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Exposed Part Four; Breakdown

Pairing: Jeon Jungkook x Female Reader

Word Count: 4.7k

Warnings: non-consensual intimate content leak / revenge porn, sexual content (implied), emotional distress and humiliation, strong language, workplace repercussions and public reputation concerns, substance use (marijuana), emotional breakdown / crying, romantic tension between ex-partners, privacy invasion and digital exploitation, themes of trust violation and trauma

Summary: Y/N, Jungkook, and Namjoon work to track down the source of the leaked video, uncovering that it came from someone disturbingly close to home. The tension between Y/N and Jungkook resurfaces—old feelings tangled with fresh shame—while Namjoon keeps them focused on the mission. As Y/N prepares for a meeting that could decide her career, exhaustion finally catches up, and she lets herself rest before the storm ahead.

Part Four; Breakdown

It feels colder inside Namjoon’s house than it should.

Not temperature — atmosphere. That hush right before a storm crawls over the horizon.

We’re gathered around his kitchen island — me on one side, Jungkook beside me, Namjoon across from us with his laptop open like an operating table.

No one talks. No one breathes normally. Even the clock ticking sounds too loud.

Namjoon scrolls once, jaw tight. “Okay. This is the original post.”

My stomach flips, claws at my ribs.

Jungkook leans in, one hand braced on the counter, muscles in his forearm tense. I don’t think he realizes how hard he’s gripping the edge.

I force myself to look.

Namjoon clicks.

And suddenly, sound.

Not loud — not yet — but familiar. Intimate.

A breath. A low laugh. A rustle of sheets.

My heart stops cold.

Jungkook jerks back like he’s been burned, reaching across the counter to slam the space bar — too late. The first second of us flickers on screen, grainy but unmistakable.

Namjoon’s eyes widen a fraction — not curiosity, not voyeurism. Alarm.

“Shit— sorry,” he mutters, hand already swiping frantically across the trackpad. The audio stutters, cuts, jumps — a half–muffled moan, one second of skin, then merciful silence.

A mortifying, suffocating silence.

I can feel every molecule in my face boil. My lungs forget how oxygen works. I don’t dare look at Jungkook — but I can feel him. Heat. Tension. Shame radiating off him like an engine under strain.

Namjoon closes the tab with the speed of a professional hacker trying to escape a federal raid. Then he just… stands there.

We all do.

Three people frozen in a kitchen like we heard a gun go off.

Namjoon clears his throat, staring at the countertop like he needs to recalibrate to planet Earth. “Okay. That—yeah. Didn’t… mean to do that.”

I swallow, but the sound sticks somewhere jagged in my chest. “Yeah. It’s—fine.”

It is not fine.

Jungkook drags a hand down his face, mortified enough his ears flush red. “Fuck. I’m so—ugh.”

He doesn’t finish. Neither do I. There’s no language for wanting to fall through the floor and keep falling.

Namjoon lifts one hand like he’s surrendering to the awkward. “For the record, I didn’t watch it. I don’t want to watch it. Ever.”

His gaze flicks between us — sharp, serious. “You two didn’t do anything wrong consenting to each other. What’s wrong is this.”

He taps the closed tab — light, but it hits like a hammer.

Jungkook nods once — tiny, tortured. A silent thank you or apology or both.

I breathe out slowly, trying to unclench the shame sitting in my throat. “Okay. Let’s just—keep going.”

Namjoon nods, shoulders loosening back into mission mode. “Right. We treat this like a breach, not a scandal.”

He reopens another window — datapoints, timestamps, IP traces. Safe, clinical, emotionless code.

I grip the edge of the island, grounding myself in the cool marble beneath my fingers.

Jungkook shifts closer — not touching, but near enough that I can feel him trying not to look at me. Trying to not remember. Trying to not burn from the echo of something once beautiful turned brutal.

Namjoon inhales. “Alright. Let’s find the bastard who posted it.”

And just like that, we go back to war.

Namjoon doesn’t “hack” the way movies show it. He moves with a quiet, practiced confidence — not flashy, just thorough. He opens the post, scrolls through what’s public, then starts following the little breadcrumbs that other people miss: who shared it first, which accounts pushed it hardest, odd timing patterns that feel choreographed. He saves everything—screenshots, copies of the file, a local backup—because preservation is the first rule.

He isn’t shouting about miracles. He points out patterns, names the likely amplifiers, and talks through the realistic next steps: preserve, document, request takedowns, and escalate to the platform’s trust & safety or legal channels if needed. He moves between windows with a calm fluency, making choices that feel like someone who’s done this kind of cleanup before.

It’s not instant justice — Namjoon says the same thing we’re all thinking: real tracing to the person who uploaded it likely requires formal requests and the platform’s cooperation. But within the limits of what anyone can do right now, he’s threading the chaos into something actionable. Watching him work steadies the room; it doesn’t erase the humiliation, but it gives the panic a shape and a direction

After a few minutes the tension catches up with me—too much adrenaline, too little oxygen. My chest feels tight.

“I’m just gonna—” I gesture vaguely toward the other room. “Get some water.”

Neither of them argues. Jungkook only nods once, eyes still fixed on Namjoon’s screen.

The kitchen light is softer, warmer. I grip the edge of the counter and focus on something normal: faucet, glass, water running clear. I fill it halfway and drink in slow, careful sips, trying to trick my body into thinking everything isn’t unraveling.

Footsteps sound behind me. The floorboards creak once, twice. Then Jungkook’s voice, quiet:

“You doing okay?”

I set the glass down, fingers still around the rim. “Define okay.”

Jungkook huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Stupid question.”

He leans a hip against the counter, arms crossed. The silence stretches just long enough to turn heavy again before he says, “You know, at least they didn’t post the whole thing.”

"The whole thing?" I question.

Jungkook exhales, a quick, uneasy sound. “There’s more to it,” he says finally. “The clip they leaked—it cuts off early.”

I look at him, confused. “Early?”

He nods, eyes darting away like he’s choosing his words carefully. “Yeah. It doesn’t show… what happened after. The part that actually mattered.”

The second he says it, the memory hits—sudden, vivid, uninvited. I remember exactly what came next. The room, the way everything shifted, the way he looked at me like the world had slowed down. The air leaves my lungs all at once.

My fingers tighten around the glass in my hand, condensation cold against my skin. I can feel the heat crawl up my neck before I can stop it.

Jungkook notices—of course he does. His lips part like he’s about to say something, then he doesn’t.

He just huffs a small laugh, almost nervous. “Yeah,” he mutters, voice rougher now. “That part.”

I drop my gaze to the counter, heart pounding way too fast for how quiet the room is. “Right. I remember.”

The words come out softer than I mean them to—like an admission.

For a few seconds, neither of us moves. The air feels charged, heavy with things that used to be easy to feel and are impossible to say now.

Jungkook’s voice cuts through the quiet first, low and uneven. “I really did love you, you know.”

It’s not dramatic. He doesn’t look at me when he says it—just stares somewhere past the sink, like the words are a fact he’s finally decided to stop fighting.

I take a breath, slow and shallow. “Yeah,” I say. My tone is careful, almost flat. “I'm sure you did.”

He glances over then, searching my face. “You don’t believe me?”

I take another sip of water just to buy a second. “Believing doesn’t change anything.”

The sentence lands harder than I expect. For a heartbeat, neither of us breathes.

I set the glass down a little too fast, and water splashes over my hand, spreading across the counter. “Damn it,” I mutter, grabbing for a paper towel.

Jungkook moves at the same time. Our hands brush over the roll—quick, but enough to send a small jolt through the air between us. We both freeze. Then he clears his throat, pulling a sheet free.

“I got it,” he says quietly.

He crouches a little, wiping the spill with slow, careful motions. The paper towel darkens as it soaks up the water, his focus locked on the task like it’s a way to hide.

When he tosses the damp wad into the trash, the silence between us feels heavier than before—filled with the weight of everything that used to be simple.

From the other room, Namjoon’s voice breaks the silence—loud, triumphant, like he’s just hit the jackpot.

“Hey! You two—get in here!”

Jungkook straightens up fast, brows knitting. “What?”

“Just get over here,” Namjoon calls again, laughter threading through his words. “You’re gonna want to see this.”

We exchange a quick look, all the tension from the last few minutes folding into curiosity. Then we both move—Jungkook leading the way, me a step behind, wiping my damp hands on my jeans.

When we reach the doorway, the smell hits first. Sharp, unmistakable. Namjoon’s leaning over the counter, a thin paper spread between his fingers and a grin tugging at his mouth.

