[Jungkook] The Windmill House (Chapter 14)
Synopsis: When your stereotypical Christian Grey meets his not so stereotypical Anna
Masterlist
The days after our confrontation blur together like a bad dream I can’t wake from. The silence from him presses on me heavier with each passing hour. It’s been two full days now since I sent that last email, asking again for feedback, for anything. Nothing. Not a word.
I keep telling myself I did the right thing — that I had to set boundaries, that I couldn’t let myself get dragged into whatever this is with him. But every time my phone buzzes, I hope it’s him. Every time it’s not, the ache in my chest deepens.
That kiss — I replay it over and over in my mind, like a movie stuck on the most vivid scene. His lips, firm and urgent, crashing against mine in the dim light of that narrow alley. His breath was warm, mingling with mine, and his mouth tasted faintly of coffee and something woodsy, something personal that I can’t quite name. There was a fire there — wild and desperate — like he was trying to make me forget everything else.
I kissed him back, even though I knew I shouldn’t. The way his hands gripped my waist, the way my fingers tangled in his shirt — it was electric, terrifying, and so impossibly real. I wanted to give in, to let the world slip away and just be with him in that moment, but I had to stop. I pulled away, told him no, told him I couldn’t do this, that we had to keep things professional.
But my body remembers what my mind tries to deny.
That night, I dream about him. His lips on mine again, softer this time, like he’s asking for permission. I feel his hands sliding up my arms, his breath against my skin. I wake up sweating, heart pounding so hard it hurts, and I hate myself for wanting it. I hate how he’s invaded my thoughts, how I’m caught between desire and fear.
Throughout the week, the silence grows unbearable. I check my email obsessively, hoping for any sign that he’s there, that he’s thinking of me too, that maybe he’s not mad or disappointed. But there’s nothing. No messages, no calls, no sign. I start to question everything. Did I push him away for good? Did I ruin whatever fragile connection we had?
I try to stay busy. I bury myself in work, forcing my hands to draw and draft, but every line I sketch is haunted by him. Every time my phone buzzes, I jump. I feel desperate and pathetic, like I’m waiting for a lifeline that may never come.
Then, just as I’m on the verge of giving up, my inbox lights up again. My heart stutters. I stare at the screen, afraid to open it but knowing I have to.
Subject: Feedback + a Proposal
Hi Maya, I hope this message finds you well. I’ve gone through your sketches and added a few notes — you’re doing a wonderful job, really. Beyond the project, I wanted to say I’ve been thinking about you. I understand if you need space, and I want to respect that completely. There’s no pressure, truly. If you ever feel comfortable, I’d be honored to share a quiet dinner with you this Friday at 7:30 p.m. Just to talk, or simply enjoy the evening together — no expectations, just a chance to connect. Please take all the time you need. I’m here when you’re ready. Take care, Jungkook
The warmth in his words feels like a balm on my raw nerves. He’s gentle, not demanding. He’s giving me an out, while still reaching for connection. It’s not about the designs — I know that. It’s about him wanting to see me, to be with me, but without pushing too hard.
I sit back, breath caught in my throat. My mind races — the fear, the hope, the ache all tangled inside me. I know this could break me open, or maybe, finally, help me heal.
And somehow — maybe because I’m so tired of running — I type back:
“I’d like that.”
-
I spot him through the glass before I even enter. He’s already there — of course he is — seated with his back straight, phone face-down beside an untouched glass of water, eyes fixed on the door like he’s been waiting longer than he probably has.
God, he looks good.
Not in a careless, obvious way. He’s immaculately put together, as always. Black shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, the top button undone, like he knows precisely how far to push that line between formal and devastating. His hair is slicked back, but not too tightly — it gives him that edge, that effortless arrogance that seems to follow him like a tailored shadow.
My heart ticks up a notch. I hate that it does.
When I step in, the waiter doesn’t even speak — just gestures me forward. The restaurant is empty. Not quiet — empty. Every table is pristine, untouched. The lighting is warm, golden, casting everything in a soft intimacy that doesn’t belong to strangers. My heels echo far too loudly on the marble, so by the time I make it to the dining room his eyes are already looking for me. His eyes visibly warm up at the sight of me, while my hands start to feel clammy.
"Mrs Fair." He greets, as he rises smoothy from his seat. I take afew more steps towards him while he watches me, hands sliding down into his pockets. He meets me right in front of the chair that's for me to sit down on. His proximity is intoxicating.
