you gained a lot from university; a law degree catching dust in your attic, countless arguments with your roommate about laundry schedules, and a best friend whose biggest fear in life is commitment. in essence, jungkook's world gets flipped upside down when you take a trip to london and he finally realizes his feelings for you...only to find out you've come back with a fiancé.
pairing: jungkook x (fem) reader x namjoon
genre: fluff, angst, smut, f2l au, strangers to lovers au, love triangle au, bestfriend!jungkook, fuckboy!jungkook, baker!reader, photographer!namjoon
rating: 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT !
w/c: 63k
warnings: chaotic meet cute, lots of friendly banter, emotional constipation from jk, impulsive decisions made by oc and joon, BRITISH NAMJOON, some unrequited love at one point (right person wrong time), jealousy jealousyyyy, jk does some questionable things for love LMAO, fear of dying alone, some emotional cheating, yearninggggg, crashing a wedding, explicit sexual content; two separate sex scenes, kissing, dirty talk, handjob, oral (m. & f. receiving), breastplay, bigdick!joon, sub!joon, lightdom!jk, switch!reader, unprotected sex, wedding night sex, cowgirl, missionary, creampies.
a/n: FINALLYYYYY HALLELUJAH IT'S HERE Y'ALL 😩😩😩 this fic took me longer than i anticipated but i'm really happy with how it turned out and i hope you all love it as much as i do !!!! it's super duper long and i had to split it into four because of the 1k block limit (which is annoying but it's okay) so sit back and grab some popcorn y'all !! these characters are all a bit flawed and that's okay so please bear with them 🙂↕️ i'd love to hear all of your thoughts and opinions on moh pleassse send all your lovely asks so we can chat because i always love interacting with you guys. and don't forget to like, comment, reblog and ENJOY !! i love you soooo much !!! & banner creds to the lovely and talented @voyter 🫶🏼
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It's Halloween night on campus, which means three things: a really loud, obnoxious party filled with really loud, obnoxious people, drunk hookups that no one will remember in the morning, and you've locked yourself in your room to avoid all of the above.
The entire university is pulsating with the energy of drunk frat boys in capes, girls dressed in skimpy lingerie calling it their costume, and at least three professors who are far too old to be dressed up amongst the students. You, however, are in your true element: large hoodie, fuzzy socks, a half-eaten Snickers bar on your nightstand, and a thick law textbook open in front of you.
Parties aren't your thing. You'd rather be sued than make small talk with a guy dressed as a ketchup bottle. While your roommate, Jieun, spent hours hot-gluing rhinestones onto her platform space boots for her "sexy astronaut" outfit, you politely declined all invitations and instead declared war on your midterm readings. The only spooky thing in your life right now is the growing realisation that you don't actually want to be a lawyer, the thought that you'll probably die single, and knowing you'll be buried in student debt by the time you graduate.
And honestly? That's still more appealing than the campus party.
You take a break from studying around 2am and finally decide to turn off the light and get some rest. Until the door of your dorm room creaks open.
You pause, blinking your eyes open in the darkness of your room. Maybe Jieun forgot her phone. Maybe she brought back a stray alien from the party. Either way, you don't move, not until the unmistakable dip of the mattress under your legs almost sends your soul flying from your body.
Someone just climbed into your bed.
Your eyes widen to the size of saucers, your heart racing in your chest. It's pitch black, the only light coming from the little slit under the door.
"Jieunieee," the voice whispers, smooth and far too seductive. "Are you ready for the best dick of your life?"
That's it.
You scream as loud as you can, springing straight up. You grab the bottle of Chanel perfume on your nightstand and spray it directly into his eyes.
"AHHH—WHAT THE F—!"
The stranger falls out of your bed with a loud thud, hitting the floor dramatically like he's been shot in a Western.
"What the hell?!" he groans, writhing on the floor with a hand covering his eyes and the other holding his head. "You maced me!"
"That was perfume!" you yell, feeling your heart in your throat, the perfume clutched tightly in your hand, holding it out in case you have to spray him again. "And why are you in my bed, you psychopath?!"
"I was looking for Jieun!"
"You can't just crawl into beds like a raccoon in the night!"
"I thought this was her bed!"
"Do I sound like Jieun?!"
He blinks rapidly on the floor, his voice strained through his agony. "I don't know, it's dark and I was promised a sexy astronaut!"
You switch on the bedside lamp with the force of a woman ready to kill.
And there he is.
Black leather pants. Tight black shirt. Fake bruises and cuts on his face, presumably made with makeup. An eyebrow piercing. Tousled hair. Ridiculously attractive even while clutching at his eyes like he's just been gassed in battle.
Your brain fills in the blanks before he even says it.
"You're Jeon Jungkook, aren't you?"
He lowers his hand just enough to smirk at you. "And you're ___. The infamous roommate I've heard so much about."
You sigh, flopping back against your headboard in disbelief. "Of course she's hooking up with you of all people."
Jungkook is a campus legend. The boy whose reputation includes at least two streaking incidents, three girls who dropped out of the university due to their heartbreak, and a tongue that's done unspeakable things according to the word on the street.
And now he's on your floor, still very much looking like the kind of man your mother warned you about even after being sprayed in the eyes with perfume.
He sits up, rubbing his eyes. "For the record, I've had a lot of entrances, but that was definitely my worst."
"You scared the crap out of me!" you exclaim, tossing your pillow at him. "Who just walks into a dorm and climbs into an unfamiliar bed?!"
"I didn't walk," he scoffs, catching the pillow with an insufferable grin. "I strode."
You glare at him.
He grins wider. "Come on, that was funny!"
"You have a concussion, don't you?"
He wipes his eyes with the heels of his palms, settling on the edge of your bed. "Honestly? If you weren't so terrifying, I'd be impressed."
"Excuse me?"
"You're terrifying," he deadpans. "You sprayed me in the eyes and insulted me all within five minutes. That's worse than most of my Tinder dates. Not by much, but still."
You fold your arms over your chest, raising an eyebrow at him. "Maybe don't go crawling into beds with strangers."
"Technically, you're the stranger," he quips, pointing a finger at you. "And you've maced and verbally abused me. That's a lot for a first impression."
You sigh, rolling your eyes. "Unbelievable. Are you always this irritating?"
"I like to think of myself as…persistently charming," he smiles.
You give him a dry look, your eyes narrowing. "You're the human equivalent of an unsolicited dick pic."
"Oof," he winces, placing his hand over his heart. "Okay, that one hurt. But also...kinda hot that you're this mean."
You blink at him. "Do girls actually fall for this crap?"
"Usually," he shrugs.
"Well, congratulations," you scoff. "You've officially found the girl who's immune to your bullshit."
He holds up his hands in surrender, laughing softly. "Okay, you've made your point. I'm sorry I invaded your bed. I didn't mean to scare you like that. I apologise."
Your face softens ever so slightly, giving him a curt nod. "Thank you."
"But also," he adds, leaning back on his hands, "you're hilarious. And clearly not afraid to defend your space. We should be friends."
You stare at him. "What?"
"Friends," he repeats, like it's the most natural thing in the world. "You and me. I'm serious."
You narrow your eyes once more. "You literally came here to hook up with my roommate."
"Which clearly isn't happening anymore," he sighs, lounging on your bed like he's at a beach club. "But now I've met you. And I like you."
You scoff. "You don't know me."
"I know you don't care about going to a hot party and hooking up on Halloween night, and would absolutely tase someone if you had the chance. Right?"
You pause. That…is not incorrect.
"I also know that girls like you usually avoid guys like me. Which is fair. But still…" He swings his legs off the bed, standing up. "I want to be friends."
"Why would we do that?" you ask, genuinely curious.
He grins. "Because you're the first girl who's actually told me I'm full of shit to my face."
You open your mouth, then close it again, and he takes that as a win.
"Anyway, I'll see you around," he smiles, walking toward the door. "If Jieun asks, tell her I tested positive for an STD or something."
You roll your eyes. "Get out!"
He's halfway out when he turns back and winks. "Nice meeting you, ___."
"Likewise, Satan," you grumble, gesturing for him to shut the door.
He laughs, loud and boyish, and disappears down the hall. And just like that, your quiet Halloween night turned into something totally unexpected.
You met Jeon Jungkook. And he wants to be your friend.
God help you.
The library is dead silent, but your soul is screaming.
You've been staring at the same paragraph in your property law textbook for the past eleven minutes and it's starting to feel unbearable. You've underlined the phrase "freehold estates" three times in three different colours, and it still means absolutely nothing to you. Your highlighter is on life support, your brain is fried, and you'd sell your soul for caffeine.
But instead of caffeine, you get Jungkook. Perfect.
"Hey, bestie."
You flinch so hard your pen skitters off the desk.
He slides into the seat across from you like he owns it, as if you invited him. As if this is a casual meet-up instead of a sacred study bubble you built with blood, sweat, and overpriced stationery.
"Why," you whisper, your eyes narrowing, "are you here?"
He blinks innocently, shrugging. "Checking on my friend. You did say we'd be friends."
You raise a skeptical brow.
He leans in closer, his voice mock-offended and far too loud for the library. "Which is interesting, because I've texted you three times this week and you haven't replied once."
You open your mouth, then close it, unable to come up with a valid excuse.
"I had to force you to give me your number last week when we ran into each other in the cafeteria," he continues, his arms crossed over his chest. "Do you always ghost your friends, or am I just special?"
You groan, rubbing your temples. "I've been busy, Jungkook."
"You probably didn't even save my contact," he mumbles dramatically. "I'm still just a number. I feel so objectified."
You blink at him, fighting the chuckle threatening to bubble up your throat. "You're so dramatic."
"And you're so avoidant. Classic enemies-to-friends arc," he muses. "We're already ahead of schedule."
You roll your eyes, glancing back down at your textbook. You really don't have time for this, but Jungkook props his chin on his hand and looks at you with that annoyingly charming smile of his, like he's got nowhere else to be. Like being here, distracting you, is the most important thing in the world.
You hate how disarming it is.
"You done soon?" he asks.
"I have a property law test tomorrow," you mutter dryly. "So, no. I will never be done. I will die in this library and haunt the footnotes of this stupid textbook."
He laughs loudly, earning a 'shhhh!' from a student two tables away. "What if I bribe you with coffee?"
You look up, contemplating it for a second before going back to the dreaded textbook.
"Not interested," you mutter lowly, though it's not even convincing to your own ears.
"You're clearly tired," he scoffs, raising an eyebrow. "And cranky. And there's a weird twitch in your left eye. Come on, ___. Take a break with me."
You purse your lips, letting out a deep sigh. The twitch is real. And your head is pounding. And caffeine does sound like heaven right now.
"You're really annoying," you mutter. "I mean it."
"I've been told," he grins, rising from the chair like he's already won. "Come on. Twenty-minute coffee break. Your brain cells will thank me."
Against your better judgment, and possibly because you might actually fall asleep in your chair, you shut your textbook and drag yourself to your feet, slinging your bag over your shoulder.
"Fifteen minutes," you grumble. "If I fail this test, I'm blaming you."
"Fair," he shrugs, grinning as he holds the library's door open for you. "But at least you'll have had the best coffee of your life, so it'll be worth it."
The café is warm and noisy, filled with the comforting smell of espresso and baked goods. Students sit hunched over laptops. A barista is arguing with the espresso machine. Someone's crying in the corner over what sounds like an econ midterm.
You're halfway through the line when Jungkook turns to you, holding two fingers in front of the glass display.
"Okay," he huffs dramatically. "Crucial decision. Strawberry muffin or banana cinnamon walnut?"
You blink up at him, your eyes narrowing. "What?"
"I can't decide," he confesses, peering at them like they're ancient artefacts. "I want both but I can't get both. That's too much sugar and fat and I'll lose my abs. A girl licked whipped cream off my abs two days ago. I need them."
You snort, taking a step forward as the line starts moving again. "You're ridiculous."
"I'm serious," he whines. "Pick one for me. I trust your judgment for some reason."
You sigh in resignation. "Do you want nuts?"
"I don't like nuts," he mutters with a grimace. "But I also don't like not liking things. Feels like I'm limiting my potential."
You stare at him like he's actually insane.
He stares at the muffins.
"Banana walnut it is," you nod.
He looks at you like you just sentenced him to death. "Really? I was kinda hoping for strawberry."
"You said you don't like not liking things. Expand your horizons. Live a little. Face your fears. Eat the nut muffin."
He lets out a groan like he's being tortured. "If I hate it, this is on you."
"Oh relax, you'll live," you scoff, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.
"What if I die?"
"If you die, I get that expensive laptop of yours."
He nods solemnly. "Deal."
After a long wait that's most definitely over fifteen minutes, you sit down at a corner table by the window, both of you nursing warm drinks. He watches you take the first sip of your mocha like you're some sort of science experiment.
"You were desperate for this, huh?" he chuckles.
"Don't judge me."
He laughs and takes a bite of the banana walnut muffin. He chews slowly, his face unreadable.
You watch him, waiting for the verdict.
He swallows, licks a crumb off his thumb, and looks pleasantly surprised. "…Woah. This is amazing."
You smile, sipping your coffee. "Told you."
"Who knew I liked nuts?"
"I did. You're welcome."
He leans back in his chair and smiles over at you. It's soft, genuine, not the usual grin he uses when he's being annoying.
"I'm starting to think we're meant to be," he quips.
You nearly choke. "Over a muffin?"
"Yeah. You just made a decision that changed my life. This is fate."
You roll your eyes, but your cheeks heat up nonetheless.
He nudges your foot gently under the table, slowly sliding the muffin over to you to taste.
"Thanks for coming with me."
You take a little bite of the muffin, nodding at the taste. "Thanks for the invitation."
And just like that, it starts. A small, insignificant tradition that might mean more some day, but for now, it's just comfortable and easy.
Just…friendship.
—
The kitchen is a mess. There's flour on your cheeks, frosting on your elbow, and a criminal amount of cupcake batter missing from the mixing bowl. Your cousin asked you to bake a batch of vanilla cupcakes for her bridal shower and of course, the new pain in your ass decided to come over to your dorm to 'help'.
"Jungkook," you warn, pointing your spatula at him, "if you eat one more spoon of raw batter, I will throw you out. And no, that's not a threat, it's a promise."
"I'm not eating it," he mumbles, his mouth full. "I'm...quality testing."
"You're gonna get salmonella and die."
"I'll die a happy man because this batter's really good," he grins.
You sigh, scraping the last of the creamy batter into the cupcake liners while Jungkook leans against the counter, licking the spoon you gave him to keep him busy. He has cake batter on the corner of his mouth, and somehow he still looks good. Ridiculously good. Stupidly, unfairly rude levels of good. You pretend not to notice.
"You're supposed to be helping," you sigh.
"I am helping," he says proudly. "You said these are for your cousin's bridal shower. What better way to show my support of the union than selflessly sacrificing my digestive system?"
"You don't have a logical bone in your body."
He grins, his eyes crinkling with amusement. "And yet, here I am, in your kitchen, helping a friend who desperately needed me."
"You invited yourself," you deadpan. "As usual."
He shrugs. "You didn't say no."
You sigh and slide the tray of cupcakes into the oven before setting the timer. The warmth of the kitchen hums around you. It smells like vanilla and feels like a comforting hug in the midst of exams and stress and the impending doom of early adulthood.
Jungkook hops onto the counter, swinging his legs to entertain himself now that the fun part—eating raw batter and watching you stress over quantities of baking powder—is over.
"I still can't believe you made all this from scratch," he murmurs, looking genuinely impressed. "These are, like…actual, professional cupcakes."
You wipe your hands on a dish towel, chuckling. "My cousin's paying me, so that's kinda the point."
He tilts his head, watching you intently. "You're really good at this."
Something in you blossoms at the compliment. He says it so casually, like it's obvious, like it's a fact. It feels good, something you're not sure you've felt before.
You smile faintly and sit down at the little table in the middle of the kitchen, staring at the mess around you; edible flowers, mixing bowls, an empty packet of cupcake liners.
"It's what I love," you murmur softly, a look of tenderness blooming in your gaze.
He raises a brow. "Baking?"
"Yeah," you nod. "Always have. Even when I was a kid. I used to make these terrible little chocolate chip cookies that were more like…burnt rocks...but I'd still force everyone in my family to eat them."
He laughs.
You don't.
"I used to dream about owning a bakery," you add, your voice a little softer, more vulnerable. "Still do, I guess."
There's a pause. He watches you, remaining quiet, waiting for you to elaborate without making a silly comment. You don't look at him, but you can feel it, the shift, his attention going from teasing to genuinely trying to understand you a little deeper.
"But…" you sigh, leaning your chin on your palm. "My parents want me to be a lawyer. That was always the plan. It's respectable. Stable. It makes sense."
"Do you want to be a lawyer?" he asks, his eyebrows knitting together.
You hesitate, letting out a deep sigh. It's as if a gate has opened inside your chest because you don't seem to hold anything back.
"No," you scoff. "Not even a little."
The confession feels heavier than you expected. It feels like you're finally being honest with yourself, which is far scarier than being honest with him. You can ignore his teasing remarks, but you can't ignore that little mocking voice in your head that tells you your dreams probably won't work out anyway.
Jungkook doesn't say anything right away. He just keeps swinging his legs slowly, tapping his fingers against the edge of the counter.
Finally, he asks, "Then why are you doing it?"
You roll your eyes, looking anywhere but his eyes. "Because…I'm good at it apparently...and they expect it. I don't want to disappoint them."
He nods slowly, his eyes downcast.
"You know what would be more disappointing?" he murmurs, his smile barely reaching his eyes.
You tilt your head, looking over at him.
"Waking up ten years from now and hating your life," he deadpans. "And never even trying."
Your chest tightens, your head racing with endless possibilities of a future you thought was already set out for you.
"You're so good at this, ___," he smiles, gesturing to the cupcakes in the oven, the kitchen, the part of you he wants to explore further. "Like, actually good. Not just hobby-good. This is your thing."
You swallow thickly, remaining silent. You don't usually tell people this stuff. You don't usually let yourself say it out loud because then it feels too real. Too scary. But for some reason…with him, it doesn't. You've come to realise he makes you feel seen, which is weird, considering he usually forgets girls' names and faces after a single encounter. This is different, though. You're not a girl he wants to sleep with. You're ___, the girl he wants to hang out with at 2am just because. You're the girl he genuinely wants to spend time with because he enjoys your company, your friendship. You like that. It makes this all feel more genuine.
There's a long beat of silence before you begrudgingly admit the thoughts plaguing you. "You can be really sweet when you're not being an idiot."
He laughs, his nose scrunching up in that way that makes your stomach feel tingly and fluttery. "Don't spread that around. I have a specific brand to maintain."
You laugh, loud and sincere.
"I think you'd make a great bakery owner," he murmurs softly, flicking some leftover flour in your direction.
You wave him off like it's nothing and check your cupcakes, but for the first time since you started studying law, you finally believe you're capable of more than settling, all thanks to the boy on your counter with flour in his hair and sincerity in his eyes.
—
It's almost midnight when Jungkook's phone buzzes on the nightstand. He's half-asleep, sprawled out on his bed, wearing nothing but his boxers, one sock missing. He squints at the screen through bleary eyes, seeing your contact name.
He's awake in an instant.
"Hello?" he croaks, already sitting up, his hair sticking up in all directions. He hears the catch in your voice before you even say a word.
"I'm sorry," you whisper, sniffling. "Did I wake you?"
His heart drops. "Are you okay?"
"...Seungcheol...he cheated on me."
Jungkook is already pulling on sweatpants before the word 'cheated' leaves your lips.
Of course. Fucking Seungcheol. You weren't even really looking for love when you met him. He was just a friend of a friend in one of your classes—a smooth talker who carried around a leather briefcase like he was already a full-time lawyer instead of a sleep-deprived undergrad. Jungkook never liked him, always thought he was a bit pretentious, but of course he wouldn't burst your bubble. Looks like he was right about the dick after all.
"I'll be there in ten."
You open your dorm door in your pajamas, eyes red, nose pink. Your expression crumples the moment you see him, and he doesn't hesitate, just wraps you up in his arms, no questions asked.
Even after just seven months of friendship, you cling to Jungkook like a lifeline, like he'll put all your broken pieces together again. Sure, your relationship with Seungcheol only lasted two months but that means a lot to an eighteen-year-old, so there are still a lot of broken pieces nonetheless.
"He said he didn't mean to," you mumble against his chest while you lie in bed together, willingly this time. "Like that makes it better. Like I should be grateful that it only happened once."
Jungkook exhales hard, like he's trying not to yell. "He's a fucking idiot."
"He said I made him feel…small. That I was trying to outsmart him. That I was too independent. That I...made him feel like he couldn't 'be the man', whatever that means."
Jungkook pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes fierce, his hands cupping your face.
"You are smart. And independent. And so beautiful. And funny. And you make the best desserts in this entire goddamn city. If he couldn't handle that, it's not because you were too much. It's because he just wasn't enough."
Your eyes well up again, tears silently slipping down your cheeks.
"He cheated with a really pretty girl. Blonde. Really big boobs," you grumble.
Jungkook's voice softens, his thumbs stroking your wet cheeks. "Don't compare yourself to some other girl. You are...so fucking gorgeous, by the way."
You snort, shaking your head. "Shut up."
"I'm serious." His thumb brushes away another tear. "You walk around like you're not insanely beautiful, and you think no one notices. But I do, ___."
You stare at him, stunned into silence.
He shrugs, pulling you closer to rest your head against his chest. "Just saying. Don't cry over some knock-off loser when you're literally you."
He stays wrapped around you for as long as you need, one hand gently running through your hair. You sniffle into his neck, your eyes eventually fluttering shut from the warmth and safety of it all.
Eventually, you fall asleep against his chest, breathing steady, a hand loosely clutching his hoodie.
Jungkook remains still, simply looking at you, admiring you in all your glory. Memorising the curve of your cheek against his collarbone. The way your lips part ever so slightly when you dream. The way your fingers curl, even in your sleep, like you're afraid to let go.
He's not the guy who stays for too long. Not the guy who commits. He's built his whole identity around not being that guy, but holding you like this, he kinda wishes he was.
He stares up at the ceiling and sighs, a quiet, hopeless sound.
"I wish I could be the man you need," he whispers into the dark. "But I'm not there yet. I don't know if I ever will be."
And even though you're fast asleep, you still mumble something soft and unintelligible into his chest. You still hold on, and so does he.
—
Your dorm room is lit by a single lamp, the soft yellow glow contrasting violently with the hyper-pink DVD menu of Legally Blonde looping on your laptop. You've watched it a million times before but it's a Friday night and you're having a movie night with Jungkook, so naturally, you're introducing him to one of the classics.
Jungkook is sprawled across your bed, legs crossed at the ankles, one hand buried in a bowl of popcorn and the other dramatically thrown over his forehead as if he's on his deathbed.
"I swear I don't deserve this," he groans. "I mean...I know I call her Number Three but she didn't have to ghost me just because I wouldn't be exclusive with her. I was actually planning on seeing her again and then calling it off, like a gentleman."
You blink, glancing over at him. "Number Three?"
He sighs. "We've been over this, remember? The girl from the accounting party. Short. Cute. Gave me a hickey shaped like a continent. I think South America?"
You stare at him, slowly shaking your head. "You're insufferable."
He brightens. "Thank you."
"That wasn't a compliment."
"You say that," he grins, grabbing another handful of popcorn, "but I feel like you secretly admire my dedication to the craft."
"What craft?" you deadpan. "Being a man-whore?"
He gasps, clutching his chest. "You wound me."
"And you wound women," you chuckle.
"Wow. That hurt, ___."
You toss a pillow at him but he dodges like an athlete. Of course he does. Jackass.
Eventually, when the popcorn is half finished and your patience is half gone, you nod toward the laptop screen. "I'm honestly surprised you're not out tonight."
He blinks. "What do you mean?"
"It's Friday," you deadpan. "Your natural habitat is...I don't know...bars, random beds, broom closets. Anywhere but here watching Legally Blonde with me."
He pouts, actually pouts.
"Hey, I like hanging out with you. I cancelled plans to hang out with you."
You scoff, visibly unconvinced. You secretly feel very special and quite flattered, but that has to be too good to be true, right?
He continues casually, "I'm not completely heartless, you know. I have layers. I'm like an onion. A sexy onion."
You snort. "Please never say 'sexy onion' again."
"But it's true!" he insists, nudging your calf with his foot. "I really like hanging out with you. You're fun, easy to talk to, and you don't pretend to be someone else around me."
"And your other girls do?"
"They pretend to like whatever I like, dislike whatever I dislike. It gets boring listening to them just agree with whatever I say."
You roll your eyes. "Poor baby."
He rolls his eyes right back, as if you don't understand how hard it all is for him.
"You know what your problem is?" you ask, adjusting the laptop and pressing play.
"Oh, here we go."
"You don't believe in romance. Or in actual relationships. Or in…anything that requires feelings."
That's not entirely true, but he shrugs anyway. "Feelings are messy. Hookups are simple. Everyone wins."
"Not everyone," you mumble under your breath, your eyes trained on the laptop screen.
He tilts his head, his mouth stuffed with more popcorn. "What's that supposed to mean?"
You ignore his question and push on. "I just…I don't get it. How can you have meaningless sex with someone? Doesn't it feel empty?"
"Actually when I do it, they usually feel very full," he smirks.
You throw a balled-up pair of socks at his face and he catches it one-handed. What a show-off.
"Look," you clarify, sighing, "I'm just saying, I personally...want something real. Someday. Something that actually matters. A person who actually matters."
"Happily ever after, huh?" he teases.
"Maybe," you mutter, growing defensive. "Why not?"
He makes a face as if you just told him the Earth is flat. "Uhmmm...because that doesn't exist."
"You're so dramatic, yes it does."
"You're the dramatic one!" he argues. "You act like the universe is going to drop Prince Charming out of the sky."
"Maybe it will."
"It won't," he laughs.
You sigh, your eyebrows furrowing in annoyance. "You don't know that."
"I do. I know love ends in heartbreak ninety-nine percent of the time."
"So what? You avoid the one percent just in case it hurts?" you challenge.
"Yes," he chuckles carelessly. "And I'm thriving."
You stare at him for a long moment—this beautiful, aggravating, confusing man who can make you laugh until your ribs hurt and then say something that makes you want to shake him.
He has no idea what he does to people.
Especially you.
Especially because lately you've been catching yourself staring at his hands more when he gestures, or the way his hair falls into his eyes while he plays video games, or the sweet, sincere smile he gives you right before he ruins the moment and says something stupid.
You refuse to acknowledge any of it. Crushes on Jungkook are a disease, and you are absolutely vaccinated.
You distract yourself with the movie. Elle Woods is about to confront Warner. Great scene. Then—
His phone buzzes on the bed. Just once.
You don't mean to look but your eyes flick down instinctively while he rambles absentmindedly about the scene playing out on screen.
There's an unanswered text still waiting on the screen from his friend, Seokjin, asking about some business admin assignment. He didn't bother to respond yet. You're sure Seokjin is used to him taking forever to respond to texts, considering they've known each other since high school and now share a few classes together, which you found out on a tipsy Wednesday night when Jungkook decided to share his whole life story with you.
That's not the text that matters right now. The second text is the one that really catches your eye. The number isn't saved, but you don't have to be a genius to know that it's one of his hookups.
xx - xxx [10:32pm]: i had a lot of fun tonight. same time tomorrow ??
He slept with someone. He had sex with some girl literally right before coming over.
Your stomach drops. It shouldn't—not when you've known him for almost a year and you know him to be this way—but it does anyway. It drops because he said he cancelled plans to be with you, but it turns out you're just leftovers.
And now he's here, laughing with you, acting like you're such good company, when in reality you were the afterthought once again. The backup plan. The safe, comfortable option when he's done with whatever girl came before.
You clear your throat. "Your, uhm...your phone buzzed."
"Oh?" he mutters lazily, not even reaching for it. "Probably Jin. He's obsessed with me," he jokes.
You look back at the laptop screen before he can see your face. Your voice is neutral when you murmur, "You should probably respond. Maybe it's important."
"Nah," he shrugs. "I'm here. I'm hanging out with you."
You nod, forcing a smile.
Something inside you clicks—a silent, sharp realisation. This is who Jungkook is. This is who Jungkook will always be. He's funny, and charming, and a little bit addictive, if you're being completely honest.
But Jungkook will never be yours.
He will never be the perfect man for you. He will never be your one percent. So, you bury the tiny, blooming crush before it can grow roots, and you decide firmly, painfully, that a friend is all he'll ever be to you.
And you're sure you can live with that.
Ten years later...
If someone had told you back in university that the chaotic intruder you maced with Chanel perfume would become your favourite person, you would've recommended they seek help urgently.
And yet, ten years later, here you are.
Somehow, despite Jungkook's questionable life choices, endless line of women, and the fact that he once tried to microwave ramen without water, the two of you grew into something solid. Something constant. Something quietly threaded into every part of your adult life.
You grew up together.
Late-night study sessions turned into late-night grocery runs. His hangovers turned into your "you have to stop being so irresponsible" lectures. Your heartbreaks turned into his "give me his address" threats. You were there to celebrate with him when he landed his first high-paying corporate job and he was there to support you when you were grieving your dad's passing.
You became inseparable. A matched set. A pair of platonic soulmates. And in the past ten years, your life took a path younger you would've fainted over.
