. He’s grinning, looking completely relaxed and smugly happy, while you are tucked firmly under his chin, wearing his oversized shirt and looking soft from the shower.
Click.
"What are you doing?" you mumble, your voice thick with sleepiness as you watch his thumbs fly across the screen.
"Just sending a little update to Minho," he says, his voice vibrating through his chest and into your ear. "He’s been texting me all night asking if 'Date Five' was a success. I think this counts as a pretty definitive 'yes'."
He hits send before you can protest. You can only imagine Minho’s face on the other end the shock, the inevitable teasing, and the realization that his friend is officially, deeply gone for you.
"Jungkook! He's going to never let us hear the end of this," you laugh softly, hiding your face in the crook of his neck.
"Let him talk," Jungkook murmurs, dropping the phone back onto the nightstand and pulling the heavy duvet up over your shoulders. He wraps both arms around you, locking you into place as if he’s afraid you might float away. "I want the whole world to know eventually. But for tonight, Minho is the only witness."
He kisses the top of your head, his breath warm against your hair. "Now, go to sleep, Y/N. You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be."
As the silence of the dark, luxurious room settles back in, you drift off to sleep feeling more secure than you ever thought possible, knowing that while he might be a superstar to millions, he’s chosen to share this quiet, private reality only with you.
The sleep you get is the deepest you’ve had in months. Wrapped in the scent of his cologne and the weight of his arm draped protectively over your waist, you don't even stir when the sun begins to peek through the gaps in the heavy blackout curtains.
But peaceful mornings in the Jeon household are apparently a rare luxury.
Suddenly, the mattress dips violently. A heavy, rhythmic thud-thud-thud of a tail hitting the duvet is followed by the sound of muffled huffing. Before you can even open your eyes, a giant, wet nose is pressed directly against your cheek, and a massive paw lands squarely on your hip.
"Oof!" you grunt, your eyes flying open to see Bam’s giant Doberman face just inches from yours, his tongue lolling out in a goofy, morning grin.
Beside you, Jungkook groans, burying his face deeper into his pillow. "Bam... no... it’s too early," he mumbles, his voice thick and gravelly with sleep. He reaches out a blind, tattooed arm, trying to grab the dog's collar to pull him away, but Bam is too excited. The dog lets out a sharp, playful boof and starts walking over both of you, his paws digging into the mattress as he tries to find a spot right in the middle.
"He's a literal alarm clock," you laugh, your voice scratchy as you try to sit up while a seventy-pound dog treats your legs like a bridge.
Jungkook finally cracks one eye open, squinting at the chaos. When he sees you messy hair, his oversized shirt slipping off one shoulder, and his dog trying to lick your face—his grumpy expression melts into a lazy, lopsided smile.
"I told you he liked you," he rasps, reaching out to pull you back down into the pillows, dog be damned. He tucks his head into the crook of your neck, his morning stubble tickling your skin. "Good morning. Ignore the monster. Stay for five more minutes?"
Bam, feeling left out of the cuddle, lets out another bark and flops his entire heavy body across your feet, effectively pinning you both to the bed. It’s not the quiet, sophisticated morning you’d imagined in a luxury penthouse, but as Jungkook kisses your shoulder and the dog wags his tail against your shins, it feels a lot more like home.
The chaos of the dog alarm slowly subsides as Bam realizes that if he wants to be part of the pack, he has to match the energy. With a heavy, dramatic sigh, he circles three times at the foot of the bed before flopping down, his chin resting right on your ankles.
The weight is grounding, and the room is still cool and dark, shielded from the morning rush of the city outside.
Jungkook doesn't let go. If anything, he pulls you even closer, his front pressed against your back, his breath steady and warm against the nape of your neck. His arm is a heavy, comforting weight across your stomach, his fingers lazily interlaced with yours.
"See?" he mumbles, his voice barely audible, vibrating through your skin. "Even he knows... it’s too early for the real world."
You feel yourself drifting again, the safety of his embrace and the rhythmic breathing of the dog at your feet acting like a powerful sedative. The luxury of the penthouse, the pressure of his career, and your own lingering nerves all fade into a soft, hazy blur.
In this cocoon of silk sheets and quiet breathing, time seems to stop. You fall back into a deep, dreamless sleep, knowing that for the first time in a long time, you don't have to be anywhere else. You’re exactly where you belong, tucked between a sleeping giant and the man who makes the rest of the world feel like background noise.
When you wake up the second time, the sun is higher, casting long, golden streaks across the dark floor. Jungkook is still out cold, sprawled across the bed with one arm thrown over where you were just lying, his face looking incredibly soft and peaceful in sleep.
You slip out of bed quietly, trying not to disturb him. You find your clothes from the night before, pull them on, and head out to the living room. Bam is already waiting by the door, his ears perking up the second he hears your footsteps. He lets out a tiny, hopeful whine, his tail thumping against the wall.
"Okay, big guy," you whisper, smiling at his enthusiasm. "Let's give your dad some peace and quiet."
You find his leash near the entrance a sturdy, professional-looking lead and clip it onto Bam’s collar. The dog is surprisingly well-behaved, sitting patiently as you get him ready, though his whole body is vibrating with excitement.
Stepping out of the penthouse and into the crisp morning air is refreshing. The neighborhood is quiet, upscale, and lined with manicured greenery. Walking Bam feels like a glimpse into a completely different side of Jungkook's life the mundane, everyday responsibility he handles when the cameras aren't rolling.
Bam is a dream on the leash, walking proudly by your side, his head held high. You spend about thirty minutes wandering the nearby paths, enjoying the silence of the city as it slowly wakes up. You feel a strange sense of pride, walking his dog through his neighborhood, like a secret part of his world has been handed over to you to look after.
By the time you head back toward the building, you’re feeling energized and far more relaxed about "Date Five" and everything that happened. As the elevator rises back up to the penthouse, you wonder if the sleeping giant in the bedroom has realized his two favorite distractions are missing yet.
When you let yourself back into the apartment, the air is silent except for the low hum of the air conditioning. You unclip Bam’s leash, and he immediately trots off toward the bedroom to check on his master. You follow slowly, stopping at the kitchen island to pour yourself a glass of water, feeling a strange but beautiful sense of belonging in this high-tech, silent sanctuary.
You’ve just set the glass down when you hear the heavy thud of footsteps. A moment later, Jungkook appears in the hallway.
He’s a mess of morning-after perfection. His hair is standing up in every direction, his eyes are puffy and half-closed, and he’s still only wearing those low-slung black pajama pants. He’s rubbing his face with one hand, while the other is buried in Bam’s fur as the dog circles his legs.
He stops when he sees you standing there in the light of the kitchen. A slow, relieved smile spreads across his face, and he leans his shoulder against the doorframe, watching you.
"I woke up and the bed was cold," he rasps, his voice even deeper and scratchier than it was earlier. "I thought maybe I’d dreamed the whole thing. Then I saw Bam was gone too and I figured you’d both made a run for it."
"We just went for a little walk," you say, leaning back against the counter. "I wanted to let you sleep. You looked like you needed it."
Jungkook walks over to you, his bare feet silent on the floor. He doesn't say anything at first; he just steps into your space, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you against his warm, bare chest. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, taking a deep breath of your scent.
"I needed this more," he murmurs against your skin, his grip tightening. "Thank you for taking care of him. And for staying."
He pulls back just enough to look down at you, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. The intensity in his eyes from last night is still there, but it’s tempered with a new kind of softness—a quiet domesticity that feels even more intimate than the sex.
"Hungry?" he asks, his stomach let out a timely, loud growl that makes you both laugh. "I might not be a Michelin-star chef, but I can make a mean breakfast. Or we can just stay hidden in here all day and pretend the rest of the world doesn't exist. Your choice."
Jungkook is in full "chef mode," moving around the high-end kitchen with a focused energy that is surprisingly endearing. He’s crackling eggs into a pan and toasting thick slices of bread, the morning light catching the muscles in his back as he moves.
You’re perched on the edge of the marble island, your legs swinging slightly, wrapped in the warmth of a mug of tea. You watch the way he handles the spatula with the same precision he uses for everything else, a small, content smile on your face.
"You know," you murmur, taking a slow sip of your tea and glancing at his sleek, professional coffee setup, "for a place this fancy, you’re missing something vital."
Jungkook looks over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised in a challenge. "Oh yeah? What did I forget? I have every gadget known to man in these cupboards."
"A matcha station," you say, gesturing to a clear spot on the counter. "I’m talking the real deal. A traditional ceramic bowl, a bamboo whisk... the whole ceremony. It would fit right in here."
Jungkook pauses, the spatula mid-air, as if he’s actually visualizing it. A thoughtful look crosses his face. "A matcha station, huh?" He turns back to the stove, flipping the eggs with a flick of his wrist. "I usually just go for the strongest espresso I can find to survive practice, but... I like the sound of that. It sounds peaceful. Very you."