"Good evening." I manage, my voice quiet. He leans in to kiss my cheek. The warmth of his lips lingers longer than the contact itself. And I know I'm done for already. He smells like cedar and citrus and restraint.
"Do you always privatize entire restaurants whenever you eat out?" I ask as he pulls my chair out. My voice comes out cooler than I feel.
"Not always, no," he says, and there’s that almost-smile, the one that flickers at the corner of his mouth but never makes it all the way. "Only when I don't want to be disturbed."
A beat. I sit. He pushes my chair in gently, his hand brushing the back of my shoulder with maddening softness. I hate that I notice.
“I apologize for showing up at your workplace last time,” I say, once we’re both seated.
His expression doesn’t shift. “It was uncalled for and out of line.”
I swallow, nod.
“I reacted on impulse and I’m sorry.” He continues. "I won't do it again."
"Okay." I nod. He already apologized but I have to admit he has a way of making me feel that he's honest.
“But…” I continue, fingers finding the edge of my napkin. “There was some truth in what you said.”
He watches me, unreadable. His eyes are dark — but not cold. Just… watchful. Measuring.
“I don’t want to be vulnerable like that,” I say quietly. “And you haven’t given me any reason not to trust you yet. But I’ve been there before. I’ve been with men like you and—”
“I think I get the idea,” he interrupts, but it’s not harsh. It’s weary. He leans back slightly, shoulder relaxing, like he knows what’s coming next.
“You have all these preconceptions about me, none of them are true,” he says.
“I don’t know that,” I counter.
“You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.”
I meet his eyes. “What are you scared of?” He asks me.
“I’m not scared. I’m being careful.” I retort. He crickles his nose at that, almost amused. The waiter comes and asks what drinks we would like. We both settle on water for noz. There is no way I am drinking alcohol, not even a drop of it.
“Taking one step forward, then five steps back isn’t being careful,” he says. “Are you scared you’ll fall for me?”
Isn't it obvious?
“If you turn out to be like I think you are,” I murmur, “falling for you would be the worst case scenario for me.”
There’s a pause. Something shifts. A flicker of something in his gaze — amusement? Curiosity? I can’t tell.
“You can’t have sex with someone without catching feelings?” he asks.
“I haven’t had enough experience to know.” I shrug, drowning the rest of my sentence in my glass of wate.
“You’re a virgin?”
“No. I’m just sure I don’t have your body count.”
“You’re assuming. Again.”
“Are you going to say I’m wrong?” I challege, because really? The quick exhales of air that comes out of his nose could be interpreted as a chuckle.
"That's not my point." He waves a dissmissive hand. "All your assumptions about me are baseless and untrue for most of them."
"Assuming protects me."
“Does assuming give you orgasms?” And there he is, his usual flirtatious self. This man can't spend a second without trying to make me blush.
I snort. “You have a weird sense of priorities.”
“It’s not a priority.”
“You’re trying pretty hard.” I remark.
He tilts his head, a slow smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I enjoy spending time with you anyway.”
“What if you catch feelings?” I ask.
“I can’t catch feelings without sex.”
“Yet you’ve been single for a long time, right?”
“Exactly.”
“I assumed.” I mutter.
He narrows his eyes at me.
“Do you at least assume I’m good in bed?”
His voice dips, silk over heat. I hate how my skin reacts to the sound of it.
“Answer me honestly. Do you think I’d make you come?”
My stomach flips. I take a sip of water I don’t need. How can he be so shameless? Imagine if I were the one asking him if he thinks I'd make him ocme, I'd be a bloody whore! He's a whore.
“Why does it matter?” I retort.
“Why not answer if it doesn’t matter?” He says, trying to corner me, yet again.
“You know what? You’re right,” I say. “I don’t have any real reason why I resist you. Other than the fact that I don’t want to give you that satisfaction.”
“I didn’t know I was your enemy.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Do you hate me?”
“I wouldn’t be here if I did.” I mirror hiswords.
“You just hate men like me.” He states. “But not me.”
I know this should make very little sense to him.
He smiles faintly — but something about it falters at the edges. He toys with his glass, eyes on the rim.
“Women are divine but awfully complex creatures,” he murmurs.
“I’m protecting myself.”
“From good sex?”