Sure, you graduated with your law degree and your family was proud, your grandmother bragged to her knitting group, and you spent several months pretending you were totally thrilled to be entering a profession that slowly devoured human souls.
But the truth? You hated it. The corporate offices. The endless contracts. The panic attacks you had in bathroom stalls pretending everything was fine. Law was stable and respectable, but it sucked the life out of you.
Your dream had always smelled like sugar, butter, and rising dough, so one day, with the determination your professors once called "excessive," you quit your job, emptied your savings, fought with your mom for a full year about your life choices, and opened the bakery you always wanted.
Honey & Hearth Bakery; your pride and joy, your entire heart with an overpriced oven attached. The tiny cake shop that eventually grew into a beloved neighbourhood spot with warm lighting, mismatched mugs, cozy booths, and the smell of fresh bread always lingering in the air.
And Jungkook? Well, he painted the walls baby-pink with you at 1am and drilled shelves with no prior experience. He showed up to your grand opening with an extravagant flower bouquet, three balloons that were far too big and dramatic for a bakery opening, and a promise to always support you and your happiness.
He's been your most loyal customer ever since.
Which brings you to now.
The bell above the front door jingles at 8 on a Thursday morning and you don't have to look up to know who it is.
"Morning, superstar," Jungkook calls out, his voice warm and annoyingly bright for a man who has a meeting to attend in an hour. Working in the corporate world isn't the most thrilling profession in life, but he earns the big bucks and he looks hot wearing a suit, and that's enough for him.
You grin without turning around, already whipping up his coffee. "You're late."
"It's 8," he scoffs, winking at a random woman that walks past him.
"Your usual time is 7:20."
"Sorry. Morning sex happened," he sighs, sliding onto his usual stool at the front counter. "That girl from the bar stayed the night and don't get me wrong, she's hot, but I had to explain the whole 'no overstaying your welcome' rule."
"Is that a part of your 'no back-to-back sex' rule?"
"Yes, exactly," he sighs.
"Isn't that basically the same thing as your 'no more than once a week' rule?"
"No, the 'no more than once a week' rule specifically only works from Monday to Friday."
You scoff. "Oh, so theoretically you could sleep with someone on Sunday night and it wouldn't break the rule if you slept with them again on Monday morning?"
"Now you're getting it," he nods.
You finally glance over your shoulder, listening to him go on a long tangent about his recent sexual endeavours. He's completely different from the mischievous boy who crawled into your bed a decade ago…yet somehow exactly the same. Older now, bigger, broader, jaw sharper, hair perfectly styled. Still stupidly handsome in that infuriating, effortless way.
"Pick one for me," he grins, looking over at the pastry case.
That little tradition certainly didn't end in university. In fact, it's become an every-morning thing. He comes in before work and insists you surprise him with a new pastry to try. Apparently it keeps him on his toes, which he believes is very important in life.
You lean against the counter, your arms crossed. "Hmm. What's your vibe today?"
"I don't know," he sighs, pretending to think. "Handsome. Dashing. Maybe a little mysterious."
"Delusional," you chuckle.
"See? This is why this works," he smiles. "You keep me humble."
"What about a slice of apple and cherry crumble?"
"Nah, I had that one last week," he shakes his head.
"Lemon butter cream cup maybe?"
"Not really feeling a cream cup today," he shrugs.
"Hmmm..." You scan the display of desserts, pursing your lips. "Pistachio croissant?"
"___, come on. You're losing your touch," he teases.
"Okay, okay, uhmmm..." You scan the display once more, picking a popular new item on the menu. "Okay, today you're getting the honeycomb and lavender custard tart."
He lights up instantly, like a puppy being offered a treat. "Yes. Excellent choice. I knew you'd pick that."
"You didn't know anything," you scoff, plating it for him.
"I had a feeling."
"You always have a feeling."
"And it's always right," he grins.
The bell rings at the front door and you quickly turn your attention to the cash register to serve one of your regular customers, Mrs. Park—an elderly woman who always makes pleasant conversation and compares you to her granddaughter. She's incredibly nice and always compliments you on the frilly dresses you wear.
"What will it be today, Mrs. Park?" you smile sweetly.
"My usual, dear," she chuckles warmly. "One of those lovely chocolate eclairs of yours. My daughter tells me I should stop eating them so much because of my blood sugar but what she doesn't know won't hurt her."
You chuckle, wrapping one up for her in a little pastel-pink box, taking her cash with a polite bow of your head. "My lips are sealed," you wink.
She laughs and takes the box before walking off with a little wave of her wrinkled hand.
That brings you back to the man waiting for his breakfast.
"Here," you murmur, sliding the plate and mug of coffee toward him. "Eat and try not to break anything. You already broke two mugs last month and I'm seriously going to start charging you for them."
He takes a big bite of the mini tart and groans in delight. "God, marry me."
"You literally just told me about how you were balls deep in some girl from the bar," you scoff, rolling your eyes. "Besides, you fake-propose to me every morning."
"And I mean it every morning."
You snort. "Please. You'd never."
He leans an elbow on the counter. "Only because you'd divorce me for eating in bed and getting crumbs on the sheets," he sighs, taking a sip of his coffee.
"Correct," you nod, wiping down the counter. "I have standards."
He sets down his mug and straightens up, getting to what he's been meaning to discuss this morning. "So, you busy this Saturday?"
You shrug, mentally checking your schedule. "Not that I know of. Why?"
"Because I need you."
You pause. "You do?"
"It's an invitation actually."
"Okay…" you murmur sceptically, narrowing your eyes at him. "To what?"
"My father's engagement party. Shocker."
Your rag pauses mid-swipe across the counter. "Which one?"
"Engagement or father?" he grins.
"Both."
"Engagement number ten. Father number one."
You blink. "Ten?"
"Ten," he repeats, like it physically pains him. "She's twenty-three, gorgeous, has a skincare routine that could bankrupt nations. I think she was in diapers when my dad got married the third time."
You gape. "Wait, who's the one that sold protein powder on Instagram?"
"That was number eight." He takes another sip of his coffee. "This one does yoga retreats in Bali and says things like 'alignment is a mindset'. Ridiculous, I know. And she only wears bags that are made from real baby alligator, allegedly."
"That's disgusting and inhumane," you grimace. "So...why do you need me?"
"Because," he groans, "he's having some fancy dinner-slash-engagement party and he wants me there, and I am not suffering through that circus alone. And my dad likes you. And you make me look balanced and emotionally stable."
"That's a lot of responsibility for one woman," you tease.
He shrugs. "You used to handle lawsuits for fun."
"Yeah but I don't do law anymore," you deadpan.
"You still look like you could send someone to jail," he grins, taking another bite of his dessert. "Anyway, you know how these things go. Everyone's going to ask why I'm still single, and I'll end up getting irritated because my dad's fiancée—who's younger than me—insists on calling me 'sweetie'. I need backup. Please come, ___. I'll owe you forever."
You laugh softly, leaning across the counter. "You already owe me forever, Jeon."
"Yeah, but this time I'll actually admit it," Jungkook mumbles, meeting your eyes with that boyish half-smile that hasn't changed in a decade.
"Fine. I'll go," you sigh, tossing the rag into the sink.
Jungkook beams, and you pretend your stomach doesn't flip.
"You're amazing," he grins and claps once, pushing off the counter with a mouth full of custard tart. "I'll pick you up at seven on Saturday. Wear something fancy. And also maybe emotionally prepare yourself."
"For what?" You chuckle.
He grimaces. "Stepmom Number Ten is…a handful."
You chuckle. "Aren't they always?"
He points at you as he backs toward the door. "Exactly why you're coming with me."
The bell jingles again as he leaves, and your day continues with familiar customers while he rushes through the morning traffic.
Jungkook's father's estate is something you would never be able to afford even if you opened ten more bakeries. Calling it a house would be like calling the Titanic a canoe. There are fountains—yes, plural. There is a driveway long enough to train for a marathon. There's valet parking and a floral arch made of white roses that look like they cost more than your entire bakery.
And there are people. A lot of people. Champagne clinks in the air, soft jazz plays somewhere in the distance, and laughter rolls in every direction.
You exhale, adjusting the strap on your dress. "I always feel very commoner-in-the-palace when I'm here."
Jungkook tucks your hand into the crook of his arm, pulling you closer as he leans in, looking dapper in his black tux. "Relax. You're one of the only sane people here. That automatically makes you royalty."
"Does it?"
"Yes," he smiles confidently. "And when my father inevitably lets me inherit this place, which I'll force him to do, then I'll make you queen of the fountains."
You snort. "I don't want to be queen of the fountains."
"Too late. You've been coronated." He taps your forehead with his finger. "Boop."
You roll your eyes, but your chest warms. He always does that; makes you feel like you belong wherever he is.
Inside, the party is in full swing. There are waiters weaving between people, guests mingling in glitter and silk, the future bride squealing in a voice that sounds like it's powered by helium and Mr. Jeon himself proudly showing off the engagement ring on her finger that could double as a murder weapon. There's even a towering cake on display, five tiers of gold-trimmed extravagance that you can't wait to recreate in your free time.
Jungkook grabs two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter and hands you one, taking a big gulp.
The moment his father spots the two of you, his entire face lights up.
"There's my favourite duo!" Jeon Jaehyun sweeps you both into a hug—more you than Jungkook. Jungkook gets a pat on the back like a border collie. You get an affectionate double cheek kiss and a squeeze.
"Mr. Jeon," you greet with a polite bow and a soft smile. You've always liked him. He makes questionable choices when it comes to women, but he's nice and he always treats you like you're a part of the family. It's also clear where Jungkook gets his good looks from, not that you ever look for too long or else he'd make you Wife Number Eleven.
"You look stunning tonight, sweetheart," he beams. "I tell you, if I were thirty years younger—"
"You'd still be making terrible decisions, dad," Jungkook cuts in, unamused.
Jaehyun clicks his tongue. "I'll have you know, son, that marriage is an unpredictable thing."
You glance at the fiancée across the room, who is taking a selfie with the champagne tower, not noticing that she's flashing half the guests.
"Unpredictable, huh?" you echo with a soft smile. Sure.
The fiancée, Seulgi—with a gorgeous face, waist-length extensions and breasts that defy gravity—bounces over.
"Kookieee," she sings. Her voice is airy, like her brain has never had to carry anything heavier than a single thought.
"Kookie?" you whisper.
He grimaces. "Don't."
"Oh my gosh, is this your girlfriend?" she asks, looking you up and down like you're a lost child she found at the mall. "I didn't know my future stepson has a special lady!"
"This is ___," he sighs. "My best friend. Strictly platonic."
Seulgi nods, smiling like she understands exactly none of those words, before turning her attention to her future husband. "Love-muffin," she coos, kissing Jungkook's father on the cheek. "The guests are asking when we're cutting the cake."
Jungkook leans toward you, whispering, "My dad's nickname for her is Sugarpuss."
You almost choke on your champagne. "No."
"Yes," he grins sarcastically.
His father pats her waist affectionately, grabbing your attention. "Isn't she wonderful?"
She smiles. "I got my nails done for today."
She wiggles her fingers in front of your face. They're pink and sparkly and probably cost more than your monthly grocery bill.
You smile, nodding. "Very pretty."
"Thank you!" she squeals. "I got them done at—oh look, champagne!" She wanders away mid-sentence.
Jungkook closes his eyes, groaning. "My latest stepmother, ladies and gentlemen."
Jaehyun gives you both an apologetic smile. "Listen, she's...youthful. Nothing wrong with that."
"She probably can't even spell 'youthful', dad," Jungkook deadpans.
Before Jaehyun can respond, another round of shrieking laughter erupts from Seulgi's direction. Jaehyun sighs deeply, chuckling.
You squeeze his arm, a soft smile settling on your face. "Congratulations. I really hope you're happy, Mr. Jeon."
He softens at that, looking between you and Jungkook. "With people like the two of you around? Hard not to be."
Jungkook, knowing how much of a sap you are, drags you away before you can tear up, but that doesn't stop you from clutching your chest like your heart might physically burst right through it.
The buffet tables are the size of actual battle stations. You and Jungkook each grab cake slices and slip outside, where fairy lights glow over small round tables. You sit at one, kicking off your heels with a relieved sigh.
"Vanilla for you," Jungkook says, sliding your plate over. "Chocolate for me."
"And we share," you remind him.
"We always share."
You scoop a bite of chocolate from his plate. He steals some vanilla from yours. It's instinctual.
While you eat, you glance out at the dance floor. Couples are slow dancing under the lights, chins tucked against shoulders, fingers intertwined, faces soft with something that makes your chest ache a little.
"I love that," you murmur softly.
Jungkook follows your gaze. "What? Dancing?"
"No," you scoff, taking a small bite of the vanilla cake. "The...closeness. The comfort. You know, two people who actually like being around each other."
He snorts, stuffing his mouth with cake. "Boring."
"You literally treat dating like a casual sport," you mutter, rolling your eyes. "You can't even do something as simple as cuddling."
"I could cuddle if I really wanted to," he mumbles defensively, his eyebrows furrowing.
"Jungkook, you once pushed a girl off your chest because she said your heartbeat sounded like a lullaby."
He points his fork at you. "Okay, but after I pushed her off of me, I played her an actual lullaby on Spotify, so..."
You laugh so loudly someone glances over at your table.
He leans back in his chair, studying you. "You should be more spontaneous. You fall in love too quickly and you assume every boyfriend is the one. You ever think maybe you'd have more fun if you didn't plan out every part of your life?"
"I'm not planning," you argue, eating a forkful of the chocolate cake. "I just...I like security and stability in life."
"Or," he counters, "you're waiting for this perfect man who doesn't exist."
You shrug, absentmindedly poking the cake with your fork. "I'm not looking for perfect; I'm looking for someone who sees a future with me, not a guy who 'goes with the flow' because he doesn't know how to commit. Someone I can build a life with."
He tilts his head, narrowing his eyes at you. "One; that's kinda delusional. Two; you're twenty-eight, you still have time for all that later in life."
"Not according to my mom. She believes I should have been married and had babies by now."
"That's insane," he scoffs. "I'm thirty and I'm perfectly fine the way I am."
"We're very different people with very opposing views on relationships, Jungkook," you murmur gently. "And besides, I do kinda agree with her to a certain extent. I want to build something soon and not waste time dating men who only want a weekend. I'll die alone if I don't get a move on."
He softens, almost imperceptibly. "You don't have to rush. It'll happen with the right person when it's meant to be."
You nod down at your plate, dragging your fork through some frosting. "Yeah. I guess."
"Besides, do you want to get married just for the sake of being married? Look at my father who's on his tenth marriage and soon, his tenth divorce."
"Don't be so negative," you murmur with a faint smile. "Maybe this one will be his person."
"My mom was supposed to be his person," he grumbles, picking at the vanilla cake. "This one is just another mistake to add to the list."
"Jungkook," you smile. "Even if you know it's a mistake but it's not your place to intervene, you simply say, 'I'm happy you're happy' and move along."
"Yeah, yeah," he scoffs, bringing his fork up to his lips. "You're always right. I hate that."
You chuckle, taking another bite of his slice of cake. The moment settles between you, and you take it as an opportunity to share something with him that's been on your mind lately.
"Speaking of being spontaneous…"
"Oh no," he teases. "That tone is never good."
You chuckle, rolling your eyes. "No, it's not anything crazy, it's just...I've kinda been thinking about going to London for the summer."
His fork freezes halfway to his mouth, his eyes growing double its size. "London?"
"Mhm. For a short pastry course," you explain. "Three months at this prestigious culinary institute. It's kinda a dream opportunity."
Jungkook is silent, his fork gently clinking against the plate as he sets it down.
"When were you gonna tell me?" he asks softly. He's not upset, just very caught off guard.
"Just now," you shrug. "I was on the fence about it for a while."
"Wow," he swallows thickly. "Three months?"
You nod.
He forces a small smile, the kind of smile he uses when he doesn't like something but refuses to ruin things for you. It's a smile that tells you he doesn't know how to live without you for that long, but he'll pretend like he's totally fine.
"That's…wow, that's amazing, ___."
"Yeah." You pick at your cake some more. "But I don't know. It's expensive and I'd be away from the bakery for months, and I've never been out of the country alone before, and—"
"Hey," he smiles, softly nudging your knee under the table. "You can do it."
"I don't know," you mumble. "It feels like…a big jump."
"You like big jumps."
"No, you like big jumps. I like stable ground, a clear path and preferably a railing."
He grins. "I'll install a railing in London."
You glare at him but your laughter slips out effortlessly.
His smile softens even more. "Seriously. If you want it, go for it. The bakery will survive. The other staff can run it. And you should do things for yourself for once. You're always taking care of everyone else."
You open your mouth to argue, then shut it when you realise you don't have an argument. You hate that he's not wrong.
"I'll miss home," you mutter quietly.
"Home will always be here, ___, it isn't going anywhere," he shrugs. "Seoul will always be your home. Three months in London won't magically change that."
You want to tell him that you'll miss him as well, but saying that you'll miss home is close enough. It's one in the same anyway.
"And," he adds, "if you get lost, I'll fly over and find you."
You roll your eyes. "Right, because you're definitely responsible enough for that."
"Hey, I'd bring a GPS."
You chuckle, leaning back in your chair as warm air settles around you, the fairy lights flickering overhead and Jungkook licking frosting off his fork like it's nothing.
"You think I'll do well?"
"Of course," he smiles, nudging your shoulder. "It's you. You're gonna shine. And I'll visit, or we'll video call...or I'll just break into the institute and steal you back."
You laugh, but your chest tightens. He's trying so hard to be happy for you. You can tell.
"You sure you'll survive without me?"
He scoffs dramatically. "If anything, I'll thrive. I'll become stronger, faster, a new man."
"Right," you chuckle. "You'll last three days before you start texting me pictures of pastries and asking which one to buy."
"I give it two," he admits in defeat.
You laugh, the last of the tension easing as the music swells in the distance. Your face slowly melts into a tender smile, your eyes softening ever so gently. It all feels so warm and intimate, and strangely bittersweet.
"Thank you for always supporting me," you murmur quietly.
"Always," he smiles before feeding you a piece of cake on his fork.
You're mid-bite into your cake when Jungkook's entire face suddenly drains of colour.
"Oh no," he whispers.
You pause, your eyebrows furrowing in confusion. "What?"
He doesn't answer in words. Instead, he subtly tilts his head toward the patio doors.
You follow his gaze. A woman in a tight pencil skirt and glasses, hair in a too-tight bun, is clutching a binder to her chest like it's a bible and she's about to testify. Her eyes scan the place with an intensity that could cut steel.
"Uhm…who is that?" you whisper.
"One of my dad's senior analysts." He swallows, setting down his fork. "Her name's Yuri."
"She looks...friendly," you tease.
"She made a blog about me," he hisses.
Your eyebrows shoot up. "What?"
"A blog. It's called 'All Things Jungkook'. Can you believe that?"
You snicker, covering your mouth so you don't get cake everywhere. "You're kidding."
"I wish."
You laugh too loudly and Jungkook shushes you frantically before it can catch Yuri's attention.
"She wrote an entire essay analysing my facial structure," he whispers. "Like, paragraphs. There were diagrams."
You bite your bottom lip to keep from cackling, your face contorting with amusement. "Diagrams?"
"She compared my jawline to Renaissance sculptures," he mutters miserably. "Sculptures, ___."
You wheeze.
"At least she doesn't think my nose is too big or my arms are too scrawny," he adds under his breath, pouting.
You stop laughing, your smile fading.
"Who said that?"
He stares at you.
"You did," he scoffs. "Back in university."
You gasp. "I did not say that!"
"You did," he nods solemnly. "You also said my top lip is too thin."
You slap a hand over your mouth, horrified and amused all at once. "Okay, to be fair, I was an extremely critical eighteen-year-old who was drowning in law textbooks, so I didn't really have a nice thing to say about anyone."
He looks in Yuri's direction, who is still scanning the crowd like a Terminator. "She's gonna see me. She's gonna corner me and ask if I read her four-page analysis about my eyebrows."
You're already laughing again.
"___," he begs, grabbing your wrist. "Dance with me."
"Wait, what?"
"Please," he hisses. "If I'm on the dance floor with someone, she won't approach me."
You arch a brow. "You want me to publicly claim you as occupied?"
"Yes."
You chuckle faintly but stand anyway. "You so owe me."
The music has shifted to something smooth and slow—a romantic melody playing that makes older couples sway like they're reliving their youth. Jungkook places a hand lightly on your waist as you join the crowd. It's familiar but warmer than usual. Or maybe it's the champagne going to your head.
You rest your left hand on his shoulder and your right hand in his palm as you both begin to sway, your faces a lot closer together than they usually are.
"Okay," you smile, "which part of your face did she analyse the hardest?"
"My jaw," he mutters. "Apparently it has a 'mathematically perfect slope', or something like that."
You smile, letting him sway you to the music. "Well, she's not wrong."
He does a double take, staring at you like you said something completely crazy.
"What?" you chuckle.
"What did you just say?" he asks, leaning in closer.
"I said she's not wrong," you shrug.
He squints at you. "You used to call me a pretentious dick."
"That was also true."
He shakes his head. "You're unbelievable."
You grin, then hesitate just a fraction, but he notices.
"What is it?" he asks softly.
You shouldn't say it. You really shouldn't say it, but the music is soft, and the lights are warm, and you're pressed just a bit too close to a man you trust more than anyone in the world, so you blurt it out before you can stop yourself.
"I always thought you were...cute. You know, back in the day. I might've...had a little crush on you..."
His entire body goes still, his eyes growing wide.
"You what?"
"It was a teeny tiny...stupid crush," you clarify. "Very small and insignificant. Microscopic, actually."
Jungkook continues to stare at you, his lips parting in disbelief. "You're kidding."
"I'm not."
"You..." he scoffs, smiling. "You had a crush on me?"
"Don't say it like that," you chuckle, growing flustered.
"No, I'm just..." He searches your face, bewildered and—although he tries to hide it—quite pleased. "I thought you hated me in university."
"Oh, please. If I hated you, I wouldn't have wasted my time insulting you."
He laughs, loud and delighted.
"So, all those insults were, what? You flirting?"
You sigh, rolling your eyes. "Calm down, Jeon."
"You secretly pined for me," he grins smugly, gently twirling you around until you're facing him again.
"Pined? Relax. It lasted, like, two weeks."
"Mhm, sure," he teases. "I bet you were doodling my name in all your notebooks and imagining what our children would look like."
You give him a deadpan stare. "Don't push it. That ship sailed a long time ago."
His smile falters just enough for you to notice if you're really paying attention, but he recovers quickly, tugging you a little closer as the music swells.
"Right, of course," he mumbles softly, looking past you while you sway to the music.
You clear your throat, feeling desperate to redirect the conversation before the air gets heavy.
"So…London," you murmur softly.
He hums, twirling you around once more before pulling you in close. "London."
"I think it'll be good for me," you admit. "A break. Something new."
He studies you—the bright excitement in your eyes, the uncertainty underneath, the hope, and something flashes in his expression that you don't catch, something soft and affectionate.
"Well," he smiles, his voice quieter than before, "I guess I'll have to see you off at the airport, huh?"
You smile, resting your cheek against his shoulder.
He closes his eyes, savouring the moment, his voice coming out just a tad louder than a whisper. "Fuck, I'm gonna miss you."
You roll your eyes, feeling a warmth bloom deep within your ribs. "You're a sap like me now."
He smirks, the earlier tension slipping away. "Don't tell anyone."
"Your secret's safe with me."
He dips you playfully, the two of you laughing, brushing shoulders, standing closer than friends should—close enough that the air between you buzzes with something you both feel.
Outside the dance floor, Yuri is still circling like a shark, but Jungkook doesn't look her way once. Not when he's looking at you.
Incheon Airport buzzes with summer chaos; children dragging suitcases bigger than their bodies, couples taking teary selfies, businessmen speed-walking like their lives depend on it. In the middle of it all, you stand with your luggage, passport, and a rapidly beating heart.
Jungkook is beside you, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans.
"So…" he mumbles, rocking back on his heels, "I guess this is it."
You nod, clutching the handle of your suitcase. "Three months."
"Three months," he echoes.
There's a brief moment where the airport noise fades and it's just you and him and ten years of friendship sitting between you.
He reaches out and flicks a piece of fluff from your sweater, even though you're ninety percent sure there never was any fluff to begin with. "You'll text me when you land?"
"I'll text you as soon as I get WiFi," you nod.
"And you'll video call me?"
"Only if you don't answer while you're at the gym and make me look at your sweaty forehead again."
"That was one time," he chuckles.
You grin. He grins back, but his fades first.
"Go be brilliant, okay?" he murmurs softly. "London's waiting for you."
Your chest warms. "I'll miss you."
Something flickers in his eyes but he blinks fast before you can question it.
"Yeah," he sighs. "Me too."
You smile, lightly punching his arm. "I love you, idiot."
He rolls his eyes, his lips twitching at the corners. "Yeah, yeah, I love you too. Now go."
When you finally walk toward the gate, you don't turn around, but Jungkook stays in place, watching until you disappear. When he finally walks out of the airport, he tells himself the heaviness in his chest is pride, not anything else.
Definitely not. It couldn't be.
—
London greets you with fresh summer air, the faint smell of rain, and immediate sensory overload. The taxis are louder, the buildings older, and everyone talks like they're narrating a BBC documentary.
And you feel more alive than ever.
Your first day at the culinary institute feels like stepping into a whole new world. The kitchens gleam like they've been polished a thousand times. The finest plates await your creations. The ovens are fancier than anything you could ever dream of using.
You learn laminated dough, the perfect method for chocolate tempering, advanced patisserie techniques, all things you used to watch on YouTube while telling yourself you'd perfect someday.
Now 'someday' is here and it's better than you anticipated.
You snap pictures of everything—your flaky pastries, your fancy meringues, your messy apron—and send each and every one of them to Jungkook, even if he responds hours later because of the time difference or his busy schedule.
Between classes, you make the most of your London summer. You buy dresses and blouses that make you feel like a character in a Bridget Jones movie, you carry around flowers wrapped in brown paper that will sit in the middle of the coffee table in your hotel room, you sip tea at cute cafés and buy souvenirs for Jungkook every chance you get.
A vintage Beatles t-shirt.
A Big Ben keychain.
A tiny corgi plush.
Your classmates take you in immediately and within your first month, your nights are filled with dinners at pubs where everything is fried, rooftop wine with the funny Brazilian girl from your pastry group and late-night tube rides where you and the others fall asleep leaning on each other. You make memories that will last a lifetime, and at one point, you don't even think about everything waiting for you back in Seoul.
It's a quiet Saturday afternoon when you find yourself wandering through the sculpture gallery of the Victoria and Albert Museum. There's a hush in the air, as if the marble statues are asleep and everyone else is just trying not to disturb them.
You stop in front of Canova's "Psyche Revived by Cupid's Kiss."
It's breathtaking. It's delicate and romantic and heartbreakingly intimate, like stone brought to life. Cupid leans over Psyche, gently cradling her as if she might shatter. You've seen it in pictures before, but seeing it in person makes it that much better.
You step closer, completely mesmerised, but a shutter clicks beside you, catching you off guard and pulling you from your daze.
There's a man standing next to you, tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a dark cardigan and round glasses that slide slightly down his nose. His hair is dark and frames his face, and a film camera hangs from a strap around his neck. He's just taken a photo of the sculpture, and when he notices you looking, he offers a warm, slightly sheepish smile.
"Sorry," he murmurs in a low, honey-smooth voice, the British accent doing something tingly to your insides. "Didn't mean to interrupt your moment."
You smile politely. "You didn't, don't worry about it."
He turns to look at the sculpture again, tilting his head. "It's beautiful, isn't it? There's something timeless about it." He glances back at you. "Makes you believe that it's worth it to wait for a love like that."
Your eyebrows raise, feeling a bit taken aback by the rather romantic stranger.
He laughs softly. "Sorry. That was…dramatic."
"No," you shake your head, smiling wider. "It was really nice...and true."
"I guess that means I'm not being overly sentimental."
"Or we both are," you smile.
"Could be worse," he shrugs. "I'd rather be overly sentimental than chronically indifferent."
You let out a soft laugh. "That's a good line."
"Thank you, I read it in a book once," he smiles down at the ground, fidgeting with his camera.
You both turn back toward the statue, standing in comfortable silence for a beat, watching how the late afternoon light casts golden shadows on the white stone.
"I'm Kim Namjoon, by the way," he says after a moment, holding out a hand.
"___," you smile, shaking it.
"You're not from here, are you?"
You shake your head. "Seoul, South Korea."
His eyes light up. "Really? Me too...well, kinda. My parents are Korean but they met here in England while they were both studying at Oxford. They moved back to Korea after getting married. That's where I was born, but we moved back to England when I was about five. I haven't been back in a while."
You nod, your interest piqued. "And now you…take pictures of sculptures for a living?"
He chuckles. "Not exclusively. I'm a photographer, mostly travel and editorial, but I come here a lot on my days off. It grounds me."
"I get that," you murmur. "Bakeries do that for me."
He looks over at you, his eyebrows raising. "You're a baker?"
You nod. "I own a small bakery back in Seoul. It's kinda why I'm here, actually. I'm doing a summer course at a culinary institute nearby to brush up on my skills. I'm only here for three months."
"That's incredible." His smile is genuine, his eyes shining under the museum lights. "Honestly, I think bakers are like magicians. You turn flour and cocoa into happiness. It's very impressive."