He plates the food and slides it over to you, leaning his elbows on the counter so he’s eye-level with you. The smirk returns to his lips, that playful, competitive glint in his eyes.
"Tell you what," he says, his voice dropping into that smooth, intimate register. "Next time you come over, there’ll be a matcha station right there. But on one condition."
"And what’s that?" you ask, leaning in closer.
"You have to be the one to teach me how to use the whisk properly," he murmurs, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering on your skin. "I have a feeling I’m going to be a very slow learner. You might have to spend a lot of time here making sure I get the technique right."
He leans in and steals a quick, breakfast-flavored kiss before you can answer, looking thoroughly pleased with his plan to keep you coming back.
You take a bite of the eggs he prepared, surprised by how perfectly he seasoned them. The kitchen is quiet, save for the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional sound of Bam’s claws clicking on the floor as he hopefuly patrols for fallen scraps.
"So," Jungkook says, leaning back against the sink and crossing his arms over his bare chest. He watches you eat with a look of pure, unadulterated satisfaction. "Now that I've officially fed you and my dog has accepted you as his new leader, does this mean I get to keep you here for the rest of the day?"
You look up from your plate, a bit of toast halfway to your mouth. "Don't you have practice later? You said last night they were being perfectionists."
Jungkook groans, throwing his head back and looking at the ceiling. "Don't remind me. I have a mid-afternoon session, but that gives us a few more hours." He looks back at you, his eyes softening. "Honestly, I just want to do nothing. No cameras, no choreography, no 'Golden Maknae' stuff. Just... sitting here with you. Maybe you can show me those matcha sets online so I can order the best one?"
He moves closer, sliding into the space between your knees as you sit on the counter. He rests his hands on your thighs, his touch grounded and warm. "I was serious, you know. About the station. I want this place to feel like somewhere you want to be, not just somewhere you're visiting."
The weight of his words hits you. It’s a subtle shift from dating to building something, and it makes your heart do a nervous little dance. You reach out, running your fingers through his messy morning hair, smoothing down the stray strands.
"I think I already want to be here, Jungkook. Whisk or no whisk."
He grins, pulling you forward by the waist until your chest is pressed against his. He kisses you a soft, lingering morning kiss that tastes like coffee and home.
"Good," he whispers against your lips. "Because I'm already planning Date Six, and it involves significantly less Tom Holland and significantly more of me having you all to myself."
He pulls back just enough to wink at you, his thumb tracing the hem of your shorts. "But first, show me this matcha bowl. It better be a nice one."
The morning air eventually shifts from that slow, lazy haze into the reality of his schedule. Jungkook checks his phone and lets out a long, dramatic sigh, leaning his forehead against your shoulder.
"The perfectionists are calling," he mumbles, his voice full of mock despair. "I have to be at the studio in forty minutes."
You laugh, sliding off the counter and giving him one last squeeze. "Go. Go be a superstar. I should get going too; I have a mountain of things to catch up on."
The atmosphere changes as you both get ready to leave. The intimate, skin-on-skin warmth of the bedroom is replaced by the rustle of denim and the search for misplaced keys. Jungkook pulls on a hoodie and a bucket hat, the public version of him slowly snapping back into place, though he keeps looking over at you with a soft, private smile that belongs only to the kitchen you just shared.
At the door, Bam is pacing, sensing the departure. Jungkook kneels down to give him a final pat before standing up and turning to you. He reaches out, pulling you into his arms for a long, firm hug that feels like he’s trying to memorize the sensation of you.
"I’ll call you the second I get a break," he says into your hair. "And I meant what I said. By the next time you're here, that matcha station will be waiting."
"I'll hold you to it," you tease, looking up at him.
He leans down, giving you a deep, lingering kiss that tastes like a promise. "I'm serious, Y/N. This wasn't just a one-time sleepover. Stay safe, okay? Text me when you're inside your apartment."
You step out into the hallway together, the heavy door of his penthouse clicking shut behind you. As you walk toward the elevator, you feel a strange mix of emotions a bit of a comedown from the high of the night, but also a solid, grounded sense of security. You’re leaving his home, but for the first time, it feels like you’re leaving a piece of yourself there, too.
When the elevator doors close, you catch your reflection in the mirror flushed, slightly messy, and wearing a look of quiet happiness that even the busiest Monday couldn't ruin.
The high of that morning in the penthouse starts to fade, replaced by a cold, hollow silence that grows heavier with each passing day. At first, you tell yourself he’s just busythose instructors he mentioned must be pushing them to the limit. But when Day 3 turns into Day 7, and Day 7 turns into Day 10, the silence starts to feel like a message.
You check your phone a thousand times a day. Your last few texts sit there, marked as "Read" or sometimes not even acknowledged.
You: "Hope practice is going well! Don't forget to eat." (Sent 6 days ago)
You: "Hey, just checking in. Everything okay?" (Sent 2 days ago)
No reply.
What makes it hurt more is that he isn't missing. You see the updates. Fans post clips of him leaving the building, looking tired but laughing with Jimin. He posts a story of Bam running in a park, captioned with a simple heart. He looks fine. He looks like he’s having fun. He looks like he’s moved on to the next thing, while you’re still wearing the phantom scent of his cologne on your skin.
The thoughts you tried to suppress start to poison your mind. Maybe Naemi was wrong. Maybe I was just a case to him. Maybe I was too much, or maybe, after he got what he wanted on that couch, the mystery was gone. You feel a deep, burning embarrassment when you think about how you looked after his dog and talked about a matcha station. You feel like a fool for thinking you were building a home with a man who belongs to the world.
You don't tell anyone. Not even Naemi. You don't want to hear the "I told you so's" or the pity. You go to work, you come home.
You’ve stopped checking the news, but the notifications still find you.
On the tenth night, you’re sitting in your dark living room, the silence of your apartment feeling deafening compared to the memory of his laughter. You pick up your phone to delete his contact to just end the torture of waiting when your screen finally lights up.
It’s not a text. It’s a call. But it’s not from Jungkook.
It’s Minho.
You stare at the screen, your thumb trembling as you slide to answer. Part of you hopes desperately that he’s calling to say Jungkook lost his phone, that there’s a reason for the radio silence.
"Hello?" you whisper, your voice thin and brittle.
"Y/N! Hey!" Minho’s voice is loud, booming over a chaotic wall of sound. You hear the unmistakable thumping of a club beat, the clinking of glasses, and the high-pitched shriek of laughter. "I wasn't sure if you'd pick up! It's been a while, right?"
"Minho? Where are you?"
"We're at that new place in Gangnam the private lounge!" he shouts, sounding like he’s already had a few drinks. "The guys finally finished the main choreo block, so we're celebrating! You should hear the noise in here, it’s insane."
In the background, a familiar voice yells something indistinct, followed by the unmistakable, boisterous laugh of Jin. Your heart doesn't just sink; it shatters. They are out. They are celebrating. They are fine.
"Is... is Jungkook there?" you ask, the words feeling like shards of glass in your throat.
"Yeah, he’s right over wait, JK! Move your head!" Minho laughs, and you can practically hear the movement of the phone. "He’s right in the middle of it, Y/N. He’s been going hard all night. I think he’s finally blowing off some steam."
You hear Jungkook’s voice then, muffled but clear. He isn't asking for the phone. He isn't asking about you. He’s shouting a lyric to a song, his voice full of energy and alcohol-fueled joy. He sounds... happy. He sounds like a man who hasn't spent a single second of the last ten days wondering why he stopped answering the woman who slept in his bed.
"Listen, I gotta go, tae is trying to start a dance-off," Minho says, oblivious to the silence on your end. "I just wanted to see if you were coming by later? Or... wait, did he not call you?"
"No," you say, your voice finally going cold. "He didn't call. I have to go, Minho. Have a good night."
You hang up before he can respond. You drop the phone onto the sofa as if it burned you. The silence of your apartment returns, but now it’s suffocating.
Ten days of silence. Ten days of you worrying, overthinking, and feeling like you were "too much." And the whole time, he was just... moving on. The matcha station, the morning cuddles, the way he looked at you after Date Five it was all just part of the show.
You walk to your kitchen and look at the empty counter. You feel a wave of nausea. You weren't a girlfriend. You weren't a partner. You were just a temporary stop on his way to a celebration you weren't invited to. You sit down on the floor, pull your knees to your chest, and finally let the first tear fall. The dream hasn't just ended; it’s been demolished.
plot | Once upon a time, there was a crowd-favorite crown princess who found herself romantically involved with a famous rockstar. See how they will try to navigate the world and maybe live happily ever after.
genres | angst, fluff, modern royalty!au, celebrity!au, established relationship!au
pairing | rockstar!jungkook x princess!reader
note | now a short series!
main masterlist | spotify playlist
CHAPTERS: PROLOGUE | I | II | III | IV | V | VI | VII | VIII | IX | X
DRABBLES
spotted! - the first time you and jungkook met.
taking chances - after taking your chances with Jungkook three months ago, you two cross paths again. this time, the rockstar takes risks to ask Zafiro's royal princess out.
can't take my eyes off you - Sweet September surprises their fans with their own rendition of the classic song.
her majesty - This is how the rumors began between a princess and a rockstar.