“From the hold men like you have on women.”
“If I had any sort of hold on you, you’d be naked in my bed right now.” He says, bringing his water to his lips, but pauses before adding. “For the hundredth time probably.” Oh my oh my! Don't let me imagine this!
It won't have to take him having sex with me to understand he has a hold on me already. I'm listless besides him, I'm aroused, I feel beautiful, I feel scared.
“When you asked me — I mean, demanded — I give you a date for our appointment, right after kissing me,” I say, “I nearly did.” I shrug a shoulder.
He looks up at me. His eyes meet mine and they’re… quieter. Still intense, but no longer cocky.
“I nearly gave in. Because you kissed me.”
His lips part slightly. He doesn’t speak.
“But I don’t want to be one of your groupies, Mr. Jeon.”
“I don’t have groupies.”
“You really have no idea the effect you have on women?”
“I’m not interested in someone who doesn’t know their worth. Or stop being their own person just to keep me around.”
There’s something gentle in the way he says it. No bite. No flirt. It’s the first time all evening he sounds — tired.
“You’re far from being a groupie, Maya.” He says reassuringly.
I inhale sharply. “For now.”
Silence stretches between us. My heart pounds — not from fear, but from something worse: recognition.
“But what happens next time you kiss me?” I ask. “Or if we have sex? Isn’t it how it usually goes for you?”
I can see it. Feel it. The subtle change in his posture. He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t deflect. He just… listens. And he looks like he’s bracing for something.
“Some woman catches your eye because she resists you, and then when she realizes how good you are at making them feel good, they get addicted. Desperate. So desperate they’d let you use them anyway you please.”
I pause. I study him. “But there’s nothing attractive about that, right?”
He doesn't answer. Just watches me, expression unreadable — except for the slightest downturn of his mouth.
“Am I wrong?” I whisper.
He finally exhales. “What happens when you realize I’m not as strong as you think I am?” I ask, and this time, my voice trembles just a little. My throat tightens.
“I don’t know,” he says softly.
And there it is. The honesty. The sentence that undoes me.
He'll get bored, I think. I can see it now — clear as day. If I let my guard down, if I become someone soft and dependent, the fire in his eyes will flicker out. Not right away. But eventually. Slowly. Silently.
“You’ll get bored,” I say out loud.
He looks at me — and I see it land. His shoulders sink just slightly. Not dramatically. Not pitiful. Just… quiet defeat. Like I’ve hit something true.
He doesn’t deny it.
I feel it in my gut — the way the temperature between us drops just enough to make the distance feel wider than the table.
"My assumptions aren’t wrong, are they?"
He shakes his head. "No."
I nod once, forcing the emotion down into my stomach. This conversation took a very abrut turn. i don't know how my train of thoughts have brought me here but now I am facing the reality that I have been right all along. If I give in, he'll use me and get bored. I don't want to go through this again. But at least now I know for sure.
“I’m going to leave now,” I say, my voice steadier than my pulse. My hands curl around the strap of my bag, the chair legs scrape gently as I begin to rise.
But then—his voice. Urgent.
“Maya, wait.”
I freeze.
He’s already standing, one hand hovering between us like he wants to reach for me but doesn’t dare. The restraint in his body is new. It makes my heart stumble.
“Please,” he says again, softer. It’s the first time I hear that tone from him. Unmasked. Not coaxing or teasing, just... raw.
"Listen," He trails off, walking around the table so he's standing in front of me.
He exhales, rubs the back of his neck like he’s trying to keep himself grounded.
“I don't go around hurting people.”
His eyes search mine and I feel the weight of those words lodge in my chest.
“I was adopted by the kindest souls on the planet,” he continues. “They gave me everything—stability, love, respect. All they ever asked from me in return is to be kind. To everyone." He explains. It's the first time he tells me about his upbringing. I meant, I know he had to have been adopted, but he never so much as talked about his childhood.
"A-and I’ve gone about things the wrongest way possible with you. I can admit that. I guess all I’ve done is worsen your anxiety.” He admits.
“Yeah…” I murmur, because what else can I say? It’s true. It’s all been too much, too fast, too overwhelming.
He winces slightly at my confirmation but pushes on.
“But you have to believe me—hurting you is the last thing I want.”
I feel my throat tighten. The intensity in his gaze is disarming. I hate how much it reaches inside me.