You laugh, nodding along. "That's very nice of you to say, thank you."
"You're very welcome, Miss ___."
He looks back at the sculpture for a moment, then turns back to you, a little more tentative this time.
"I know this is a bit forward, but…do you perhaps have plans after this?"
You feel your heart pound harder, your head shaking almost too excitedly. "No, not really."
He smiles, clearly a little nervous, like he's not used to doing this. "Would you maybe want to grab a coffee with me? I could show you around London if you'd like. There's a place just down the road; very tiny and unassuming but the coffee's good and they have these absurdly large cinnamon buns that are to die for."
He's handsome, has an accent that makes your thighs clench, and he wants to take you to a café. You don't even have to think about it.
"I'd love to."
His face softens, looking like he didn't quite expect you to say yes.
You chat while you walk out together, side by side, stealing one last look at Cupid and Psyche, and somewhere deep in your chest, you wonder if he is a part of the fresh start you've been craving.
—
It all starts with a simple coffee date.
After the museum, you and Namjoon tuck yourselves into a quiet corner of a café near Hyde Park, where he stirs his cappuccino with one hand and nervously fidgets with the strap of his camera with the other. He asks thoughtful questions, listens like he genuinely cares and laughs with the cutest expression that makes your cheeks flush every single time. He walks you home that night—hands brushing, hearts pounding—and from there, it all blossoms at the speed of light.
Your second date is dinner at a tiny Italian restaurant where you end up talking for hours, sharing pasta and trading childhood stories. He shyly admits he once cried when his favourite bakery shut down, and you know then and there that he's your type of person.
On the third date, you sit beside the Thames at sunset, barely an inch between you, and when your head falls against his shoulder, neither of you move. Your first kiss happens in the rain after a trip to a vintage bookshop, hesitant at first—until it isn't. Until his hands are warm on your waist and yours are in his hair, time melting into the taste of his mouth.
You start to crave his presence, his voice, his intellect wrapped in a British accent and kind eyes.
One night, after too much wine and too many loaded glances, you kiss him breathlessly in his hallway and let him lead you to his bed. It's slow and sweet, and he makes you feel like the most beautiful woman he's ever laid his eyes upon. That happens quite often after the first time. You have sex in the shower, the backseat of his car, on the floor of your hotel room, and it's always better than the last.
By the start of August, Namjoon is a fixture in your London summer. He waits for you after class. He carries your shopping bags without a complaint. He reads books aloud when you can't sleep, chuckles at your terrible attempt at a British accent, and takes endless sneaky photos of you mid-laugh just because he loves the way you look when you're at your happiest. He even drives you out to the English countryside to have dinner with his parents.
Somewhere between the late-night talks and stolen kisses, you fall for him harder than you ever meant to. And the scariest part isn't how fast it happens…it's how disappointed you are that it's all temporary.
—
Namjoon unlocks the door to his flat, stepping inside with the same subtle confidence you've come to love. He holds the door open for you—always a gentleman, even when his fingers were just threaded through yours all the way home from the pub, even when his lips were pressed against your neck as you waited for your Uber, even when his voice had dropped into that low, breathy register that made your knees weak.
You step into the warmth of his space. It smells like him, which you've come to love as well. The lights are dim, a large bookshelf lines the wall, vinyl records stacked neatly near a player and a blooming houseplant stands tall in the corner.
He toes off his shoes and reaches for your jacket. "Here," he murmurs softly, pressing a kiss to your cheek from behind.
You slip your jacket off your shoulders, your pulse jumping as he hangs it up with care. He rests his hands in his pants pockets, watching you as you turn to face him. His eyes flick over your lips, your neckline, the way you tuck your hair behind your ear like you're totally not still nervous around him.
"Wanna watch a movie?" he offers.
You shake your head, smiling.
He nods slowly and takes the hint, cupping your face in his large hands. The kiss that follows comes easily, mouths moving languidly, your fingers pressing into the fabric of his shirt. You've kissed Namjoon a million times over the past three months—on couches, in doorways, on sidewalks lit by streetlights—but this time it feels far more gentle and intimate.
By the time he breaks away, you're breathing in shallow little waves.
"C'mon," he murmurs softly, taking your hand in his. He leads you down the hall, into his bedroom. It's minimalistic, very clean. There's no pretence, just him.
He doesn't pull you into bed. Not yet, at least.
He stands beside the low bookshelf near the window, arms folded loosely, watching you run a hand through your hair.
"Is this really just for three months?" he asks softly. "You being in London? You're really going back to Seoul?"
You sigh, realising you'd have to have this conversation eventually. "Yeah. I mean…that's always been the plan, Joon."
He nods slowly. He just needed to hear you confirm it. "Right. Just…three months."
You sit down on the edge of his bed, your hands resting in your lap. "I just...didn't think I'd actually…meet someone here. I just came to bake things and buy overpriced souvenirs for my best friend."
He smiles at that, but it doesn't reach his eyes.
You tilt your head, your eyebrows furrowing. "Why do you ask?"
Namjoon exhales and smiles. "I guess I've just been thinking about it a lot more than I expected to."
He walks toward you slowly, kneeling down so he's at eye level, his hands resting on your knees with the utmost tenderness.
"___, I know we've only known each other for a short while," he murmurs, keeping his voice steady. "But..."
You swallow thickly, sensing a shift in the air.
Namjoon pulls out a small velvet box from his pants pocket.
You freeze, completely at a loss for words. "Wait. Namjoon, is that...?"
He nods and opens it, his eyes moving from the little box to your face. Inside is a simple, vintage ring; an oval-cut diamond set in an antique band. It's timeless and stunning.
"Kim Namjoon, you're insane," you whisper, letting out a soft, breathless chuckle. "You actually bought a ring?"
He smiles up at you, shaking his head. "I didn't buy it."
Your head tilts in confusion.
"It was my grandmother's," he explains. "She wore it for over fifty years. My mum kept it after my granny passed…and last week...I asked her for it."
Your throat tightens, your eyes widening. "You…asked for it?"
He nods, glancing down at the ring. "I called her and told her that I'm serious about you. I told her that you make me feel like I'm a better version of myself just by existing next to me."
You press a hand to your mouth, feeling overwhelmed with a whole mixture of emotions.
"She told me I was a little nuts," he adds with a chuckle. "That no sane man proposes to someone he's only known for three months."
You laugh, nodding. "Your mom's smart."
"She is." His smile melts into something softer, more serious. "But I'm in love with you. And I don't want to wait."
There's a beat of silence, just the sound of your heartbeat roaring in your ears, the hustle and bustle of the city outside his window, and the impossible weight of the moment sitting in your chest.
"I know it's really fast," he says gently, "but when I look at you, it doesn't feel fast or crazy. It feels like I've been waiting for you my whole life without even knowing I was waiting."
You don't say anything right away.
This man wants to marry you. This man who instantly took a liking to you when he met you. This man who's intelligent and kind and effortlessly elegant. This man who just presented you with his grandmother's wedding ring like it was meant to be yours all along.
Namjoon watches your expression carefully, waiting patiently.
Then, cautiously, he smiles.
"Will you marry me?"
—
At first, it all just feels like a mild inconvenience for Jungkook.
You're in a different country, in a different time zone, and of course it's normal that your texts come through while he's asleep or his calls are missed because you're stuck in class. Days pass where your voices never reach each other, just fragments—missed calls, unread messages, half-finished voice notes.
At first, he tells himself it's normal, maybe even healthy. You're living your best life halfway across the world, and he refuses to be the needy friend who holds your back. Still, he finds himself reaching for his phone too often, typing things and deleting them, falling asleep with your chat left open like maybe, somehow, it will make you feel closer.
He goes out a lot in June.
He texts you at 2am after coming home from drinks with Jin and two girls he doesn't remember the names of. The text says, "Miss your dumb face," followed by a blurry selfie. You don't answer until seven hours later with a laughing emoji because you just finished rolling a million croissants and you're too tired to ask how his night went.
He smiles at his phone like an idiot every time your name pops up on his screen, but the more time passes, the more the silence starts to hurt.
In July, he hooks up with a girl he met at a rooftop restaurant. She's beautiful, super tall, wears a silk dress that shows off just enough to have him on edge. She calls him "handsome" and laughs at all the right moments. Her perfume is strong, her lip gloss sticky. He pulls her into his apartment and they undress in a haze of clumsy heat, getting straight to the point of the evening—sex.
Jungkook grunts and squeezes his eyes shut as he thrusts into her in missionary, his head spinning as he desperately tries to focus on the task at hand and not the text he sent you a few hours ago that still hasn't been answered.
When he opens his eyes again to kiss her, he's completely thrown off his game when it's not her face he sees contorting in pleasure—it's yours.
It's the familiar curve of your smile.
It's the sparkle in your eyes when the two of you slow danced at his father's engagement party.
It's the look of longing you had on your face when you said goodbye at the airport.
Jungkook stops moving, his hips halting mid-stroke. The girl moans something but he doesn't hear it, far too distracted by your eyes fluttering in his head. He closes his eyes once more, his breathing ragged, his heart hammering. Once he finally gets it together, he forces himself to finish but it just feels hollow now.
When August arrives, Jungkook decides to soldier on until you eventually get back to Seoul.
He meets up with a different woman on a random Monday afternoon—a friend of a friend. They get coffee, then lunch, then dinner a week later. She's cute and easy company. She asks about the meanings of all his tattoos, kisses slow and rides him fast.
She seems genuinely interested in him, so on their fourth hangout—which he insists on calling it instead of a date because he doesn't want her to get the idea that he's serious about her—he takes her to your bakery.
It's his safe place and it smells like you. It's comforting, and warm, and always welcoming. And maybe he takes her there because some part of him just misses home.
The display case is full of your signature work; dainty cupcakes decorated with edible flowers, fluffy cinnamon donuts rolled into perfect spheres, sticky toffee buns that always taste better each time he eats them.
Jungkook stares at the options, his hands in his pockets. "I can't decide what to get," he sighs, testing the waters. "Pick one for me."
She blinks, her pretty doe eyes filled with confusion. "Why?"
"I don't know, it's kinda fun," he smiles. "Just choose something for me."
She raises a brow, looking at the array of desserts. "Okay…a cookie."
He pauses, glancing at her. "No, like...be specific."
"Okay." She stares at the case, then smiles over at him. "A really big cookie?"
He smiles, but it's so fake it almost physically hurts. "Right. Sure."
She doesn't get it, of course she wouldn't. It's not about the dessert. It's so much more than that.
They end up leaving with one cookie for her and nothing but disappointment for him.
—
The days blur and the nights stretch endlessly.
He scrolls through your texts again and again, reading old ones just to be reminded of how funny you are. He reads the ones where you got into a debate about 'sex weather', in which you insisted that rainy weather is always the best time for sex, or rather "making love" as you put it, because you hate being sweaty while trying to be romantic. He listens to the voice note where you tried to explain a French baking term and got so flustered when you lost your train of thought that you ended it with, "Anyway, I'm a fraud, bye."
He plays that one three times, chuckling to himself in bed like a crazy person.
He wants to call you, to hear your voice and listen to you ramble about oven temperature settings and undercooked soufflé.
He wants to say...well, he doesn't really know what he wants to say. He just knows that no one else makes him feel whole the way you do.
That everyone else feels like a filler. Like static. Never you, though. You feel like home.
He tosses his phone aside and stares up at his bedroom ceiling, running a hand through his hair with a huff. It hits him gently, like a slow wave that unexpectedly knocks him off his feet and drowns him in an instant:
You're not just his best friend or the girl he jokingly flirts with out of habit. You're more than just someone who knows how he likes his coffee or which songs make him cry or why he hates sleeping in certain positions because it hurts his back.
You're it.
You're the one he'll always look for in a crowd of people, the one he still wants to talk to at the end of every stressful, shitty day. The one he hasn't stopped thinking about since the moment you walked through that departure gate—hell, since the moment he accidentally stumbled into your bed ten years ago.
And he doesn't know what the hell he's supposed to do with that.
The thud of the basketball echoes through the gym as Jungkook dribbles, sweat clinging to his skin, his heart pounding from exertion. Seokjin's guarding him—kinda lazily—and Wonwoo's near the free-throw line, his sleeves rolled up and jaw set with focus. Mingyu's off to the side, taking his sweet time sipping water and pretending like he doesn't play the most aggressively of all four of them.
Jungkook fakes left, cuts right, and lands the shot. It bounces once, then rolls in.
"Still got it," he grins, jogging back as Mingyu throws him a towel.
"You've got cardio," Wonwoo pants. "Not game."
"Don't need game when I'm playing against geriatrics," Jungkook shoots back.
"Hey!" Seokjin wipes his forehead. "I may be a father now, but I could still outrun you with one baby strapped to my chest and another in the oven."
"You're not even the one with the oven," Mingyu snorts.
"My point still stands," Seokjin shrugs.
They keep playing—passes, dodges, light-hearted trash talk—but somewhere between defence drills and free throws, Jungkook finds himself zoning out. He leans against the padded wall, bouncing the ball absentmindedly, his thoughts far from the gym.
Seokjin notices first.
"You good?" he asks, tossing his friend a water bottle.
Jungkook catches it, hesitates, then nods. "Yeah. Just thinking."
"That's suspicious," Mingyu scoffs. "When you think too much, you start texting your exes."
"No," Jungkook mutters quietly, shaking his head. "Not this time."
Wonwoo raises an eyebrow, walking over. "What's going on?"
Jungkook rolls the ball along the floor with his foot, sighing. "I think I'm in love with ___."
There's a silence that stretches just a second too long, the guys all shooting each other a look.
Seokjin's eyebrows furrow, his hands resting on his hips. "Wait, what?"
Mingyu whistles, patting Jungkook on the back. "Holy shit. That's not what I was expecting."
Wonwoo just leans against the wall and crosses his arms, his expression unreadable.
Jungkook shifts, scratching the back of his neck. "I don't know. It just hit me all at once. I've been trying to date, distract myself. I took a girl to the bakery the other day and asked her to pick something for me like ___ always does…and she picked a fucking cookie. Just said 'a big one'," he snorts humourlessly. "Didn't even get the point."
"You do realize she's not ___, right?" Seokjin chuckles. "How would she know what you meant?"
"Exactly. That's my point," Jungkook groans. "No one's her, dude. I've been around her for ten years, and I think I convinced myself I'd always have time to figure it out, but now she's in London, living her dream, probably flirting with a bunch of British guys."
"Let's not spiral," Wonwoo mutters.
"I just…" Jungkook exhales sharply. "I don't want anyone else. I want her. And...I actually want to do something about it."
The guys pause before Seokjin grabs his shoulder, smiling. "Well, shit! That's called growing up."
"You're not wrong," Mingyu mutters, grabbing the ball to dribble again. "But don't ask me to relate. I'm good with casual sex and no one touching my closet space."
"You say that now," Seokjin scoffs. "Then one day you're holding a baby while your wife cries watching dog rescue videos and suddenly it's the best moment of your life."
Jungkook laughs quietly, glancing down at the floor. "I never thought I'd want that. Not the marriage thing or the kids. I thought I'd stay the way I was forever. Just…you know, vibing."
Seokjin smiles, fond and a little smug. "Now 'just vibing' feels kinda empty, huh?"
Jungkook nods.
"She's different," he murmurs softly. "She makes everything feel like it matters. Without her, everything feels off."
Mingyu makes a dramatic gagging noise. "Can we go back to basketball now? This sappy talk is giving me indigestion."
Seokjin chuckles, giving Jungkook a hard pat on the back. "Tell her when she gets back. Don't wait."
Jungkook nods, determination setting in as he jogs over to play another round.
He's not sure how you'll react to all this, but he's done running from his feelings. He's finally ready. He just hopes you are too.
—
Jungkook listens to your voicemail multiple times when he gets home from work Friday evening.
"Hey…I'm back in Seoul! I've missed you so much. Can we have dinner tonight around 7? I was thinking of going to our usual restaurant. I have so much to tell you. It feels like I've been gone forever. Let me know, okay? Okay, I love you, bye!"
Your voice is bubbly, laced with excitement. You sound like you dialed his number as soon as you got off the plane, the airport noise in the background a clear giveaway.
Jungkook doesn't waste a second. He showers, sprays himself with his most expensive cologne and pulls out a navy suit he usually reserves for weddings and important meetings. He doesn't usually go out of his way to look good for a woman because he's him—he doesn't have to try, but this is you and he wants to leave a lasting impression when he tells you his feelings. Tonight is different. It's significant, and he doesn't want to screw it up.
On his way to the restaurant, he stops at a street vendor and buys a bouquet of peonies—your favourite. He might not be the most conventionally romantic guy on the planet, but he knows you hate roses because you think they're cliché and typical. He knows that you prefer fish over red meat, and that you hate big gatherings because they make you anxious. He knows you better than anyone else on Earth, and he loves you.
The restaurant is buzzing when he walks in—dim lights, quiet chatter, the smell of red wine and garlic butter thick in the air. He spots you immediately, perched at the bar at the far end of the restaurant, laughing at something.
His breath catches at the sight of you.
You look like London. That's the only way he can describe it. You're glowing, your cheeks rosy, your lips stained red. It's different but still you, like something bloomed while he wasn't looking.
He starts walking toward you, a smile pulling at his lips.
But then he sees him.
A tall man standing beside you, dimples on full display like someone's paying him to smile that brightly. He leans in close, says something in your ear, and presses a quick kiss to your lips. It's all a bit too casual, too familiar.
It stops Jungkook in his tracks. When he starts walking again it's fast and panicked. So much so that he doesn't see the waiter passing by until it's too late.
"Sir, excuse m—"
There's a loud crash, a blur of limbs flying about as Jungkook collides into the poor guy carrying a full tray of glasses. Water, wine, forks, the tray itself, it all goes flying as both men go down in a heap right in the middle of the restaurant.
"Shit—!"
"Oh my goodness—Jungkook?!"
You're off your stool in a second, rushing over with wide eyes. The man beside you joins you just as quickly, crouching down to help both Jungkook and the waiter up.
Jungkook winces, pushing himself up to sit.
You're already reaching for him, pulling him up to his feet. "Are you okay? Are you hurt? You just...you slammed into that guy—"
"I'm fine," Jungkook mutters, straightening up, brushing water off his sleeves. He glances down at the scattered bouquet now lying halfway under the barstools.
You crouch to pick it up, glancing up at him.
"And you bought flowers?" you ask with a hopeful glint in your eyes.
Jungkook freezes, glancing at the flowers. He clears his throat, then grabs the bouquet and abruptly shoves it into the startled waiter's hands. "No. These are his."
The waiter is taken aback, and so are you.
Jungkook claps the poor guy on the back, offering him a fake smile. "Congratulations on your...anniversary or whatever."
You raise an eyebrow. "You okay?"
"Mhm," Jungkook nods, his voice tight. "Just clumsy, I guess. Classic me."
You exchange a look with the man Jungkook is still unsure of, who offers your best friend a faint smile. The three of you start walking toward the table—your table, the one you and Jungkook always request when it's just the two of you.
Jungkook doesn't say anything. He sits across from you and watches as the other man pulls out your chair like he's done it a dozen times before, which makes Jungkook's jaw twitch.
And he waits.
Waits for you to explain.
Waits to figure out why he suddenly feels like the only person in the room who didn't get the memo.
You smile and gesture toward the man beside you, your face lighting up at you look at him, a look Jungkook hasn't seen on your face in a really long time.
"Jungkook, this is Kim Namjoon. Namjoon, this is Jeon Jungkook; my best friend I've been telling you all about."
Namjoon leans over with a warm smile and extends his hand to Jungkook. "It's really nice to finally meet you, Jungkook. I've heard so much about you from this lovely lady."
Jungkook forces a smile, reaches out, and shakes it. "Yeah. Nice to meet you too."
His voice sounds normal but his chest feels hollow.
"I've been trying to picture you this whole time," Namjoon continues in that British accent that makes Jungkook's bile rise in his throat. "___'s mentioned you in almost every story she's told me."
You laugh, your cheeks turning pink. "I might've overdone it."
"No," Namjoon murmurs softly, gazing at you like the rest of the world has vanished. "I loved it. Felt like I already knew him."
Jungkook looks down at the table, wishing he could gouge out his eyes with the silverware. "So…what's the deal with you two? You met in London?"
Your smile widens as you nod. "It was so random! I was at a museum, just minding my business, and I was standing in front of this gorgeous sculpture, and then Namjoon just appeared next to me with a camera."
Namjoon chuckles. "She was so focused on the piece, I wasn't even sure if I should say anything."
"But he did," you grin. "He struck up a conversation, and we ended up at a little café for cinnamon buns and coffee, which was amazing, by the way."
"You had cinnamon buns with a stranger?" Jungkook murmurs, trying to sound amused, not crushed.
You wave him off. "Oh please. It just felt so natural. And after that, we just kept seeing each other. Museum dates, dinners, exploring the city. We couldn't stay away from each other."
Namjoon affectionately rubs your back with his palm. "I couldn't help myself, she's irresistible."
Jungkook watches the gesture, taking note of how you lean into it like muscle memory. "Sounds like it all happened fast."
"It did," you admit, your smile softening. "But it felt so right."
He nods, staring at the breadbasket in the middle of the table, and wishes he could crawl into it and disappear.
"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" he asks, his voice quieter than before. "I mean…I know we missed a lot of calls but I would've wanted to hear about this."
You shift in your seat, your expression falling slightly. "I wanted to, I really did. But things just got so hectic. Classes ran late, we were always on the move, and then the time difference made everything harder. I drafted messages and forget to send them, and after a while, I figured…I'd tell you everything properly when I got back."
You look at him with so much honesty that it only hurts him more.
"I'm sorry for not telling you sooner."
He nods, offering you a faint smile. "It's okay."
It's anything but okay, but he'll suck it up and bite his tongue for you.
Namjoon clears his throat, shifting forward. "I know it's probably a lot to take in all at once, but I wanted to tell you myself. I asked ___ to marry me."
Jungkook's eyes flick up to meet his, his face unreadable.
"And I said yes!" You smile and lift your left hand, showing him your ring. It glints under the restaurant lights, sitting delicately on your finger, mocking him.
Jungkook swallows thickly, a pleasant mask glued to his face. "Wow. It's…beautiful."
You beam. "Isn't it? It was Namjoon's grandmother's."
Namjoon takes your hand, lacing his fingers with yours. "I figured it could be lucky for us."
Jungkook lets out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh, glancing between you and Namjoon. "Yeah. Guess so."
He smiles at all the right moments, pretends like his chest isn't caving in, nods as if he's really listening when you tell him all about your summer with Namjoon, but all he feels is regret and bitterness that some other guy gets to take you home tonight instead of him.
You're in love. You're engaged. You're sitting across from him glowing like a woman who's found her forever. And Jungkook is just the best friend—the one who waited too long to be ready for you.
"So…" you begin, your voice light but a little nervous, glancing at Namjoon. "We've actually already started planning the wedding."
Jungkook looks startled, looking between you two. "Already?"
Namjoon nods, smiling. "We figured there's no reason to wait."
Jungkook's eyebrows furrow, looking back at you. "But…you just got back."
"I know," you murmur. "But we're getting married in England in a church Namjoon's dad helped build. It's near their home in the countryside. It's perfect, Jungkook."
"Mm, it's right across from the distillery," Namjoon nods.
Jungkook looks between the two of you, trying to process. "Distillery?"
"Yeah," you say, brightening. "Namjoon's parents own a whiskey distillery."
Of course they do. Of course his parents own a distillery and build churches and probably rescue injured animals in their free time.
"And the wedding is in a month," Namjoon adds.
Jungkook's eyebrows shoot up, his eyes practically popping out of their sockets. "A month?"
You nod, resting your head against Namjoon's shoulder. "We didn't wanna drag it out. It just makes sense, you know? Why wait when we're sure?"
He doesn't answer. He's too busy trying to remember how to breathe. And then, as if the conversation hasn't already taken a sledgehammer to his heart, you turn to him with a hopeful smile that just about finishes him.
"Anyway, I wanted to ask you something," you murmur. "I know it's sudden, and maybe kinda weird, but…Jungkook...would you be my maid of honor?"
His brain flatlines, his mouth opening and closing as he tries to find something to say that won't be totally offensive right now.
"I mean," you add quickly, laughing, "knowing our relationship, you'd probably want me to be your best man someday, right? So, it's only fair."
Namjoon laughs softly, clearly charmed by the idea. "I think it'd be perfect, actually. You two clearly have such a strong bond."
Jungkook opens his mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes out. Instead, he stands too fast, knocking his thigh into the edge of the table and spinning sideways just in time to collide for the second time that evening with the same poor waiter from earlier.
The tray clatters to the ground once again. The waiter lets out a yelp of disbelief, flat on his back. Jungkook stumbles, caught between horror and absolute emotional overload.
"Dude, are you serious?!" the waiter yells, throwing a dish towel at his chest.
Jungkook mumbles something that might be an apology, but you're already scrambling to help, wide-eyed and flustered.
"Again?! Jungkook, what is wrong with you tonight?"
Everything is wrong.
Everything has gone so terribly wrong.
—
It's a sunny Monday afternoon in the middle of Seoul and the park is alive with movement—joggers passing through, street vendors preparing fresh teokkbokki, and office workers on their lunch break scattered across benches in a sea of undone ties and styrofoam containers.
Jungkook is sitting on a bench with a hotdog in one hand and a death grip on his dignity in the other.
Seokjin takes a massive bite of his chilli dog, glances over at him, and swipes ketchup off his cheek with a napkin as he prepares to tackle the shipwreck sitting next to him.
"So…" Seokjin mumbles, his mouth full. "You gonna tell me why you've looked constipated since we sat down? I only have ten more minutes left of my break and my boss is already on my ass."
Jungkook stares down at his hotdog, his appetite barely there. "___ asked me to be her maid of honor."
There's a short pause before Seokjin chokes on a laugh, quickly covering his mouth to avoid spraying onions all over the bench. "I'm sorry, her what?!"
"Maid of honor."
Jin is full-on wheezing now. "God, I hope the dress makes your ass look good. You've been squatting for this moment your whole life."
Jungkook slumps further in his seat. "This isn't funny, Jin."
"It's hilarious, dude," Seokjin laughs.
"I'm dying, hyung. She gets back from London and all of a sudden she's getting married."
Seokjin finally reins in the laughter, wiping the corners of his eyes. "Okay, okay. Sorry. It's just...you gotta admit, that's a hell of a plot twist."
"I was going to confess," Jungkook mutters flatly, his voice low. "I showed up in a suit. With her favourite flowers. And then I walked in and watched her get kissed by her fiancé and knocked over a waiter in the process."
Seokjin winces. "Yikes."
"She's getting married at a church across from her new fiancé's family whiskey distillery, in a month." Jungkook groans and drops his head back against the bench. "She even showed me the ring. It was his grandmother's."
Seokjin lets out a soft whistle, nodding. "Yeah, that's a lot."
"I feel like I missed the entire movie and just showed up for the credits."
They sit in silence for a moment, birds chirping merrily around them like little assholes.
Then Seokjin finishes his hotdog, balls up the wrapper, and leans forward with his elbows on his knees. "Listen, it sucks, I'm not gonna lie. But this doesn't have to be the end."
Jungkook gives him a side glance. "You realise she's engaged."
"And you're the maid of honor." Seokjin grins. "Which means you're right there, centre stage. You're planning the whole thing, hearing every detail. You're literally the man behind the scenes."
"You make it sound like I'm in a heist movie."
"You are," Seokjin shrugs. "Except instead of robbing a bank, you're trying to steal a bride."
Jungkook snorts despite himself. "That's so dumb."
"Love is dumb, man," Seokjin scoffs. "I proposed to my wife in a Pikachu onesie, and now we have a kid who chews on HDMI cables. But I wouldn't trade it for anything."
Jungkook stares at the sky, feeling unsure. "You really think I should stay close? Not back off?"
"I think," Seokjin says, "if you're really in love with her and not just having a meltdown because someone else got there first, then don't give up on this. You be her best friend. You support her. And if there's even the tiniest crack in her heart, she'll know you were there the whole time, waiting."
Jungkook lets that settle for a moment. He takes a slow bite of his hotdog, chewing thoughtfully. "Okay," he sighs. "But I'm not wearing a dress."
"I will pay you money to wear a dress," Seokjin laughs. "Like, real money. I want full lace. And cleavage."
Jungkook stuffs his mouth with the hotdog to avoid swearing at his friend, but when he leans back again, squinting up at the sky, the weight in his chest feels just a little bit lighter at the reminder that this isn't over yet.
When Jungkook arrives at your apartment Saturday morning, he's met with the familiar comfort of your sweet scent, frilly pillows scattered across the couch, and little trinkets decorating the shelves.
He's spent countless nights here—binging your favourite shows, eating endless amounts of cake as his way of helping you with new recipes, sitting patiently as you give him a faux fashion show of the millionth pair of shoes you bought—and yet this time is not like any of the rest. This time he's here to help you plan your wedding.
"You rang, future Mrs. Kim?" he calls out, kicking off his shoes in the entryway.
You pop your head out from the kitchen with a smile. "You're late, Jeon. You said you'd be here at 8. It's 10."
He takes off his leather jacket and hangs it on your coat rack, rolling his eyes. "You've been engaged for five minutes and you're already a bridezilla."
You scoff, making your way over to greet him with a hug.