You never planned on taking in a hybrid. Especially not one like him.
You offer him food. A place to stay. Rules.
He offers you obedience. Tension. Trouble.
Because hybrids like him don’t know how to exist without earning their place and you’re about to learn that kindness, to someone like Jungkook, can feel just as dangerous as cruelty.
A/N: if you’re here for emotional damage, slow-burn tension, and a little bit of chaos–then yeah. let’s go.
this fic is messy in all the ways: hurt, comfort, trust issues, and a hybrid who doesn’t really know how to be safe even when he finally is.
The night clings to you like a damp rag as you drag yourself through the alley after your shift at the bar, the sharp click of your heeled boots scraping against uneven pavement. Your jacket is zipped tight over your too-short skirt, but it does little to keep the cold from seeping in. Exhaustion weighs heavy in your limbs, pulling at every step.
This shortcut is the only way you’ll make it home before dawn, but the alley is a mess. Overflowing trash cans choke the narrow path, the stench of rot thick in the air, sticking to the back of your throat with every breath.
You spot two hybrids hunched over a bin, ears twitching as they rummage for scraps.
Their feral eyes lock on you under the sputtering bulb, panic flashing before they bolt like startled rats, vanishing deeper into the dark.
You keep walking.
In this world, hybrids are nothing but slaves, collared and owned by humans who buy them for work, pleasure, or status. The lucky ones get kept; the rest end up abandoned, haunting alleys, scavenging to survive or pleading with passersby to claim them before the authorities drag them off.
You'd never had a hybrid. Couldn't afford one. Couldn't even afford to properly feed yourself most of the time, honestly. The bar paid just enough for rent and ramen (on good weeks). On the bad ones, all you had were late-night prayers that the power wouldn’t get cut off.
You veer into the next alley, narrower and colder. An older woman emerges from a shadowed doorway, bleach-blonde hair stark under the streetlight, long coat swishing around her legs as she wobbles on sky-high heels. A silhouette peels from the darkness; a lean boy bunny hybrid, black ears flopping slightly as he blocks her path.
He says something out toward the woman. His voice is quiet, too quiet for you to make out the words from where you are. The woman recoiles immediately.
"Fuck off, filthy mutt," she spits, shoving past, coat flapping like a dismissal.
His shoulders slump, but those endless doe eyes snap to you. Up close, he’s pretty—devastatingly so. Dark, messy black hair clings to his pale forehead, a black hoodie hanging loose over his lean, taller frame, torn trousers slipping low on narrow hips. A fresh bruise shadows his cheekbone, vivid purple against skin so white it almost glows. His lips are full, slightly parted, breath uneven—and above it all, dark bunny ears twitch faintly, tense and alert.
Your heart clenches, caught between pity and unease, as you try to slip past him. “Excuse me.”
He shifts, blocking you. 'Wait. I'll make you feel so good. I'm... good with my tongue. Please.' His voice dips low, ears twitching forward.
Your stomach drops.
He is young. Younger than you, maybe. Definitely younger. Tall but thin. Lean in the way that isn't natural, but is the product of too many missed meals.
''I really don't have money,' You say, clutching your bag.
''Please.'' The plea cracks, and before you can dodge, he crowds your back against the rough brick wall.
You gasp as the stone digs into your spine, his taller frame pinning you with peer desperation. His mouth finds your neck, lips warm and insistent, they move against your skin with a practiced, mechanical precision; kissing, open-mouthed, trailing slowly up toward your jaw.
He smells like rain and his soaked hair brushes your cheek, droplets cold on your skin. He must've stood here through the earlier downpour.
You push his chest, hands fisting the wet hoodie. "Stop—"
But he captures your lips, kissing deep and messy. His tongue slips past resistance, teasing yours with expert flicks. One hand cups your jaw, angling perfectly; the other braces the wall. You shove harder, but he chases, nipping your lower lip, sucking it soft and swollen until your knees weaken.
He's too good. Knowing just how to unravel reluctance.
His hand shifts, no longer bracing the wall, and instead slips beneath the edge of your jacket, brushing against the bare skin of your waist. The touch is cold at first, then burning, sending a sharp shiver through you that you can’t control.
A sound almost escapes you. You force it down, breath catching, and jerk your head back, breaking the kiss.
But he doesn’t stop. His lips drag down, grazing your jaw before pressing against your throat again, slow and insistent. You feel his breath shudder against your collarbone. His body is close enough that you can feel how cold he is, how the hoodie does nothing against the night air, how his body almost leeches warmth from yours as he presses in. He is doing this to survive.
"Wait—stop," You pant.
He pulls back slightly, dark eyes locking on yours, breath ragged. You fumble for your wallet, fingers clumsy as you pull out the last of your cash. Pressing it into his palm. "Here. Buy food. Please, just... eat something.''
His fingers curl around the money, but confusion clouds his gaze. He looks down at it. Then back up at you. The bruise on his cheek looks worse up close. You can see the fine detail of it–the way the skin had broken slightly over the bone. Someone had hit him hard. Recently.
Where do you want me?" he asks, voice low.
You blink. "What?"
"Where." He glanced down the alley, then back at you. "Here? Or— somewhere else?"
The realization hit you like cold water.
He thinks this is a transaction. That the money is a down payment. That you’ve given him something and now you expect something in return. Because that’s how it works. That’s the only way his world works. Humans don’t just give. They buy. They trade. Every kindness has a price tag, and he’s already calculating what he owes you.
"Oh—no. No, no, that's—" You shake your head quickly, heat rising in your face. "You've got it wrong. I don't want anything from you. I was just—"
You pause. He is staring at you like you are speaking in a language he'd lost the translation for.
"I don't want anything," you repeat, quieter this time. "You look like you need it more than me. That's all."
"Do you really think I'm gonna take your money for free?" Hurt sharpens his tone, ears pinning back.
You open your mouth but he starts talking, faster now, stepping back like you had burned him.
"You really despise me that much? Rather throw money at me like pity than let me earn it?" A bitter sound escapes him. "Hybrids earn what we get. You think I don't know what this looks like?" He gestures at himself, and the motion is furious, self-loathing, like he is presenting evidence to a jury. "Am I so repellent that you'd rather throw cash at me so I'll just fuck off—"
"What? No, that's not—" Your voice comes out strangled. Guilt hits you so hard it feels physical, a fist closing around your throat. And in your peripheral vision you see it: the bills crumpled in his hand, clutched so tight his knuckles have gone white, and suddenly they look filthy, something you'd done wrong, something you should have known better than to offer so carelessly.
“You don’t know what it’s like,” he says, looking down, voice tight. “You get to walk around with your money, your choices… your decency.” His fingers curl slightly, like he wants to throw the cash back but can’t. “But I don’t. I don’t get to just exist without earning my place.” He lets out a shaky huff, jaw clenching. His eyes flick back up to yours. “You think this is kindness, but you’re just making it worse. Because now I owe you, and I can’t even pay it back, because you won’t let me.”
A single drop hit the pavement between you.
Then another. You felt the first fat raindrop land on your shoulder, soaking instantly through the thin fabric of your jacket, cold as a needle. Then one on your cheek and the back of your neck.
He stops talking. He lookes up at the sky for half a second, just long enough for the lamplight to catch the hollow beneath his eyes where it seems that proper sleep hadn't been in a long, long time. He looks back at you, but his expression had closed. Gone flat. The anger had burned through whatever fuel it had found and now there is just a raw, exhausted emptiness underneath it, and somehow that is worse.
"Forget it," His voice is barely audible, swallowed almost immediately by the rain.
He reaches out. Opens his fist. He holds the wet bills toward you.
You look at the money in his outstretched hand. Rain pools in his open palm.
And for one second–one shameful, honest second, you hesitate. Because you need that money. Tomorrow's lunch. The electric bill you're already behind on. You look at those bills and your brain does the math automatically, the broke-person math that never turns off, the constant low hum of can I afford this, can I survive without that...
But then you look at him.
Ears flat. Shoulders curled in. Standing in front of you with his palm outstretched like he's offering back the only thing of value he's been given in what might be weeks, because he'd rather go hungry than owe a debt he can't repay.
Your fingers close around his wrist. Firm enough to stop him, to push his hand back toward his own chest.His dark eyes flick to your face. Wary. Waiting for the catch.
"Let's go to my place. It's two blocks away.''
Surprise flickers across his bruised face, his eyes widening for a fraction of a second before he nods and steps back.
You lead, heels splashing puddles, his footsteps shadowing yours as rain blurs everything toward your flat. As soon as you get to the building, the damp chill seems to settle right into your bones. Water streams off your jacket in heavy rivulets, soaking through to your skin. You can feel his eyes on you, heavy with unspoken expectation, as you fumble with keys. The lock sticks as always, gritty old steel fighting back, and finally, after a few frustrated tugs, you shove it open.