“Yes, I have money. Yes, I can be controlling,” he says, not flinching from the ugly truths. “I know how it looks on the outside, but this isn’t some teenage fanfiction, Maya. I don’t want to be a man you’ll have to recover from. I don’t want to break you.”
“Maybe stop being an arse, then…” I say, arms crossed again, trying to keep the tears and warmth both at bay.
He actually chuckles—quietly—but it’s genuine. And when he does, I catch the faintest curl of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. A softness I haven’t seen before. When his gaze lifts to mine again, there’s a boyish gleam in it. “An arse?” he repeats, the word thick and amused on his tongue. What's so funny? His smile is a little too contageous, so I have to purse my lips to hide it.
I nod, lips twitching.
“You might think I want to trample all over your life and your free will,” He says, and I'm barely believing I’m still here, still talking. “But the truth is, Jeon... you’ve completely run me over. That day you showed up late to the mansion? I was already spiraling. And then you kissed me in that alley and—”
He steps closer. Not too close, but enough to make my breath catch.
“I haven’t known what to do with myself since then,” he admits.
His honesty lands somewhere between a confession and a plea. My pulse quickens. I should leave. But I don’t. I can’t.
“And I’m supposed to believe that?” I challenge, folding my arms tighter just to have something to hold onto.
“Maya, a quick search on the internet will show you I haven’t been involved with anyone for a long time. I’m rusty as hell,” he says, running a hand through his hair.
There’s a boyishness in that gesture that floors me. He looks—lost. Almost endearing.
“Cut me some slack,” he says.
I eye him, weighing his words, watching the way his fingers flex at his sides like he’s holding something back.
“This is how I’ve been acting for the past twenty years of my life,” he admits. “I don’t know how to court a lady anymore.” Court a lady? He wants to court me? You bet he's rusty if he uses this phasiology.
“Well…” I say, pausing, letting the silence stretch just enough for him to feel the tension break. “If you could let go of that fanfiction billionaire persona when you’re with me…”
His brows lift, hope flickering like dawn.
“I might give you a chance,” I finish.
His exhale is soft and slow. Almost reverent.
“I’ll try,” he says. Then extends a hand, like he’s sealing a deal.
“Deal?” he asks.
I hesitate a beat. Then take his hand.
“Deal.”
“Always a pleasure to do business with you, Miss Fair.”
I laugh, despite myself.
“I’d say likewise, but my anxiety would call me a liar.”
He grins now—full, genuine. “Hungry?”
“Very.”
And just like that, we sit back down.
He pulls out my chair again before taking his own. I catch the way he watches me from across the table, eyes drinking me in with a kind of patient admiration. The candlelight flickers, throwing golden light across his cheekbones and collar. He’s beautiful and too composed, and I hate that I notice both.
When the food arrives, the air softens.
We talk—less guarded now. He asks about my sketches, and I find myself rambling about light studies and how my professor once told me I paint with too much emotion. He listens, fingers absently tracing the rim of his wine glass. His gaze doesn’t stray.
When he speaks, it’s slower, more deliberate. I learn that he loves coffee but always forgets to drink it warm. That he once spent an entire month in Iceland just to “shut off the world.” That he doesn’t sleep well most nights.
I ask if it’s always been like that. He nods.
“I’ve always had this... noise in my head. Work, family, responsabilities...” he says, tapping his temple. “But tonight’s quiet.”
I don’t know what to do with that. So I just eat another bite of risotto.
And then, too soon, we’re walking.
The wind hits me first.
Not sharp — not yet — but brisk enough to slip under the neckline of my blouse and skim my collarbone, like the city’s way of reminding me I’ve left the safety of that dim, velvet-lit restaurant behind.
I cross my arms, tucking my hands into the crooks of my elbows.
He notices. Of course he does.
Without saying a word, Mr. Jeon slides his coat off and steps behind me, draping it over my shoulders like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His hands ghost along my upper arms as he straightens the lapels. Slow. Precise. His fingers are warm against the chill of the fabric.
“Thank you,” I murmur, barely above the breeze.
His voice is close to my ear. “You don't check the weather before going out?”
“I do, I just didn't expect to be here that long."
I glance sideways. His mouth lifts faintly.
“Didn't expect the food to be that good,” I admit, my fingers curling into the lining of his coat. It smells like him — spice, leather, some soft citrus thing I can’t name — and I try not to think about the fact that I’m wrapped in it. That I’m walking through the night draped in him.