“You’re kidding,” Jungkook mutters.

Namjoon glances up, deadpan. “Celebratory measures,” he says, rolling the joint with practiced ease. “We got a hit.”

I blink, not sure if I’m hearing right. “A hit?”

He nods, tapping the edge of the paper to even it out. “Traced the IP back through the proxy chain. The original upload came from a residential address. Not a bot farm, not a random overseas host. Real person, local.”

My heart stutters. “Local?”

“Very,” he says, twisting the end of the joint shut and setting it down carefully beside the laptop. “Same city. Twenty minutes away, tops.”

Jungkook leans over the counter, scanning the screen like he can make the name appear faster. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious.” Namjoon pushes the laptop toward us and wipes his hands off on a napkin. “Didn’t expect to get that lucky this quick, but I’ll take it. Hence…” He gestures at the half-finished joint, smirking. “…the celebration.”

Jungkook shakes his head, half amused, half in disbelief. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” Namjoon says, shrugging. “But I’m also right.”

I stare at the screen, the glowing address sitting there like a threat wrapped in code. The room feels smaller suddenly, the air tighter.

“So what now?” I ask quietly.

Namjoon’s grin stretches, confident and sharp. “Now,” he says, patting his pockets for a lighter, “we smoke—and then we go to this bastard’s house.”

Before either of us can answer, he’s already moving, the back door creaking open to a wash of sunlight and cool air.

Jungkook glances at me, one brow raised. “You good?”

“As good as I can be,” I say, following him outside.

The deck boards are sun-warmed beneath us, and the air smells faintly like wet wood and cut grass. Namjoon leans against the railing, lighter flicking once before a curl of smoke drifts up. He takes a slow drag, passes the joint to Jungkook, then looks out over the yard like he’s already planning ten steps ahead.

“Celebrate small victories,” he says.

Jungkook inhales, exhales, then hands it to me. I hesitate, earning a knowing look from him. “Small hit,” he says. “Don’t try to prove anything.”

I nod and take the tiniest pull I can manage. It burns a little, makes my eyes water, but the smoke settles something in me I didn’t realize was still vibrating. The panic that had been thrumming behind my ribs all morning eases just enough for me to breathe.

It’s quiet for a while—birds, wind, the faint sound of a neighbor’s dog barking somewhere down the block.

Then my phone buzzes against the railing. I look down and see the name on the screen. Dean Morales.

The calm I’d just found drains a little.

Jungkook notices immediately. “You should answer.”

I nod, pressing the phone to my ear. “Hello?”

Her voice is as composed as ever—gentle, professional, measured. “Y/N, good afternoon. I wanted to reach you directly before we meet later today.”

There’s something in her tone—soft, but weighted. My stomach twists.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” I say quietly. “I know this is—”

She cuts me off, not unkindly. “It’s all right. I understand you’re in a difficult position. I wanted to let you know that we’ve begun reviewing the situation internally. For now, we’re asking you to come in at two to discuss next steps.”

“Next steps,” I repeat, my voice thinner than I mean it to be.

“Yes,” she says carefully. “At this stage, the university has to consider its options regarding faculty conduct and public reputation. We want to ensure all parties are treated fairly.”

That word—conduct—lands like a stone in my chest.

“I understand,” I manage. “I’ll be there at two.”

“Good,” she says. “And Y/N—just bring yourself. We’ll handle the rest from there.”

It’s meant to sound kind. Somehow, it doesn’t.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“Of course. We’ll talk soon.”

The line goes dead.

I set the phone down slowly. My hands are steady, but only because I’m forcing them to be.

Namjoon’s watching me over the smoke curling between his fingers. “How bad?”

“She said they’re reviewing my conduct,” I say, and my laugh comes out small, humorless. “So… bad.”

Jungkook’s jaw tightens, eyes narrowing toward the horizon like he’s looking for something to hit. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Doesn’t matter,” I say quietly. “Someone leaked the video. That’s all they’ll see.”

Jungkook’s eyes stay on me for a long beat — unreadable, sharp around the edges. Then he exhales slowly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Well,” he says after a moment, tone low, a little rough, “if they’re stupid enough to let you go, I’ve been looking for an assistant anyway.”

That pulls my gaze up from the deck. “An assistant?”

He nods, expression caught somewhere between serious and teasing. “Yeah. Studio’s a mess. Too many deadlines. Half my invoices don’t even get sent.” He shrugs, trying for casual. “Could use someone with an actual brain.”

I huff a quiet laugh. “You’d really hire me?”

“Why not?” he says, and this time he meets my eyes. “You’re organized. Smarter than half the people I’ve worked with. And… you get how I work. That’s rare.”

The last part hangs there a little too long — heavier than he means it to.

Namjoon lets out a low chuckle from across the deck, breaking the moment. “Yeah, great idea,” he says dryly. “You two working in the same space again? What could possibly go wrong.”

Jungkook shoots him a look. “I’m being serious.”

“I know you are,” Namjoon replies, grin widening. “That’s the problem.”

I shake my head, smiling despite myself. “You’re both impossible.”

“Maybe,” Jungkook says, leaning his elbows on the railing beside me, close but not too close. “But I meant it. If it comes to that… I’ll find a spot for you. Promise.”

I study him for a second, trying to decide if it’s pity or sincerity. It’s hard to tell with him — it always has been.

“You don’t have to fix this for me,” I say softly.

He doesn’t look away. “I’m not trying to fix it,” he says. “I just don’t want you to lose everything because of something we both messed up.”

The words settle between us, quiet but steady. For a moment, neither of us says anything. The air smells like smoke and rain and something faintly sweet — calm before whatever’s next.

Then Namjoon clears his throat, flicking ash off the deck. “Alright,” he says, glancing at the time. “You’ve got a meeting at two, and I’ve got an address to verify.”

Jungkook pushes off the railing, stretching his shoulders. “Guess that means we’ve got a few hours.”

“Yeah,” Namjoon says, smirking. “Long enough to plan how we’re gonna ruin this guy’s life.”

Jungkook looks back at me — the hint of a smile tugging at his mouth, equal parts reassurance and trouble. “You in?”

My heart stumbles, but I nod. “Yeah,” I say quietly. “I’m in.”

The smoke curls and the conversation thins until it feels like the world is pressing inward—small, dense, lined up for whatever comes next. For a second I let the quiet settle over me, let the deck and the wind and the absurd, dangerous plan to “ruin” someone’s life blur into the background.

I try to focus on the words, but it’s useless. My eyes keep finding Jungkook instead.

The way he stands — weight shifted to one side, shoulders slouched like he’s carrying too much but pretending he isn’t. The way his fingers move when he talks, restless, tugging at the hem of his hoodie before slipping into his pockets, then out again. Like he can’t decide if he wants to be comfortable or careful.

When he swallows, his throat flexes once, the motion quick and clean, catching a glint of sunlight that sneaks through the trees. It shouldn’t make my stomach twist, but it does.

He runs his tongue over his bottom lip before speaking again, and I hate how instinctively my breath catches. His voice is softer now, more thoughtful than defensive, and every word seems to drag through the air like smoke — slow, heavy, warm.

I try to shake it off, but my brain doesn’t listen.

It’s been two years since I’ve seen him — really seen him. Not through a screen, not through someone else’s story, not in my head replaying the same goodbye. And yet here he is, three feet away, and my body remembers him like it’s second nature.

It’s stupid — how easily my eyes trace the familiar shapes. The way his shoulders still slope when he relaxes, how he rolls his sleeves up just past his forearms like he used to when he got serious about something. Even the small, unconscious things — the way he fiddles with his thumbs, or presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek when he’s thinking — all of it hits me like déjà vu.

Two years should’ve erased this. I should’ve forgotten how it felt to notice him. But apparently, my memory doesn’t care about timelines.

He says something to Namjoon, voice lower now — smooth, warm, almost thoughtful — and the sound runs through me before I can stop it. My pulse stumbles, a traitor.

I look away fast, pretending to check my phone, pretending I’m fine. The sunlight cuts through the trees, catching in the smoke, turning everything gold and soft around the edges. It feels like standing too close to something I swore I’d never touch again.

“Hey,” Jungkook says, his voice cutting through my thoughts. “You okay?”

I blink, realizing I’ve been staring past him for who knows how long. “Yeah,” I manage, a little too fast. “Just… thinking.”

He studies me for a second, eyes narrowing slightly like he’s trying to read between the words. “About the meeting?”