The stairwell smells stale and mildew. The apartment is on the third floor, at the end of the hall. Your apartment isn't big, but it has enough space for a sagging couch, a kitchenette, a bedroom that's more closet than anything plus a small bathroom.
You flick on the single bulb overhead, casting shadows that stretch long across the wood, and kick off your boots by the door, toes aching from the shift.
The bunny steps in behind you, dripping on the worn wood. Without a word, he bends to peel off his sodden boots. Then he moves to unzip the black hoodie. He shrugs it off, letting it drop to the floor with a dull thud.
Your breath hitches.
Underneath, he doesnt have anything but a lean torso marked by jagged scars. thin white lines crisscrossing his ribs and shoulders, remnants of who knows what abuse. Bruises bloom darker on his arms, pale skin stretched tight over muscle that's wiry.
He stands there, bare-chested and shivering. His wet black hair is plastered to his forehead. Heavy drops of water run down his neck, over the scars on his collarbone, dripping onto the floor. His huge, dark doe eyes are shadowed with exhaustion, but they are fixed on you with a stubborn intensity. Waiting for the command.
You swallow hard, running a hand through your own soaking wet hair to push it back from your face. Clothes are plastered to your body, freezing cold.
Your gaze flicks to the small radiator. The towel you’d hung there earlier, hangs freshly washed, still faintly warm. You grab it without thinking and toss it toward him.
He doesn’t catch it.
It slips through the air and lands near his feet with a soft sound.
“Just… dry off or something,” You mutter.
He looks down at the towel, then back at you, teeth sinking into the inside of his cheek.
"I can make tea..."
He straightens, glossy eyes locking on yours, ears drooping slightly over his messy black hair. ''I won't be useless,'' he murmurs, voice low and edged with resolve, stepping closer.
You instinctively take a step back, as he aproaches, then another, until the back of the sofa presses against your butt, stopping you short. There is something in his look that silences you. Something fragile. You can’t push him away when he already looks this broken.
And suddenly he’s there, on his knees in front of you, hands sliding up your bare legs under the skirt, pushing the fabric higher. Your breath hitches as his fingers hook into your panties, tugging them down with efficient pull, exposing you to the cool air.
'Wait—' You start, but his mouth is already there, head vanishing under the hem of your skirt, tongue pressing flat against your pussy in one long, wet lick that makes your knees buckle.
He eats you out like it's his profession. Skilled, unrelenting, lips sealing around your clit with gentle suction while his tongue circles and flicks, dipping lower to thrust inside you, tasting every fold, black ears tickling your thighs.
Wet sounds fill the small space, his nose bumping your mound as he works deeper, one hand gripping your thigh to hold you steady while the other braces your hip. Pleasure coils tight and fast, unbidden, your body betraying any denial as slick heat builds between your legs.
You didn't want this. Didn't ask for it, but oh God, it feels good. His mouth hot and urgent, drawing gasps from you that echo off the walls.
Your hands flail, grasping the arm of the couch behind you to stay upright, fingers digging into the fabric as your legs tremble. It's hard to stand straight. The intensity hits you like a wave, your pussy throbbing under his assault.
Suddenly he hooks one of your legs over his shoulder, the muscle there flexing under your calf as he tilts your hips forward. His tongue plunges even deeper into your soaked entrance. You yelp. The new angle letting him fuck you with it, swirling and probing your walls.
One of your hands that was grasping the couch now dives under your skirt. You grab a fistful of his damp hair, trying to shove him away. But he groans into your core, the vibration rumbling through your clit, refusing to detach, tongue thrusting relentlessly, slurping up your arousal, as his bunny ears twitch wetly between your thighs.
You know this is wrong. Your mind screams it even as your pussy clenches around his invading tongue. The heat of his breath overwhelming your senses.
In a surge of panic, you seize his long ears, and yank his head back hard. His head emerges from under your skirt, dark eyes locking onto yours with a feral intensity. His lips are plump and rosy, swollen from the sucking, your juices smeared across his chin and cheeks in a glossy sheen. He looks utterly wrecked, wild and unhinged, breath coming in heavy pants.
Your leg stays draped over his shoulder, pussy exposed and throbbing, suddenly cold without his mouth sealed to it. A trickle of your slick runs down your thigh. You pant heavily, heart racing as you stare down at him.
"You don't like it?" He rasps, his voice husky and edged with challenge, tongue darts out to lick a stray drop of your slick from his lower lip.
"It's great, really," you breath out, voice shaky, as your grip loosens on his ears just a fraction, "but that's enough."
"But I didn't finish," he murmurs, eyes narrowing as he leans in again, trying to bury his face back against your heat. You tighten your hold on his ears again, holding him back inches away, the wet fur slipping through your fingers.
"Let go," he growls, a hint of whine threading through the command.
After a moment of hesitation, you release his ears reluctantly, and in an instant, he's diving back in. His teeth sink into the soft flesh of your inner thigh, a sharp sting that makes you hiss, the pain blooming hot and immediate under his molars before his tongue soothes it with a broad lick.
You gasp, but before you can react, his tongue shoves deep inside your pussy, burying to the hilt in one brutal thrust, fucking your walls with insistent strokes that make you throw your head back, a sharp cry escaping as the pleasure overwhelms you. Your knees buckle, your body arching as you nearly collapse on the spot.
One of his hands clamps around the leg over his shoulder, fingers digging into your thigh with bruising force, while he pushes you back, pinning your ass against the solid back of the couch. The fabric yielding under your weight, letting you slump against it for support as he spreads you wider.
Dazed, your hand dives back into his hair, not pushing this time but yanking him closer, pulling his face flush against your heat in a haze of need. He moans into your cunt, the sound muffled and vibrating through your sensitive nerves, his tongue drilling deeper, with a rhythm that make your vision blur.
You'd heard whispers that bunnies were infamous for their stamina in bed, wild lovers who could go all night, but you never imagined this; This voracious, mind-melting devotion, his mouth turning your resistance to ruin.
You moan, the pleasure twisting sharper, a tear welling in the corner of your eye from the overwhelming stretch of his tongue spearing you open.
You are close. Warmth pooling inside of you, impossible to ignore. He senses it, pulling back just enough to whisper hot against your pussy, "Cum for me," before his teeth graze your outer lips in a teasing bite, gasping into your folds as he laps harder, faster.
You can't take it anymore. Your walls flutter wildly around him, release crashing through you in violent spasms, thighs quaking over his head as you soak his face, the sweet tang of your cum flooding his mouth. He keeps licking through it, drawing out every aftershock, until you're a boneless, panting mess.
He drags one final, languid lick through your spasming pussy. You slump fully against the backrest of the coach now, all flushed and trembling, skin prickling with sweat. Slowly, he rises from under the hem, while your leg slides off his shoulder.
His cheeks are flushed, lips parted, chin slick. He lifts the back of his palm to his mouth and wipes slowly, smearing away the mess absentmindedly.
He stays on his knees.
His hands rest on his own thighs, and he looks up at you with those dark doe eyes. His eyes search your face carefully, almost anxiously, like he’s trying to read something you haven’t said yet.
It hits you: He’s waiting for a reaction. The way a worker waits for a supervisor to inspect the job. The way a dog waits to be told it did the trick right.
You're still breathing hard. Your fingers grip the edge of the couch cushion, knuckles white, chest heaving. "You did well," you manage, voice a little shaky.
His ears twitch. Straight up. Completely vertical, almost comically fast, the dark fur catching the light. "Really?"
"You… yeah. You did really well." You nod, swallowing, still catching your breath. "You deserve a meal," you add softly, hoping it’ll make him eat with you.
His head tilts slightly, brows furrowing as he searches your face. “I do?”
You straighten a little, tugging your skirt down over your thighs, trying to pull yourself together. “Yeah,” You breath out. “I… I’ll make us something.”
Your gaze slips, unintentionally, over his bare, skinny abs, and then downward, noticing the bulge in his pants where his palm rests. Heat creeps up your neck. Your eyes flick around the room for a moment, cheeks burning. Embarrassment creeps in. You clear your throat. When he doesn’t move or say anything more, you add, “You can stand up.”
He blinks, gaze flicking down at his own knees pressed to the worn wood floor. Then back up at you.
“You don’t have to stay down there,” you murmur, watching him.
You can see the war happening behind his eyes. The trained instincts, drilled into him for obedience and control, clash with something new: this unfamiliar thread of kindness, the gentle permission you’re giving. He doesn’t know how to respond, how to act when softness isn’t met with command or expectation.
Slowly—very slowly—he begins to rise, careful, almost reverent, eyes never leaving yours. Like he's waiting for you to revoke the permission mid-motion, to tell him to get back down, to change your mind.