We fall into step.
The city has quieted now — just the hum of streetlights and the occasional whisper of tires on wet asphalt. Our footsteps click in time on the pavement. Every now and then, his shoulder brushes mine.
I should step away.
I don’t.
“I was serious earlier,” I say, after a while. My voice is steadier than I expect it to be. “About not knowing what would happen if we kissed again.”
He glances at me, his expression unreadable at first — then the smallest smile tugs at his mouth. Slow. Knowing.
“You mean now?”
I stop walking for half a second, laugh under my breath. “No. I mean… hypothetically.”
“Hm.” He nods, looking ahead again. “Hypothetically, I’d be patient.”
I tuck my chin into his coat collar, hiding my smile. “You don’t seem like a patient man.”
He hums low in his throat. “With most people, I’m not.”
“But with me?”
His hand brushes mine as we turn the corner — just a graze, deliberate in how casual it pretends to be.
“You’ve been honest with me tonight,” he says. “Even when it wasn’t flattering. Even when it made things harder for you.”
I look down at the sidewalk. My pulse flutters in my wrist. “It’s not about being brave. I’m just…” I hesitate. “...careful.”
“I know.”
“Because I’ve made mistakes.”
“Me too.”
I glance up. His jaw is relaxed, his expression soft — not sad, not bitter, just real. He looks like he’s standing in the same truth I am.
The wind picks up again. I shift a little closer, trying not to be obvious.
“I don’t want to lead you on,” I say quietly. “I don’t always trust what I want.”
He doesn’t respond right away. But I can feel the weight of his eyes on me.
“You don’t need to,” he finally says. “Not yet. I can wait. You’ve given me more than most.”
I blink. “I have?”
We keep walking, slower now, like neither of us really wants the walk to end.
“You frustrate me,” he says suddenly.
I blink. “What?”
“You frustrate me,” he repeats, more lightly this time. “You're brilliant. You don’t bend. You make me question everything I thought I knew about how I want someone.”
My stomach dips. “That doesn’t sound very flattering.”
He smiles. “It’s the highest compliment I know how to give.”
We stop in front of my building. The entrance light spills down the steps in a soft golden glow, bathing the sidewalk in warmth. It makes his eyes look even darker.
He turns to face me fully, one hand sliding from his pocket. It hovers near mine — not touching. Just there.
“Thank you for dinner,” he says.
I raise a brow. “You paid.”
“You stayed,” he says again, his voice dipping lower. “You could’ve left after the wine. Or the tension. Or that comment I made about your stubbornness.”
I smile. “You’re not exactly charming when you’re defensive.”
“And yet, here you are.”
There’s a beat — a silence that curls between us, not empty, but brimming.
He reaches for my hand, slowly, giving me every second to pull away.
I don’t.
His fingers are long and warm and just a little calloused at the knuckles. He lifts my hand gently, like it’s fragile. Like I’m something precious.
His lips brush across my knuckles.
Soft. Barely a kiss. But intentional.
My stomach drops.
He doesn’t drop my hand right away.
“I’m going to ask you something now,” he says, voice quiet, rougher around the edges. “And you don’t have to say yes.”
I don’t move.
“Let me take you on that date you owe me,” he says. “Let me cook for you. Make you laugh. Show you I know how to do more than drool over your curves.”
I look down at our joined hands. Then up at him. He drools over me?
His eyes hold mine. Steady. Open. There’s no smugness in his voice now, no challenge — just an offering.
I slowly pull my hand back and slip his coat off my shoulders. Fold it neatly. Place it in his hands.
He watches me the whole time.
“Okay,” I say, the corner of my mouth tilting. “You’re collecting late, but I’ll allow it.”
A real smile breaks over his face. Not crooked or knowing. Just… real.
He steps back half a step, letting the moment breathe.
“Soon,” he says.
I turn the key in the door, still feeling the imprint of his hand on mine. The wood swings open. I step through.
And then I do something ridiculous.
I turn, close the door softly behind me, and slide down it. All the way to the floor.
My legs are jelly. My chest is warm.
My face is in my hands.
I haven’t felt like this in years.
Not since I was seventeen and some boy smiled at me like I was the only thing worth looking at in a crowded room.
I stay there for a while.
Just… breathing him in from memory.