He grins at the short embrace, pulling away to get a proper look at you. "Damn, your hair looks good today. Is that a new thing, or is it just the 'I'm-getting-married' glow?"
You roll your eyes, but your smile shows how flattered you are. "Such a suck-up."
"I'm your maid of honor," he says, smiling smugly. "Sucking up to you is literally my job now."
He walks into the living room and settles onto your couch. It feels normal but there's a certain nervous energy in the air today. It's officially the start of preparations for the wedding party, and he's not sure how ready he is for all that. But today isn't about him. It's your day, and he'll support you even if it slowly kills him.
"The bridesmaids are almost here," you murmur, sitting down with him, turning to face him.
"Do I know them?"
"Well, there's Mina," you smile, knowing how well they get along.
"Mina's great, I like Mina," he nods, scooting a bit closer to you.
"And Jeongyeon. You haven't met her yet but she's really chill, you'll love her."
"Okay, who else?" he asks, reaching out and absentmindedly twiddling a strand of your hair between his fingers.
"Uhm..." You sigh, preparing yourself for his reaction. "And Lisa."
His face falls, his fingers pausing in your hair. "Are you serious? She hates me."
"I had to, Jungkook. She's my cousin," you sigh. "And I mean, can you blame her? You had sex with her then ghosted her the next day."
"She almost broke my nose," he groans.
"It was an accident," you chuckle, rolling your eyes as he goes back to playing with your hair.
"She literally punched me in the face," he deadpans. "I told her it wasn't anything serious and she agreed. I can't help that she caught feelings for me."
You smile in amusement, shaking your head at how truly humble he is. "She's wanted to be my maid of honor since we were little, so she hates you even more now."
The doorbell rings right on cue.
You grin and rush over to get the door, welcoming them in. Jungkook isn't sure if the loud entrance is your bridesmaids greeting you at the door or a pack of hyenas cackling. He lets out a huff and stands up as they enter, plastering a smile on his face.
Mina hugs you first; your bakery manager and unofficial work wife. She's organised as ever, carrying a stack of bridal magazines that she's probably had since forever.
Then Jeongyeon, your friend from high school. She's less organised than Mina but equally as excited for you.
And finally…Lisa, your beloved cousin.
Jungkook fights the urge to roll his eyes when he sees her, forcing a smile to remain civil.
She freezes when she sees him, her eyes narrowing into slits.
You smile, choosing to ignore the tension between them for your own sanity. "Jungkook, you remember Lisa, right?"
Jungkook clears his throat, nodding as he sits back down on the couch. "Yeah. Of course. Hey."
Lisa offers a sweet, pointed smile that could kill him if she really wanted to. "Oh, trust me, I remember Jungkook."
The tension is very palpable.
Mina, sensing the shift, gives a diplomatic little nod and walks over to the couch. "Well, we should probably get started, hm?"
You clap your hands together, trying to regain control of the room. "Okay! So, thank you all for coming. Please, sit. I'll go get some snacks then we can start going over fittings, schedules, things like that."
"Can't wait," Jeongyeon smiles, getting comfortable on an armchair while you head to the kitchen.
"I already know this is going to be chaos," Mina chuckles, sitting next to Jungkook, watching as Lisa stabs him with her eyes.
"Some of us thrive in it," Lisa mutters. "Don't we, Jungkook?"
Jungkook scoffs, shooting her a pointed look. "Are we doing that already?"
"Doing what?" Lisa smiles, feigning innocence. "I just meant you're probably used to this; being around a lot of women, multitasking."
You return to the living room before they can start going at each other, carrying a tray of sandwiches and some iced tea before grabbing your wedding binder and sitting down with everyone else, getting right to business. You start listing off dates and logistics—dress fittings, the bridal shower, the family brunch the morning of the wedding—but the air is already charged. Jungkook asks too many questions, honestly, and Lisa's patience visibly deteriorates with every clueless comment.
"Wait, is the brunch before the church rehearsal thing?"
Mina shakes her head, jotting some things down in her planner. "No. The brunch is the morning of the wedding. We've been over this, Jungkook."
"Oh, right. Right."
Lisa laughs under her breath. "God help us."
Jungkook turns to her, raising a brow. "Got something to say?"
Lisa shrugs, taking a glass of iced tea from the coffee table. "Not really. Just wondering how someone who can't even follow a calendar is supposed to help plan a wedding."
"Lisa," you mutter, shooting her a look that says 'behave, please'.
"Well, I didn't know I was going to be graded on my maid-of-honor performance," Jungkook grumbles.
"Well, just fyi, I'd give you an F," she shoots back.
"Settle down, you two," you sigh, gently placing a hand on Jungkook's arm.
Jeongyeon smirks into her drink. Mina, smiling calmly, jumps in before the room ignites.
"Cut him some slack, Lisa. I'm sure he didn't grow up dreaming about tulle and seating charts."
"Yeah, no kidding," Jungkook mutters.
"Exactly," Mina smiles. "So, let's all just be cool."
Lisa takes a slow sip of her iced coffee and doesn't say anything else, but Jungkook catches the flicker in her eyes that says she should've been your maid of honor instead of the man who clearly doesn't know what he's doing.
Your phone rings on the coffee table, Namjoon's name lighting up the screen. "Sorry, I have to take this," you murmur shyly. "It's Joon."
Your bridesmaids all swoon at the mention of your future husband, and Jungkook has to resist the gag threatening to spill from his lips.
As soon as you excuse yourself to take the call in the next room, Lisa jumps into action.
"I've been a MOH six times before, so I'll organise everything that needs to be done, even though I'm not the MOH here," she mutters, crossing one leg over the other.
Jungkook's eyebrows furrow, clearly clueless. "What's a MOH?"
"M-O-H," Lisa mutters pointedly.
"It stands for maid of honor," Mina smiles over at Jungkook. "That's you."
"Oh, yeah, of course," he chuckles, ignoring the eye-roll from Lisa.
"Okay, so we've got the bridal shower coming up that Jungkook will plan, our bridesmaid hair and make up trials, shopping for ___'s trousseau," Mina lists off, reading from her planner in her lap.
"Trousseau?" Jungkook's eyes narrow, leaning over to peek at Mina's planner. "What is a trousseau?"
"It's lingerie for her wedding night," Lisa deadpans, looking fed up with his questions that she feels are completely unnecessary. "How do you expect to be a good MOH if you don't even know that?"
"Oh wow, look, she's actually talking to me," Jungkook quips.
"No, I'm not," Lisa mutters quickly.
"You just did."
"Oh, my bad, Jungkook," she smiles sarcastically. "Did I break one of your rules?"
"Okay, that's enough!" Mina whisper-yells. "Can you two stop and think about ___? She's happy with an amazing guy, so could we all please, for ___'s sake, just get along, put a smile on our faces and pretend like everything is perfect?!"
"Okay, fine," Jungkook mumbles, holding his hands up in surrender.
The tension in the room is thick, but you don't notice, too giddy after hearing that deep British voice tell you how excited he is to get home to you later. You return after the call with Namjoon, turning your attention back to the ladies—who seem perfectly fine after Mina's little pep talk, all of them smiling brightly.
"Okay, I'm back," you grin, getting comfortable. "So, while we're all over there, we'll be staying at the Kims' holiday home."
Lisa's brow arches, her interest piqued. "Holiday home?"
"Yeah," you murmur while flipping through your binder. "Namjoon's family has this gorgeous house out in the countryside. I swear it's like something out of a Jane Austen novel. It's got over enough guest rooms for everyone. The garden even has an actual maze."
Jungkook blinks. He opens his mouth, closes it, then clenches his jaw in silence.
Of course Namjoon's family has a spare country mansion lying around. Why wouldn't they? Probably stocked with limited-edition wines and antique candleholders. Maybe even a butler named Charles who plays the violin at breakfast.
He forces a tight smile. "Wow. A holiday home. That's nice."
Lisa snorts. "Bit of a step up from your one-bedroom apartment, huh?"
Jungkook slowly looks over at her, smirking. "You'd know. You've been in my bedroom."
You sigh, taking a big gulp of your iced tea. Jeongyeon's eyebrows hit her hairline, finding this all too amusing.
Lisa gives him a razor-sharp glance, crossing her eyes over her chest. "Yeah. Once. Unfortunately."
Mina cuts in with perfect timing, like she's trained for this. "I think this is all amazing, ___. I mean, talk about a dream wedding."
Jeongyeon nods. "Seriously. And Namjoon seems so thoughtful. You guys make a really sweet couple."
You smile bashfully, your cheeks heating up. "I think so too. It all feels like it was meant to be, you know?"
Lisa hums. "Mhm. Must be nice to be that in love."
Jungkook's lips press into a thin line as he stares at the coffee table, remaining silent.
When you flip through wedding magazines with Mina, gushing about colour swatches and invitation templates, he finds himself tuning you out, not because he doesn't care, but because he cares too much.
Wedding planning has his iced tea tasting more like acid than anything else.
due to the 1k block limit, you can read the rest of the story HERE
Author’s Note: from this prompt for the followers milestone drabble game (which i should just call the one shot game lmao) i love you @heresjeonny <3 also @queenoftheimpala this is relevant to your interests. also, spot @vitaemin-dae lmao <3
Prompt: ‘You’re just like your father.’
Pairing: Jungkook x Reader (oc; female)
Summary: You’ve been friends with Jungkook all your life, curious about one another’s soulmates in youth only to be jaded by the thought in adulthood. Eventually, you realize you’ve loved him through and beyond the idea, and decide that fate doesn’t get a say in who you choose.
Genre: soulmate!au; friends to lovers!au; fluff; romance; angst
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: some swearing
Word count: 7,884
You used to hold a black light to it.
Back then, the great mystery beneath the hollow crevices and pores of your skin consumed you, not unlike an obsession. A name had been buried within you like a shallow grave, embroidered into your DNA and transforming your youth into a tapestry of longing. As a child, this was your great fascination, mind testing the edges of curiosity in an effort to out trick the laws of nature. Not once did you succeed, though this did not deter you from trying.
THIS! Oh. My. God. This fic was everything to me. The way the author writes is so incredibly poetic, nostalgic and emotional. I saw the date this was posted and knew I was gonna love it! I craved for a love, comfort and bond like theirs throughout my read. Newer fics just don’t hit the same anymore. The execution of this fic was perfect, short, sweet and everything I imagined it to be. If you haven’t read this yet, please do coz you won’t regret it! This is a must, MUST read for sure!💜
SUMMARY. Every Christmas, since you were six years old, Jeon Jungkook gave you a kiss under the mistletoe. But when you were fifteen, you were replaced by a revolving door of girlfriends. Thus began your decade-long aversion to the holiday—this year, however, you’ve been tasked with hosting the annual Christmas soirée, and there’s no telling what might be waiting for you under the mistletoe this time around.
pairing. jeon jungkook x reader
word count. 23.8k
warnings/genre. childhood best friends to lovers (aka idiots to lovers if you squint!!!), slight angst, fluff, reader is the grinch reincarnated, jungkook is oblivious, alcohol consumption, smut, oral and fingering (f receiving), multiple orgasms, big dick jungkook bc what else, unprotected sex sorry she’s on the pill, crying during sex (but in a cute way), it’s all just really cute i kinda hate them
note. welcome to the dreamersparacosm golden era… two one-shots over 15k words in one month. my fingers are tired. but it’s all fine n dandy bc it’s the HOLIDAYS!!! and what better way to celebrate than with a friends to lovers fic? believe it or not, this was originally going to be enemies with lovers, but i had a long talk with myself and realized that theres no way in hell i could ever do justice to a e2l in under 304949k words, but rest assured there is enough pining and angst to keep you well-fed 🥰 oc is yearning final boss, jungkook is a slowburner who’s also an idiot. my favorite kind of couple! i hope you all had a wonderful holiday! p.s: stay tuned for an extra special treat from these two later today :)
▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။|||| last christmas by wham
banner creds | masterlist | epilogue blurb
The Grinch has always been your favorite Christmas movie.
Not because it’s particularly funny or thrilling, but because you can relate to that pessimistic green ball of fur. He despises the holiday just as much as you do—and that’s generous, considering your animosity towards the day has reached unfeasible levels. You might be worse than the aforementioned ball of fur.
There’s really no one else to blame for your aversion to the holiday… besides Jeon Jungkook.
Jeon Jungkook has been your best friend since cradle. Your mother and his shared a room at the hospital, and since then, have kept a tight-knit relationship. Growing up, you and Jungkook shared more life experiences than siblings would. Conjoined birthdays, first day of school, puberty, heartbreak. It was hard not to imagine him in your life, when he had already invaded every part of it with his infectious smile and doe-like eyes.
Every Christmas, since you were six years old, Jeon Jungkook gave you a kiss under the mistletoe. It started innocently enough, with your parents cooing sweetly as he pressed his little lips to your warm cheek. Your face burnt like a volcano shortly after, your hand pressing up to touch the spot where his lips met your skin every few minutes.
When you were nine, he upped the ante. He grabbed your face with his grubby hands, and smushed his lips onto yours with a peck. It was precisely three seconds and two milliseconds long (you know because you held your breath). When he pulled away, he smiled that big bunny smile and ran off to play with your toys. Life continued on as such, leaving you behind to pick up the pieces of everything you thought you knew.
At the age of fifteen, he got his first girlfriend, Haeun. They met in Science class, paired up by accident, but the crush he had on her was with such certainty it took you by storm. That Christmas, he didn’t give you a peck on the lips or the cheek. That year, your body felt empty. That fateful holiday, you watched as Jeon Jungkook gave Park Haeun a big, sloppy, romantic kiss under the mistletoe, one that rivaled any one he ever gave you.
And so, Christmas went from your favorite day of the year, to your nightmare.
Even when his and Haeun’s puppy love died out by high school graduation, she was swiftly replaced by Eunji. And then Chaeyoung. And then Sana…and the list went on, and on, and on.
So, yeah. Christmas. Not your best day. In fact, it’s pretty low on the totem pole, right next to the anniversary of your grandfather’s death.
All this to say—this is why you’ve been ignoring your best friend’s pleas for the past thirty minutes on hosting the annual Christmas soiree at your apartment. Your humble abode. Your sanctuary. There’s no way in hell you’ll be stringing red and green lights from your ceiling, singing ‘ho, ho, ho’ and passing around jell-o shots that were crafted by the devil himself. And you most definitely, certainly, will not hang up a mistletoe.
“But why not?” Jungkook whines again, bouncing up and down on your couch cushion like a puppy. His bottom lip juts out slightly, which would be endearing if he was a teenager and not a 28-year old man.
“Because I don’t want to. I don’t like Christmas.” You ignore him as best as you can, thumbing through your Instagram feed. Engagement posts, pregnancy announcements… god, the holidays are the worst. No, you won’t be blowing ‘baby dust’ to your friends trying to get pregnant.
“Since when?” He gawks, pausing his movements to stare at your side profile intently.
“Since forever. You know this,” you say calmly. “The Grinch is my favorite movie.”
He scoffs. “So? It’s mine too. That doesn’t mean I hate Christmas.”
You don’t have the heart to tell him that your abhorrence for the holiday stems from his inability to give you a kiss since the age of fifteen. Thirteen years later, you can’t help but want one still.
You roll your eyes. “You don’t hate Christmas because you like giving gifts and receiving them.”
“That’s not true,” he argues, snatching your phone out of your hand and tossing it on the coffee table. You finally turn to look at him, and he’s all red cheeks and wide eyes, and it makes you want to die. “You have the nicest apartment out of all of us. We can’t do Namjoon’s because they just had the baby, we can’t do Jisoo’s because Tae is allergic to dogs, and we can’t do mine because I’m renovating. Yours is the best option.”
All true points, but none that you want to confront head-on. “Might it also be that you don’t want to do yours because then people will know you haven’t moved on from Hana?”
Jungkook’s face contorts, and for a split second, you feel guilty for sinking that low. You didn’t mean to, but it’s true. His most recent ex-girlfriend, Hana, doesn’t live in that apartment anymore, but it almost feels like she does with the amount of her stuff lingering around. They were together for a year, but mysteriously broke up after Christmas last year.
“Not cool,” he mumbles, playing with his sleeve.
“I’m sorry,” you sigh, “I just really don’t wanna host, Koo.”
“C’mon, do it for me,” he pouts, and it becomes even harder to say no to him. You’re putty in his reliable hands.
“What will I get out of hosting?” You cross your arms over your chest. A hint of a smile creeps onto his face as he realizes you’re slowly beginning to cave. You always do when you start asking questions.
“Namjoon and Dahyun will cook. Taehyung will make the drinks. And I, your trusty best friend, will task myself with decorating the entire place,” he says proudly, chest puffed out like he’s the Superman of Christmas or something equally as idiotic.
“Jeon Jungkook is going to decorate my apartment?” you question, dumbfounded. “The one who put the star on upside down last year?”
The memory plays as vivid as ever, a reel of images flashing through your mind of Jungkook proudly grinning at the miniscule tree he helped construct in your living room. The lights barely worked, the ornaments were hanging on by a thread, and the star was upside down, but he swore Michaelangelo would’ve thought it was abstract art.
He rolls his eyes. “Why can’t you let anything go?”
“And tangled the lights so bad Namjoon had to come over and cut them with scissors?”
Jungkook pouts the same way he used to when he was three. “But—”
“And ate the gingerbread house before we could even display it?”
Jungkook’s mouth opens to defy you, but decides it’s best not to go up against your vicious truths. “I was hungry and you had nothing but expired Chinese food in your fridge,” he grumbles. It’s annoying how easily he can disarm you when he’s boyishly upset at the world.
In the grand scheme of things, hosting the Christmas soiree at your house is nothing. Nada. Zilch. A blip on your radar. It’s not like he’s asking you to loan him a million won, or donate a kidney to his brother (albeit those are all things you would do for him). He’s simply asking you to open your home to your closest friends to spread holiday cheer.
Somehow, some way, it feels like the hardest thing you have to do.
Maybe because in the grand scheme of things, you’re also hopelessly, relentlessly, disgustingly in love with Jeon Jungkook, and the word no is not one that leaves your lips often when he’s around.
“Fine,” you relent. His entire face lights up, and your heart does the same dance it always does. “I have conditions, though.”
“Anything you want.” He scoots closer. You can smell his cologne, a pine and bergamot scent he wears for the holidays. “I’m at your service.”
“We’re gonna do classy Christmas. I’m talking silver decorations, maybe some gold. None of that tacky red and green shit from the dollar store.”
“Uhu.” He nods. “Aligned, captain.”
“All the food will be catered. I’m not making poor Dahyun cook. She has enough on her plate already.”
He salutes you, which makes you snort.
“Lastly, and most importantly, no mistletoe.”
His smile falters. Tips downward so that it’s almost unrecognizable. The light in his eyes dims, and now you almost feel guilty. “Wha—why not?”
See, if this were a Christmas romcom broadcasting on Hallmark, this is the pivotal moment where you’d confess everything. How you’ve been in love with him since you were old enough to feel that feeling of warmth in your chest, how watching him kiss other girls made all your kisses seem foolish, how every Christmas without his lips on yours (even platonically) makes you want to move to a foreign country. He’d probably gasp, pull you close, and kiss you right there on your sofa while snow fell cinematically outside your window. Credits would roll over a montage of you two ice skating and baking holiday cookies, all set to some Kelly Clarkson cover of “Last Christmas.”
But this isn’t a Hallmark movie, and you’re not that brave.
So, instead, you say, “It’s tacky and overdone. I don’t want it in my apartment.”
Jungkook seems genuinely concerned, as though you just informed him you have four days to live and your final wish is to jump out of a plane. “But it’s tradition. Every year, there’s a mistletoe.”
You huff, hugging the blanket wrapped over your legs tighter to you. “Well, I don’t care. That’s my conditions. Take it or leave it.”
He watches quietly for a moment as you inspect the fibers of the blanket. He knows you well enough to not pry further, but he also knows that he’s the only one you’ll talk to if he does decide to investigate. There’s no sound except the rattling of your heater and the sound of cars honking past your window. The television screen remains paused on a scene from The Grinch you could probably recite by heart.
“Okay,” he finally says. “No mistletoe.”
“Good. Glad that’s settled.” You stand up, desperate for distance. “Now get out. I have work to do.”
“First of all, it’s Sunday. Second of all, we’re watching the Grinch. That’s not work,” he points out.
“I’m sure I could find something to do. I’ve been meaning to dust my bookshelf,” you counter.
“Oh, really? You walking your squirrel after that?” he teases, smirking.
“I am actually.” You cross your hands over your chest, the signal you make when it’s time for him to exit your apartment.
He stands, stretching his arms above his head. His shirt rides up slightly, exposing a sliver of toned stomach, and you have to look away. You’ve been down this road too many times.
“I’ll text you tomorrow about picking up supplies,” he yawns, heading for the door. “We’ll need to grab stuff from my place anyway. I’ve got extra string lights in storage.”
You trail behind him. “Fine.”
He pauses at the threshold, turning back to look at you. “Thanks for doing this. I know it’s not your favorite thing.”
Oh, If only he knew it was his fault. “Yeah, well. You owe me.”
“I always do,” he grins, and then he’s bounding down your staircase, leaving you alone with the Grinch and the hollowed feeling in your chest that never really goes away.
When you’re certain he’s finally gone, you lock the door and sink back into the couch, pressing play on the remote. On screen, the Grinch is plotting to ruin Christmas, and you can’t help but think to yourself, same, buddy. Same.
He’s probably got the right idea. If you steal all the decorations before he can hang them, accidentally forget to buy eggnog, or come down with the Black Plague on the day of the party, you could ruin the whole thing.
But you won’t. Despite everything, you can’t actually hurt him. You’d host a thousand Christmas parties, hang a million strands of lights, bake cookies until your hands cramped, if it meant making Jeon Jungkook happy. That’s the real bittersweet tragedy of your situation. Not that he doesn’t love you back, but that you love him enough to pretend you don’t.
Jungkook likes to call his apartment his ‘modest mancave.’
He’s called his bedroom that since you two were old enough to be in school. However, one spring day during Sophomore year, you’d barged in unannounced and found him scrambling to hide a bottle of lotion and suspiciously large pile of tissues. He came up with some daft excuse about allergies, but you knew what the option meant. He knew that you knew. It became just another shared moment in the encyclopedia of your friendship, because that’s what you two always did. You witnessed each other’s embarrassing moments and life continued on.
Which is why his apartment’s state right now doesn't deter you. It's a little messy (okay, a lot messy) with random moving boxes he’s never unpacked stacked haphazardly in corners and furniture pushed against walls at odd angles. There’s a pile of paint swatches on the coffee table, each one a slightly different shade of beige that all look identical to your untrained eye.
He had texted you earlier in the day to get started on Operation: Un-Grinchify Christmas, as he referred to it. You weren’t really up for it, but he sent you three crying emoji’s and then you were halfway out the door with mismatched socks on.
Jungkook swears he has a box of light-up reindeer somewhere when you first arrive to his home. Something about them looking like they’re having a seizure when they’re plugged in. He's so entranced in his search he’s completely forgotten about your own holiday dilemma.
“Koo?” you yell down his hallway. You venture down, stepping over a stack of books and what appears to be a broken lamp, following the sound of muffled cursing.
You find him in his bedroom, halfway inside the closet, ass up in the air. Boxes and random junk are scattered around him—old magazines, a deflated basketball, what looks like his matching Halloween costume with Hana from two years ago.
“I know it’s here somewhere,” he mutters, voice echoing from deep within the closet. Leaning against the doorframe, you cross your arms over your chest, utterly amused by his same old childish ways.
“Need help, or should I just enjoy the view?”
“Shut up,” he says, but you can hear the smile in his tone. “I’m finding an ancient artifact.”
“How ancient is it? We talking middle school? Elementary?”
“I don’t know, all I know is—aha!” He backs out, brown hair flopping around, and cracks his head on the closet rod with a thunk. “Fucking fuck—ow—”
You can’t stop the giggle that falls from your lips, and it turns into full-blown laughter when you catch wind of his appearance. He’s rubbing his head, hair sticking up in five different directions.
But then you see what’s in his hands, and all laughter ceases with a wheeze. It’s the most hideous collection of green and red tinsel garland you’ve ever witnessed. It looks like it’s gonna shed all over your home, and there’s no way you’ll let your cat named Ginger anywhere near that.
“Ta-da!” He holds it up proudly, grinning brightly.
“Are you insane?”
“What?” he gawks, inspecting it for himself. “This is the epitome of Christmas.”
“Jungkook, I said classy Christmas. Elegant. That looks like a drunk elf threw up.” You gesture at the…thing, deeply perturbed at the fact he would even show it to you.
He shakes the garland at you like it might change your mind. “But Christmas needs a little green and red! That’s literally the symbolic colors of the holiday.”
“I don’t care if it was sent down by Santa himself. It’s not going in my home,” you argue.
“But why?” he pouts, and you can already tell which direction this conversation is going. But you’re standing your ground this time, because if you don’t you’ll fold like papier mache.
“It looks like it has dust mites from 2014,” you grimace.
He moves closer, forcing you to look at the grimy strings. “C’mon, just one strand? For your old pal?”
“No.”
“Please?”
“I will leave, Jungkook.”
He sighs, defeated, and holds the garland out to you anyway. “Fine. But you have to be the one to throw it away. I can’t bear to part ways with her.”
Rolling your eyes, you take it from him, and your fingers brush his. Softly, gently, barely even there to the naked eye. You doubt he even notices it. But heat crawls up your spine and nestles a home in your chest.
You snap out of it, tossing the garland in the trash in his bedroom. “Why do you even have that anyway?”
“It was Hana’s.”
You freeze in your tracks, hand hovering over the trash bin. When you look back at him, his ears are pink, eyes trained on some shadow on the wall behind you. “Oh.”
“Yeah.” He clears his throat, rubs the back of his neck. One of his nervous tics from childhood. “I’ve been meaning to get rid of her stuff. What you said yesterday... it kind of stuck with me.”
Guilt settles in your bones. “Koo, I didn’t mean—”
“No, you’re right.” He finally catches your gaze. “I’ve been holding onto things I shouldn’t. Not even because I miss her, really. It’s just—I don’t know. Easier to keep it than deal with it, y’know?
You do know. You know all too well. You’ve been keeping your feelings in a box for years for the exact same reason.
“But I’m trying now,” he continues. “To move on. Actually move on, not just say I am. It still feels weird, throwing away a part of my life. Even if I know it’s the right thing to do.”
Throughout your life, you have continuously kept a square of people in your life that you care about. It mostly consists of your parents, Jungkook, his parents, and your friends. You don’t ever really rearrange it to make space for others, because you already have the ones that matter. You hope that when Jungkook rearranges his square, maybe removes Hana, you take up a bigger chunk of it.
“I’m proud of you,” you smile. Even if the selfish part of you has been waiting for this moment since last Christmas.
He returns your smile with a feeble one of his own. “Thanks.”
For a moment, you two stand there, soaking in the silence. But just like that, it always falls back into place the way it’s meant to be. “I need your silverware for my kitchen, by the way. I’m not using mine for this party.”
“What? Why not?” He furrows his brows.
“Because I don’t want Taehyung's drunk ass dropping my good forks down the garbage disposal like last New Years.”
Jungkook rolls his eyes. “He apologized and paid for new ones.”
“But it wasn’t the same exclusive ones I had,” you sing-song, leading him back down the hallway to his kitchen. “Show me what you’ve got, mister.”
For the next hour, you two bicker over everything. He wants to bring the fork set with wooden handles, but you object with the fact that they look like they belong in a cabin in the forest.
Then it’s the string lights. He’s insistent on multicolored ones, big bulbs of green, yellow, and red that would look outdated against the rest of your apartment. You opt for the warm white ones, and he sticks his tongue out at you and says you’re boring.
He’s a child. You make sure to tell him that about five separate times. On the sixth time, however, he retorts, “You take that back.”
“Make me.”
He waves a serving spoon at you. “I’m not playing with you, young lady.”
“Oh, please,” you wave him off. “You’re the one who begged me to host.”
It’s comfortable, the way it always is. The bickering, the back-and-forth, the way you can read each other’s expressions before the words even come out.
At some point, while you’re debating whether his punch bowl is too tacky (it is), he wipes his hands on a dish towel and tosses it over his shoulder. “You should check the closet in case you see anything else you wanna take.”
“The old shit in there?”
He smacks you with the towel. You yelp, leaping back a few inches. “There’s goodies in there too, I’ll have you know.”
“Sure, Koo. Goodies, otherwise known as old shit.” But you’re already laughing, walking back into his room and diving into the closet.
You push back the ugly garland’s former neighbors. There’s a box of tangled charging cables, some old textbooks from college, a pair of busted headphones. It’s very standard Jungkook chaos. His mind is also disorganized, so it’s no wonder he has the room to match.
You rummage around a bit more, sighing as you wave the dust from your face.
On the top shelf, shoved way back in the top corner, you come across a box.
Small, cardboard, duct-taped on the bottom half into oblivion. There’s a piece of paper taped to the front, and even in the dim closet light, you can make out your name written in his messy handwriting. [Y/N].
For a moment, you blink at the box, heart pounding, and then realize you have no idea what to do.
If you open it, maybe he’ll know. Then you’ll look like a stalker. On the other hand, he’s been your best friend since birth, so finding out you have stalker tendencies might not be a dealbreaker.