“Yeah… okay,” you mumble, more to yourself than to him, shifting awkwardly as you step toward the kitchen. You don’t know what to do with yourself. You look around, your gaze drops, and lands on the grey towel still crumpled on the floor.
“You know what…” you mutter, bending down quickly to pick it up. You walk back to him and hold it out. “Take this,” you say, voice steadier now. “Go to the bathroom. Shower." You point toward the bathroom so there’s no confusion. "There's hot water—well, warm water, the landlord's water heater is questionable... Just turn the handle to the left. Take your time. I'll make something for you to eat."
For a second, he just stares at the towel.
Then, slowly, he reaches out, fingers brushing the fabric before gripping it. He nods once.
You turn away. Then stop. Your eyes drop to his clothes: The soaking wet hoodie on the floor, the ruined trousers clinging to his legs, torn and filthy and probably the only things he owns. The thought of him putting them back on after a shower makes your stomach turn.
“Wait—” You snap your fingers lightly, already pivoting. "Hold on. Don't— just wait a second."
He freezes mid-step, one hand on the bathroom doorframe, ears snapping upright.
Before he can respond, you’re already moving, disappearing into your room. You dig through your drawers, pushing past your own clothes until you find something that’ll fit: An oversized blouse and a pair of basketball shorts your ex left behind.You hesitate for a second, staring at them. Then you grab them and head back out.
He’s still standing where you left him. You hold the clothes out. “Here. Change into these. Put your wet stuff in the washing machine. I’ll deal with it later.”
There’s a small pause before he answers, voice quiet. “…Okay.”
He takes the clothes, and then turns, disappearing into the bathroom. The door clicks shut.
A beat of silence.
Then the shower starts. The pipes groan and rattle loudly through the walls, making you wince. You hate how everything in this building sounds like it’s about to fall apart any second. Ancient. All of it.
You let out a slow breath. Then you turn and head to your room. Your clothes are still plastered to your skin, cold and heavy, and you peel them off mechanically, dropping the whole damp pile into the corner without a second thought.
You reach for the first things your hands land on: a big sweater from a second-hand shop, black with faded pink straps stitched across it, soft from too many washes. You pull it over your head, then grab a pair of shorts and slip them on, finishing with your worn slipper shoes.
Your hair is still damp, clinging in wet strands down your back. You gather it up lazily, twisting it into a loose bun, securing it with a pen you snatch off the nightstand, too tired to bother looking for a proper hair tie.
Then you head to the kitchen.
You stand in front of the open fridge. The light illuminates what you already know is there (almost nothing.)
You work with what you have. Some leftover meat. A half-wilted green onion, edges soft but still usable. A couple of mushrooms. You slice everything quickly, efficiently, like you’ve done this too many times before. Soy sauce. Mirin. A small knob of ginger, grated in.
You fill a pot with water, setting it on the stove, the quiet clink of metal grounding you as the flame flickers to life.
By the time the noodles have softened and the broth has taken on that simple, savory smell, you’re already reaching for the bowls, moving quickly, efficiently.
Just as you’re about to serve, the bathroom door opens.
You glance up. The bunny hybrid steps out barefoot, damp hair clinging to his forehead. The oversized blouse you gave him hangs comfortably on his frame, sleeves brushing past his wrists. The basketball shorts sit low on his hips, and for a moment, you notice how much comfier and fresher he looks than before.
He sniffs the air. A small, sharp intake through his nose, his head tilting slightly to the side, and his ears perk up,. His eyes drift toward the stove, where steam curls from the pot and pork sizzles softly in the pan.
“I’m—almost done,” you say quickly, turning back to the pot, ladling the broth into the two bowls. You arrange the pork on top in uneven slices, fan the mushrooms beside them, scatter the green onions across. You grab chopsticks for both of you, hesitating for a second before adding a spoon to each bowl too, just in case.
Then you carry everything over to the coffee table by the sofa, setting the bowls down carefully. You lower yourself onto the fluffy carpet, crossing your legs. You pat the floor.
"Sit down."
He does. No hesitation this time, or maybe just less of it. He lowers himself onto the carpet across from you, legs folding awkwardly beneath him, and his eyes drop immediately to the bowl in front of him. He stares at it. The steam curls up from the surface, and his dark eyes track it like it might disappear.
It's not a feast. Not even a proper recipe. Just sad-pantry udon. But it’s warm. And it’s better than nothing.
You pick up your chopsticks and spoon. "Eat," you say. "Before it gets cold."
You dig in, slurping the noodles as your gaze flicks up to him. Across the table, he picks up his chopsticks. His grip is wrong. Fingers positioned awkwardly, the sticks held at an angle that makes them look more like weapons than utensils. You realize he might not even know how to use them. Still, somehow, he manages to hook a few noodles and lift them to his mouth.
He takes the first bite, and his eyes widen. A low, involuntary sound slips from the back of his throat as he swallows.
Then he starts eating fast. Too fast.
The chopsticks are abandoned within seconds. He grabs the spoon. Noodles barely make it to it before he’s pulling them in, swallowing quickly, barely chewing. The broth follows in hurried gulp. The spoon scraping the bottom of the bowl, tilting to catch every last drop.
You stop eating.
Your chopsticks hover halfway to your mouth, noodles dangling from them, forgotten. You just... watch him: The way his ears stay up the whole time, trembling slightly with each motion. The way his throat bobs when he swallows, the pale column of it working rhythmically. You watch him eat like a person who has been starving. Because he has been starving.
Before you’re even halfway through yours, he’s done. The bowl is empty. Not a drop of broth left. He looks up at you, cheeks flushed, eyes wide.
You look at your own bowl. Half-full. Noodles swelling in the cooling broth, the pork going soft. You put down your chopsticks and push your bowl across the table, until it stops in front of him. “Here. Eat mine. "
"That's yours," he says, eyes flicking to you, suspicious, hesitant.
"Im not hungry."
It's a bit of a lie. Your stomach isn't full, and the smell of ginger and soy is still pulling at something low and empty inside you. But it's not your first meal of the day. You had cereal before your shift. A cheap granola bar on your break. The kind of nothing‐calories that keep you standing but don't actually fill anything.
But the way he's looking at the bowl... the way his fingers are still wrapped around his own empty one, lingering on the porcelain like he can't bear to let go of the last thing that fed him– makes you not want to eat.
“I ate while I was cooking,” you shrug, trying to sound casual. “I’m full. I don’t want this to go to waste. So eat.”
He stares at you.
That look again. The one that scans your face, hunting for the lie. You hold it. Keep your expression steady, hands relaxed on your knees, and you pray your stomach doesn't growl and ruin the whole act.
You exhale when his hand moves. He pulls the bowl toward himself. Slowly. He eats again. Less desperately this time. Not slow. You don't think he's capable of slow when it comes to food, but this is definitely more measured.
You watch him from across the table. Knees pulled to your chest, chin resting on your folded arms. The rain taps against the window in a rhythm that's starting to feel almost soothing.
You can't help but notice that he looks so much softer now.
Softer than how he looked earlier, when he was on his knees between your legs. The thought makes heat crawl through your neck.
You clear your throat. Loudly. Possibly too loudly. He glances up, spoon frozen halfway to his mouth.
You sit up straighter, uncurling from your ball, pressing your palms flat against your knees like you're grounding yourself. Your face is still burning. You hope he can't tell.
"Hey," you say. "I just realized something."
He waits. Dark eyes watching.
"I don't know your name."
His eyes flicker. The spoon hover above the bowl single drop of broth falls from its curved edge back into the soup with a soft plip. He looks at you like he's weighing whether this is safe. Whether he can give you an act of trust.
He swallows the food in his mouth. Hard. His tongue slides over his bottom lip, catching the salt left behind.
"Jungkook," he says finally.
Jungkook.
You repeat it over in your mind. You think it suits him.
"I'm Y/N," you say. Only fair. He gave you his name; so you give him yours.
He blinks. Then nods, his eyes scanning your face briefly, before his gaze drifts past you. Toward the window behind your shoulder, where a harsh white flash illuminates the room for half a second before fading.
You follow it
The sky outside is black, broken only by the occasional crack of lightning that bleaches everything for a split second. The wind howls. The rain hammers.The storm is rolling in fast.
You look back at him.
"Stay for the night," you say.
He looks at you. Ears flick. "What?"
"The storm." You nod toward the window. "It's not safe to sleep out there. You can take the couch."
He glances at the sagging couch. Then back at the window, where a crack of thunder rattles so loud the lightbulb overhead flickers. His jaw works. Something complicated passes behind his eyes. Not gratitude, not relief. Something harder.
"Why do you care?"
The question lands like a stone in still water. Raw demand of someone who's been burned by kindness too many times to accept it without interrogation.
You exhale. "No one should sleep outside when it's like this."
He stares at you for a long moment. Then his gaze drops to his hands, still resting around the bowl. "Im used to it."
You shake your head, pushing yourself up to your feet. “Don’t be stubborn. Just stay. One night won’t kill you.”