“About everything,” I admit, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

He hums softly, a low sound from the back of his throat. “You don’t have to figure it all out right now, you know.”

I nod, even though the reassurance barely sticks. “Yeah. I know.”

The second I say it, the weight of everything I’ve been trying to hold together shifts — too heavy, too unstable — and something in me just gives.

My throat tightens first, sharp and sudden. Then the pressure behind my eyes builds until I can’t blink it away anymore. The world blurs, and before I can stop it, a shaky breath catches in my chest and turns into something broken.

“Hey,” Jungkook says again, softer this time. “Y/N—”

I shake my head, covering my face with my hands. “I’m sorry,” I manage, voice cracking. “I’m fine. I just—” A sob slips through before I can finish. “God, I’m so tired of saying I’m fine.”

Jungkook hesitates for half a second — like he’s fighting with himself — then steps closer. I feel rather than see him beside me, the warmth of him cutting through the cold air, the smell of smoke and detergent grounding me in something real.

“It’s okay,” he says quietly. “You don’t have to be.”

That’s what breaks me completely.

The tears come harder — ugly, uneven, the kind that sting. I grip the railing, trying to breathe through it, but the more I fight, the worse it gets. It’s not just the video, or the meeting, or the fact that my career is dangling by a thread — it’s everything. Two years of silence, of pretending the past didn’t still live under my skin.

“I just…” I take a shaking breath, words tripping over themselves. “I can’t lose everything because of this. Not after everything I already lost.”

He doesn’t say anything at first. Then his hand — careful this time, deliberate — brushes my back, slow and steady, like he’s checking if it’s okay.

I don’t move away.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice low enough that I almost miss it. “You’re not gonna lose everything. Not while I’m here.”

I press the heel of my hand to my eyes, trying to hold everything in, but the tears still spill over. “God,” I choke out, voice shaking. “I probably look pathetic right now.”

Jungkook shifts closer, his tone low. “You don’t.”

“I do,” I say, laughing weakly through the ache. “I feel pathetic. One stupid mistake, and everything I’ve worked for is just—gone.”

“It’s not gone,” he says, quiet but firm. “You’ll fix it. You always do.”

I look up at him then, ready to tell him he doesn’t get it—but the words die before they reach my tongue. Because he’s looking at me in that way again. The way that used to undo me completely.

His expression isn’t pity. It’s something else—something heavier.

“I mean it,” he says softly.

Namjoon clears his throat from somewhere behind us, the sound cutting gently through the static between me and Jungkook.

“Alright,” he says, voice steady but softer than usual. “We’re officially calling time on the emotional breakdown portion of the evening.”

I swipe at my eyes, half-laughing despite myself. “Too late.”

Namjoon takes a drag from the joint, smoke drifts lazily up into the amber light. “Nah,” he says, exhaling. “Crying’s productive. It’s like… emotional detox. You just can’t stay in it too long, or it turns into quicksand.”

He hits the joint again, slow and deep, then gestures toward me with two fingers. “You need something that doesn’t suck for a few hours.”

Jungkook raises an eyebrow. “Like what? Meditation?”

Namjoon snorts. “Please. No one meditates properly when they’re pissed off. I’m talking about something that actually works.”

He glances between us, lips curving into a small, knowing smile. “My brother-in-law owns a club a few blocks from here. Place called Ecliptic. It’s low-key on Fridays — decent crowd, good drinks, killer playlists. We should go.”

I blink, caught between confusion and disbelief. “You want to take me to a club?”

He shrugs, handing the joint back to Jungkook. “I want to take you somewhere that isn’t this deck, where you can remember you’re still a person. Crying on my railing isn’t a personality trait.”

“That’s debatable,” Jungkook mutters under his breath, and I elbow him weakly in response.

Namjoon smirks. “See? Already smiling. I’m a genius.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Look, Y/N — you’ve had the worst day in recent human history. You need to get out of your head before it eats you alive. One night, that’s all I’m asking.”

I exhale slowly, crossing my arms over my chest. “What if I’m not in the mood to dance?”

“Then don’t,” he says simply. “We’ll get a booth, have a few drinks, pretend the world doesn’t suck. My brother-in-law will take care of us. He’s good people.”

Jungkook takes another drag, then exhales toward the fading sun. “It might not be the worst idea,” he admits.

I turn to look at him, incredulous. “You’re siding with him now?”

Jungkook shrugs, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. “He’s not wrong. You’ve been through hell today. Sitting here reliving it over and over isn’t gonna help.”

“I just…” I shake my head, staring down at my hands. “I don’t feel like pretending to be okay in public.”

“You don’t have to pretend,” he says softly. “You just have to go.”

He flicks the ash from the joint into the tray and leans against the railing beside me. The dying light catches the edge of his jaw, warm and sharp. “It’s not about dancing or drinking. It’s about—” He pauses, searching for the right words. “—remembering that the world doesn’t end here. That it’s still spinning, even if everything feels like it stopped for you.”

It takes me a second to realize both of them are waiting for my answer — Namjoon with that raised brow of his, Jungkook with that quiet kind of patience that always feels like a dare.

The deck creaks beneath my shoes as I shift my weight, arms still crossed tight over my chest. The air smells like smoke and rain. My head feels too full, my heart too loud.

“Okay,” I finally say, my voice barely above a whisper. “Fine. I’ll go.”

Namjoon grins immediately, like he just won something. “Knew you’d come around,” he says, flicking the joint once before snuffing it out. “You’ll thank me later when the bass hits.”

Jungkook lets out a small laugh beside me. “You sure?”

I nod, exhaling slow. “Yeah. Why not? Maybe I could use a night that doesn’t feel like a complete disaster.”

“Good,” Namjoon says, already standing, stretching his arms as he heads back toward the door. “I’ll text Sungmin we’re coming. He’ll hook us up with a booth.”

When he disappears inside, the silence that follows feels softer. Not the same heavy quiet from earlier — this one hums with something lighter, like the air right before a song starts.

Jungkook leans on the railing beside me, close enough that I can feel the warmth of him even without looking. “You won’t regret it,” he says quietly.

I smile faintly, half to him, half to myself. “We’ll see.”

Inside, Namjoon’s already at the kitchen island again, typing something on his laptop. The brightness of the screen paints his face in pale blue light.

“Alright,” he says, clapping his hands once like a teacher calling class back to order. “Here’s the plan.”

I slide onto one of the stools across from him, trying to anchor myself with the feel of the marble beneath my palms. Jungkook stands behind me, quiet, but I can sense the way his presence steadies the room.

Namjoon points at the laptop. “We finish tracing this lead — I’ll pull the rest of the metadata while Jungkook handles the verification request. That should give us enough time before your meeting.”

I nod automatically. “Two o’clock. Dean Morales.”

“Exactly,” he says. “Go in calm, factual, and confident. Don’t apologize for something that isn’t your fault. You’re not the story here — the breach is.”

“Got it,” I say, though my stomach tightens at the thought of it.

Jungkook glances up from where he’s leaning, voice low and steady. “We’ll head out around one-thirty. That should give you time to breathe before you go in.”

I nod, grateful he thought about it even if I didn’t ask. “Thanks.”

He just shrugs like it’s nothing. “You’ve got enough to worry about. Let me handle the boring parts.”

Namjoon smirks. “After the meeting, we’ll grab dinner. I know a Korean BBQ spot near campus — chill atmosphere, nobody’s gonna bother us. We eat, decompress, and then hit Ecliptic.”

“Dinner and a club,” I say, letting out a quiet, humorless laugh. “That’s your grand therapy plan?”

“Balance,” he says, tapping his temple. “You can’t fight if you’re running on fumes.”

Jungkook leans against the counter beside me, watching me the way he used to — eyes sharp but soft around the edges. “He’s right. You’ll feel better after food. You always do.”

“Maybe,” I admit. “Or maybe I’ll just be full and anxious.”

That makes him laugh — low, easy. “Then we’ll fix that part, too.”

I shake my head, smiling a little despite myself. The kind of smile that only happens when I’m too exhausted to keep pretending I don’t need one.

“Honestly,” I say, glancing toward the living room, “I think I’m just going to crash for a bit. I can’t keep running on caffeine and adrenaline.”

Namjoon raises a brow. “You sure? We’ve got, what, an hour and a half before go-time?”

“Exactly,” I say, already pushing off the stool. “Perfect nap window.”

Jungkook steps aside to let me pass, his voice softer now. “You’ll actually sleep?”