You stretch up on your toes, tugging the box toward you just enough to peek inside. A flash of worn brown fur catches your eyes, and then you see the teddy bear ear flopping out. Your teddy bear. You lost it in middle school, and you assumed it was gone forever, donated or thrown away during one of your mom’s delirious cleaning sprees.
He kept it.
“Find anything good?” Jungkook’s voice migrates from the kitchen. You jolt, almost dropping the box. Your hands shake as you shove it back into place, blood whooshing through your eardrums.
“Nah,” you call back. Your voice sounds a bit shaky, but you hide it behind several coughs. “I was right. Old shit.”
You back out of the closet, closing the door carefully. What else is in there?
Later that night, when sleep proves itself to be unfeasible, and you’re tossing and turning underneath your comforter, you ponder what else might be in the box, and if he keeps it for the same reason you’ve kept every birthday card he’s ever written you. Tucked away in your own closet, in your own box, with his name on it.
Apparently, hosting a Christmas soiree is not as straightforward as you’d hoped it would be.
First, there’s Jisoo, who texts a novel about how she’s trying this new clean eating thing and can there please be gluten free and dairy free options? You respond with a thumbs up, and then run to text Jennie to see if she’s actually serious. She sends back a skull emoji, which 1) you’re not sure what that implies and 2) you guess it’s confirmation that yes, she’s serious, but also yes, she’ll quit and eat regular food after two glasses of wine.
Then Taehyung calls to inform you he’s trying to maintain a vegetarian lifestyle, and not the kind that occasionally eats fish, but the kind that will know if you used chicken stock in any recipe. You add “vegetable stock” to your growing shopping list, since catering cost more than your rent, and resist the urge to bang your head against the counter.
Namjoon sends his regrets that he and Dahyun can’t stay long because baby Haewon is ‘in turmoil right now,’ which translates to ‘we’ll be there for an hour max.’ You’re not even annoyed about that one—you’ve seen the bags under Namjoon’s eyes, and honestly, you’re impressed he’s coming at all.
The point is, you’ve given up. By Wednesday, your Notes app looks like a grocery list written by someone having a mental breakdown, and you’re seriously reconsidering this whole thing.
To his credit, Jungkook tries to help as much as possible. Inevitably, this means dragging him to your apartment on weekends, even though you do that often enough already. Saturday morning, he shows up with boxes, four different sets of more lights, some ornaments, all of them white, all of them looking functionally identical.
“Okay,” he says, holding up the first strand. “Which one screams ‘this is a classy Christmas’?”
You squint at it from the couch, hugging your mug of hot chocolate. “Hmm. I don’t know. That one kinda screams dollar store.”
“Cut.” He drops it and holds up the second. “This one?”
“Hmm, uglier than the first.”
“How can someone be so picky?” He holds up the third, and you can see him struggle to hold a straight face. “Fine. This one. Final answer.”
Tilting your head, you study it. It has a warm hue, the bulbs delicate and tiny. It’s kind of pretty, sans the scratches on some of the bulbs. “I think we have ourselves a winner.”
“Sold.” He drops the others in the pile he’s been gathering. The ones on the right are the takers, the ones on the left are getting deposited in your dumpster at 5PM sharp. “See? This is why we make a good team.”
You have to fight not to let your mind wander off when he says things like that. “Barely. When we were five, we were on the same team for kickball and you nearly broke my ankle.”
He frowns, “Okay, but then I patched you up good as new with a Hello Kitty bandaid. That shit wasn’t easy to find.”
It was over two decades ago, but still remains a permanent fixture in your brain. You were sprawled on the playground, crying so hard you’d given yourself hiccups, convinced your ankle was shattered and your legs would be cut off. Jungkook had run to get the teacher, but came back before she did, sliding on his knees beside you like some action hero. He’d pulled a crumpled Hello Kitty bandaid from his pocket (you have no idea why he had it, he’d never explained) and stuck it on your ankle with the utmost seriousness, tongue poking out in concentration. “All better,” he had promised. Miraculously, you’d stopped crying. It wasn’t because the bandaid helped, but because Jungkook looked so proud of himself, you didn’t have the heart to tell him your ankle still hurt.
“You’re still a pain in my ass.”
“Yeah, yeah, but who’s doing this home renovation for free? Me.”
You can’t argue with that.
He continues pulling things from the boxes. More tinsel, garlands, ornaments in muted golds and silvers. Each item gets held up for your approval, and you find yourself less focused on the decorations and more on him. His cheeks flush crimson when you compliment one of his choices. A bright smile overtakes his features when you agree to something halfheartedly just because it makes the smile grow tenfold.
You’d fallen for him a long time ago, but even now you realize how far down you’ve already gone.
“Oh shit,” he exhales, freezing midway through a box. “No way.”
“What?” You shift excitedly on the couch, trying to peer into the box.
He pulls out a photo album, the edges frayed and the cover dusty. You recognize it as soon as you see it. It was one of the many your moms had compiled over the years, chronicling every significant (and insignificant) moment of your joint childhood.”
“I forgot I even had this,” he says incredulously, flipping it open. He moves to the couch, dropping down beside you, and his knee brushes yours.
Your body knows to jerk back instinctively, heart jumping into your throat. He doesn't notice, too absorbed in the photos, but your knee burns where it touched him.
“God, look at us,” he laughs, pointing to a picture of you both at around 7 years old, covered head to toe in mud. “Your mom was pissed at us.”
“Yeah, she was pissed because you pushed me into the puddle,” you remind him.
“And then I got you out of it.”
“You said ‘watch this’ and then did it. I don’t think you really won brownie points with Mom,” you laugh at the memory.
He flips through the book, oohing and aahing everytime you stumble across a cute picture. They’re reminiscent of a time when everything was easy, when you didn’t have to worry about adult things like taxes and bills and groceries. It was just you and Jungkook, conquering the world one playdate at a time.
Jungkook flips to the next page. There’s a photo taped to the page, with your mom’s handwriting underneath. “Christmas, 9 years old, Busan.”
You're both standing under a mistletoe that looks comically large above your small heads. His lips are pressed to yours in that brief, earth-shattering peck you still think about once in a while (or more precisely, when it’s late at night and you’re missing his presence).
You take a deep breath. Your chest feels tight, like someone’s tugging on it by the ends of a string.
Jungkook stares at the photo for what feels like forever, an unreadable expression crossing his face. “I remember this,” he quietly says.
You can’t speak. Your tongue feels like deadweight.
“You held your breath and everything,” he reminisces, and you suddenly feel breathless. Like you’re drowning and gasping for air, but even when you hit the surface, it’s not enough.
He flips the page again, and there's another one. Age 10. Same mistletoe, different living room. It was the year your parents moved homes, but remained down the street from Jungkook’s. You’re wearing a red dress your mom made you wear, and he’s in a sweater that's too big. His hand is on your cheek, and you can see, even in the photo, how red your face was.
“We did this every year,” he notes, and there’s a nostalgic edge to his voice that wasn’t there before.
“Yeah.” The word comes out hoarse. You clear your throat. And then the words are out before you can stop them, tinged with wistfulness, "Until we didn’t.”
Jungkook doesn’t acknowledge that. Just flips again. Through age 11, age 12, age 13, age 14. Each photo is a documentation of a tradition that meant everything to you.
Then he turns the page, and the mistletoe is gone. Age 15. You’re standing stiffly next to Haeun, who’s tucked under his arm, beaming at the camera. You look like you want to disappear.
“Hm,” he hums, frowning. “I guess we stopped here.”
It’s so juvenile, so high school it’s almost embarrassing. He hadn’t cared for the absence of your kiss. For him, it was a silly thing your families let you partake in. “You had Haeun. The mistletoe thing was for kids anyway”
“Was it though?” He studies the photo, and you wish he would stop, wish he would close the album and move on to anything else. The question isn’t meant to be flirtatious but a selfish part of you wishes it was. “I always thought it was fun.”
“Our parents got so excited over it.” He flips back to the earlier photos, running his finger over the vintage picture. “We’d be right under the mistletoe and she’d count down with her camera ready like it was the New Years countdown.”
“She was probably hoping to plaster us on some kids’ Christmas ad.”
“It was cute.” He lands on the photo from when you were six—the very first one. His tiny self kissing your cheek, your hand frozen mid-reach to touch the spot. “Look how tiny we were. Little babies.”
He says it so innocently that something inside you stumbles.
You cover your face with your hands, as if he could see the adoration written all over your face. But even if he could, he probably wouldn’t say anything “I’m mortified. I didn’t realize my mom took so many pictures of us kissing as kids.”
He scrunches his brows, looking over at you. “Was it really that bad?”
Yes. No. It was the best and worst thing that ever happened to you. “Kinda. I mean, I survived, didn’t I?”
“Barely, from the looks of it.” He taps the photo, where baby you looks seconds away from a panic attack. “It’s not like I had cooties.”
You smile. “Oh, yes you did. If anyone had cooties, it was definitely you. You ran that playground like it was your personal dating pool.”
“Rude.” He bumps your shoulder, turning the page slowly, lingering on each mistletoe photo. “I can’t believe we did this for almost a decade.”
“Used me for practice?” It doesn’t feel like there’s enough air in your apartment, even with the window cracked open. It’s taking tremendous effort to breathe.
“Worked well for us, I think.”
“Why’d you stop?”
Oh god, you’ve really done it now.
Surprisingly enough, the embarrassment comes belatedly, but it settles in your stomach all the stronger.
Surprise flashes across his face. “What?”
“After Haeun. I guess… I don’t know. You never—” You wish you could say the words, wish you could be brave, wish you could be six years old again with Jeon Jungkook’s lips on your cheek. “Why’d it just… end?”
He’s quiet. The sound of your space heater rattling and Ginger purring fills the room, but not enough to quell the anxiety that’s rumbling in your stomach. He’s going to let you down gently, you hope. Quick and painless, like a bullet to the head.
“I don’t know. I guess I thought you didn’t want to anymore. We were older. I thought it would feel weird to you.”
Weird.
And this whole time, for you, his kiss was nothing short of ethereal.
“Plus,” he continues, oblivious to the way your heart is splintering, “I figured it’d be uncomfortable doing it once I had girlfriends. Like it would be... I don't know. Inappropriate or something.”
He was being considerate. Somehow, and you know you’re being irrational, that makes it worse.
“It makes sense.” You force a smile. “Relax, Koo. I’m not writing sonnets about your lips every night.”
He snorts. “Oh, please, you wish you could have lips as luscious as mine.”
You push his shoulder, and then it’s just you and Jungkook again. Nothing more, nothing less.
He flips through a few more pages, ogling at pictures even you’d never seen before. He points to one where you're both wearing matching reindeer antlers. “Now, this should be on a Christmas card.”
“I’m shocked my mom didn’t have cards made. I would’ve burned them”
“You’re such a Grinch.” He closes the album but keeps it in his lap, fingers tracing the worn cover. Jungkook is quiet for another moment, and you catch the look on his face, the one he makes when he’s struggling to choose his words correctly. Decisively, he says, “Did you really hate it? The mistletoe thing?”
Your heart hammers. This is it, you think. This is where you could tell him. Where you could say actually, I loved it, I lived for it, I died a little every year you stopped.
But he’s looking at you with curiosity, as if he’s pondering what your favorite color is or what you had for breakfast. As if the answer doesn’t matter beyond satisfying his momentary interest.
You lie. “It was fine. Just a stupid kid thing.”
He sets the album aside, wiping his dusty palms on the front of his pants. “Yeah. Totally.”
Jungkook moves back to the decoration boxes, and you remain frozen on the couch. You grip your safety blanket as tight as you can, until you think you feel your blood flow cutting off. You just want to feel numb.
“You know what is crazy, though?” He pulls out a string of garland, examining it for tangled bits. “You used to be obsessed with Christmas.”
Your stomach does a somersault. “I was not.”
“Yeah, you kinda were.” His eyes linger on the garland, although you’re certain it’s in perfect condition. “You made us watch Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer and Frosty the Snowman on repeat. You also made us build snowmen every single time it snowed, even when it was like, two inches.”
“Everyone loves those things when you’re a kid.”
“Yeah, I guess.” he sighs. “But I don’t know. You had a countdown, you’d call me everyday in December to tell me how many days were left. That was your favorite holiday, and now I’m the only one who likes it.”
You shrug, hoping to come across as nonchalant, but you know he can read your face like an open book. “People change.”
“When did you even stop liking it?” He picks up a few string lights, untangling them as he’s doing to you currently.
Your throat tightens. “High school, maybe?”
“Cause of stress or something? School shit?”
“Sure.”
“It’s a yes or no question.”
“That’s the answer you’re getting.” You really, really wish there was a sinkhole that could swallow you entirely right now.
He studies you, and you can see him thinking, piecing together something you don’t want him to figure out. But despite it all, he just shrugs, letting it go. “It's depressing. You used to light up the whole room when Christmas came around. Now you look like someone killed Ginger."
She purrs in the corner.
“Sorry, Ging.” He throws the lights to the yes pile. It’s surprisingly larger than the no pile. “I just want you to be happy this Christmas. That’s all I care about.”
You half-smile at him, nodding. You don’t know how to tell him that you could be happy, could be ecstatic, if just this Christmas, you felt his lips on yours again.
Turns out, it’s a lot easier to throw yourself into party planning when you’re trying to distract yourself from something.
This whole debacle makes you realize you’ve never actually hosted a Christmas party. You actively avoid Christmas. What made you think you could pull this off? (Granted it’s all Jungkook’s fault, but that’s neither here nor there.)
The group chat you made for the attendees is already chaos—Jisoo asking about the playlist, Taehyung confirming he’s still vegetarian (yes, still, it's been four days), Dahyun asking if she can breastfeed in your bedroom. Your anxiety spikes with every notification.
So it’s no surprise that the day before the party, you wake up in a cold sweat at 6AM with the horrifying realization that you have no idea what you’re doing. By the time Jungkook arrives at noon, you’ve managed to rearrange your furniture three times and stress-clean your bathroom until it’s sterile enough to perform surgery in.
“Wow,” He steps inside, taking in the boxes of decorations you’ve laid out for him to tackle. “Did you even sleep?”
“I would, but Jisoo and Jennie are blowing up my phone like this is the fucking MET Gala or something.” You huff, not pausing your incessant scrubbing of your kitchen sink.
“They know it’s just the annual Christmas party… right?”
You puff another exasperated breath. “Yes. But none of that matters to them because they’ve sent me 30 different outfit options like I’m going to be judging them personally or something.”
He bites back a smile. “It’s time to call in the big guns. Where can I get my hands dirty, sergeant?”
You really are grateful he’s here. And exists. And all those other sentimental things that your heart sings about constantly.
You two go full decorator mode, moving through your apartment like a well-oiled machine. He hangs the garland while you untangle lights, arrange the ornaments while he figures out how to make your bookshelf look “festive but not icky.” His words, not yours.
It’s disgusting how much Christmas is invading your space. Your minimal, clean apartment now looks like Santa threw up in it. There are silver bells on your kitchen counter, a wreath on your door that's so aggressively pine-scented you can taste it. There are candles labeled things like “Winter Wonderland” and “Cinnamon Craze” that you know will take weeks to burn through after this is all said and done.
But you keep going, because if you stop, you’ll think. If you think, you’ll remember the photo album, the mistletoe pictures, the dumb kid thing.
“Alright, I need my harshest critic.” Jungkook motions to you to survey the living room.
Standing beside him, you inspect the damage. Warm white lights are strung along your windows and wrapped around your bookshelf. A garland drapes elegantly across your mantle (you don't have a fireplace, but the decorative mantle suddenly feels worth it). There are small golden ornaments scattered tastefully on your side tables, and the wreath on the door is admittedly very pretty, even if it does smell like a forest.
“Not too shabby, Jeon.”
He looks offended. “Yeah, no shit. I deserve better than that.”
“Subpar at best.”
“I’m gonna punt Ginger like a football.”
“I think the lights are nice,” you finally concede, because they are. They make your apartment look warm, cozy even.
“Told you I was good at this." He's grinning like a Cheshire cat, that proud, bunny-toothed smile that makes your chest hurt. “Admit it. I crushed this.”
You roll your eyes. “You did alright.”
He gapes, blinking frantically. “Okay? Okay? I turned your Grinch lair into a winter wonderland!”
“My abode is not a lair.”
“It was before I arrived.” He sticks his tongue out, and you shove his shoulder.
“I think we're done,” you say, more to yourself than to him. “This is... yeah. This is enough.”
“Well… almost.” Jungkook looks like a kid who’s just been told he can’t have dessert before dinner but is already plotting how to sneak a cookie anyway.
Your stomach sinks. “What do you mean almost?” you ask, even though you think you already know.
“I have a surprise.”
You protest, “Jungkook—”
“Wait right here.” He holds up a hand, jogs back toward the entryway where he’d dropped his bag earlier. You stiffen like you’re made of ice, the only thing moving in your body being your heartbeat that thumps along the walls of your ribcage.
Please don’t be what you think it is. Please don’t be what you think it is.
He turns around, and your heart sinks lower than where your stomach sat.
In his hand, dangling from a red ribbon, is a mistletoe.
It’s small, crinkled, fake plastic leaves bent at weird angles like it was shoved in the back of his closet for years. It probably has been.
“No,” you object immediately.
“Come on—”
“No. This is a hard no, Jungkook.” And you know you’re being harsh, but it’s the only way you’ll get him to stop whatever efforts he’s decided are worth his time.
“You said no mistletoe in the apartment,” he argues, walking toward you with that stupid sprig held up. “Technically, this is going above the doorway, which is a threshold. Not in the apartment.”
“That’s the worst logic I’ve ever heard.”
“But it’s tradition!” You can see the hope in his eyes, the genuine excitement, and it makes you want to rip your hair out. “Every Christmas party needs a mistletoe.”
“Not this one.”
“Especially yours. Ours.” His voice softens, and that's worse somehow. “For old times’ sake?”
You hate the tone in his voice, the guilt-tripping, the pity.
“I don’t want it,” you repeat. “I told you this already.”
His smile falters as he realizes you’re truly serious. “Why not?
“Because it’s stupid and outdated and I don’t want people making a big deal about it.”
“Why would any of our friends make a big deal—”
“Jungkook,” you plead, crossing your arms, putting a physical barrier between you and that mistletoe. “I said no.’
He just stares at you, confusion and hurt flickering across his face. “I don’t get it. It’s literally just a mistletoe. It’s supposed to be fun.”
Fun, weird… a list of words that describe the opposite of what mistletoe makes you feel.
“It’s not fun for me.” You burn holes into your floor, refusing to look at his puppy eyes that would make you feel more guilty than you already do.
“Why not?”
Because everytime I look at it, I think about you kissing me when we were kids. Because it reminds me of when Christmas was my favorite day of the year. Because seeing it in my apartment, above my doorway, at my party, will make me think about all the Christmases you kissed other girls and not me.
“Because I don’t like it,” you decide upon, “Can’t you just respect that?”
An awkward silence spreads amongst you two, punctured only by Ginger purring in the corner. Jungkook's hand drops to his side, mistletoe dangling limply from his fingers.
“Fine,” he murmurs. “No mistletoe.”
“Thank you,” you sigh in relief.
He walks back to his bag and shoves it inside, and you should feel relieved. You should feel like you’ve won. But instead, you just feel like you’ve punched him square in the face.
“I should probably go,” he says, not meeting your eyes. “Let you rest before the big day tomorrow.”
“Oh, uh, yeah.” You shift on your feet awkwardly.
He gathers his things timidly, and you know he’s giving you time to take it back, to say you’re sorry, to explain, to undo the angst you’ve created.
At the door, he pauses before reaching for the doorknob. Jungkook turns, clutching his bag strap so tightly his knuckles resemble those of a ghost. “I really don't understand what's going on with you.”
“Nothing’s going on,” you mutter.
“That’s utter bullshit,” he snaps, and you raise your eyes to meet his. The usual warm chocolate shade of his orbs now shifts to onyx. “You’ve been weird about this whole Christmas party thing since day one.”
“I said, there’s nothing going on. I don’t want to talk about it,” you repeat, hoping it’ll stick.
“But I do!” His voice rises, and you flinch. Jungkook doesn’t yell. Not once in your lifelong friendship has he ever raised his voice or laid a finger on anyone. You were never involved in any of his relationship arguments, but you imagine he never argued with them like this. You suddenly feel dizzy, like the world is spinning too quickly for you to catch your breath. “I’ve known you forever. You’re my best fucking friend, and something is clearly wrong, so just tell me.”
Frustration coils in your stomach. Why can’t he ever leave anything alone? “Stop it. Please, just stop. Why can’t you just respect my boundaries? I said no mistletoe. I said I don’t want to talk about it. Why isn’t that enough for you?”
“This obviously is not just about the fucking mistletoe, [Y/N].” He tugs at his hair, rage rolling off him in waves. “Since the moment I brought up you hosting, you acted like I was attacking you.”
“Because you are!” None of it makes sense, not one bit, but you can’t tell between anger and panic and all you can see is red. “Maybe because you just bulldoze through my life, rearranging things, making decisions, assuming you know what's best—”
“We’re best friends. We help each other with everything,” he grits through clenched teeth.
“I’m not Hana, Jungkook. I won’t just let you decorate my life and pretend everything's perfect.”
For a moment, Jungkook seems taken aback by your outburst, recoils a step, landing with his spine against the front door. His face goes pale. “Wow. That’s fucking low.”
“Is it?” You're on a roll now, unable to stop even though you can see you’re hurting him. Maybe you just want him to hurt the way you do. “Because when you kept all of Hana’s things, when your apartment was basically a shrine to her, I never said a fucking thing about it. I just let you deal with it however you needed to. So why can’t you give me the same courtesy? Why can’t you just let this go?”
“Hana and I broke up!” His voice cracks, eyes glassy, “That’s so different and you know it.”
“How is it different? Enlighten me.”
“She was my girlfriend. And it hurt, okay? It hurt to let her go. But I did it. I'm doing it because it’s over and I don’t miss her that way anymore. And you’re the one who pushed me to. So don’t—" He pauses, jaw clenched, and you can see he’s trying to swallow his tears. “Don’t throw that in my face like I’m some pathetic asshole who can't move on.”
Fuck. “Koo—”
“No.” He holds up a hand. It’s shaking. “You want boundaries? Fine. Here’s one: don’t call me until you figure out what the fuck is actually going on with you. Because this isn’t you. The you I know doesn’t make me feel like shit for trying to care about you.”
You swallow around the lump forming in your throat. “Jungkook, I’m so sorry—”
“Save it.” His voice is quieter, and you miss the yelling, because at least then he still cared about you. He’s given up. “I’ll still come to the party tomorrow because I told everyone I would. But after that… maybe we should take a break from each other or something.”
“Oh.”
Throughout the duration of your friendship, you and Jungkook have only ever fought once. It was known as The Great Argument of 11th Grade, and it was so juvenile that even your parents got involved. Now, you don’t really remember the specifics of what went down or who started it, but you do remember that it only lasted a day, because Jungkook said, “you know I can’t stay away from you for too long.”
The concept of space from him is one you’ve never considered.
He leaves before you can say anything more, the door clicking shut with finality, echoing through your decorated apartment.
You stand there, frozen, staring at the space where he was. The mistletoe is still in his bag. He took it with him.
The rest of your unfortunate day is spent spiraling about your argument with Jungkook. You sit on the couch, crying to some stupid Hallmark movie where the girl gets the guy and everything works out perfectly. Then you cry in the shower, the water mixing with your tears until you can’t tell which is which. You go so far as to cry in your car on the way to the grocery store, because you two were supposed to go together to prepare for this stupid party.
Even the supermarket is taunting you. There’s couples everywhere walking around gleefully, hand-in-hand, debating between red or green napkins like it’s the most important decision of their lives. Meanwhile, you’re shuffling through the aisles in a massive oversized hoodie that’s doing nothing to hide your puffy eyes and red nose.
Sniffling, you round the corner to the next aisle, looking for Taehyung’s stupid vegetable broth. Your cart collides with someone else’s with a loud clang, and you’re thrown, apologizing like crazy, “Ohmygod, I’m so sorry, I wasn’t paying attention—”
“[Y/N]?”
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Hana.
The last time you saw Hana was last January after the breakup. She was collecting her things at Jungkook’s apartment, and you’d shown up at the wrong moment. Her eyes were bloodshot, movements solemn as she shoved books and clothes into a duffel bag. She’d barely looked at you, just mumbled a quiet “hey” before brushing past you in the hallway. You had felt guilty then, even though you had no reason to be.
At least now, she looks radiant. Her skin reflects off the luminescent overhead lights, cart stocked full of fancy cheeses and wine bottles and overpriced crackers. She looks like someone who has her shit together. Someone who’s moved on.
Unlike you, apparently, who looks like you’ve been crying in your car. Which, by all means, you absolutely were.
“Hana,” you slap a smile onto your face, although you’re 99 percent certain it looks strained. “It’s good to see you.”
“You too!” She seems actually happy about the encounter. It’s not like you two ever had a bad relationship, but you weren’t besties by any means. “It’s been forever.”
“Yeah, almost a year.” You’re too hyperaware of your puffy eyes, your ratty hoodie, the fact that you probably look like you’ve been hit by a truck. But of course, she looks like she just stepped out of Vogue.
“How have you been?” she asks.
“Good. Busy. You know, the holidays,” You nod at your cart, which contains three different types of cheeses, ten bags of chips, and a bag of chocolate chips for yourself because you need to eat your feelings when you get home.
“I do,” she laughs. “Work has been insane lately. I barely have time to go outside.”
“Right, you’re at that new marketing agency now?” You remember Jungkook mentioning it once, back when talking about Hana was therapeutic for him.
“I do.” she nods. “It’s a lot but I love it. What about you? Still at the magazine?”
“I am. I actually just finished a pretty big piece, so that’s good.”
“That’s amazing,” she earnestly responds. You want to hate her—it would be easier if you could hate her—but she’s always been kind. Even when you wanted to despise her for being with Jungkook, she made it impossible.
There’s a lull in conversation, and you debate making a run for it until she asks, “How are you and Jungkook?”
You furrow your brows. She could just ask you about Jungkook. You wouldn’t judge her for wondering. “What do you mean?”
“I just—” A crimson blush creeps onto her cheeks. “I mean, how are you guys doing?”
Why would she ask about you both together? Granted, it’s not that unreasonable. You and Jungkook are attached at the hip; everyone knows that. “We’re… good? He’s good.”
“Cool,” she says, but she doesn’t even look convinced by your answer.
You don’t know why you feel the need to overshare, but it all comes tumbling out like word vomit. “Yeah, he’s actually been helping me plan this Christmas party. Total nightmare, honestly. He’s been at my place basically every day this week, decorating and—”
She cracks a smile. “That’s so cute you guys are still inseparable.”
“I mean… “ you trail off, slightly confused by her angle. “We’re best friends. So yeah.”
“Of course,” she rushes to say. “Duh. Silly me.”
“Is that... weird?” You clear your throat and shift on your feet. You don’t even know what she’s trying to get at anymore, and honestly, you really need to get as far away from this supermarket (or Seoul) as fast as you can.
“No! No, not weird. I think it’s sweet, actually.” She pauses before adding, “I'm really happy for you guys”
Either you must be braindead, or she’s undergoing memory loss. “I’m sorry Hana, I don’t think I’m following.”
She laughs softly, but it’s not mocking. “Come on, [Y/N]. You don’t have to pretend with me.”
Your stupid heart skips a beat, your brain struggling to make sense of her words. “Pretend about what?”
“That you and Jungkook aren’t together, obviously.”
Have you entered an alternate universe? Did you accidentally drive into another dimension in all your sadness, missed the supermarket completely?
“What?” you sputter. “No, we’re not—oh my god, no. We would never, I mean—we’re best friends.”
She reaches out, placing a warm hand over your own. You’re going to die. It’ll be a painful death, but you’ll make it work. Anything to get out of this. “No, it’s okay. You can tell. Honest to god, I’m seeing someone now. I’m not like, jealous or anything.”
It’s confirmed. You’ve entered an alternate world where you’ll soon grow a second head and become the queen of a make-believe land.
“Hana, I’m dead serious. Jungkook and I are not dating.” You need her to believe you. You need someone to believe you, because if Hana thinks there’s something there, what the fuck does that mean? “We’ve never dated. We’re just friends. That’s all we’ve ever been.”
She studies your face, searching for the lies. Confusion replaces her certainty. “Wait, really?”
“Really.”
“But you…” She trails off, shaking her head. “Wow. Okay. I genuinely thought you guys had finally gotten together.”
Your throat constricts. “W-Why would you think that?”
“Because,” she stops, biting her lip. “Nevermind. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed.”
It gives you pause for a minute, and your heart—that idiotic organ of yours that can never let go of anything—trembles in your chest.
“No, what were you going to say?” You’re not sure you want to know, but you can’t let it go now.
She casually flicks her hand. “It’s nothing, I swear.”
You exhale a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “Hana. Please.”
She sighs, shifting on her feet. “It’s just... when Jungkook and I were together, it was always pretty clear that you were the most important person in his life. Which, like, I totally respected! I did, I get it. But it was also kind of hard sometimes, you know? Like I was always competing with this... ghost. This idea of what you two had.”
Ever since you were young, people had this tendency to group you and Jungkook into this category of fate, as if the universe had done you both a favor by placing you in adjacent hospital cribs. It was always “you’re lucky to have each other” and “what a gift to be so close,” that you had never stopped to consider that your luck, your fate, your happiness, your shining star, might cast shadows on the people who tried to love him.