You reach up and pull the pen from your hair. The bun unravels immediately, damp strands falling heavy past your shoulders. You shake it out with one hand, fingers raking through the tangles.
He's watching you, curiously.
You pad toward the bathroom. Halfway there you stop, not turning around fully, just glancing over your shoulder. "Put the bowls in the sink when you're done," you say. "And use the blanket on the couch. It's not a request."
Your slippers tap softly against the floor as you continue to move, the sound quiet in the otherwise still apartment.
“Y/n.”
His voice stops you just as your hand settles on the doorknob. You glance back, slightly, hair swaying over your shoulder.
“I’ll be out in the morning,” he says quietly. “I won’t overstay.”
“Okay.”
“Okay,” he echoes.
For a second, you just look at him. Then you turn away and step inside. The door clicks shut behind you.
[ 𓏵 ] --- A new apartment was supposed to change everything for you… but then Jungkook happens. Loud, confident, cocky and impossible to ignore. After constant clashing and teasing, the tension builds fast. And soon, it’s more than just a problem.. it’s something neither of you can walk away from.
⧽ word count ⋮ ongoing - 40.5k so far average reading time ⋮ tbd - approx. 3 hours
Introductions ⋮
전정국 (Jungkook) age : 29
mbti : ESTP
occupation : rock band frontman
personality : cocky, playful, stubborn, attention-seeking
likes : loud music, cigarettes, teasing you, late-night drives
dislikes : being ignored, early mornings, rules
fun fact : owns three guitars but only uses his favorite
윤예린 (Y/N) age : 21
mbti: INTP
occupation : an author with three published book
personality : sarcastic, independent, hot-headed, observant
likes : silence, coffee, rainy days, finishing chapters at 3am
dislikes : interruptions, arrogance, messy people
fun fact : keeps a notebook hidden everywhere she goes
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/ Nis 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
warning: 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 🥹🙏💗
You thrive off habits and patterns, building quiet rules to keep everything simple and casual. Because to you, unfamiliarity is eerie and evasion is easy. But between late nights and sloppy kisses; silence becomes too loud, rules blur into secrets, and deceit soaks up clarity.
➥ completed!
PAIRING: basketball player!jk x law student!reader
GENRE: strangers to fwb to lovers, college au, smut, fluff, angst
SERIES WARNINGS/DETAILS: fem!reader, fwb!mingyu, tae x oc, yearning, jealousy, jk’s very yummy and sexy, basketball talk i have no idea about, angst, smut wise: explicit sex, multiple sex scenes, locker room sex, car sex, oral (both receiving), fingering, hair pulling, unprotected sex (be safe!!! they’re dumb!!!), penetration, riding, praising, m masturbation, exhibitionism, degradation, (more to be added probably)
NOTES: a little mini-series. this is kind of different from what i usually write so im a tiny bit nervous but am also having so much fun while writing so i hope it’ll be loved by you guys <3 im hoping to have a fixed schedule for this but we’ll see what life brings obv.
✎ i. Don’t flirt with athletes who flirt back better (6k)
✎ ii. Don’t sit courtside for someone you’re not dating (10k)
Summary: Jeon Jungkook has everything from wealth, brains, and the reputation of the perfect heir. But behind all of that, he hides one secret: you.
Warnings: themes of stalking and obsession, angst, possessiveness, slow burn, violence.
Word count: 4793 | Status: Completed
a/n: since you guys voted for me to continue this story, I may or may not have spent all of Thursday and Friday writing just so I could finally post Chapter 1, I even did some business & investment research lmao. I rushed a bit because I really wanted all of you to get a feel of what the theme is going to be like. Hope you enjoy this one!
Jungkook was in his study, looking at the busy city below him through his floor to ceiling windows penthouse. He leaned back in his leather chair, eyes drifting to the rows of crystal vases with lilies, roses and chrysanthemums. He was enjoying his silence after reviewing some project his father had sent him.
But the silence didn’t last long, Jungkook’s phone vibrated, a message from his father’s secretary:
Jinyoung: your presence is requested by the chairman for dinner.
He exhaled through his nose, shutting the screen off.
Dinner with the Jeons was never chaotic.
The long dining table is placed under two big chandeliers lined with crystal glasses and cutleries polished to perfection. The staff moves quietly in the background, refilling water when the glass is a, and replacing dishes.
His mother is as elegant as ever, her posture straight, and her hands resting lightly on the table. His father is sitting at the head of the table dominating the space without raising his voice, a trait Jungkook learned from him.
Jungkook sits with a neutral expression looking like the perfect, attentive, respectful, and effortlessly handsome heir in a tailored suit.
“Jungkook,” his father’s voice broke through the silence, “the investment committee will be present tomorrow, I want you to join me.”
“Yes,” Jungkook replied simply, one word was all that was needed.
His father nodded in approval and his mother smiled softly.
This is just how Jungkook operates, he never overexplains, a single precise answer was enough.
He doesn’t need to dominate the conversation, his restraint was dominance in itself. When Jungkook speaks, people leaned in. When he is silent, they second guess themselves. He knows how to control a room with nothing but presence.
“Some of the directors are hesitant about the expansion to Hong Kong,” his father added, watching him carefully, “If they question the move, how should we respond?”
Jungkook set down his glass, “I wouldn’t argue,” he said calmly, “I would give them space to voice concerns, then I would ask what alternatives they are offering. They won’t have one and they will realize it themselves.”
A flicker of pride can be seen on his father’s eyes and is mother chuckled lightly, “You truly are your father’s son.”
But as his father started talking about a story on the Hong Kong property market, Jungkook’s phone buzzed silently in his pocket. He tilted the device slightly under the table, a message from Taehwan.
Taehwan: She just finished her shift and is now walking home.
Jungkook’s thumb hovered over the screen and Taehwan sent him another message.
Taehwan: Stopped by the convenience store, eating instant noodles and drinking bottled water, nothing else.
He stared at the words a second longer than necessary, ignoring the staff pouring wine into his glass. All he could think about is how you are not eating properly again.
Jungkook’s jaw tightened for a second as he slipped the phone face down on his thigh, but his expressions remained unchanged.
To his parents, he is the image of calm composure, listening as his father spoke about prices, but his mind was elsewhere, on a girl eating in a convenience store.
“Jungkook, what do you think?” his mother asked suddenly.
He looked up from his plate, eyes sharp, “About?”
“The merger prospects,” she smiled at him.
Jungkook leaned back slightly, letting a second silence fill the room, everyone at this table knew his silence meant calculation.
“Risky,” he finally said.
“And your solution?” “Wait,” his voice was firm, “two years and let them bleed on someone else’s dime, then buy them at half the price.”
The room went quiet before his father laughed, satisfied at his golden son’s answer.
“That,” he said, raising his glass, “is the Jeon bloodline.”
They drank to it, and Jungkook did too.
But when his phone buzzed again, his attention shifted immediately to his phone.
Taehwan: She’s home safe. Lights on, and curtains drawn.
Jungkook exhaled quietly, setting the wine glass down. His parents saw a perfect heir and a future CEO. The world would see the cold prince of the Jeon empire.
But in reality?
Jungkook is just a boy who couldn’t rest until he knows you are safe.
♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡
For five years, Taehwan have been working for Jeon Jungkook.
Not in the usual bodyguard sense, because the Jeon heir knows how to protect himself, though that was slightly part of it. When the Jeon family first assigned him, the instructions were simple: watch the heir, keep him safe, and report back if he gets into trouble.
After all, Jeon Jungkook is a notoriously private son.
At first, Taehwan thought it would be an easy job, protect a boy who hardly leaves the library or the gym? It’s babysitting, really.
But then he realized something.
Jeon Jungkook is not normal. Not in the way conglomerate sons usually are, he is far from entitled, arrogant, or spoiled.
No, Jungkook was entirely something else.
He is smart, scary smart, genius even.
Taehwan has shadowed plenty of rich brats in his career and none of them has the instinct this kid does. Jungkook could walk into a room and point out who was lying, who was nervous, and who was plotting. He rarely speaks but when he does, people scrambled to keep up.
Even his father, the Jeon group CEO, the chairman himself, listens to him. Taehwan respected him for that. Genius isn’t a word Taehwan throw around lightly, but Jungkook has it.
Still, there is just one thing about his boss that Taehwan could never quite wrap his head around.
Love.
Or whatever it was Jungkook feels for that girl.
Five years. Since Jungkook was eighteen until he is now twenty-three. That’s how long Taehwan has been tracking your movements, quietly and always from a distance, on Jungkook’s orders.
And for what?
For girl who works at a flower shop, studies on scholarship, and lives in a tiny apartment with peeling wallpaper, yes both Taehwan and his boss have been inside of your apartment. You aren’t like the women who usually circled chaebol heirs, dressed in designer labels, and trained to smile at the right time. You are just ordinary.