I give a small shrug, running a hand through my hair. “Sleep, zone out, stare at the ceiling—whatever happens first.” I pause in the doorway, looking back at both of them. “Wake me up around one-twenty?”

Namjoon salutes lazily. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Promise you’ll actually do it,” I warn.

Jungkook’s mouth curves. “If you’re still out cold, I’ll carry you to the car.”

“Yeah, okay,” I say, but there’s no real heat behind it. Just the kind of tired fondness that sits somewhere deep in my chest.

The couch looks like heaven when I see it — sunlight spilling across the cushions, a blanket draped over the back. I drop down onto it, sinking into the kind of silence that feels almost sacred after everything.

My body loosens the second I lie back. The hum of Namjoon typing in the other room fades into background noise, steady and comforting.

I pull the blanket over my legs and stare at the ceiling until my eyes blur. The weight behind my ribs starts to ease, just a little.

For the first time all day, the world stops spinning long enough for me to let go.

Exposed Part Three; Alliance

Pairing: Jeon Jungkook x Female Reader

Word Count: 4.7k

Warnings: leaked sex tape / non-consensual pornography, online harassment/cyberbullying, public shaming and humiliation, anxiety/panic symptoms, insomnia, workplace/job insecurity, toxic/volatile relationship dynamics, verbal abuse and name-calling, gaslighting/manipulation, infidelity themes, smoking/cigarette use, strong language/profanity

Summary: Y/n wakes to chaos and scandal, overwhelmed by messages and fear. She turns to Jungkook, and the two meet in the early morning quiet, tension and history hanging between them. Old emotions surface, sharp and raw, before they force themselves to focus on next steps. With little certainty and a fragile peace, they head out together to seek help, bracing for whatever comes next.

Part Three; Alliance

The morning light feels cruel. Too bright, too unforgiving as it slices through the blinds and lays across my bed like a spotlight I never asked for.

My first thought isn’t food or water or even moving. It’s the video.

The phone buzzes against my nightstand like it knows, rattling and pulsing until I finally drag it into my hand. The screen lights up, and the consequences are already there—stacked, suffocating.

Missed calls. Dozens of texts. Some from numbers I know. Too many from ones I don’t.

Friends asking if it’s true. Acquaintances digging for gossip. Strangers demanding answers I don’t have. My notifications bar is flooded—social media tags, DMs, screenshots, mentions.

I can’t open them. I can’t breathe past them.

It’s everywhere already.

I drop the phone into my lap like it burns, my hands trembling as the buzz starts again, vibrating against my thigh. I stare at it, frozen, while shame, panic, and disbelief churn so violently in my chest I feel sick.

The world knows. And I can’t take it back.

My fingers twitch restlessly before I swipe my phone open again, pulling up Jungkook's contact info. His name fills the screen, the photo I never deleted staring back at me. For a long moment, I just sit there, my thumb hovering, fighting with myself.

Then I exhale shakily and press call.

The line rings once. Twice.

“...Hello?” His voice is low, heavy with sleep, the sound of sheets rustling behind him.

My chest tightens. “Sorry. I know it’s early. I just—” The words stumble out, clumsy and fast. “I couldn’t really sleep. My brain wouldn’t shut off, and you told me to call, so… here I am.”

He hums softly, half awake, then clears his throat. “It’s fine. Really. Better you call me than sit there tearing yourself apart.”

There’s the faint creak of a mattress, the rustle of sheets, and then footsteps. He’s out of bed.

The faint shuffle of his footsteps carries through the line, followed by the soft squeak of hinges and the muted click of a door closing. A beat later, I catch the distant hum of a coffee machine.

He sighs, long and tired, the kind of sound that makes my chest ache. “I just started the coffee,” he mutters, almost to himself, his voice still hoarse with sleep. “Haven’t even wrapped my head around today yet.”

My grip on the phone tightens. “You and me both.”

There’s a pause, filled only by the low trickle of brewing coffee, before his voice comes back—firmer now, though the weariness still drags at the edges. “Listen, Y/n. We can’t do this on the phone. Not with everything blowing up like this.” He exhales through his nose, a sharp, frustrated sound. “Meet me at the studio. One hour. We’ll figure out what the hell to do about this leak.”

The words land heavy in my chest. “An hour?” I whisper.

“Yeah,” he says, quieter this time. I hear the clink of a mug being set down, the exhaustion bleeding into his voice again. “An hour. Just… don’t shut me out, okay?”

My throat is tight, but I manage to whisper, “I won’t.”

On the other end, Jungkook sighs, deep and heavy, like the weight of it all has finally settled into his bones. The sound rattles through the line, softer than his words but harder to hear.

“I just…” His voice cracks a little before he steadies it. “I feel ashamed, Y/n. Like… like we should’ve never recorded that video in the first place.”

The words land heavy, and I can't seem to fight them. My chest sinks as the truth of it presses down.

“Yeah,” I whisper, barely audible. “You’re right. We shouldn’t have.”

Silence stretches, raw and hollow. Neither of us seems to know what else to say.

Finally, I swallow hard and force out, “I’ll… see you at the studio.”

Before he can answer, I end the call, the flat tone filling my room.

I just sit there for a moment, staring at my reflection in the darkened phone screen. My pulse still hasn’t settled, a dull thrum in my chest that won’t quit.

With a groan, I shove the blankets off and force myself up. The floor is cold under my feet, grounding me just enough to move.

I tell myself I’m only getting ready because people will stare if I don’t—because I can’t afford to look as wrecked as I feel when I walk through that studio door. But when I pull my hairbrush through the knots, when I linger a little too long choosing which top to wear, I know I’m lying to myself.

My hands hesitate over clothes that are safe and neutral before sliding to ones that fit closer, softer against my skin. I bite my lip, frowning at the mirror as I swipe on concealer, mascara, lip balm—nothing heavy, just enough to hide the hours of lost sleep. Just enough to make me look alive.

It hits me in the middle of tugging on my jacket—this isn’t just about me looking put together. It’s about him.

I shake my head at the thought, scoffing under my breath, but the truth is there anyway: even after everything, even after the shouting and the shame, some part of me still wants Jungkook to look at me and see more than the mess we made.

By the time I step outside, the air is sharp and cool, biting against my skin like it knows I don’t belong out here this early. The streets are quiet—just the hum of traffic in the distance, the occasional shuffle of someone else starting their day. My stomach twists the whole ride over, a mess of nerves and dread that only tightens as the city blurs by my window.

The studio looms ahead, dark and still. Closed. Of course—it’s barely six in the morning, and the neon sign that usually buzzes overhead is nothing but a dull outline against the rising light.

But he’s there.

Jungkook sits on the curb outside, hood pulled up, a cigarette pinched loosely between his fingers. The ember glows faintly when he takes a drag, his eyes fixed on the pavement like the smoke curling from his lips might carry away the weight of everything pressing down on him.

I slow my steps without meaning to, my heart stumbling as the scene etches itself into me. For a second, he doesn’t look like the boy in the video or the man who shouted at me in that mirrored room. He just looks… tired.

And then his gaze lifts, catching me in the quiet morning air.

I stop just a few feet away, but he doesn’t move—doesn’t stub out the cigarette, doesn’t even shift to acknowledge me. It feels like the invitation is unspoken, so I lower myself onto the curb beside him. The concrete is cold, seeping through my jeans, grounding me in a way I desperately need.

For a long beat, neither of us speaks. The silence is thick, filled only by the faint hiss of the cigarette when he takes another drag.

“Can I hit that?” I finally murmur, my voice rougher than I mean for it to be.

Jungkook turns his head, brows lifting as if he can’t believe what I just said. Then—against all odds—he lets out a small, disbelieving chuckle. “You?”

I nod once, stubborn. “Me.”

He exhales slowly, smoke curling out between his lips before he passes the cigarette over, careful not to brush my fingers. I take it, drag deep, the burn catching at the back of my throat. It makes my eyes sting, but I hold it in anyway, letting the ache ground me before handing it back.

His mouth quirks, humorless. “My girlfriend hates when I smoke.”

The words jab, but I bite them back, forcing my tone steady. “Why’d you start in the first place?”

He flicks the ash off the end, eyes fixed on the empty street ahead. His voice is quieter now, almost like he’s talking to himself. “Because I broke up with you. And it was the only thing that kept me away from you.”

I watch him take another drag, the tip of the cigarette burning orange before he exhales slow, smoke curling into the early morning air. The quiet stretches between us, thick, almost suffocating.