“Hana, I never meant to—”
“No, no,” she rushes to say, “Trust me, it wasn’t you. You did nothing wrong. Neither did he, really. He tried his best. But I could always tell his heart wasn’t fully in it. At least, not in the way it should have been.”
Words fall short of what you want to say. Hana and Jungkook’s relationship had always felt like something out of reach to you. An enigma. The plot of some braindead romance novel. They met at a concert, an underground indie band that only the two of them liked. He had stumbled home that night with a smile on his face that couldn’t be erased, eyes bright as exploding stars, talking so fast his words tripped over each other. You remember thinking this is it, the real thing, the love that rewrites him. You had never imagined that magic would ever run dry.
“Anyway,” Hana continues, “I just assumed that once we broke up, you two would figure it out. The way he talked about you, the way he’d light up when you texted... I don't know. I thought it was inevitable.”
“Well, it’s not.” The words prick your tongue like thorns. “We’re just friends.”
“Oh. Well, that’s still cool,” she offers, but her eyes have gone all soft.
For a while, it’s quiet. She’s staring at you intently, chewing on her lip like she has more to say but needs to mash it down. But you really just want to grab Taehyung’s stupid vegetable broth and get the fuck out of here.
“It was great to see you, Hana. I need to go and—”
“[Y/N], wait.” She latches onto your arm before you get a chance to escape.
You stare at her, wide-eyed, heart racing, mouth dry.
“I probably shouldn't be telling you this. Maybe it should be him, I don’t fucking know," she says, rolling her eyes. "But clearly he hasn’t grown the balls yet. Well, that, or his peanut brain hasn’t pieced it together. But I’m gonna tell you anyway.”
Your hands grip the cart handle. “Tell me what?”
There’s a long pause, and you can feel her weighing her words. Until, finally, she admits, “Last Christmas, when we were under the mistletoe… when Jungkook kissed me.” She takes a deep breath. “He was looking at you.”
Your first reaction is to laugh. Which you do, actually, loud enough to bounce off the cans of corn on the shelves. At the sound, Hana raises an eyebrow.
“What are you talking about?” you giggle. “No, he wasn’t.”
She’s watching you now with something that resembles pity.
“We were under the mistletoe at your friend Jisoo’s apartment. Everyone was there, all your friends. And he kissed me, but…” Hana swallows thickly. “When we pulled apart, his eyes were open, and he wasn’t looking at me. He was looking across the room at you.”
You think you’re going to die in this godforsaken supermarket.
“I didn’t say anything that night. I thought maybe I’d imagined it, but then it kept happening. He’d be with me, but he’d be watching you. Listening for you, waiting for you to text or call.” She laughs dryly, but you’re not sure either of you find this funny. “On New Years, I asked him about it. I asked him if he was in love with you.”
Bile rises up in your throat. You don’t even think you want to hear the rest of this. If she’s right, if it’s true, if you’ve missed this, if, if, if..
“What did he say, Hana?”
“Obviously, he lied and said no. He said you were just friends, and that I was being ridiculous. But then we broke up two weeks later. We both agreed we needed space, and I said that he wasn’t ready for something serious. And maybe that's true, maybe I was reading into things." She finally meets your eyes again. "But I don’t think I was.”
Last Christmas, you were so drunk on Jisoo’s eggnog that you hardly remember anything. You try to piece together the snippets of the night you have. There was dinner, which you scarfed down in under a millisecond. Then you all played pin the cock on the Santa (not suitable for kids, but luckily, baby Haewon only lived in Dahyun’s uterus at that point). You barely even remember the mistletoe portion of the night. That’s got to be some kind of trauma response to the stupid little leaf.
“Why are you telling me this?” Your voice sounds far away, like it belongs to someone else.
“Because," Hana’s lips curve upwards into a soft smile, “I spent a year loving someone who was in love with someone else, and it sucked, but you know what sucks more? Watching two people who are meant to be together waste time pretending they’re not.”
She reaches out and squeezes your arm. “I’m not bitter about it anymore. I’m happy now. I want him to be happy too. I think... I think he could be very happy with you.”
You want to argue. You want to tell her she’s wrong, that she’s misremembering, that she too was poisoned by Jisoo’s eggnog, that there's no way Jungkook feels that way about you.
But then you think about the box in his closet with your name on it. The teddy bear he kept. The way he’s been trying so hard to make you love Christmas again. The mistletoe he wanted to hang in your apartment.
No. It can’t fucking be.
“I gotta go,” you say abruptly.
“[Y/N]—”
But you’re already moving, abandoning your cart in the middle of the aisle, heart pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat. You make it to your car before the tears start again, but this time they’re different. This time, you don’t know if you’re crying because you’ve been in love with someone who doesn't love you back, or because you might've missed the entire thing completely.
There’s not enough wine in this apartment, nor this world, that will get you through this Christmas party in one piece.
It feels like the world is moving around you but you’re just glued to your kitchen, gripping your glass of white wine so tightly you’re surprised the stem hasn’t snapped. Surprisingly enough, everyone arrived on time—even Namjoon and Dahyun, balancing poor baby Haewon on their hip, her tiny Santa hat slipping over one eye. There’s enough alcohol floating around to feed a bar, courtesy of Taehyung’s overenthusiastic mixology skills.
It’s truly a splendid evening. A roaring success. Everything going exactly as planned.
Except, there are two minor (major) insignificant, soul-crushing details that are fucking up your perfect evening:
Hana’s words have been playing on loop in your brain all day.
When Jungkook arrived, he looked at you for exactly 0.5 seconds, said absolutely nothing, and spent the last hour charming everyone else in the room.
Other than that, splendid evening. Gatsby would be seething with jealousy if he saw the kind of party you were throwing.
Jungkook had walked in, present in hand for Haewon (because he was her godfather and she practically got whatever she wanted when he was around), and he’d met your eyes before looking away. No smile. No “hey.” Not even a nod of acknowledgment.
Naturally, since torturing you seems first on his agenda, he chooses this night to become the town jester. Jennie has been laughing at his jokes for what seems like ages, her hand on his arm, her head thrown back in delight. Taehyung keeps pulling him into conversations, clapping him on the shoulder. Even Dahyun, who normally has her hands full, is more entranced by Jungkook than her own daughter.
It’s what you deserve, you know that, but your heart is cracking at the seams and your brain isn’t faring any better.
You feel ill. Fucking ill.
Turning to the kitchen sink, you brace your hands on the counter. Breathe in. Breathe out. You’re fine. You just need to get through the next few hours without having a complete breakdown in front of all your friends.
“You alright?”
You jump, releasing an exhale when you see it’s just Jisoo. She’s holding a glass of red wine, matching with her burgundy turtleneck, eyebrow raised in that knowing way of hers that says she sees right through all your bullshit.
“Oh, yeah,” you reply. “Just taking a quick breather.”
“Mhm.” she eyes you up and down, leaning against the counter. “You’re basically hiding at your own party.”
“Could’ve sworn you did this last year at your Christmas party when your lasagna came out burnt,” you point out.
Jisoo deadpans. “This isn’t about me. We’re talking about you.”
Damnit. You were hoping she would let it go.
“I’m just here making sure everything’s to perfection. Y’know, Taehyung with his… vegetarianism..”
Jisoo takes a slow sip of her wine, “You wanna try that again, or should I just cut to the part where you tell me what’s actually wrong?”
Your heart falls to your ass. Jisoo is the one friend on this planet who has consistently read you down to the bone. She’s going to see right through any lie you try to feed her, so you’re wondering if it’s even worth it.
It’s worth one last shot.
“Nothing’s wrong—”
“Bitch just tell me.”
You close your eyes and try to imagine a beach, somewhere tropical with waves kissing your ankles and sand that burns your feet. Try to imagine a world where you don’t have to answer Jisoo's question, where Hana never ambushed you in the grocery store yesterday, where your feelings for Jungkook stayed frozen at age nine, still innocent and within reach.
Unfortunately, when you open your eyes again, you’re at a Christmas party—your Christmas party, in your annoyingly red sweater—and Jisoo is staring at you expectantly.
“I fucked up.”
Jisoo doesn’t look surprised in the slightest, which, okay. Rude. “With Jungkook?”
You raise an eyebrow. “How did you know that?”
“I mean, you’re not having a fight with any of the girls, or I would’ve heard an earful. That and he won’t glance in your direction and you look like you’re about to throw up. Doesn’t take Einstein.” She places her wine down. “What happened?”
Keeping it bottled up has never done you any favors, so you steady your voice and explain everything. How you didn’t want to host the party in the first place because Christmas makes you miserable. How Jungkook kept pushing about the mistletoe. How you snapped at him, brought up Hana, threw his grief in his face. How he left and told you he needed space and you haven’t spoken since.
You probably could’ve told her more, but you don’t want to tell her about the mistletoe tradition. You don’t tell her about being in love with him for thirteen years. Those truths feel like just yours.
When you finish, Jisoo is quiet for a long moment. Then, she sighs, levels you with a look, and says, “That was a low blow.”
“I know.”
“Like, really bad.”
“I know.”
“He was just trying to help, and you basically told him he’s pathetic for not being over his ex.”
“I know, Jisoo. Trust me, I know.” You press the heels of your palms against your eyes. “I feel like shit about it.”
“Have you apologized?”
“He said he needed space. Hence why he won’t look at me.”
“I mean, space doesn’t mean you can’t say sorry.” She picks up her wine again. “Look, I get it. You were overwhelmed. The party planning, the decorations, whatever else is going on in that head of yours. But Jungkook didn’t deserve that”.
“I know he didn’t.” you reply, now having trouble controlling your voice. “I just... I don’t know how to fix this.”
“The word you’re looking for, my dear, is sorry,” she smiles sympathetically.
You nod, even though the thought of approaching him right now makes you want to crawl into a hole.
The party outside seems to pick up in volume, and through the crack in the doorway, you see Jungkook holding baby Haewon, cradling her carefully against his chest like she’s made of glass. He’s wearing a dark green sweater, the color of mistletoe, and his skin looks golden under the string lights he helped set up. He’s cooing at the baby, making ridiculous faces, and Haewon is giggling, her tiny hand reaching up to grab his nose.
Dahyun is standing next to him, saying something that makes him laugh, and the light sound carries over the music and chatter. It’s his real laugh, the one that crinkles his nose and shows all his teeth, the one you thought you only got to see.
And suddenly you can picture it with perfect clarity: Jungkook, a few years from now, holding his own baby. His and someone else’s, some girl who isn’t you, who doesn’t have years of baggage and unspoken feelings weighing her down. Someone who can give him the uncomplicated love he deserves.
You didn’t even realize Jisoo was talking until you feel her hand on your arm.
Blinking out of your daze, you snap back to the kitchen, to the party, to reality. “Sorry, what?”
But it’s too late—Jisoo isn’t looking at you anymore. She’s following your gaze to the dining room, to Jungkook and the baby, and understanding dawns across her face.
“Oh,” she says.
Who knew a single syllable could carry so much weight?
“How long?” Jisoo questions.
“How long what?”
“Do not play dumb with me, missy. How long have you been in love with him?”
You’ve been tiptoeing around the truth for a long time. But you’re so tired of pretending, and the wine has loosened your tongue, and Jisoo is looking at you with such gentle understanding that the truth just spills out.
“Since I was a kid.”
Jisoo's eyes widen. “Jesus Christ, [Y/N].”
“Yeah,” is all you can offer.
“Does he know?” She lowers her voice, leans more into you like he might somehow hear across the room.
“Absolutely not,” you retort. “He can’t, and he won’t. It would ruin our friendship.”
She opens her mouth to protest, to probably give you some grand speech on how love wins above all, but you hold your hand up to stop her. “I’m serious, Jisoo. You can’t tell him. Pinky promise me.”
She studies you for a long moment, and you can see her debating whether to push. Finally, she sighs and holds out her pinkie. “I promise. But for the record, I think you’re an idiot.”
“I get that a lot.”
From the dining room, you hear Jungkook laugh again, and it feels like someone’s wrapped barbed wire around your heart and pulled tight.
“You really should talk to him, though,” Jisoo repeats. “Like tonight, before it gets worse.”
It’s already worse.
“I can’t,” you disagree, taking a gulp of wine. “You saw him. The man won’t even look at me.”
“Because he’s pissed, not ‘cause he hates you.” She squeezes your arm. “This is Jungkook we’re talking about. Your Jungkook. He’s probably just as miserable as you are.”
The words your Jungkook make you shiver. He’s never actually been yours in any way that matters. But god, the way Jisoo says it makes you want to believe it. Makes you want to crawl inside those two words and live there, in a world where your Jungkook means he’s yours the way you’ve always been his. Completely, irrevocably, in every way a person can belong to another.
“I don’t know, he seems to be the fucking class clown tonight,” you mumble into your wine, and Jisoo snorts.
“I promise you he’s waiting for you to make the first move. He said he needed space, but that doesn’t mean he wants the space. You know how he is—he’s a loverboy. Gets all up in his feelings and shit.”
You do know. You’ve known Jungkook long enough to recognize all his patterns.
Either way, you know just what to say to appease Jisoo. “Maybe later.”
“Later as in tonight, or later as in you’re going to avoid him until you two just forget about it and move on?”
Yeah, exactly that.
“We’ll see.”
Jisoo gives you a look that says she knows exactly what “we'll see” means in your vocabulary. “What’s your therapist’s name again? I want to give them a call.”
You hold up your middle finger.
“It’s gonna be a loooong night,” she exhales a loud breath.
And truly, she must have magical powers or something, because it is nothing short of a treacherous evening for you.
It all starts with Dahyun intercepting you, forcing you to hold Haewon. “Can you hold her for a sec? I need to use the bathroom and Joon’s three drinks deep trying to explain some conspiracy theory to Taehyung.”
You’re halfway through your protest when she just plops Haewon into your arms. She settles against your chest with a little coo, her Santa hat askew. She smells like powder, milk, and Dahyun’s perfume. Her tiny fist curls into your sweater, and despite the trainwreck that is your life, you smile brightly.
“Hi, pretty girl,” you murmur, adjusting her weight. “I bet you don’t know what it’s like to be in love with someone who doesn’t love you back. Because everyone loves you, since you’re perfect.”
Bouncing her gently, you two sway in place, and she makes a happy gurgling sound as if to say “yes, I know I’m perfect.” Someone has put on Nat King Cole, and the crooning voice of “The Christmas Song” fills your apartment with a nostalgic warmth you’ve been trying to avoid all month.
Haewon has the cutest little fingers and even tinier toes, and it amazes you how someone so utterly perfect could exit your friend Dahyun’s body. Before she met Namjoon, she was nothing short of a party girl, but now, her days are filled with Mommy & Me yoga classes and supermarket runs.
It’s your dream life, you think. One that you would give anything to live with Jungkook.
You’re so focused on this fantasy, the one you’ve conjured up in your head and dreams for years, that you don’t even realize Jungkook is blatantly staring at you.
He’s standing near the drinks table, a bottle of beer frozen halfway to his lips. You meet his eyes, and it’s just you and Jungkook (and Haewon).
Haewon squirms in your arms, breaking your gaze. You look down at her, adjusting her hat, heart hammering against your ribcage. When you look back up, Jungkook has turned away, saying something to Taehyung that you can’t hear over the blood whooshing in your ears.
But his knuckles are white around his beer bottle.
Later on in the night, after you’ve tended to Taehyung’s vegetarian needs and listened to Jisoo rant about how clean eating relates to consumerism, you retreat to the kitchen under the guise of refilling the snack bowls. No one needs more chips—there are three unopened bags on the counter—but you need a moment of reprieve.
You rip open a bag of pretzels, and a few go flying everywhere, but you manage to catch them in your hand.
“Need any help?”
Your body goes rigid. You’re certain even your heart has stopped its beat.
Jungkook is standing in the doorway, hands shoved in his pockets, looking anywhere but directly at you. The green sweater really is unfair. The golden undertone of his skin shimmers under your fluorescent light, makes his eyes look lustrous.
“All good here,” you retort. “I’m just restocking.”
He makes a noise of acknowledgment, shuffling closer toward you.
You pour pretzels into a bowl with more force than necessary, and several bounce onto the counter.
“The party’s a hit,” he offers.
“Yeah. Everyone seems happy.”
“The food’s really good too.”
“It was all Namjoon and Dahyun,” you snort. Your dream of getting food catered pretty much died immediately. Then you tried cracking open a recipe book and nearly fainted.
This is excruciating. You’ve never done small talk with Jungkook. Never needed to.
“Listen—”
“Jungkook,” you say in unison.
Words cease to exist. You both stop. A dreadful, awkward silence fills the kitchen.
He clears his throat. “I want us to talk later after everyone leaves. If that’s okay with you?”
Where the idea of talking to him used to excite you, is now replaced by a pit in your stomach that won’t budge.
Hana’s words crash back into your consciousness. He was looking at you.
But what if she was wrong? What if she saw something that wasn’t there because she was hurt and wanted an explanation that made sense? What if you let yourself hope and it destroys you?
“Maybe, Jungkook.”
Disappointment flashes across his face. He nods slowly. “Cool, yeah, uh, just let me know.”
He turns to leave, and you want to say more, want to stop him from leaving.
Your mind runs back to the grocery store, Hana’s words.
You open your mouth—to say what, you don't know. Sorry. Wait. I need to tell you something.
“Jungkook.”
Jennie pokes her head into the kitchen, oblivious to everything. “There you are! Tae’s trying to make everyone play some weird drinking game. You have to come referee before I murder him.”
Jungkook looks back at you, a question in his eyes.
“Go ahead,” you smile. “I’ll join in a sec.”
He hesitates for just a second, then follows Jennie to the party.
By the time you make it back to the living room, Taehyung has indeed corralled everyone into some drinking game involving Christmas trivia. You slide into an empty spot on the couch next to Jisoo, who gives you a pointed look that you ignore.
“Is this a joke?” you ask.
“Tis not, Christmas hater,” Taehyung jokes. He explains the rules of the game, most of which you spend picking at your fingernails. The game begins with Jennie getting a question wrong about Rudolph and has to take a shot of tequila. Dahyun argues that her answer about Home Alone is technically correct. Jungkook keeps score attentively, tongue poking through his teeth.
You're almost starting to relax when Namjoon, flushed from wine and dad-exhaustion, looks around your apartment with squinted eyes.
“Wait,” he says loud enough to make Taehyung’s and Jisoo’s current feud halt. “Where’s the mistletoe?”
Last Christmas by Wham is blaring from your speakers, and you can hear traffic from the street below, but a barrage of red alerts blasts through your brain.
Shit.
Your throat goes dry.
“Yeah!” Dahyun laughs, adjusting Haewon on her lap. “Where is it? I thought mistletoe was like, mandatory at Christmas parties.”
“Maybe she forgot,” Jennie offers, and you could kiss her on the lips.
“Feels like a crazy thing to forget,” Jisoo chimes in, and you shush her with a glare.
“I didn’t forget.” You can feel Jungkook’s eyes on you, but you don’t look at him. “I just didn’t put one up.”
“Why not?” Taehyung interrogates, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s tradition.”
Tradition. That stupid fucking word.
“It’s not really my thing.” You shrug.
“Since when?” Jennie arches a brow. “In college, you made us all kiss under the mistletoe in Jihyo’s dorm.”
You were obliterated and desperately trying to create some scenario where kissing Jungkook would happen again, even as a joke. It hadn’t worked. He’d kissed Jisoo on the cheek and you’d kissed Namjoon and everyone had laughed and moved on and you’d gone home and cried into your pillow.
“I was drunk,” you argue.
Jisoo is studying her drink intensely, and by the sheer force of mind reading, you beg her not to say something.
“I think it's nice,” Dahyun says, attempting to ease the awkwardness. “More elegant without it, you know? Like out of an Ikea catalogue!”
You throw her a grateful look.
“It does save people from those awkward forced kisses with people they don’t want to kiss,” she adds, and multiple other people nod in agreement.
“Exactly! That’s exactly it.” You practically leap out of your seat.
But you can still feel Jungkook looking at you. You chance a glance in his direction and immediately regret it. He’s not trying to hide his expression anymore. He looks visibly hurt, with his jaw tight and lips twitching.
“Should we keep playing?” Jennie asks, and bless her for it.
“Yeah,” Taehyung shuffles his trivia cards. “Alright, next question is for Jungkook.”
The game resumes, clockwise around the room, but even then, neither you or Jungkook care about anything else but each other.
Jungkook’s not sure when it happened.
There wasn’t a single moment, no dramatic revelation where the clouds parted and you were all grown up. It was more like watching a sunrise, so gradual that he didn’t even notice it was happening until the entire sky was painted in vivid bright colors. One day you were his best friend, the girl who knew all his secrets and laughed at his dumb jokes and fell asleep during movie nights with your head on his shoulder. Then, somewhere along the way, you became something more—flourished into a beautiful flower.
He thinks it might have started in high school, when you showed up to junior prom in that light blue dress that complemented your eyes. Your mother spent thirty minutes poking and prodding at your dress, noting that you were ‘filling out nicely,’ and it had taken all of Jungkook’s might not to ogle at your growing chest.
It could’ve also been in college, after you went through your first breakup and decided the proper next step was to cut your hair short, revealing the curve of your neck. He had stared for the better half of a week, and luckily, it went away once winter rolled around and you wore turtlenecks.
It could have been last year, when you laughed so hard at one of his stories that you snorted wine out of your nose, and instead of being grossed out, he’d thought it was the most endearing thing he’d ever witnessed.
Maybe it’s always been there, lurking underneath your friendship.
The thing is, Jungkook has always been sure he’s not in love with you. He’s never let himself think about it in those terms, never let the thought fully form before shoving it back down where it belongs. You are his best friend, have been since before he understood what friendship meant. You’re the person who knows him better than anyone, who’s seen him at his worst and somehow still shows up. You’re the constant in his life, the thing he’s never had to question.
But in the quiet of his own mind, he can acknowledge that you are utterly and thoroughly beautiful.
You’re brilliant too, in ways that constantly surprise him even after knowing you for years. Sharp and funny and creative, with this ability to see people that makes everyone feel understood. You remember things, stupid little details about people’s lives that they mentioned once in passing. You’re the kind of person who makes playlists for your friends based on their moods.
You made one for him last month. Called it ‘when koo is in his feelings.’
He listened to it on the way to the Christmas party.
And yeah, okay, maybe he thinks about you more than a best friend probably should. Like when he’s dating someone, there’s always this small part of his brain remembering things to tell you later, moments you’d find funny or interesting. Sometimes, he compares every girl he dates to you without meaning to… it’s just the way they laugh never quite measures up, their sense of humor is always slightly off, their understanding of him remains surface-level.
But that’s all normal friend stuff, he thinks.
“Penny for your thoughts?”
Namjoon sidles up beside Jungkook, hugging a beer bottle tight to his chest. It’s the first time he’s drank in a while, and Jungkook resists the urge to laugh at just how drunk he looks.
Jungkook takes a long sip of his beer, watching you over the rim of the bottle. You’re laughing at something Jisoo said, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “It’s nothing.”
“Shut up.” Namjoon leans against the wall for stability. “Tell me what’s up.”
“Nothing’s up.”
“Shouldn’t you be out there, making my wife laugh harder than I have?”
Jungkook rolls his eyes. “I’m tired.”
“You have the energy of a bunny, so I doubt that,” Namjoon snickers. “C’mon, fess up. I never get involved with drama anymore after Haewon. Enlighten me.”
Jungkook considers deflecting again, but what's the point? Namjoon's going to stand here until he cracks. “We got in a fight. Me and [Y/N].”
“Oh shit, for real?” When Jungkook meekly nods, Namjoon takes another swig of beer. “What about?”
“I wanted to hang up a mistletoe for the party and she said no.” God, saying it out loud seems so stupid. “I pushed it and then she…”
“She what?”
“She said some mean things, then I said some things. It got messy.”
“This sounds kinda dumb,” Namjoon jokes, and Jungkook levels him with a piercing glare. He knows it’s dumb, knows this whole thing is stupid, but he can;t shake the feeling that there’s something unresolved lingering underneath. “You’ll be fine.”
“Yeah.”
“That was not a confident yeah.”
“I mean, I told her we should talk after the party. She said maybe,” Jungkook laughs dryly. “Chances of us talking are looking pretty low right now.”
“Dude,” Namjoon exhales a breath. “She’s not going to stay away from you. That girl loves you.”
“I don’t know…”
“You know where she lives. You have a key, for god’s sake.”
Jungkook does have a key. In his defense, you have one to his place too. It’s never not been a thing—you’ve been trading apartment keys since college, back when you lived in that shitty studio with the broken heater and he needed to water your plants when you went home for your mom’s birthday.
“I think she really wants space this time, though,” he frowns. He doesn’t like the idea of it, but it’s part of his fault you’re even in this predicament right now.
“You guys are idiots.” Namjoon stares at him. “Why do you look so sad about this? It’s just a little fight, right?”
Jungkook opens his mouth to agree, but he chokes on the words forming in his throat. His eyes find you across the room again. You’re holding Haewon, swaying gently, and the baby's grabbing at your hair with her tiny fists. You smile down at her, and even from here, he can see the softness in your expression, and how you’ve adjusted your hold to support her head.
He doesn’t really know why, but his heart seizes.
“Yeah. I think so.”
Namjoon hums. “It’s not like, …anything more, right?”
Jungkook furrows his brows, tearing his gaze away from you. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Y’know what I mean…” Namjoon starts doing some weird vague gestures with his hand, and Jungkook’s beer-soaked brain struggles to keep up. “It’s not like that with you two?”
Oh.
“No, no. It’s not like that with us,” Jungkook denies quickly, almost too quickly. He knows it’s not impractical for someone to suggest. Ever since he was a young boy, he’s been curbing questions regarding your relationship status. It never annoyed him; in fact, it filled him with pride knowing people thought he was worthy of what sunshine you had to offer. “She’s my best friend.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“Excuse me?”
Jungkook’s chest feels tight.
But Namjoon doesn’t note the way his face goes pale, or the way his fingers flex around his bottle. He continues on, “Bro, I’m not trying to start anything. But I’ve known you since college, and I’ve watched you do this thing where you date someone, it gets serious, and then somehow it always ends. And you know what the common denominator is?”
He really doesn’t want Namjoon to say anymore. Doesn’t want him to vocalize what might actually be true, but has been something Jungkook has been mashing down for decades of his life. Naked, unmistakable fear courses through him.
“Her.” Namjoon points with his beer bottle. “Every single time, you come back to her. You text her more than your girlfriend, or you cancel dates if she needs you. You measure everyone against her without even realizing you’re doing it.”
Jungkook can’t speak, because it’s true. He knows it’s true. He’s done it countless times, like when it was he and Sana’s one-year anniversary, but you had the flu, so he dropped everything to take care of you. Or when Chaeyoung got upset with him because he had responded to your text before even giving hers a second glance.
He can’t help it.
“You’ve been dragging her through your relationships for years,” Namjoon says, “At some point, you need to ask yourself why you keep coming back to her.”
“But she’s my best friend!” Jungkook protests petulantly. “We always show up for each other.”
“Yeah, but do best friends look at each other the way you’re looking at her right now?’
Jungkook hadn’t even realized he’d been staring again. You’ve handed Haewon back to Dahyun and you’re laughing at something, a hand flying up to cover your mouth in that way you do when you think your laugh is too loud. It’s not, Jungkook thinks, It’s never too loud.
“What do you want me to say?” Jungkook mumbles, averting his eyes to his scuffed-up shoes.
“I feel like you should just be honest with yourself, Kook.” Namjoon claps him on the shoulder. “I’m willing to bet money on the fact that your fight wasn’t really about the mistletoe.”
“I don’t think so,” Jungkook scoffs. He hopes he looks nonchalant, but his hands are trembling.
Namjoon doesn’t utter another word, and for a moment, Jungkook thinks it’s over. Namjoon will let it go and they’ll move on. He shifts weight onto his other foot, taking a swig from his beer.
“Jungkook.” Fuck, if the way Namjoon’s looking at him right now is any indication of what’s to come, he’s so fucked. “You know she’s in love with you, right?”
It’s out in the open, and he can’t believe Namjoon just said it, doesn’t know where he even got that idea, but he does know that it must be the truth. It has to be, because he would never suggest otherwise. And the notion should be earth-shattering, world-tilting, but it’s not.
Maybe Jungkook knew this whole time.
“No-No, she’s not—we’re not—”
But the more he ruminates on it, he realizes: you can’t be. You’ve never—there’s never been any indication—you’ve never said anything or done anything or—
In all the years he’s known you, you’ve never dated someone seriously. Like living together, talk of engagement. Sure, there were a few guys here and there in college, but nothing that stuck. Nothing that lasted more than a month or two. He’d always figured you were just picky, focused on your career, not interested in settling down.
Was there more to that? Jungkook’s heart jolts in his chest.
Oh god. Oh fuck.
How long? How long have you been carrying this? Since you were kids? Since high school? College? How many years has he been obliviously parading girlfriends in front of you, kissing them under mistletoe, talking about his relationships, asking for your advice about girls who weren’t you?
His hands are shaking. He sets his beer down on the nearest surface before he drops it.
“I think, maybe, you’ve always known.” Namjoon’s voice sounds like it’s coming from far away.
All those times he came back to you after dates that didn’t go well. All those nights you stayed up listening to him talk about his problems with whatever girl he was seeing. All those moments he chose you over them without even thinking about it because being with you was easy and comfortable and right in a way nothing else ever was.