Yet Jungkook, the boy who has everything, spend his nights reading financial reports in one hand and your schedule in the other.
Weird, right?
His boss is brilliant, calculated, disciplined, and ruthless when it came to business, but when it comes to you, he is strange.
Sometimes, Jungkook would ask simple questions,
Did she eat? Did she make it home safe? Did she smile today?
And Taehwan would answer each of it.
Because Jeon Jungkook, the man who could silence executives with a glance, seems to unravel in your presence. You do not even know he has been following you for years.
Taehwan has kept guarded Jungkook’s secrets for years and he would keep guarding them for twenty more if that was what the job required. But deep down, he couldn’t help but wonder;
When the day comes that Jungkook finally steps out of the shadows and step into your life, would you even recognize him?
Would you even want him?
♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡
For most students, university is a stepping stone to a better career.
For Jeon Jungkook, it is camouflage.
He doesn’t need the degree.
He already sits and leads in board meetings, already understands investments and market dynamics better than most professors lecturing them. His father often said Jungkook can graduate tomorrow and step into the company as a director seamlessly, but he always mentioned how the degree can make him look more terrifying.
But Jungkook isn’t in a hurry to graduate or earn a degree.
That was the difference between him and the others.
Others rushed while Jungkook waited.
He is waiting for you.
When he overheard, no, when he arranged to overhear, that you would be taking Business Investment and Strategy this semester, he knows it was time.
It isn’t difficult to gain information. Taehwan followed you to campus, trailing a few steps behind as you conversed with a fellow scholarship student about course loads. You sighed, tired but determined, saying you would enroll in the investment and strategy course despite warnings about how grueling it was. And even if Taehwan couldn’t find out about the courses you were taking, Jungkook can easily access the University’s portal. After all, he’s the biggest donator in the university.
That was when he made his decision.
He has one elective left before earning his degree. He could have taken it last year, but he didn’t. He waited, purposefully leaving that final class for you. His parents never asked him why he’s getting his degree a year late, after all Jungkook is also working alongside his father.
To the world, it seems pretty normal, Jeon Jungkook, heir to a business empire, of course he would finish with a strategy course, it might be so predictable that no one would question it.
But to Jungkook, this class is anything but ordinary.
It is something inevitable.
His phone vibrated against the desk, dragging him out of his thoughts as he sees new message from Taehwan.
Taehwan: She’s home, studying late again, lights still on.
Jungkook’s lips twitched, almost forming a smile. He set the phone down and returned his gaze to the neat stack of books on his desk.
He could have finished this life chapter months ago, could have walked across the stage with a diploma in hand. But what was the point of finishing early, if it means leaving you behind?
No way in hell would Jungkook do that.
He would graduate when you do.
And when the semester begins, he would finally take his seat beside you.
♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡
The lecture hall is too bright for his liking.
White lights shining from the ceiling, bouncing off the walls and the polished wood desks. The room is already half full when Jungkook stepped inside, and students shuffled to their seats. He paused at near the doorway, his eyes sweeping across the rows to search for you.
Jungkook spotted you almost immediately. You sit near the middle, your body hunched slightly over your notebook as if you were trying to block the noise around you. Your hair was tied back, strands falling across your cheek as you scribbled something on the corner of a page.
Jungkook felt something shift in his chest.
Years of waiting, orchestrating schedules, and letting one last elective sit unfinished, it was all for this moment.
People noticed when Jeon Jungkook enters a room. They always do, some straightened their postures, others went quiet, and eyes flickering toward him before darting away. It wasn’t just his name, it was the way he carried himself.
But Jungkook does not give a single fuck about them.
He cares about the girl in the middle row who still hasn’t looked up.
He walked past empty seats, past murmured greetings from classmates who tried to catch his attention, and he gave nothing in return.
When he reached your row, he stopped.
There was an empty chair beside you.
Perfect.
Jungkook slid into it without a word, he set his notebook down, clicked his pen once, then leaned back slightly in his chair. From the corner of his eye, he caught you stiffen. You must have noticed him now.
“Is this seat taken?” His voice was low and calm. You blinked, startled by the sudden question and your eyes finally lifted, meeting his for the briefest second before you looked away.
“No,” you murmured.
Jungkook nodded once, as if that was all he needed. He didn’t smile, he barely does.
The professor entered a moment later, shuffling papers as the room quieted. Jungkook kept his gaze forward with a pen on his hand, and the perfect sitting posture. To the students looking at him, he is the model student, attentive and composed. But his mind isn’t on the lecture.
It is on you.
Every small movement from you drew his attention, the way you tapped you pen against your notebook when you are thinking, the way you pressed your lips together when writing quickly, and the focus face you pull when you tried to keep up with the professor’s pace.
He noticed everything.
When you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers twitched faintly against his pen. When your sleeve slipped slightly, revealing the edge of a wrist bruised faintly purple, probably from carrying heavy boxes at the shop, his jaw tightened.
He forced himself to look forward again.
He couldn’t give himself away. Not yet.
The lecture continued, numbers and models scrawled across the projector screen. Jungkook took notes, but his handwriting was neater than usual and his pace was slower. He wasn’t here for the lesson, he was here for proximity.
At one point, the professor posed a question to the class after presenting a case study. Silence followed, students shifting uncomfortably in their seats. Jungkook felt the professor’s gaze flick toward him.
He didn’t want to speak, not yet.
He wanted to give you a chance.
“I think the three main investment characteristics of this investment are,” you answered, hesitant at first, but gaining confidence as you continued, “growth, emphasis on liquidity, and discretion to fund managers on what they could buy.”
The professor smiled, nodding in approval, “Exactly, very well said.”
Jungkook turned his head slightly, watching you as you ducked your head in embarrassment. No one else seemed to notice, but Jungkook did, the flush creeping up your neck, the way you gripped your pen tighter as if you were afraid of being noticed.
He knew you were smart, even smarter than half the room combined. He felt something stir again, sharp and possessiveness.
When the lecture ended, students began packing up their bags, but Jungkook remained seated, he wasn’t in a rush. Beside him, you gathered your things quickly, as if eager to leave before anyone could start a conversation with you. You slipped your notebook into your bag, stood up, and turned to leave.
Jungkook let you go.
For now.
Years of watching in silence and now he was here. Beside you, breathing the same air.
It is only the beginning.
Jungkook stood up, straightening his shirt as he walked out, phone vibrating faintly in his pocket, he already knew the message would be from Taehwan.
Taehwan: Do you want me to follow her?
Jungkook typed in his reply within seconds.
Jungkook: Yes.
And with that, he stepped into the hallway, blending seamlessly into the world that expected him to be Jeon Jungkook, the heir.
But inside, all he could think was:
You are finally within reach.
♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡
The second week, Jungkook arrived to class earlier than usual.
The lecture hall half empty, students scattered across the rows, laptops already opened, and he didn’t need to scan the room this time; he knew where you would be sitting.
Middle row, same spot.
Sure enough, you were there, notebook open, hair falling forward as you flipped through your notes. Jungkook noticed it in the way he noticed everything.
He slid into the seat beside you, exactly as he had last week.
You glanced up, surprise flickering across your face before looking down again. You didn’t say anything and neither did he.
The professor began the lecture, talking about portfolio diversification. Jungkook listened halfheartedly, his pen moving across the page writing down what he doesn’t even need to write. But the moment he has been anticipating for, something he might have arranged with the unit coordinators, is finally happening.
“Pair up with the person next to you,” the professor instructed, “and discuss the risk-return tradeoff in last week’s case study, I’ll give you ten minutes.”
The room was filled with noise of students’ movement and voices as they turned to one another. Beside him, you hesitated as your fingers tightened on your pen. Jungkook could feel you weighing the options; Should you ask him? Should you pretend to work alone?
He decided to answer for you.
“Explain your answer first,” His tone was low, sounding like a command rather than a request. You blinked, startled, and turned to face him fully for the first time.
“I, uh, well, I think the company chose the lower risk investment because their debt is already too high,” you explained slowly, “If they chose the other project, it could have jeopardized them, sometimes stability matters more than maximizing profit.”
Jungkook studied you as you speak, the way you look far ahead when trying to concentrate, the way your fingers tapped lightly against your thigh. You weren’t reciting something you memorized; you were thinking it through.
“Not bad,” he responded.
Your lips parted slightly, as if you weren’t sure whether to take it as praise or dismissal, “What about you?”
Jungkook leaned back in his chair, crossing one arm over his chest, “I would’ve taken the other project, the other option.”
“Why?” “Because the company’s brand equity is strong enough to secure additional financing if the project failed.” You looked at him surprised, then, slowly you nodded, “That makes sense.”
The corner of his mouth almost twitched, almost.
For a few minutes, the both of you went back and forth. You challenged some of his points, hesitant at first, then with confidence. Jungkook responded evenly, never raising his voice, and he didn’t give you the satisfaction of a smile or encouragement, but inside, every second of it thrilled him.