My chest tightens. The words are out before I can stop them, soft but heavy. “I watched the whole video last night.” My throat works, and I add, barely above a whisper, “Twice.”

For a moment, I think he won’t answer at all. He doesn’t even glance at me—just flicks ash off the end of the cigarette, his profile carved sharp against the pale dawn.

“Yeah,” he says finally, his voice flat, steady in a way that feels practiced. He takes another drag, smoke spilling past his lips. “So did I.”

He passes me the cigarette, his fingers brushing mine, warm against the filter. When I lift it to my lips, his gaze finally shifts—meeting mine head-on. The look holds as I inhale, the burn filling my chest.

When I exhale, smoke curls between us, and I catch the way his eyes drop, lingering on my mouth before dragging back up to my face. Heat coils in my stomach, sharp and confusing.

I take another drag, slower this time, as if stretching the moment. Then I hand it back. His fingers graze mine again, and for a beat too long, neither of us moves.

Jungkook finally brings it to his own lips, pulling in deep before turning away to flick the cigarette out into the street. The ember arcs briefly in the dawn light before vanishing into the pavement.

Without a word, he straightens and extends his hand to me. The gesture is simple, but it feels heavier than it should, like a question and an answer wrapped into one.

I look at it, then at him. His expression is unreadable, but steady. I slip my hand into his, and he pulls me to my feet with ease.

His hand lingers around mine for a second longer than necessary before he lets go. Wordlessly, Jungkook leads the way to the studio entrance. The glass doors reflect the pale morning light, and for a moment, I catch our silhouettes side by side—two ghosts standing outside a place that doesn’t quite feel real yet.

He pulls a key from his pocket, the metallic jingle loud in the stillness. The lock clicks, sharp in the quiet street, and he pushes the heavy door open, gesturing me inside first.

The air is cooler in the lobby, tinged faintly with cleaning solution and the ghost of music that must’ve filled these walls the night before. My footsteps echo against the polished floor as I step past him.

When the door shuts, the city hum vanishes, replaced by silence so thick I can hear the faint hitch of my own breathing. Jungkook twists the lock behind us with deliberate precision, the final snap loud enough to make my chest tighten.

Jungkook doesn’t look at me right away. He just slides his hands into the pockets of his sweats, chin ducked slightly as he moves down the hall. His pace is unhurried but steady, like he already knows exactly where we’re going.

I follow, the muted thud of my shoes against the floor the only sound between us. My nerves coil tighter with every step, but I can’t make myself break the silence first.

At the end of the hall, he stops in front of a door with a small plaque etched Office. The key ring jingles again as he fits one into the lock, pushing the door open with a quiet creak.

“Come on,” he says, finally glancing back at me.

The office is small but lived-in. Papers stacked on the desk, a half-empty water bottle, a hoodie slung over the back of the chair. He crosses the room and drops into the chair behind the desk, spinning it once before leaning forward, his elbows braced on the surface.

“I’ve got a number,” he says after a long beat, his voice low and even. “Private investigator. Friend of a friend. If anyone can trace where the leak came from, it’s him.” He rubs a hand over his face, tired already though the day’s barely begun. “But finding the source is only half the battle.”

My throat tightens. “The other half being…”

“Getting it deleted,” he says bluntly. His eyes lift to mine, sharp under the dim light. “Every copy. Every share. If we can’t erase it, then it doesn’t matter who posted it first. It’ll just keep spreading.”

The weight of his words sinks into me, heavy and suffocating. My stomach knots as I sink into the chair across from him.

“And you think that’s possible?” My voice comes out smaller than I mean it to.

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t hesitate. “It has to be.”

Jungkook pulls his phone from his pocket, thumb swiping across the screen as he scrolls through his contacts. “Sit,” he mutters, nodding toward the chair across from the desk. But I don’t.

Instead, I drift.

The office is cramped but personal—walls lined with old show posters, polaroids tucked into the frame of a corkboard, scraps of paper pinned up with scrawled notes and practice schedules. A faint trace of cologne lingers under the sharper tang of dust and coffee, the scent so unmistakably him it makes my chest ache.

Jungkook leans back in his chair, phone to his ear. “Yeah,” he says when the line picks up, his voice shifting into something lower, professional. “It’s me. I need a favor. Big one.”

My fingertips trail along the edge of the corkboard as I lean in, pretending to study a setlist while his words filter through the quiet. I can feel his gaze before I look—heavy, steady, following me.

“She’ll come with me,” he says after a pause, and I know instantly he means me. My stomach tightens. “Yeah, both of us. Today, if possible.”

I cross to the bookshelf, brushing over the spines of binders lined up in careful rows. My back is to him, but I don’t need to see him to feel it—his eyes, tracking every move I make, the weight of his stare settling hot against the back of my neck.

“Text me the address,” Jungkook finishes, clipped, then lowers the phone. He doesn’t look down at the screen when it buzzes, doesn’t look away from me at all.

When I finally turn, his gaze doesn’t shift. It stays locked on me, sharp and unreadable.

“He’ll meet us,” he says simply, setting the phone down on the desk like it’s nothing. But the way his eyes linger tells me otherwise.

I lean against the edge of the bookshelf, arms crossed tight over my chest. The question slips out before I can stop it.

“Has she seen it?”

Jungkook’s jaw tightens, his fingers tapping once against the desk before stilling. He doesn’t look away this time—his eyes lock on mine, heavy, almost defiant.

“Yeah,” he says finally, voice flat but edged. “She saw it. We argued about it last night. About why it even exists.”

The words hang in the air, sharp and unmovable. My throat goes dry, the weight of them pressing down on me harder than I expect.

His mouth twists, bitter. “She wanted to know what kind of person records that shit. Why I’d let it happen in the first place. Why I didn’t delete it the second it was over.”

The words sting, though I expected them to. My arms fold over my chest, defensive, my voice rising before I can stop it. “It exists because I wanted it. Because I needed it. Because maybe I wanted something to remind me you actually cared about me.”

His brows lift, disbelief hardening into something sharper. “Cared about you? You think a fucking video was proof of that?” He shakes his head, laughing bitterly. “No, Y/n. That was just another way for you to get what you wanted. Another way for you to control everything.”

The jab lands, hard. My fists clench at my sides. “Control?” My voice cracks with fury. “You were the one pulling away from me! You were cold, you were gone half the time, and I was just supposed to sit there and take it? Maybe if you hadn’t been so damn distant, I wouldn’t have wanted the video so bad.”

Jungkook pushes up straighter in his chair, his voice cutting sharp as a whip. “And maybe if you weren’t so bitchy all the time, I wouldn’t have been distant.”

The words hang there like a slap. My breath catches, but I force my chin up, meeting his glare head-on even though my chest is burning. The silence stretches, tight and suffocating, before I finally spit out, “Fuck you, Jungkook.”

His smirk twists cruel, humorless. “Fuck you, Y/n.”

The air between us feels jagged, hot, like one more word might set the whole room on fire. My chest heaves, but I don’t look away. I refuse.

“This is why I broke up with you,” Jungkook snaps suddenly, his voice raw, loud in the small office. “All you do is argue. You never let shit go, you never stop pushing. You can’t just—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenched, hands curling into fists on the desk. “This is exactly what I couldn’t deal with anymore.”

The words hit like a punch, but the sting only fuels the fire in my veins. My laugh comes out bitter, breathless. “You think I’m the only one who argues? Seriously?” I throw my arms out, incredulous. “Look at you. You’re doing it right now. You argue back, Jungkook. You push just as hard as I do. Don’t you dare put this all on me.”

His chair scrapes as he shoves back from the desk, standing so quickly it makes the papers on the surface flutter. His glare cuts into me, sharp and furious—but underneath it, there’s something else. Something frayed.

“Fine,” he snaps, pointing at me like the word itself is an admission. “Fine. You’re right. I argued back. I picked fights. I shut down instead of actually talking to you. I fucked up too, alright?” His chest rises hard, his voice rough around the edges. “I’m not standing here saying I was perfect—because I wasn’t. I was a shit boyfriend sometimes. I know that.”

The confession takes the air out of me, if only for a second—but he doesn’t stop. He steps closer, eyes burning.

“But don’t you dare act like it was all on me either,” he spits. “You knew exactly how to cut me open with your words. You knew how to twist the knife, and you did it every single time we fought. You want accountability? There it is. But you don’t get to stand there and pretend you were innocent.”