He can never remember half of those girls’ names. Can’t remember what he saw in them or why he thought any of them were worth it.
But he remembers every Christmas with you.
He remembers all of it.
Jungkook looks up, searching for you in the crowd, and finds you emerging from the kitchen with Jisoo.
Panic claws up his throat. “But she’s never said anything—like, we never—”
“If I were her, I wouldn’t say anything.” Namjoon shrugs.
Jungkook feels like he can't breathe. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re just—you’re guessing—”
“I am assuming, but I know enough. Dahyun has me watching a ton of kdramas, so I know when someone’s pining.”
His credentials are questionable.
“That's—” Jungkook runs a hand through his hair, tugging hard enough to hurt. “Fuck. Why wouldn’t she tell me?”
“Probably because you introduce her to new girlfriends everyday.” Namjoon’s words are blunt, but his expression is sympathetic. “Think about it. When has she ever had the space to tell you?”
Never. The answer is never. Because he’s always been with someone or getting over someone or talking about someone, and even when he wasn’t, he was busy treating your friendship like it was sacred.
Jungkook was so busy protecting what you had that he never stopped to think about what you could be.
“I didn’t know,” Jungkook admits weakly.
“It’s fine. You do now.” Namjoon takes a massive gulp of his beer, placing the empty bottle on the nearby table. “By the way, why did you care so much if she hosted? Why did it matter if it was at her place? You knew Dahyun and I didn’t mind.”
Jungkook’s guilt wraps around him like a hug. He does feel guilty about lying, he truly does, but he doesn’t have a good answer. Namjoon’s place would have worked fine, baby or not. Jisoo’s apartment was an option despite Taehyung's dog allergy. They could have figured something out.
But he had told everyone secretly that you needed to host this year.
For a long, long moment, Jungkook is silent. He pushes through the fear, the nerves, the voices in his head telling him otherwise. He tells Namjoon, “Because Christmas is ours.”
To no one’s surprise, Namjoon and Dahyun are the first to make their exit. Haewon is already fast asleep on her father’s shoulder, snoring peacefully. Then Jisoo leaves, who gives you a long, meaningful look and a whisper of “text me later” that you have no intention of following through on. Taehyung and Jennie linger for a little before they realize they have more pressing matters to attend to (read: their new vibrator they ordered).
You’re certain Jungkook slipped out sometime in the middle of the exodus. You don’t see him leave, but you hear the door close a final time and feel the absence of him.
Wonderful. You can clean up in peace and spend the rest of the night spiraling about Hana’s words, the talk you never had with Jungkook, and how quickly you’ll be able to move countries and change names.
You’re elbow-deep in soapy water, scrubbing at a wine glass aggressively, when you hear footsteps behind you.
What the fuck. Did you leave your door unlocked?
It’s definitely Taehyung. With a gulp, you crane your neck to see behind the doorway.
And then you scream.
You drop the glass into the sink, whirling around with your wet hands up like you’re going to fight off an intruder with dish soap.
Jungkook jumps, hands flying up in surrender. “Oh my god, sorry! Sorry, sorry, I’m sorry—”
“Fucking hell, Jungkook!” Your heart tries to escape from your body. “I thought you left!”
“I was in the bathroom.” His eyes are wide, looking genuinely distressed at having scared you. “I didn’t mean to—I thought you knew I was still here?”
Soap suds drip down your arms. He’s pressed against your bookshelf, trying to camouflage into your books. It’s ridiculous, but it’s so like you both that it makes you giggle.
It’s a soft one, but he notices it and snorts in response. And then you two erupt into endless laughter, your heart soaring at the familiar sound of his timbre. His chest shakes with each laugh, and tears fall from your eyes.
But after a few seconds, the laughter finally fades, and you two stand there, sizing the other up.
“What are you still doing here?” you ask, reaching for a dish towel to dry your hands.
“I wanted to see if you were open to talking.”
You turn off the running water, pivoting to face him fully.
“I am.”
He takes a deep breath, swallowing thickly. Jungkook does this thing where his tongue presses against the inside of his cheek when he’s struggling to find the right words. You’ve seen him do it countless times.
His tongue pokes the inside of his cheek.
“I’m sorry.” Jungkook says. “About the fight…about pushing you to host…and the, uh, the mistletoe thing.” He runs his fingers through his hair. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just—Christmas has always been our thing since we were kids. It was always ours, and I don’t know… I guess I didn’t want that to change.”
With him, things are always stagnant. They’re stable, trustworthy, and you know they’ll always be there. You’re not sure where his childlike wonder went—all those times he would drag you to unknown places to explore, or made you try new foods even if you knew you’d hate it.
But maybe you’re not worth the risk for him.
“Me neither,” you agree quietly.
You swivel back to face the sink, tears brimming your eyes. Reaching for another glass, you flick on the water, dousing your hands in soap. The water is frigid but you plunge your hands in anyway.
“Hey,” comes Jungkook’s calm voice.
You keep scrubbing.
“Hey.”
His fingers wrap around your arm, and you let out a sigh.
“That’s it? That’s all?”
You can’t look at him. If you look at him, you’ll break. “What else do you want me to say? I forgive you? I do. Jungkook, this is stupid.”
“I don’t know. Something. Anything.” His hand lingers on your bare skin. “Don’t shut me out. We had one fight and for some reason, it feels like I’m losing you and I don’t—” He stops, takes a breath. “Talk to me.”
There’s so much you could say. You could tell him about the mistletoe tradition and how it’s haunted you. You could tell him about watching him fall in love over and over with people who aren’t you. You could tell him about Hana and the grocery store and how you haven’t been able to think about anything else since.
But most importantly, you could tell him the truth: you’ve been in love with him since you were a child, and every Christmas since you were 15 years old felt like getting stabbed repeatedly.
Jungkook’s eyes are red-rimmed, lips quivering. He’s still tethered to your arm, unable to let go as if you’ll disappear. You’re disgustingly terrified of this moment, not of losing him, but because he’s never even been yours to lose. Everything could change. You could say the words and watch your friendship shatter. You could tell the truth and have him look at you with pity, or worse, he’ll look at you and apologize, say he doesn’t feel the same towards you.
What if what you need to move on isn’t to ignore it, but accept the rejection?
You can do that, you think.
You swallow, “Jungkook—”
“Please,” he pleads, “I can’t fix it if I don’t know what’s wrong.”
You finally turn to face him, and his hand slides down from your arm but doesn’t let go completely. His fingers catch yours, wet and soapy as they are, and hold on.
“I don’t even know where to begin,” you admit.
“Start anywhere.” His thumb brushes against your knuckles, and you don’t even think he realizes he’s doing it. “Maybe… start with why you don’t like Christmas anymore.”
That’s the question, isn’t it? That’s the thread that, if pulled, will unravel everything.
“Do you… remember our mistletoe tradition?”
He furrows his brows. You had just reminisced on it a few days ago, but somehow it feels like a lifetime. “Of course.”
“Do you remember when it all started?”
He looks at you like you’re an apparition. “Yeah.”
“We were just kids… but you kissed my cheek and I thought it was the most magical thing in the world. We did it every year, every year until you finally kissed me on the lips.”
Jungkook inhales audibly, nods once, and squeezes your hands tighter.
“It became my favorite day of the year,” you continue, and you sound out of breath. “It wasn’t because of the presents, or the food, or Santa. It was those three seconds under the mistletoe with you. I lived for it. Counted down the days to it. And when we were 15, you got your first girlfriend.”
Understanding starts to dawn on his face, and it’s almost worse than if he didn’t get it.
“You kissed her under the mistletoe that year.” You swallow back the sob that climbs up your throat. “I watched and I stood there and you gave her this real kiss, this romantic kiss, and I realized that all those years… they were just a game to you. A tradition.”
He opens his mouth, most likely to object, but you speak over him.
“It just kept happening. There was always someone there, someone who wasn’t me. I smiled and pretended I was happy for you while I was watching you fall in love with people who… who…” Now or never, you think. “....who got to have what I wanted.”
Tears begin to blur your vision, muddling Jungkook’s features.
“I’ve been in love with you for god knows how long, Jungkook. And every Christmas since I was 15 is just a constant, giant, unavoidable reminder that you don’t love me the way I love you.”
The tears are falling freely, hot and fast, painting your cheeks.
“That’s why I didn’t want to host. That’s why I didn’t want the mistletoe. Because I can’t—” Your voice breaks. “I can’t watch you kiss someone else under it again. I can’t do it anymore. It’s killing me.”
You remove your hands from his, wiping furiously away at the wetness on your face. When you blink, you notice Jungkook’s also crying. Cheeks ruddy and chest heaving, lips trembling. “[Y/N]. I-I… how come you never said anything?”
“You’re my best friend, Koo.” You wrap your arms around yourself, self-soothing the ache that’s built in your chest. “If you don’t love me like that, I completely understand. I do. You’ve never given me any indication that you feel the same way and that’s okay, that’s fine, I’ll get over it eventually—”
Jungkook’s face falls, softening. “[Y/N]-”
“I don’t want to lose you. I can’t. You’re the most important person in my life and if telling you this means you’re going to look at me differently or feel weird around me or—”
“Stop.” he firmly says, and his hands come up to cup your face. His thumbs wipe at your tears and you know you look like a wreck, but he’s looking at you as though you were sent from the heavens above. “Just stop for a second.”
You hiccup, trying to catch your breath.
“Can we stand in the doorway?” he asks.
You deadpan. “What?”
“The doorway,” he repeats like that’s supposed to clarify anything for you. He takes one of your hands in his, peeling you away from the counter. “Can we stand in the doorway?”
“I–what? Why?”
You blindly follow him, like you always do. Let him lead you out of your kitchen. Your living room is a mess—empty glasses and crumpled napkins, remnants of your Christmas party.
Jungkook positions you in the doorway between your living room and hallway. His green sweater brings out his sparkling eyes, and your heart flutters in your chest.
“Jungkook, can you just reject me quickly so we can move on—”
“Look up.” He smiles.
With shaky breath, you crane your neck.
Hanging from your doorway is a mistletoe. There’s a red ribbon tied around it, dangling back and forth to the tune of your oscillating fan.
You snort out a snot bubble, but neither you nor him seem to care too much. “When did that even get there?”
“Well, I had to wait till the end of the night,” he remarks sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck that iss now flushed crimson. “I thought you might rip my dick off or something if I did it earlier.”
You sink your fingernails into your palms to keep yourself grounded, to keep yourself from leaping paces ahead. Behind your ribcage, your heart stumbles.
He’s the first to laugh—it’s wet and graceless, body shaking in tandem. You’re laughing too, but also crying.
Your heart soars like it’s trying to escape your chest and fly around the room.
Jungkook settles down, and something softer crosses his expression. When he speaks next, his voice is steady, sure of himself.
“You think I don’t feel the same way?” His voice breaks. “You think—Jesus Christ, [Y/N], you’re all I think about. You’re all I ever thought about.”
“Really?” you whisper, voice so feeble you think he can’t possibly have heard it.
But he nods.
“I wake up, and the first thing I do is check my phone to see if you’ve texted me. I go through my entire day remembering things to tell you later—stupid shit, important shit, all the stuff in between. When something good happens, you’re the first person I want to tell. When something bad happens, you'’re the only person I want to see.” He wipes a stray tear that’s made its way down his cheek. “You’re the first person I think of when I wake up and the last person I think of before I fall asleep, and most nights I dream about you too.”
“You…” you trail off, shake your head. There’s no words to describe how you feel, no proper sentence to show how your entire body feels like it’s on fire.
“Let me say this because I should have said it years ago. A decade ago. I should have said it every single Christmas instead of being with people who weren’t you and pretending that was enough.”
Jungkook takes a step forward. His scent envelops you, makes you feel at home. Like you’re six years old again and anything is possible.
“I kissed you under that mistletoe when we were kids because if anyone was going to be my first kiss, it was going to be you. I didn’t even really understand what kissing meant. But I knew I wanted it to be you.”
He lets out a breathy, quiet laugh. And it feels like you’re kids again, standing under the mistletoe, pulling into each other like magnets.
“I kept doing it every year because—because those three seconds were mine. They were ours. It didn’t matter that I was too young to understand what it meant or why it made my stomach feel weird or why I’d think about it for weeks afterwards. I just knew that kissing you under the mistletoe was the best part of Christmas… the best part of my whole year.”
“You know, I was never able to understand why my relationships never seemed to work. Why no one ever wanted to stay with me for the long run. And it took me a long time, but I’ve got it all figured out now.” He has to stop to clear his throat, and it’s then, and only then, that you see the tears glistening in his eyes again. “I think… I think I’ve been looking for pieces of you in every girl I meet.”
Your feet remain frozen to your floor. If you pinch yourself, you’ll wake up from this dream, and you want to live in it as long as life will allow.
“I’d find a girl who had your hair color, or a similar sense of humor, or the way you scrunch your nose when you’re thinking, and I’d think ‘this is it, this is the one.’ But it never was, because they weren’t you,” he says. “I would be on dates, and think about what you’d say about the restaurant, or the movie, or the conversation. I could be kissing someone and wonder why it didn’t feel the way it felt when I kissed you when we were children.”
He takes another step, hardwood floor creaking beneath his weight.
He’s so close you can almost taste his woodsy scent.
“I’m a coward, [Y/N]. I kept dating people, kept trying to make it work with someone else, because I thought if I could just find the right person, I’d stop being in love with you.”
“Koo,” is all you can manage.
“But there is no right person for me. There’s just you, there’s only ever been you. You’re not a piece of the puzzle, [Y/N]. You are the whole fucking puzzle. Every piece, every corner, every goddamn edge. And I’ve been trying to force other pieces to fit for years, but they don’t. They can’t.” His tears are moving faster than he can stop them, and he lets them pour out of his eyes onto his sweater.
“The only reason I stopped kissing you under the mistletoe was because I was falling in love with you.” He’s grinning through his tears. The kind of grin you’ve been the only person to extract out of him. “I was a stupid kid who was falling in love with their best friend and the first thought I had was: what if you didn’t feel the same way? What if I told you and you laughed in my face? And I know I’m stupid, but I stopped because I needed to tell myself I was over it, that it was a phase, that we were just friends.”
Jungkook takes one final step forward until you’re practically nose-to-nose.
His voice is no higher than a whisper. “I never got over it, though. I never stopped loving you.”
Your head is spinning. Jeon Jungkook. Your best friend, your platonic soulmate, your everything…
“You… you love me?”
“I love you so fucking much,” he confirms. “I love the way you sing off-key during all our car rides together, and the way you cry during commercials with pets. The way you remember everyone’s birthdays, even if they don’t remember yours. I love how you scrunch your nose when you’re concentrating and how you chew your lip when you’re nervous. I love your terrible jokes and your beautiful laugh and how magical everything suddenly feels when you’re around.”
Inevitably, you’re sobbing too. Not in a pretty way, but you don’t think it matters anymore. Nothing matters but this.
“I love that I was lucky enough to be born the same day as you, that the universe knew before we knew that there was no me without you. I love that I know everything about you—your favorite color, your biggest fears, how you like your tea. I love that you know me better than anyone else in the world.”
His hands go to cup your face. “So, yeah, I do love you. And I know I wasted time, but I am telling you now with utmost certainty. If you'll let me, I want to make up for all the time I wasted being too scared to love you the way you deserve.”
Your hands come up to cover his, pressing them harder against your face.
“I want you to be mine and I want to be yours, in every way possible, [Y/N].”
And you really, really need to stop crying, but it’s impossible. They well up, like all those emotions you’ve been mashing down for decades, ballooning into something too large for your body to handle.
“Those are happy tears… right?” he chuckles.
“Yes,” you sob. God, he’s never going to let you live this down. “I love you. I love you so much—”
“I love you too.” He kisses your forehead, cheeks, the tip of your nose. “I love you, I love you, I love you. I'm going to make sure you never doubt that again.”
You laugh, a watery bubbling sound.
You look up at the mistletoe hanging between you two. It’s a small piece of plastic and ribbon, but somehow it represents years of longing and heartbreak and fear that just needed time to blossom into something ethereal.
“You still remember the tradition?” Jungkook tucks a stand of hair behind your ear.
You couldn’t forget even if you tried. “When you’re under the mistletoe…”
“You must kiss the person you’re with,” he finishes.
His thumbs linger over your cheekbones, gazing into your eyes. They’re still the same from when he was little. Wide-eyed, full of childlike wonder and innocence. His pupils are blown.
“Can I kiss you?”
You stupidly smile. You nod just as he gets the last syllable out. Nodding so hard and so frantically it’s almost manic, tears streaming down your face, your hands coming up to grip the collar of his green sweater—that goddamn green sweater the color of mistletoe.
“Yes,” you breathe, “Yes, please, yes—”
He kisses you.
And oh.
Oh.
You hold your breath, counting the seconds in your head. It’s longer than three seconds and two milliseconds.
Your knees buckle under the weight of his kiss, with his hands cradling your face gently. Your fingers twist tighter in his collar, pulling him closer, closer, never close enough.
The salt of both your tears mixes on your lips, can feel the way his breath stumbles against your mouth. One of his hands slides into your hair, angling your head just so, and you make a sound you didn’t know you were capable of making. You’re pliable in his arms.
His tongue outlines your bottom lip, and you grant him access immediately, needing to feel more of him, any part you can grasp to know this is real. You’re both still crying—you can feel fresh tears sliding down your cheeks—but you’re also smiling, laughing into the kiss like idiots because this is insane.
Jungkook’s tattooed hands slide down to your waist, pulling you close to him until there’s not an inch to spare between your bodies. Your apartment, the mess of cups and plates scattered around, the snazzy Christmas decorations you’ll throw away tomorrow—it all fades away until there’s just this. Just him.
“I love you,” he murmurs against your mouth, and then he’s kissing you again before you can say it back. “Love you so much, I’m a fucking loser, I—”
“Shut up,” you giggle. “Shut up and kiss me.”
You don’t know how long you stand there, kissing under the mistletoe like teenagers who just discovered what kissing is. It could be seconds or hours—time feels irrelevant when his mouth is on yours, when his hands are holding you.
At some point, you know it’s not enough. You want more.
Finally, you think to yourself.
You’ve never wanted someone this bad. Never craved someone’s brain, heart, and soul like this.
He’s possibly thinking the same thing as you, and if the way he holds you is any indication, you’re the luckiest girl in the world. His hands travel over your waist, until they reach your thighs. In one smooth motion, he picks you up, and your legs wrap around his waist instinctively.
Jungkook is stronger than you though, even though you know he goes to the gym everyday, even though you’ve watched him rearrange the furniture in your apartment on a random Tuesday after work. But feeling him hold you up effortlessly while kissing… your panties might drop before you even reach the bedroom.
You kiss him as he tries to navigate with his eyes closed, stumbling slightly down the hallway, both of you giggling between kisses like drunk teenagers. He nearly crashes into the wall, overcorrecting and spinning you both around.
“Smooth operator, hm?” you tease.
“Shut up,” he mumbles. “I swear to god you switched where your bedroom was.” And then he’s kissing you again, and you forget about his horrible navigation skills.
Miraculously, you make it to your bedroom. Lays you down on your bed, following you down until he’s hovering over you, weight balanced on his forearms on either side of your head. The lamp on your nightstand casts soft shadows across his features. He chews his lip anxiously.
“Do you, um—” He stops, tries again. “Do you wanna maybe—”
You can’t help but giggle. Your hand comes up to cover your mouth when you see the way his face falls. “Koo. I know you’re not a virgin.”
“Oh my god.” He drops his forehead to your neck with a groan, and his face is burning hot against your skin. “I know. I know I’m not. But it’s you, it’s so different. I’m nervous.”
Jungkook is experienced—far more than you, that’s for certain. You were never bothered by the difference. You had lost your virginity solely as a means to an end, to just say you did the damn thing so you weren’t a complete and total loser. But Jungkook has plenty of notches on his belt, and your heart melts at the thought of you being the one to dismantle him completely.
You slide your fingers into his hair, tugging until he lifts his head to look at you. His eyes are dark and vulnerable, full of love it makes you want to cry all over again.
“Hey. It’s just me, Koo.”
“Well, that’s kinda the problem,” he gruffs, playing with the necklace around your neck. “It is you. It matters a lot.”
“It matters to me too,” you rush to agree, cup his face with both hands, thumbs brushing over his scarlet cheeks. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. We can just—we can just lie here. We can talk. We can—”
He kisses you, cutting off your rambling. Slower, assured. “I want to. I really, really want to. I just… I want it to be good for you.”
Your fingers trace the constellation of moles on his face, and there’s just so much of him you want to uncover, so much golden skin and muscle. “It will be.”
This time, when his lips meet yours, he relaxes into it, earlier nervousness melting away. Your hands slide up under his sweater, feeling the bare skin, the sculpted abdomen you’ve sparingly seen. Your fingers find the hair at the nape of his neck, playing with the soft strands there, and he makes a sound—half-sigh, half-groan—that strikes straight through you. His hips shift slightly, pressing against yours, and now it’s your turn to gasp into his mouth.
“Still nervous?” you mutter.
“A little,” he says through a moan as you roll your hips to press against his growing length. “What if you think I-I’m, fuck, bad in bed?”
“You won’t be.” You kiss down his sharp jawline, down the vein that protrudes from the side of his neck.
“You don’t know that. I could be really bad at this.”
You laugh, tugging him closer, wrapping your legs around his waist. “Jungkook, you’re not going to be bad at sex.”
He nuzzles into your neck, inhaling the scent of gingerbread cookies that still lingers on you even after hours of burning them. “But what if I am?”
“Koo. I love you. I wouldn’t care even if your dick was 2 inches.”
He lifts his head from your neck. “Okay, don’t push it.”
Jungkook kisses you, warm tongue swiping against your bottom lip. His calloused hands slide up your red sweater, feeling the black lace bra underneath. His breath stutters at the realization, fondling your breasts in the way he’s always dreamed of.
Messily, hungrily, your sweater comes off first, then his, a tangle of fabric and laughter as he fumbles with the back of your bra. Jungkook apologizes against your lips, but you don’t care in the slightest, just want more and more and more. He flings your bra across your bedroom, greedily taking your nipple into his mouth, sucking the hardened nub. And you’re so wet, can feel it pooling in your panties, soaking through the fabric. Every roll of his hips, every flick of his tongue sends shocks of lightning through you.
“So fucking pretty,” Jungkook groans, readjusting your body higher on the bed until your head reaches the pillow. He unclasps your legs from around his waist, making room for himself to wiggle down in between them.
You can’t stop the familiar swell of nerves racing through your body, even as he kisses down the valley of your breasts, down to your stomach, past your navel. His lips hover over the button of your jeans, delicately undoing. Taking his time as though not to miss a single moment.
You weirdly get the urge to cover yourself, to hide under the strength of his burning gaze. What if he compares me to all the other girls? you think. What if I’m not as beautiful as Sana or Eunji or Hana?
And then Jungkook says, “You’re so beautiful, baby. Most beautiful girl I’ve ever known.”
Tears threaten to appear again.
He tugs your jeans off, his hair tickling your inner thigh as he goes. His lips follow, pressing chaste kisses along your naked skin. The mattress dips as he adjusts himself, wraps his arms around your thighs and tugs your clothed, soaking cunt to his face. You gasp, your walls clenching around nothing. “Relax, baby,” Jungkook bites your inner thigh, soothing it with his tongue. “Gonna take care of you.”
“Please,” you beg, and you don’t even know what you’re begging for, but when you meet his eyes you know exactly what. More of him, more of his mouth, his tongue, his lips.
He pushes your panties to the side, and without preamble, you’re spreading your legs further.
Immediately, Jungkook’s eyes go to what lies between them.
“So wet, baby,” He lets his pointer finger gather your arousal. “You always get this wet for your best friend?”
You gasp, eyes trained on his. His voice has gone husky, eyes hooded and dark. He presses into your sensitive nub, and you jolt forward, hands tightly gripping the sheets underneath. “Answer me.”
“Y-yes, Koo. Always wet for you, just for you.”
That seems to be enough for him. He leans forward, dragging your underwear down your legs until they’re no longer his concern, and then his mouth is on you.
“Fuck!” You practically scream, body lurching forward, humming violently underneath him. It’s been a while—maybe more than a while, possibly years—since you’ve had someone willingly eat you out, and by the way Jungkook does so, he seems enthralled to get a chance to enjoy the taste of you. His tongue strokes through your folds, wet and wide, working its own rhythm that has you withering underneath his grasp. His hands press into your hip bones, stabilizing your movements. He buries his whole face in it, lets himself soak up every last bit of arousal you’ve produced. Two minutes of this and you’ll be a goner, but you don’t want this to end, not now, not ever.
“Tastes so sweet, baby,” Jungkook moans into your wetness, licking a long stripe from your hole up to your clit. “Been hiding this from me, hm?”
“I-It’s yours, Koo. Always has been,” You squeeze your eyes as tight as you can, stars blooming in your vision. He taps your thigh, and you know he wants you to look at him, but you can hardly breathe or think or speak.
He wraps his lips around your clit and sucks, and your fingers fly to his unkempt hair, tugging and pulling until you’re certain it’ll come off his scalp. Without warning, he pushes one finger into you, testing you. He watches as you keen, profanities falling off your lips. Jungkook’s finger crooks into you at an angle you thought only you could reach, and you’re putty in his unrelenting hands. “Fuck—oh my god, yes, right there Koo, oh, yes—”
“Feel good, baby?” He gathers his saliva, spitting onto your clit and letting it drip down to his fingers, a second digit entering you. “Talk to me.”
He’s gentle about it, tentative, as though he’s trying to learn you, teach himself the new side of you he’s unlocked.
“M-more,” you keen. “Faster, please.”
And he’s so willing, so ready. It’s so wet, unlike anything that happens when you touch yourself. His tongue and fingers fuck you through it, squelching sounds echoing against the thin walls of your bedroom, sweat slicking down the valley of your breasts. You feel your walls clench around him once, twice, and your legs tremble in his hold. You can feel it dripping down your inner thigh, onto your sheets, onto his chin.
“So tight around my fingers,” he groans, and you watch as his other hand travels down to his belt buckle, furiously trying to undo it. “So hard just thinking about bein’ inside you.”
“I-I want that,” you reply breathlessly. “I want you inside me.”
“Fuck,” he grunts, working his nimble fingers quicker, tongue vacuum-sealed around your clit, milking you entirely. “I want to feel you cum for me. I want to taste it.”
You nod, bunching your bedsheets into little fists of agony. When you look up, you can see Jungkook’s hair spread across your lower stomach, tattooed biceps straining. His free hand strokes his cock, and a swarm of butterflies release in your stomach at the sight. You’ve made him so desperate that he has to touch himself. You have.
And the sight is just too much for you to handle. “Aghh–Koo, fuck, I’m gonna—I’m gonna cum.”
He doesn’t say anything, just lets his tongue continue at the same pressure, same speed, until you’re coming undone all over him. You feel it everywhere, in your chest, in your core, in your toes. You arch off your mattress, legs quivering and locking around his head. It feels like time is a myth, Jungkook fucking you through your orgasm until you almost collapse.
You tap him on the head with your foot, falling back onto your pillows tiredly.
Jungkook peers up at you, still the same wide-eyed expression on his face, except this time, your arousal is glistening on his face, scarlet lips swollen and wet. He presses a few kisses on your thighs, stomach, before dragging himself up on his biceps to hover you. He kisses you, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, and you can’t help but moan into his mouth. It’s so dirty, so scandalous, sends a shock through your spine.
“I want you to fuck me,” you whisper between kisses.
His cheeks turn red.
“M-me too. I want to be inside you,” he stutters, kissing down your neck. “But I might need a second.”
You furrow your brows, suddenly self-conscious. “Why?”
He kisses your jaw, avoiding eye contact. “BecauseIcamealready.”
“What, Koo?”
Jungkook sighs, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. “Because I came already.”
Oh.
Your heart won’t be able to handle this much affection tonight. You just know it.
You giggle, unable to hide the smile on your lips.
“Stop,” he groaned into your neck. “Don’t laugh, I’m humiliated.”
“No, I’m not—” you laugh, “I’m not laughing at you. You’re so cute, Koo. I love you.”
He grins toothily. “I love you too.”
And then you laugh again, and he laughs with you, and it feels like your heart is blooming, petals unfurling in your chest.
You wrap your arms around his neck, tugging him to you as close as humanly possible. You kiss him and try to make him understand—through the press of your lips, the desperate grip of your hands—just how completely he owns every part of you.
You use your weight to roll him over, straddling his buff thighs, letting your soaked cunt linger over his growing length.
“Hi,” he smiles big and wide, peering up at you like you hold the entire universe in your palms.
“Hi,” you repeat, kissing his cheeks, forehead, jawline.
Behind you, you reach to grab his length in your hands, trace the veins that protrude. His mouth gapes open, watching as you realize… holy fuck.
You’ve always been respectful of Jungkook’s boundaries. Never once peeped on him or seen him in his boxers. The farthest you ever got was a pair of grey sweatpants, and even then, it didn’t reveal much. There was no way to prepare yourself for this moment.
But as you stroke his cock languidly, you realise one thing for certain: that is not going to fucking fit inside you.
You don’t even need to vocalize it, because he’s already saying, “We’ll work with what we can. But I think you can take it, baby.”
Gulping, you nod. You want to take it. Want to feel every inch inside of your gummy walls, want to hear him wither underneath you.