This was the first real conversation he has had with you.
When the professor called for attention again, you quickly turned back to your notes, scribbling something down. Jungkook picked up his pen, but his focus was elsewhere, on the faint pink rising in your cheeks, the way your shoulders relaxed just slightly after the discussion.
He wanted to ask you more. About what you’re thinking, your classes, your work, why you aren’t getting enough sleep, but he stayed silent.
Patience.
The lecture ended not long after. Students packed their bags, voices filling the room again.
You stood up quickly, ready to leave, but this time Jungkook stopped you.
“You argued well,” he said.
You froze, glancing at him, your eyes searched his face, as if trying to figure out whether he was serious, “Oh, thanks.”
He gave a small nod, then turned away, slipping his notebook into his bag, as he knew he didn’t need to say more.
As you walked up the steps, Jungkook leaned back in his chair, watching you go.
Years of silence, distance, and of watching from the shadows.
Now, piece by piece, he was stepping closer.
For the first time in years, your voice lingered in his mind not as a memory from a long time ago, but as something fresh.
You even challenged his ideas, listened to him, and looked him in the eye.
And this was only the beginning.
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Business Investment and Strategy wasn’t a class you wanted.
But here you were, notebook open, pen in hand, pretending not to be intimidated by words like equity leverage and risk-return tradeoff.
You are used to feeling out of place, especially ever since your father’s scandal. You’ve been feeling like you don’t belong everywhere, on campus, in stores, and even among people you once called friends. But this class wasn’t just filled with normal students; it was filled with rich kids. Kids who would inherit companies and kids who could afford to fail.
And sitting beside you was one of them.
Jeon Jungkook.
You didn’t know he would be in this class, to be frank you thought he already graduated, but not until he slid into the seat beside you.
Everyone knew the Jeon family, they are old money, and have helped built the country with their business. But he is different from the other rich kids. He doesn’t laugh loudly, doesn’t try to show off, doesn’t fidget with expensive watches or whisper about cars.
He is quiet.
And quiet made you nervous.
The second week, when the professor told the class to pair up, your stomach dropped. Everyone else turned to their friends but you didn’t have that luxury because none of your friends wanted to pick this ruthless class. So, your only option was him.
You hesitated, unsure if you should say something first. But before you could, his voice cut through the noise. You discussed the case study, he demanded for you to answer first, and you asked him to explain his answer afterwards. The difference between you and him during the discussion was that he demanded while you asked.
But his answer wasn’t the kind of shallow answer you expected from someone like him. It was sharp, logical, and maybe even right.
The both of you went back and forth for a few more minutes, your nerves easing slightly as the discussion goes on. Jungkook never interrupted you, he listened and responded in precise sentences like he didn’t like to waste words and every word felt deliberate.
It was unnerving to say the least.
Jeon Jungkook is strange and intimidating.
You told yourself it doesn’t matter. He probably wouldn’t sit beside you again. Probably had dozens of other friends he could pair with or probably didn’t even care who he sat next to.
And yet, for the rest of the day, you couldn’t stop hearing his voice in your head.
Not bad.
You argued well.
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The third week of the Business Investment and Strategy class began like any other, but the moment you stepped into the lecture hall, you felt the shift in the air.
Jeon Jungkook is already there.
Sitting in the exact same seat as last week, your seat partner.
You swallowed hard, sliding into the chair beside him because, well, where else were you supposed to go? It wasn’t like you could casually sit somewhere else without making it obvious that you were avoiding him. And besides, it wasn’t like he cares.
He doesn’t look at you when you sat down, he didn’t greet you, the only thing he did was flip open his notebook.
If you didn’t speak to him last week, you would’ve thought he was mute.
The lecture started. For the first twenty minutes, the professor was going through the theories and students typing and writing furiously. Next to you, Jungkook was calm, he never slouched, never fidgeted, and never checked his phone even once.
And then it happened.
“Alright, listen up,” the professor said, clapping his hands once, “we are going to start our semester projects and for the first one you will be working in pairs.”
Groans rippled through the class, group projects are the pain of every student’s existence.
“You’ll stay with the person you partnered with last week,” the professor continued. “The discussion last week was a test run to see how you both work with each other.”
Your stomach dropped. Beside you, Jungkook finally lifted his gaze from his notes and for a brief second his eyes met yours. Unreadable as though he knew this would happen all along.
Oh no.
Oh no, no, no.
You just realized you are going to have to work with Jeon Jungkook. For weeks.
The professor began distributing the assignment briefs, pairing names with companies and projects. Then he reached your table, “Jungkook and y/n. You will be analyzing Hyundai’s overseas expansion into Europe, the presentation is due in six weeks and don’t forget the written report, of minimum ten pages.”
You almost groaned out loud.
When the class broke into pairs, you glanced sideways, but Jungkook was already turning to you. “We’ll meet tomorrow,” he said. Not a suggestion, a statement.
You blinked, “Tomorrow?” “Yes,” his tone left no room for argument, “library at 5 PM.”
You opened your mouth then closed it again. There were a dozen reasons you could have said no but something in his voice stopped you in place, “Fine.”
He gave a single nod, before turning back to his notes as if the matter was settled.
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The next day, you find yourself arriving at the library at 5:05 PM, clutching your laptop against your chest. You weren’t sure what to expect, maybe he would be late, maybe he would blow you off entirely, but of course, he was already there.
Sitting at a table in the corner.
You froze as you stare at him from afar. He looks like he belongs in a boardroom not a library. Buttoned white shirt with his sleeves rolled just enough to reveal the veins and tattoes in his forearms, and his dark hair falling slightly into his eyes as he skimmed through the case study.
He didn’t even look up when you approached, just gestured to the seat across from him with a flick of his fingers, “Sit.”
You sat.
For a moment, the only sound you could hear is the faint sound of the air conditioning and the scratch of his pen across paper, then Jungkook broke the silence, “You’ll handle the financial analysis.”
You frowned at how he just decided without discussing it with you first, “Excuse me?”
“You explained it well in class,” his eyes flicked up to yours, “I’ll cover the strategic expansion models.”
You blinked, he concluded your strength from a ten minute discussion? “Okay,” you replied, “but we’ll need to coordinate, it has to flow.”
“Obviously.”
Your jaw tightened. He wasn’t exactly rude, but he wasn’t friendly either.
He speaks like everything is a conclusion, like he already has the whole project mapped in his head.
For the next hour, the both of you divided sections, cross checked the deadlines, and created an outline. Jungkook barely looked at you, his focus was on the assignment but when he did glance up, his gaze was so intense it made you shift in your seat.
It was exhausting.
But it’s also efficient because by the end of the hour, the both of you have made more progress than most groups would in a week.
Across from you, Jungkook was flipping through reports with the same precision he seems to do everything with. His posture is perfect, his handwriting is neater than yours, and everything he does is just unnerving.
He looks like he belongs at an expensive woodened desk in some corporate tower not into a university library with you.
You tried to focus on your notes, but it was impossible not to notice him. The rolled sleeves exposed his tattoos, the dark hair falling across his forehead, and the way his eyes flicked over each page like he was memorizing it in seconds.
He didn’t fidget, he just kept on working, finally, he sets down his pen as his eyes lifted, landing on you, “Give me your number.”
Your head snapped up, “Excuse me?”
His expression didn’t change, “Your number for coordination.”
“Oh,” heat crawled up your neck. Right. The project. Of course, you were being ridiculous, “Sure.”
You typed down your number on his phone and a seconds later your phone buzzed.
Unknown number: Save this.
You blinked down at your phone screen. His message was short and commanding, just like him. You hesitated before typing back:
You: Okay.
Jungkook: Good.
That was it, then he returned to his notes as if he didn’t just completely thrown you off balance.
You stared at your phone, lips pressing together, who even asked for someone’s number like that? No please or explanation, just “give me your number”.
And the strangest part was, you weren’t sure if you were annoyed or curious. Across from you, Jungkook’s pen resumed moving, after he asked for your number, the air between you feels heavier somehow. But he didn’t fidget or sigh the way most people do when studying, Jungkook is perfectly composed.
After nearly twenty minutes of silence, he finally looked up, his eyes met yours, “You’re distracted.”
“What?” you replied.
“You’re not paying attention to what you’re writing,” he tapped your notebook with his pen, “you wrote the ratio wrong, twice.”
Heat crept up your face, you checked what was written on your book and he was right, “Oh. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. Fix it.”
You froze for a second, his tone wasn’t cruel but it was so blunt in a way that made you feel exposed. When you corrected the numbers, he glanced at your book once before giving a small nod, “Better.”
You rolled your eyes before you could stop yourself, “Do you always talk like that?”
His brows lifted slightly, “Like what?”
“Like you are grading people.”
Something changed in his expression, like an amusement, then he replied, “Only when they need it.”
You scoffed under your breath but didn’t push it further.
He wasn’t welcoming any other question, and honestly, you weren’t sure you wanted the answers.