My throat tightens, anger and hurt tangling in my chest. “I never claimed I was innocent,” I shoot back, my voice cracking under the weight of it. “But you… you made me feel like I was too much just for wanting you to care. Just for wanting more than scraps of your time.”

His jaw clenches, the muscle ticking as he exhales through his nose. Jungkook drags a hand down his face, pacing once behind the desk before snapping his gaze back to me. His voice drops lower, but it’s no less sharp.

“Like every other argument,” he mutters, frustration dripping from every syllable, “this is getting us nowhere.”

The words land heavy in the room, cutting through the fire in my chest like a cold blade. He isn’t yelling anymore, but the edge in his tone feels worse—final, damning.

He exhales hard, leaning on the desk with both hands as his eyes stay locked on me, dark and unreadable. “We go in circles, Y/n. Over and over. And no matter how much we scream at each other, nothing changes.”

The words sit heavy between us, louder than shouting could ever be. My lips press together, my chest still rising and falling too fast, but for once, I don’t have anything left to throw back at him. Silence curls around us, suffocating, and all I can do is let it settle.

Jungkook stares at me for another long beat, jaw tight, his chest heaving with the same anger he just accused me of. Then, suddenly, his phone buzzes on the desk. The sound makes me flinch.

He glances at the screen, and something in his face hardens. Without hesitation, he swipes to answer, his voice clipped when he speaks. “Hey, baby.”

The words are a gut punch, even though I knew they were coming. My arms fold across my chest, tighter than before, and I stare at the corner of the desk like it might ground me. I don’t mean to listen, but I can’t stop. His voice fills the office, his side of the conversation painting a picture I don’t want but can’t look away from.

There’s a faint, tinny sound on the other end—her voice, but too quiet to make out clearly. Still, the tone carries. Raw. Shaking. Crying.

Jungkook exhales sharply, his free hand dragging through his hair. “I know. I know, baby. I’ve been getting them too.” His voice softens just slightly, but there’s an edge of impatience, like he’s barely holding himself together. “Don’t cry, okay? Please don’t. It’s just people trying to get a rise out of us. You can’t let it eat you alive.”

He paces behind the desk, phone pressed to his ear, his back turned half toward me now. “Don't say that—listen, I’m handling it. I’ve already made calls this morning. We’re gonna figure out who posted it, and it’ll be gone. I promise you.”

Her muffled voice rises again, sharp, broken. Jungkook squeezes his eyes shut, lowering his tone. “Hey. Baby, listen to me. It’s gonna be okay. You don’t need to look at it. Block them, delete the messages—just… please, calm down. I’ll take care of it.”

His hand clenches into a fist at his side, knuckles white, and I can see it even from here.

I stay rooted in place, arms locked around myself, listening to him soothe her with the same voice that had just shredded me minutes ago.

Jungkook’s voice grows tighter with each second on the line, the edge no longer hidden. His jaw works hard as he paces, eyes flicking toward the floor like he can keep his temper there.

“Babe,” he says finally, sharper now, “we can have this conversation later. I’m not arguing with you right now.”

A pause. The muffled sound of her voice rises again, high and fractured. Then the line clicks dead.

Jungkook pulls the phone from his ear, staring at the dark screen for a second before rolling his eyes. He tosses it onto the desk with a loud clatter, the sound making me flinch. The silence that follows is thick, jagged with his frustration.

“Everything okay?” The words slip out before I can stop them, quiet but cutting through the weight of the room.

Jungkook keeps staring at his phone for a second too long before finally setting it face-down. The muscle in his jaw flexes, but when he answers me, his voice is steady.

“Yeah,” he says, shrugging like it’s nothing. “It’s fine.”

I can see it’s not—anyone could—but I don’t press. We’ve both said enough for one morning, and right now I don’t have the energy to peel him open just to find more hurt underneath.

So I just nod. “Okay.”

He lets out a slow breath, rubs his palm against his thigh once, like he’s brushing off the last conversation. Then he sits up straighter, shifting gears.

“Alright,” he says, voice lowering back to something practical, almost business-like. “Here’s the plan. We’re going to Namjoon’s.”

I blink. “Namjoon?”

“Yeah.” He nods once. “He deals with tech stuff for work. Security, data recovery, all that. He’s gonna try to track where it came from and wipe any copies he can find.”

“Oh.” Relief and nerves twist together in my stomach. “That’s… good. That’s really good.”

“It’s a start.” He pushes back from the desk, grabbing his keys off the surface. “He’s not a miracle worker, but he knows more about this than either of us.”

“Right.”

He stands first, stretching his back a little like the weight of the last twenty-four hours finally settled between his shoulder blades. When I move to follow, the chair legs scrape softly against the floor—too loud in the quiet little office.

Jungkook glances over, eyes flicking to mine and away again just as fast.

“Come on,” he says, voice low but calmer now. “I’ll drive.”

There’s no grand offer in it—no softness, no edge. Just a simple decision. Still, it lands heavier than it should, like he’s offering more than a ride. Like he needs the control of driving, or maybe he doesn’t trust leaving me alone yet. I’m not sure which one stings more.

I nod, and we fall into step side by side down the hallway.

The studio feels different walking out than it did walking in—emptier somehow. Quiet, but not peaceful. Like even the walls heard everything that happened in there and aren’t sure what to do with it.

When he pushes open the front door, early sunlight spills in, warm and pale. He steps aside, letting me go first. It’s automatic, instinctive, but it brushes something in my chest anyway. Something familiar.

Outside, the morning has fully settled in—soft chatter from the café across the street, a delivery truck rumbling by, a jogger with headphones bouncing in rhythm. The world looks normal.

We don’t.

Jungkook unlocks the car. The beep feels too sharp in the quiet between us.

He opens his door but pauses, fingers curling over the edge of the roof, head dropping forward slightly like he’s bracing. Or thinking. Or maybe both.

He finally slides into the driver’s seat, and the car fills with the soft click of doors, the hum of the engine, the quiet between us stretching thin like a wire ready to snap.

I buckle my seat belt. He doesn’t move right away—just rests his hand on the wheel, staring forward like he’s convincing himself he knows where we’re going. Then he exhales, shifts into drive, and pulls out.

Silence at first. But not the cold kind.

The kind that buzzes.

I can feel his energy even without looking—tense shoulders, jaw set, fingers tapping once against the steering wheel before gripping it again. He drives like he’s concentrating too hard, like the road needs him more than I do.

The music he puts on is low and slow—bass sliding under skin, vocals warm and intimate. Of course he picked something like that without thinking. Or maybe he did think. Hard to tell with him.

My thigh sits maybe six inches from his. It feels like an inch.

Every bump in the road shifts us just enough to remind me how small this space is. How familiar it used to be. How much I used to lean into him while he drove, hand on his knee, his fingers pushing up my thigh at red lights like he couldn’t wait.

Don't think about that.

Too late.

He clears his throat. “You good?”

His voice is low, rough around the edges in a way that makes heat curl low in my stomach. I nod. “Just tired.”

He hums softly. “Yeah.”

He doesn't buy it. We both know it.

The car settles into a quieter kind of silence after that—one that isn’t heavy or strained, just… present. Nothing to fill, nothing to fix. I lean my head back against the seat and watch the world roll by through the window. Trees flickering past, morning light catching in the glass storefronts, people beginning their day like the world hasn’t shifted under my feet.

Jungkook doesn’t talk. He just drives, one hand loose on the wheel, the other drumming softly against his thigh in rhythm with the music. Every so often he hums along—low, effortless, the kind of unconscious singing he only does when he isn’t guarding anything. It’s quiet enough that I almost pretend I don’t hear it. But I do. And it does that stupid thing to my chest, the one where memory and comfort meet in the same breath.

I don’t say anything. I don’t need to. For once, silence feels safe.

Eventually the car turns down an unfamiliar street, pulling up to Namjoon’s place—a small brick house with way too many plants on the porch. And him, leaning against the railing, cigarette between his fingers, smoke curling into the cool morning air.

He spots us immediately. His shoulders stiffen, jaw working, like he’s been rehearsing what to say and none of the scripts are landing right.

Jungkook puts the car in park.

Namjoon takes one last drag, flicks ash into a potted fern, and exhales a thin stream of smoke. His eyes meet mine first. Not angry. Not yet, at least. But searching. A storm caught before it breaks.

I feel my pulse spike.

Jungkook kills the engine. Silence. Then he looks at me, steady.

“You ready?”

No.

“Yeah,” I lie.

minyoonjin

THE MAIN EVENT - PARK JIMIN

governments-babygirl

Wtf is this... this is worse than porn

Room for Trouble Part Four; Cracks in the Walls

Pairing: Roommate! Park Jimin x Reader

Word Count: 5.4k

Warnings: alcohol consumption, intoxicated decision-making, sexual content (makeout, heavy petting, fingering), references to sex used as revenge/jealousy, near-sex scene halted by consent concerns, emotionally charged conflict, physical struggle (pushing, hitting, restraint), verbal fighting, swearing, humiliation/embarrassment, voyeurism/overhearing sex through walls, mentions of smoking/cigarettes, emotionally manipulative dialogue, toxic dynamics, implied jealousy, friends witnessing intimate conflict

Summary: After a night of drunken tension and messy choices, Y/N’s connection with Taehyung escalates behind closed doors, only to leave her questioning her own motives. Jimin and Y/N’s volatile dynamic boils over into a physical confrontation, while Yoongi quietly observes more than he lets on. The fragile balance in the apartment is beginning to crack.

Part Four; Cracks in the Walls

The door clicks shut and for a second it’s quiet—just the muffled roar of laughter on the other side. Then Taehyung steps in, crowding me gently against the wall, his gaze flicking from my mouth to my eyes like he’s giving me a choice.

When I don’t pull away, his lips brush mine—soft, unhurried, tasting like beer and heat. My breath stutters, caught between the careful drag of his mouth and the way his fingers trace up my arm, feather-light. It’s slow, deliberate, like he’s savoring every second, waiting for me to fall into the rhythm with him.

And I do.

My hands curl into the fabric of his shirt, tugging him closer, and his kiss deepens—no longer soft, but hungry. His tongue slips past my lips, teasing, pulling a sound from me I didn’t know I’d make. His grip tightens at my waist, pinning me harder to the wall, his body flush with mine.

The shift happens quick, like fire catching dry wood. His teeth graze my lower lip; I answer with a nip of my own. He groans low, pressing me back harder, and soon we’re stumbling—tripping over discarded shoes and laughter—until the backs of my legs hit the bed.

We collapse onto it in a mess of hands and heat. His kiss is rough now, frantic, his fingers digging into my hip as mine tug desperately at his shirt. He tears it over his head without breaking the kiss, his chest warm and solid beneath my hands. I arch up into him, and he meets me with a grind of his hips that leaves me gasping.

It’s reckless, unrestrained—shirts tugged off, teeth clashing, my laugh dissolving into a moan as his mouth drags down my neck. My fingers fumble at his jeans, heart pounding like maybe, maybe I’ll actually do this—

“Fuck Jimin,” I laugh breathlessly, words tumbling out before I can stop them. “Fuck Jimin and his stupid rules.”

Everything halts.

Taehyung’s hand, which had been sliding under my waistband, stills. His head lifts slowly, eyes narrowing as the haze thins. He studies me, jaw tightening, the sharpness in his expression cutting through the drunken blur.

“Y/N,” he says carefully, his voice low but steady, “is that what this is about?”

I groan, fumbling clumsily at his waistband, fingers tugging at the button. “No,” I breathe out, my lips brushing along his jaw, desperate to keep him close. “It’s not about Jimin. Just—don’t stop.”

His breath shudders, his hands sliding down to grip my thighs, his weight pressing me deeper into the mattress. For a moment he kisses me again—rough, hot, teeth scraping against my lip—and it feels like he’s giving in, like I’ve pulled him back under with me.

But then he stills.

His mouth lingers against mine, unmoving, and I feel the shift—the way his body tenses, his grip loosens. His brow furrows, his breathing uneven.

“Shit,” he mutters against my lips, pulling back just enough that I can see the war in his expression. “I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” I cut in, frustration lacing my voice. My hands clutch at his bare sides, tugging him back down, but he resists, shaking his head.

“Y/N…” His voice is rough, regretful, and it makes my stomach twist. “You don’t want me right now. You want to get back at him.”

My jaw tightens, heat rising in my chest. “That’s not—” The protest dies in my throat when he pushes himself upright, dragging a hand through his hair, eyes darting away from mine like he can’t stand to look.

The distance between us hits harder than the words.

I push up onto my elbows, my chest heaving. “Unbelievable,” I snap, the alcohol making my voice sharp, bitter. “You start this and now you’re backing off?”

Taehyung sighs, his hand still braced against his forehead like he’s fighting something bigger than me. “Because if we keep going, it won’t be about us. It’ll just be about him.”

The words sink like stones, and the silence that follows is unbearable. My frustration simmers, my hands curling into fists against the sheets, but he’s already stepping back, already retreating toward the door.

The silence stretches too long, my pulse hammering in my ears. I push up onto my knees, reaching for him before I can stop myself. “Taehyung,” I whisper, raw and unsteady. “Please… just stay.”

He freezes with his hand on the doorknob, his shoulders tight. Slowly, he turns back enough for me to see his face.

The look he gives me isn’t soft. It isn’t tempted. It’s sharp—half disbelief, half disappointment. Like he can’t decide if I’m joking or if I’ve actually lost my mind.

“Are you serious?” His voice is low, flat, carrying more weight than a shout ever could.

My throat works, but no words come out.

For a beat, his gaze lingers—searching, maybe—but then he exhales hard through his nose and shakes his head. Without another word, he twists the knob and steps out, the door clicking shut behind him.

I’m left in the quiet, the sheets tangled around my waist, the taste of him still on my lips and the rejection burning hotter than the alcohol in my veins.

I yank a sweatshirt over my bare chest, sleeves twisted, collar tugging at my chin. It doesn’t matter—it covers enough. I storm out of my room, past the laughter and bottles, straight for the front door.

“Where are you going?” Jimin’s voice snaps from behind me.

“Out.” My hand yanks at the handle.

“You’re drunk.” He’s closer now, sharp, accusing.

“And?” I spit, shoving the door open.

The night air slaps me in the face. Taehyung sits on the steps, cigarette glowing between his fingers, but I don’t slow down. His eyes flick up, startled.

The night air is sharp in my lungs as I stomp down the steps, hair sticking to my face, the sweatshirt hanging loose over my bare chest. I don’t care where I’m going—just that it’s far from here.

“Y/N!” Jimin’s voice cuts after me, closer, angrier.

I ignore him. My feet hit the street when his hand clamps around my wrist and yanks me back.

“Where the hell are you going like this?”

I spin, ripping at his grip. “Away from you.”

“You can’t just run off drunk in the middle of the night—”

“Watch me,” I snap, shoving at his chest. He doesn’t budge.

His jaw tightens. “You’re out of your mind.”

The words set me off. My fist slams against him, once, then again when he tries to grab me. “Let me go!”

“Y/N—stop!” he growls, catching my hand mid-swing.

“No!” My knee jerks upward, my heel catching his shin. He curses, staggering, but refuses to release me.

I fight harder, twisting, kicking, the world spinning with me. And then suddenly we’re both crashing to the pavement, the breath knocked from my lungs in a harsh gasp.

I thrash under him, shoving, writhing, but he’s heavier, stronger, and his frustration is boiling over.

“Enough!” His voice rips out, rough and furious. He slams my wrists down against the concrete, pinning me. His chest heaves over mine, his face flushed and twisted with anger.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he snarls, breath hot against my cheek.

For a moment, neither of us moves. His weight pins me down, his breath ragged and hot above mine, the night air sharp against the sweat cooling on my skin. My chest heaves, my wrists trapped beneath his grip, and I glare up at him through the blur of tears stinging my eyes.

I want to scream. To keep fighting. To claw and kick until he finally lets go. But instead, the fight just… drains out of me. My throat burns, and before I can stop it, the tears spill over, slipping hot down my cheeks. I turn my face away from him, unable to bear the way he’s looking at me.

His chest rises and falls, hard and uneven, and for a long moment he says nothing. Just breathes. Just holds me there.

Finally, his voice cuts through the silence, low and rough, almost breaking on the edges.

“We can’t keep doing this.”

“Then stop starting it,” I shoot back, voice sharp but trembling underneath.

Jimin groans, low and frustrated. He finally releases my wrists, the weight of his grip vanishing all at once. He shifts back just slightly, sitting up straighter, but he doesn’t move off me. His thighs still bracket my hips, his hands planting firmly on them as he exhales hard through his nose.

For a second, he just stares down at me, the muscles in his jaw ticking like he’s weighing something. Then he lets out a short scoff, shaking his head.

“You know what, Y/N?” His voice is low, sharp, but threaded with something almost amused. “I was going to propose a truce…” His lips twist into a crooked, infuriating grin. “…but honestly? Pissing you off is too much fun.”

A laugh bubbles out of me, humorless and sharp. “Glad I can be your entertainment, Jimin. God forbid you grow up and act like a human being.”

For a long beat, neither of us speaks. The street is quiet except for our ragged breathing, our eyes locked in a stare that feels heavier than any argument we’ve ever had. His smirk has softened, mine long gone, and there’s something hanging there—thick, unspoken, suffocating.

“Just kiss already!” Jin’s voice explodes from the stairs.

Both our heads snap toward the sound. There they are—Jin at the front, Taehyung grinning like a devil, Hoseok doubled over with laughter, Jungkook wide-eyed with glee, Namjoon looking like he’s seen enough.

Heat scorches my face, crawling all the way down my neck.

Jimin scoffs, dragging a hand through his hair before climbing off me. He pushes himself to his feet and extends a hand down toward me, his expression unreadable. “Come on.”

I shoot him a glare and ignore it, shoving myself up on my own. Dust and grit cling to my palms and sweatshirt, and I brush them off in short, angry swipes. Without another word, I turn on my heel and head for the apartment, my pulse still hammering.

Behind me, I hear him fall into step, his footsteps steady and unhurried, like he’s not at all bothered by the circus his friends just witnessed.

The group’s laughter trails after them as they file back into the apartment, some tossing smirks and muttered comments like they can’t wait to retell the scene later. Jimin lingers at the door a second longer, his hand still on the frame.

I catch his eyes without meaning to. The air between us sharpens instantly—his stare unreadable, mine still burning with defiance. Neither of us says a word, but the silence stretches taut, heavy enough that I feel it in my chest.

Then he scoffs under his breath, shakes his head, and finally steps inside, the door shutting behind him.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding and drop down onto the step beside Taehyung. He’s already got a cigarette lit, smoke curling lazy into the night.

“Got another one?” I mutter, my voice low, still stung from embarrassment.

His brows lift, but he digs into his pocket without a word and slips one free. He lights it for me, cupping the flame between us, and I take a deep drag, the smoke burning down my throat before seeping out into the cool night. The sharpness steadies me.

For a moment, we sit in silence—just the occasional crackle of the cigarette, the faint thump of music from inside, and the cool air heavy between us.

Then Taehyung exhales, his lips twitching. “You know,” he says lightly, “for two people who claim to hate each other, you and Jimin sure fight like foreplay.”

I choke on the smoke, coughing, eyes narrowing at him. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

He smirks, leaning back on his elbows against the step. “Come on. The staring, the yelling, the way he was straddling you like he forgot we were all watching. It’s practically a sex scene.”

My face burns hotter than the cigarette. “You’re disgusting.”

“Maybe,” he says easily, “but I’m not wrong.”

I glare at him, puffing another drag just to keep my hands busy. “You’re seriously the most irritating person I’ve ever met.”

Taehyung shrugs, unbothered. “Second most. Jimin still has me beat, huh?”

The unexpected quip cracks my anger, and a laugh bursts out before I can stop it—sharp, sudden, bubbling past the mess of my frustration. I shake my head, smoke curling from my lips.

“You’re impossible,” I mutter, still smiling despite myself.

The sunlight cuts through the blinds, warm streaks dragging across my face. I groan and roll over, the ache of last night’s drinks still dull in my head. The sheets are twisted around my legs, my sweatshirt pushed up from where I crashed without bothering to change.

“Morning,” a low voice hums near my ear.

My eyes flutter open just in time to feel Taehyung press a soft kiss against my shoulder. Before I can react, another brushes against my collarbone. Then another at the hollow of my throat. His lips trace a path lazily, like he’s got all the time in the world, and my skin prickles awake under his mouth.

“Taehyung—” I mumble, my voice still thick with sleep.

“Shh,” he says with a grin, peppering more kisses down my arm, across the curve of my stomach, then back up as if he’s painting me in pieces. By the time he makes his way to my jaw, my breathing has turned uneven, my eyes shutting on instinct.

Finally, his lips find mine. The kiss starts feather-light, teasing, but the longer it lingers, the more it deepens. My hands lift on their own, tangling behind his neck, pulling him closer. His weight sinks onto the mattress as his mouth works against mine, slower, hungrier, the air charged with something heavier than his earlier playfulness.

When I finally break for breath, his lips graze the corner of my mouth, and he whispers against my skin, low and deliberate:

“Come over to my place tonight.” My body goes still, heat rising at the way his words drip against my ear. He leans back just enough to meet my eyes, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Jimin doesn’t have to know.”

His mouth trails lower, biting and sucking at my neck until my head tips back into the pillow with a quiet moan. The sting, the heat—it makes me laugh softly, half from nerves, half from the way my body is already giving in.

“Please. Jimin doesn’t even—”

Before I can finish, Taehyung lifts his head, pressing a finger to my lips. His eyes are dark, steady, his voice almost stern. “Don’t say his name right now.”

Something inside me flips at the way he says it—firm, certain. My lips curl against his finger, and I whisper back, playful but daring, “Make me.”

Taehyung just rolls his eyes like I’ve given him the easiest challenge in the world, his smirk tilting lazy and sure. Slowly, his hand slides down from my lips, dragging over my throat, my chest, until it hovers at the waistband of my shorts.

My breath hitches, nerves prickling sharp under my skin. The door is still open, the morning light spilling in from the hall. My voice comes out quick, almost frantic. “Taehyung, the door—”

He doesn’t stop. His thumb dips just under the fabric, teasing, and his eyes lift to mine with that low, unbothered look. His voice is smooth, quiet but firm.

“Then be quiet.”

The words land hot in my stomach, sharper than the touch of his hand, the dare clear in every syllable.

Taehyung’s hand slips lower, the pads of his fingers pressing exactly where I’m most sensitive, slow and deliberate at first. My breath stutters, hips twitching under his touch.

“But Jimin—” The name slips out before I can stop it, raw and unfiltered.

His jaw tightens instantly, his fingers rubbing harder, faster, the annoyance sparking sharp in his eyes. He leans closer, gaze locked on mine like it’s a warning. “What was that?”

The words tear through me. My lips part, a helpless moan spilling out, his name tumbling from me softer, weaker. “Taehyung—”

My head falls back into the pillow, eyes squeezing shut, body arching into his hand.

But Taehyung doesn’t let me hide. His free hand catches my chin, thumb pressing at my jaw until I meet his eyes again. His voice dips, low and commanding, each word slow and sharp.

“Ah, ah. Look at me.”

His fingers slip inside me suddenly, the stretch forcing a sharp cry from my throat before I can swallow it back. My hips jerk, chasing the movement, but Taehyung’s hand on my jaw holds me steady, forcing me to meet his eyes.

Another moan threatens, rough and desperate, and his expression hardens. He leans closer, his breath ghosting over my lips. “Shh. You want him to hear you? He’s right through that wall.”

The reminder spikes heat and panic together, and I bite my lip so hard it stings. But his fingers curl inside me, pressing against that spot that makes my whole body jolt, and the sound still slips free—small, broken, muffled against the back of my hand.

Taehyung tuts, shaking his head like I’ve disappointed him. “Didn’t I tell you to be quiet?” His thumb flicks against my clit, deliberate, punishing.

My eyes flutter, chest rising in frantic gasps, but his gaze stays locked on mine, unrelenting. His voice drops lower, sharp enough to cut. “Say my name. Not his.”

My lips tremble, the word spilling out helpless, breathy. “Taehyung…”

Taehyung’s smirk sharpens as soon as my voice cracks on his name. His fingers drive harder, faster, the sudden pace stealing my breath. The wet sound of him working me open fills the air, obscene and dangerous.

My back arches off the mattress, a gasp tearing out before I can choke it down. His hand leaves my jaw only to slap over my mouth, pinning me quiet. His eyes burn into mine, furious and gleaming.

“I said quiet,” he growls, his pace merciless now, his fingers curling deep and sharp with every thrust.

The pressure builds fast, dizzying, my thighs trembling as I claw at his arm, not to stop him but to anchor myself. He presses harder, his thumb rolling over my clit, the dual assault dragging sounds from me I can’t control.

Through the thin wall, the thought of Jimin lingers—too close, too real. Taehyung leans down, his lips grazing my ear, voice low and taunting.

“Do you think he can hear you? Hm?” His thrusts quicken, sharper, driving my body against the mattress.