He’s hard again too, you note. You could cry, knowing just how bad he wants this. Wants you.
You align his tip to your sopping hole, jaw slack as you gather the juices to hopefully make it easier. And then you’re sinking onto him, inch by inch, curses falling from his lips, hands gripping your hips tight enough to bruise. “O-oh fuck, Koo.”
“Keep going, baby,” he moans, guiding you onto him until your clit meets his pubic bone. “Just like that, all the way.”
A sound rips free from the very core of you, both hands landing on his stomach to steady yourself. For a moment, you just sit there, trying to accommodate his length inside you. Feels so painfully good, stings just right.
“You okay?” He reaches to brush a strand of wet hair from your face.
“Yeah,” you exhale, rocking your hips gently, back and forth, figure-eights. You can feel him in your stomach, can see the bulge protruding from your body. His eyes lock onto it, bottom lip tucked behind his front teeth. “Feel so full, Koo. It’s so deep.”
“Fuck, baby.” His fingers dig deeper into your hips, directing your movements. A swell of confidence runs through you, and you brace yourself, lifting yourself off his cock to slam back down on it. He all but screams, thighs quaking beneath your weight.
“You’re a fucking goddess,” he moans, head lolling back against the pillow. “I love you so much, my sweet girl, my best girl, fuck.”
“I love you too, Koo.” Your fingernails scrape down his chest, leaving red marks in your wake.
You can see his abdomen muscles rippling with effort as he tries not to come undone too fast, jaw clenched tightly. His tattoos are slick with sweat.
Your orgasm sneaks up onto you, but you don’t want it to end, don’t want to know the feeling of separation from him. Falling forward, you bury your face into his neck, and he wraps his arms around you, fucking up into you.
His cock hits just where you need him, and your moans bounce off the walls, your headboard creaking with each thrust he makes to meet your movements. “I-I’m so close, Koo,” you moan.
“Me too, baby,” he says. His cock plunges greedily into your wetness, and you whimper. “I love you so so much, can’t live without you.”
You can’t help the tears that stream down your face. It’s too much—not just the sex, but that it’s sex with him. Jeon Jungkook, your best friend since birth, since before you knew anything else. You love him so much you don’t know how your heart will contain all this. It might burst any second.
He feels the tears on his skin, and he’s slowing his thrusts, whispering, “Are you okay, baby? Did I go too fast? Want me to—”
“No, no. I want you to keep going.” You look into his eyes, and his expression softens. “I just—I love you. I can’t believe this is real.”
He kisses you, barely more than your mouths slotting together, and then his thrusts continue, more desperate and sloppy but still full of the same devotion. “I love you,” he murmurs into your mouth. “I-I know I’ve said it so many times tonight, but I love you so fucking much.”
Your warm, wet heat clenches around him. Little moans and whimpers escape you, teetering on the brink of another orgasm. “I know,” he gasps, and he’s crying now too, his whole body shaking. “I know, baby. Me too. I’ve got you.”
You stop moving completely, letting him take over, and the sounds are filthy, but the love that runs between you both is anything but. “My baby. Mine, you’re mine,” His teeth sinks into your shoulder as he thrusts up into you, wetness dripping onto his cock and the sheets below. His hands cup your ass, slamming you up and down his girth.
“Yours,” you cry, clutching him.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, and his face is soaked with tears, eyes red and swollen and so full of love it physically hurts to witness. “I’m never letting you go,” he says, crying so hard he can barely get the words out.
“Me too,” you promise, “I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here.”
“Shit, I’m gonna cum, [Y/N], I can’t—”
Your fingernails dig into his biceps, mouth ripping open to moan out his name along with i love you i love you jungkook please please, and you feel him release inside you, spurts of his cum painting your walls as you tighten around him. You milk him dry until he can’t take it anymore, until you feel so full you think your DNA has been adjusted to match his.
You all but collapse onto him, staying like that with your hearts thrashing against your ribs, reaching for each other through flesh and bone.
You want to stay here. Right here, in this specific moment, where his arm is around you and his breathing is shallow and you feel like you’re at home.
It’s a ridiculous thought. Childish, even.
You’ll have to get up soon—your bladder is already making demands, and reality is waiting just outside this bed. But not yet. You’re not ready yet.
Jungkook sighs into your hair. “I don’t wanna move.”
“Me either.”
“Do you… do you want this with me?” His chest rumbles with the question.
“What do you mean?”
“I just… this meant something to you, right? The fact that we had sex?”
“Of course it did.”
You prop yourself onto your shoulders, brushing the hair out of his eyes. They twinkle and glow underneath your low light. He gulps before speaking, “I want us to be together. Or, at least try. I want us to take the risk because you’re worth every goddamn risk.”
Every birthday candle since you were a child was dedicated to him. Every shooting star, every 11:11 on the clock, every stray eyelash, every penny thrown into a fountain. You wished for this—for him—so many times you lost count. Wished for him to look at you the way he’s looking at you now, like you hung the moon and painted the stars.
You almost want to pinch yourself. But his hand is warm on your waist, heartbeat steady under your palm, and when you dig your nails slightly into your thigh, you don’t wake up to your blaring alarm. This isn’t a dream.
“I want that too. I want to wake up next to you and fight about whose turn it is to do the dishes and learn all your weird habits I don’t know yet.”
“[Y/N],” He cups your face in his hands. “You literally know all my weird habits. Even the fact that I collect Captain Underpants original copies."
“Well yeah but I want to learn the new ones,” you shrug.
He chuckles. “I can’t wait.”
Jungkook kisses you again. When he pulls back, he’s smiling that bunny smile that’s been your undoing since childhood. “Your party tonight was awesome, by the way.”
“It was all you.”
He smiles. “We’re really doing this.”
You know he’s not talking about Christmas anymore.
You laugh, resting your forehead against his. “Having second thoughts already?”
“Not even a little.” He pauses, then his eyes go wide. “Oh my god. Your Christmas gift!”
He shoots up, still naked, peppering your face with a hundred tiny kisses. Forehead, nose, cheeks, chin, eyelids, everywhere he can reach while you dissolve into giggles.
“Koo, what—”
But he’s already scrambling off the bed, running to where his bag is discarded by your front door. You hear his feet padding against your floor as he runs back, jumping onto the bed with enough force to make you bounce. He’s grinning so wide it must hurt, holding something behind his back.
“Close your eyes,” he demands.
“Jungkook—”
“Close them,” he whines.
You do as he says, and you feel the bed shift as he settles in front of you, feel his warmth as he leans close.
“Okay,” he softly says. “Open.”
Timidly, you open them.
He’s holding a teddy bear. Your teddy bear. The one he kept in a box with your name on it.
It’s exactly as you remember—worn brown fur, one ear more floppy than the other, the tiny red bow around its neck that you’d tied when you were 7. He even kept it clean, maintained.
“Oh my god,” you exhale. Tears form in your eyes until they’re streaming down your face as you stare at this piece of your childhood, this tangible proof that he’s been carrying you with him all along.
His face falls. “Oh crap, do you not like it? I thought—I mean, I kept it because I thought maybe one day I could give it back to you, but if it’s weird or—”
“No, no.” Shaking your head frantically, you reach for the bear with trembling hands. “I love it. I fucking love it, Jungkook.”
His smile returns, like’s 6 years old again and just kissed you for the first time under the mistletoe.
Jungkook nuzzles into your neck, and you both burrow under your comforter, teddy bear clutched between you. His arms wrap around you from behind, pulling you flush against his chest, and you’ve never felt safer. Never felt more loved.
It’s quiet for what feels like eternity. His breath syncs with yours, fingers tracing illegible patterns on your hip.
“What was in that box in your closet, by the way?” you quietly wonder aloud as you stroke the bear’s fur.
He pauses. Goes completely still.
“You saw that?”
“It has my name on it.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, and then he presses a kiss to your shoulder.
“Everything I love about you. That’s what’s in there.”
You hug him (and the bear) tighter to you.
After about an hour or so of intertwined limbs and lazy kisses, his breathing begins to slow, face buried in your hair. Sleep always comes easy when he’s around, and your eyes hang heavily.
“Can we watch the Grinch tomorrow?” The words come out slurred with exhaustion.
In the darkness, you smile, tangling your fingers with his over your stomach.
You’d curled up with that green, bitter creature every year, finding solace in his hatred of the holiday because at least someone understood. At least someone else knew what it felt like to watch everyone around you celebrate something that only brought you pain. You’d watch him scheme and plot and try desperately to steal Christmas away, and you’d think yes, exactly, take it all. Because if you couldn't have the Christmas you wanted, the one where Jungkook kissed you under the mistletoe and meant it, then what was the point of any of it?
The Grinch was safe. The Grinch was yours. The Grinch never asked you to be anything other than bitter and broken and sick of watching other people get their happy endings.
But that girl who needed the Grinch, she’s gone. She got her happy ending, her Christmas miracle.
Plus, the Grinch is overrated.
“Actually,” you whisper, “I’m thinking we watch Frosty the Snowman.”
Synopsis : When everything around you starts falling apart, Christmas feels like both an escape and a way to fix it all. But back in the small town of Sarton, where you grew up, you come face to face with Jungkook —your childhood best friend and a self-proclaimed Scrooge. He’s adamant. So are you: this year, you’re going to make him love Christmas.
Pairing : Jung Jungkook x Reader (one-shot)
Genre : Christmas Fic, Childhood friends to lovers, grumpy x sunshine fluff, angst, smut
Word count : 23,3 k (help)
Warnings : angst, miscommunication, mention of dead side characters (just me and my love for deep backstories tbh), way too much fluff, idiots to lovers really, also way too much mentions of Mariah Carey and Love Actually, SMUT (I went wild) (oral, multiple orgams, protected sex), minors dni !
Authors note : I started this like mid-november and it took forever to write ;n; I'm actually proud of myself for managing to finish it before the end of december. Anyway here's a little fluffy christmas fic for you guys, hope you like it <3
Gentle reminder that all rights are reserved, so please do not copy, translate or repost my stories. Also I do not own BTS or their actions, the stories are entirely fictionnal and does not depict real-life events or involve any actual member of BTS.
DECEMBER 13.
You did it. You finally did it.
Right up until the very last second, you thought they were going to stop you, grab you and send you back there —but the doors finally slid shut behind you, and you’re safe.
You did it. Now all you have left to do is—
“Miss Lee! Wait!”
Damn it. Pretending not to hear the voice calling after you again and again, you keep walking, your stride firm, your handbag clutched tightly against your side.
No way you’re sticking around. Everything’s already planned: your taxi is waiting outside, and if all went well, your suitcase is already—
“Miss Lee, please !”
A hand suddenly clamps down on your shoulder, yanking you backward so hard you almost land flat on your ass. You spin around, stunned —a small cry of pain slipping out before you can stop it— but it dies instantly when you come face to face with a giant. Literally.
A man nearly twice your size, both tall and wide, dressed head to toe in black, looms over you. Beside him, a small woman with thick glasses hurries up, completely out of breath.
“I’m very sorry, Miss Lee, but your father was quite insistent. You’ll have to get back on the plane.”
She looks genuinely apologetic —which does absolutely nothing to soften your irritation. You had made it, damn it. Why does your Dad always have to ruin everything?
“First of all —ouch,” You snap, glaring at the security guard as you swat his hand off your aching shoulder. “And second of all, no thank you. Kindly pass along my regards to my father.”
Your words crack sharply through the air, but you don’t wait to see how they react. You’re a little ashamed to admit it, but you bolt. For a split second, you even consider running —if you remember the airport layout correctly, you should be able to reach the exit pretty fast.
The idea dies almost immediately.
You’ve barely taken five steps before several guards converge on you, clearly alerted by the brute who grabbed you earlier. It doesn’t take long to realize you’re surrounded. An exit would be nice right about now.
You don’t get the chance to find one.
You’ve barely stopped —panic rising as you take in all these guards who very clearly do not want to welcome you— when the same colossus grabs your forearm this time.
“I’m going to have to ask you to come with me.”
You react without thinking.
“Don’t touch me,” You growl, teeth clenched as you shove his hand away. You can already hear your Dad telling you this is for your own good. What a funny way to show concern.
“I’m sorry, Miss Lee. These are your father’s orders,” the woman with the glasses mutters, cheeks flushed from running.
You clench your jaw even tighter.
When you were little, your Mom always said that during the holidays, everyone should behave properly —because it’s the Christmas spirit, after all.
Let’s just say the holidays start tomorrow.
“Oh yeah?” You shoot back, blowing a strand of hair out of your face. “Well, you can shove my father’s orders where the sun doesn’t shine.”
Saturdays are usually quiet.
When he arrived, they told him that with the end-of-year holidays approaching, crowds were pouring in and airports were often completely overwhelmed.
Apparently, the small town of Sarton is an exception.
Not that he would’ve been drowning in work either way —his job is to hand out flyers to people exiting the airport. Not the hardest thing out there.
Still, if there had been more people around, Jungkook might not have noticed what happened.
Then again… even buried under a swarm of tourists hunting for Christmas activity pamphlets, he wouldn’t have missed this. It’s that simple.
One second, the main hall is nearly empty —quieter than ever. The next, screams echo through the space, and smoke pours out of the main corridor —the one leading to the boarding gates.
It takes him a few seconds —people rushing past him, coughing, security agents sprinting in panic— to realize it isn’t smoke.
It’s gas.
Gas billowing from a fire extinguisher clutched tightly in the arms of a young woman. She walks with determined strides, completely unfazed by the chaos, heading straight for the exit while aiming the hose and spraying anyone foolish enough to get close.
“Miss Lee, please!”
One voice rings out louder than the others, and Jungkook frowns, confused. Miss Lee? Why does that name sound familiar?
He doesn’t have time to think. In the blink of an eye, she’s only a few meters away. The extinguisher sputters —empty— and she drops it to the floor without a second thought, utterly indifferent to the dozens of people trapped in the haze behind her, coughing and shouting.
Up close, Jungkook can finally see her face —her shining hair, the elegant long coat she’s wearing, the gold watch at her wrist.
His breath catches. It really is you.
You notice him as you pass, your gaze settling more on the flyers in his hands than on him himself. Guards try to approach, waving their arms to clear the gas, but you barely spare them a glance, instead plucking one of the pamphlets from his stack and skimming it.
When you look up at him, Jungkook can’t miss the crooked smile —or the mischievous sparkle in your eyes. “They’re probably going to ask if you saw me,” you say, biting your lip to keep from grinning too widely as you wave the flyer lightly. “Tell them I violently threatened you before stealing this. I’d hate for you to lose your job over something so trivial.”
Then, without a backward glance, you walk away and push open the heavy door, a rush of cold air flooding the hall.
“And Merry Christmas!” you call cheerfully, handbag swinging from your arm, blowing a kiss toward the guards before vanishing into the dark night, gone in less than a second as the door slams shut behind you.
Jungkook remains frozen, too stunned to move, as silence slowly settles back in. The guards return to their posts, but the woman with the glasses stays behind, ranting breathlessly about how Mr. Lee is really not going to be happy.
Jungkook, meanwhile, can’t get over it —his eyes still locked on the door where you disappeared. For him, it’s simply unbelievable.
A fire extinguisher. Seriously.
How the hell did you manage to become even crazier than before?
DECEMBER 14
Mom isn’t coming.
That’s the bitter truth you’ve finally had to accept after a long string of messages —she isn’t coming.
And you’d already been so excited. The house decorations, gingerbread men, movie nights wrapped in a blanket. All of it —gone.
All that effort, for nothing.
You wish you could be angry —part of you is— but mostly, you’re just sad. In part because you’d been so proud of myself: your coming here was meant to be a Christmas surprise. A way to keep your traditions alive, like every year, despite all the changes.
But there’s no point in traditions if you’re the only one left to carry them.
You’ve never been so happy to be back in your childhood home —its scent, the decorations, everything brings you straight back to your younger years. And yet, you hate how sad you feel now that you’re finally here, after pulling off a plan you’ve been preparing for months.
More than anything, it makes you angry that they managed to make you sad. Again. And especially at this time of year.
Mom — 9:17 a.m. Please don’t be too hard on your father. It’s the holidays, after all.
The message warms your heart just as much as it hurts.
Your sweet mom is thoughtful enough not to want to upset your Dad —but not quite thoughtful enough to notice how much this whole situation hurts you. She didn’t even react when you told her you’d arrived.
You sigh, grumbling under your breath, head in your hands. Then suddenly, you straighten up.
Enough.
With renewed determination, you grab the little flyer you left on the table last night and get moving, pulling on your coat and boots in record time. According to the paper, all volunteers are welcome —and Christmas market setup starts this morning.
You have nothing special to do, since your Mom isn’t here. And one thing’s for sure: nobody is ruining your December.
And if your Dad isn’t happy about it —well, too bad for him.
The town square looks exactly like you remember.
Red cobblestones dusted with a thin layer of snow, the same snow resting on the rooftops of the small shops lining the square. In the center stands a massive Christmas tree —almost tall enough to rival the Rockefeller Center one— still bare for now.
Around it, about a dozen people in coats and thick hats bustle about, stacking boxes at the tree’s base and pulling out what very clearly looks like garlands. Farther away, small groups are already hanging glittering stars from the lampposts.
You pull your nose out of your scarf and take a deep breath. No matter where life takes you, you still love the feeling of Christmas.
You’ve barely stepped onto the square when an elderly man greets you, handing you the same flyer you picked up at the airport yesterday and cheerfully explaining all the preparations underway.
Every year, ever since you were little, the town organizes public events throughout the entire Christmas season —which probably explains a lot about your love for it.
You don’t have to insist much before he accepts your help —that’s why you came, after all— but he still insists on giving you a full tour of the square, explaining everything in detail.
You listen with a small smile, attentive —at least until your gaze drifts to a man standing off to the side, struggling to untangle a long string of lights.
He doesn’t look very old —about your age— and even though you can’t see his face from here, you suddenly get the unmistakable feeling that you know him.
When the old man finally leaves you with a last warm smile, you instinctively head toward the stranger, smiling at people you pass —many of them familiar faces from your childhood.
When you reach him, his back is to you, too focused on the endless knot in the garland to notice you. “Isn’t it a little late to decorate the tree? It’s already the 14th —I thought this would’ve been done earlier.”
“You could’ve done it yourself if you’re not happy about it,” he mutters irritably, clearly assuming you’re one of his coworkers.
He turns toward you —and freezes when he realizes you’re not. And you freeze too. Only for a very different reason.
Messy dark strands escape from beneath his gray beanie, framing two large black eyes that widen in surprise.
Those eyes —you’d recognize them anywhere.
“Just leave me alone already!”
“Come on! You know I’m too short to hang the star —I need you to carry me on your shoulders!” You whine, tugging at him with all your might.
He resists —already much stronger than you at eight years old. “Why should I do that, anyway?”
You stare at him, incredulous. “It’s the school tree, Kookie! It needs a star!”
He frowns, cheeks puffing slightly as a pout forms. “You’re annoying,” he mutters —before giving in and following you anyway. Just like every year.
“Jungkook ? Jeon Jungkook ?! Is that you?”
In front of you, the neighbor’s kid —your childhood partner in crime, even if he rarely agreed to your antics— immediately darkens, cheeks flushed from the cold.
“So it really was you yesterday. Damn it.”
“Wow, you grew, like, fifty centimeters since the last time I saw you!” You blurt out, completely ignoring him. “And are those muscles I see, Kookie?”
Anticipating your move, he dodges before you can pinch his arm like you used to, jaw clenched. “Stop calling me that,” he grumbles.
You roll your eyes, unable to hide your smile. “Grump.”
It’s like you’re not even there anymore as Jungkook pointedly ignores you and goes back to his garland. He’s always been good at that —blocking out anything he deems unimportant.
Which often meant you. But hey, the boy’s always had focus issues. You can’t blame him for not concentrating on you, as perfect as you are.
Anyway.
“I didn’t know you still lived here!” You exclaim, just as undeterred as you were as a kid. If he doesn’t want to listen, he’ll at least have to hear you. “Are the others still around?” you ask, smiling as you remember his high school friend group.
You both barely talked back then, but you always kept an eye on each other from afar. Even if Jungkook would rather die than admit it.
“No,” he mutters, eyes fixed on the lights. “And you? Weren’t you studying to become a lawyer?”
You suddenly feel a strong urge to look away, your hands twitching in your pockets. Six years ago, you waited only until graduation before buying a plane ticket and getting out of here. You needed air —away from your parents who couldn’t stand each other anymore, away from all the pressure they put on you. You left without telling anyone.
At the time, it felt like the only right option. But you hated yourself for it —because you’d basically abandoned everyone you knew. Jungkook doesn’t need to know any of that, though.
You snatch the garland from his hands, eyes locked on it as you automatically undo the knot he’s been stuck on for minutes. “Vacationing at my mom’s. Didn’t know you worked for the city.”
If he notices the sudden change of subject, he doesn’t say anything.
“Because I don’t,” he replies curtly —just like when you were kids. “I work at the fine dining restaurant on Main Street. In the kitchen.”
“That’s awesome!” You still remember how much he loved cooking as a kid. “I think I might apply here toward the end of the month. Helping out at the Christmas market sounds fun and—”
“Cool. Guess I’ll just quit then,” he cuts in, clearly exasperated.
“What?” You mumble, startled.
He sighs, adjusting his beanie. “I offered to help to make some extra money, but all this Christmas crap? No thanks. And if I have to put up with you all day on top of that, I’m out.”
Ouch.
You’re about to snap back, offended, when a vague memory resurfaces —you pestering him all day to come to the Christmas market with you, eventually dragging him by the ear.
You grimace. Being your neighbor every Christmas probably wasn’t easy.
“‘Christmas crap’?” You protest instead —because honestly, you kind of deserve the jab. And you’re clearly not as close as you were as kids, so it’s not like you can say anything really.
He just gives you a look that says it all. Hand to your chest, you nearly choke. “No way. Don’t tell me you’re still a Scrooge?!”
The word sounds like an insult —especially with your shocked tone— but he just rolls his eyes, gently taking the garland back and placing it with the others.
“You’re kidding. Tell me you’re joking!”
You follow him as he grabs a crate and joins the group near the tree without even looking at you.
Even as a kid, he hated Christmas —or rather, you think your enthusiasm annoyed him so much that he just checked out completely.
Still. It’s Christmas.
“If you want my honest opinion, all this excitement is ridiculous,” he mutters. You almost choke on air.
He stops and turns to you, one eyebrow raised —and only then do you realize you’ve almost shouted, feet planted firmly in the snow, with everyone staring at you. The hint of a smile tugs at his lips. “I see Mariah Carey still has the same effect on you, Twinkle.”
The sound of that old nickname makes something twist in your chest, but you ignore it, shaking your head fiercely. “Nope. I refuse. You cannot be almost 25 and this bitter about Christmas!”
“I turned 24 three months ago, but sure,” he replies, utterly unimpressed as he hands the crate to a guy and listens to two women explain how to decorate the tree.
“You’ll see —I’ll teach you the real Christmas spirit. I’ll stick to you all day if I have to, but I will change your mind!”
“Sticking to me all day would be a change,” he mutters —an obvious reference to your childhood winters when you forced him to play in the snow with you.
Actually… You forced him to play with you year-round, now that you think about it. You grit your teeth, narrowing your eyes at him.
It only makes him smile. Which somehow annoys you even more.
“Go on, laugh,” You threaten, pointing a finger at him. “By the end of the month, you’ll be begging me to binge Alvin and the Chipmunks with you!”
He looks down at your finger, unimpressed, clearly about to reply —then stops. “Y/N,” he says with a sigh, his voice deeper than you remember. Not at all like the whiny kid you used to know.
Deeper —and suddenly sadder too. “Forget it. I don’t care what you have to say. I don’t do Christmas.”
His tone is final, and his look dares you to argue.
Unfortunately for him, if there’s one thing you’ve always excelled at —it’s proving Jeon Jungkook wrong.
“We’ll see about that.”
DECEMBER 15.
Getting hired by city hall to organize the Christmas activities turns out to be the easiest thing you’ve done in a long time.
Over the past few years —ever since you decided to pay for your law studies yourself just to piss your father off— you’ve spent your life juggling crappy little jobs. You’ve been rejected so many times that you never would’ve believed landing this position could be so easy.
But apparently, around here, while everyone eagerly awaits the Christmas setup, no one actually wants to organize it. So they take anyone who volunteers. Which is how, on Monday morning at exactly 7 a.m., you’re in the middle of brushing your teeth when your phone buzzes with a message from city hall.
Ho ho ho! City elves, time to get to work! Meet at 8 a.m. sharp in the town square!
You snort to yourself —you can very clearly picture the face Jungkook must be making while reading that.
When you step outside, car keys in hand, you come face to face with Jungkook, already standing by his car a few meters from yours on the sidewalk. Instinctively, when your door clicks shut, he turns toward you —and it takes everything in you not to burst out laughing.
His eyes are puffy, his hair a complete mess like he just rolled out of bed, and he’s thrown on a thick sweater —black, obviously— to face the cold. Beneath his hair, you watch his brows knit together when he spots you, his nose scrunching as he tries to make sense of your presence.
You can see the exact moment it clicks. “This is a fucking joke…” he mutters, just as you slide into your car, grinning.
This is going to be a very interesting day, you think as you start the engine.
“Can you pass me the cream, please?”
Jungkook barely looks at you, simply extending an arm to grab and toss you the closest bottle —the milk.
You take it automatically, blinking. Jungkook keeps stirring the thick mixture in his bowl with a wooden spoon, his arm muscles flexing with every movement because the dough is ridiculously dense. You’ve been debating for several minutes whether to tell him to add milk instead of more flour —but you don’t do it.
And that has nothing to do with the view in front of you. “The cream, Jeon,” You remind him gently after a few seconds.
He freezes mid-motion, eyes still fixed on the bowl —but unfocused. Staring into nothing. He used to do that as a kid too, zoning out when he was thinking. And for the record —no, you do not find that adorable at all.
After a moment, he reaches out again, this time grabbing the bowl of cream and handing it to you, giving you a clear view of his tattoos as you take it.
You say nothing.
The last time you commented on them —about twenty minutes ago, when he rolled up his sleeves— he growled that if you kept it up, he’d happily show them to you up close.
By choking you with his elbow. And no, that didn’t make you blush, that’s ridic —Okay. You went bright red.
Without realizing it, your eyes drift back to his arm. Has it always been that big?
“What the hell am I doing here, seriously?” Jungkook mutters, snapping you out of your thoughts.
It’s clearly not meant for you, but you seize the opportunity anyway. He’s so grumpy —you’d be stupid not to. “That’s a good question. What are you doing here? Is the restaurant closed for Christmas?” You ask casually.
He turns toward you, suspicious, but you keep your eyes fixed on the gingerbread dough you’re struggling with. You’ve always been better at cookies and shortbread, but unsurprisingly, these were one of the first workshops chosen.
“Not really,” he replies after a moment, once again focused on his rock-solid dough. “My boss forced me to take the vacation days I didn’t use this year.”
Silence falls again, broken only by our movements. After a few seconds, he adds quietly, “My dad always wanted me to help with these stupid preparations.”
This time, you freeze. The subject of his father has always been sensitive —probably because he was the only parent Jungkook ever had, and kids used to tease him for it. Back then, you used to punch anyone who made fun of him.
Jungkook’s dad was always so kind —he’d give you candy whenever he picked you both up. In middle school, you stopped punching the kids who mocked him. Jungkook said it embarrassed him.
You still threatened the bullies behind the cafeteria wall, though.
“You’re really weird, you know that?” You finally say, shaping sugar paste into a tiny scarf for your gingerbread man. “You’re the guy I know who hates Christmas the most, and instead of going, I don’t know, to the Caribbean, you choose to spend your vacation organizing it.”
Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say —especially with sarcasm— because he scowls immediately. “I’m the weird one? You literally applied here just to stick to me!”
You clutch your chest dramatically, fake-offended. “What, I’m not allowed to look for a job to pay for the end of the year? Get over yourself, Jeon. My world doesn’t revolve around you.”
He raises an eyebrow like he strongly disagrees —which, honestly, is fair. Anyone who’d seen you as kids would’ve sworn otherwise. “Say whatever you want,” he mutters, “it doesn’t change the fact that you’re still just as unhinged.”
It’s so quiet you can’t even tell if he’s joking.
“And you’re still the same lost little kid,” You shoot back, “You know, the one who came crying to me every time he lost a toy?”
His cheeks immediately turn red. “At least the ‘lost kid’ didn’t drop everything to become a lawyer just because he had ‘good arguments,’ only to completely fail his career.”
Okay. Now you’re actually offended.
You didn’t fail your law career —you just didn’t start it. This year wasn’t exactly ideal for that. You should’ve known rumors would spread around town. Still —it stings.
“You little—” You mutter through clenched teeth.
Jungkook has the audacity to give you a smug little look. “What? Isn’t it true? If it wasn’t, why would you come back to this dump?”
For a split second, he looks genuinely sad —like he himself regrets never leaving. It almost calms you down. Almost.
Then he brings back the smug look, and you snap.
When you were kids, he always won —every game, every stupid little challenge. It made him kind of arrogant sometimes. Someone has to put him in his place, right?
He opens his mouth to speak —but Jeon Jungkook loses that infuriating smirk before he can say a word, because a violent handful of flour slams straight into his nose.
He starts coughing violently, clouds of white powder exploding with every breath. He flails his arms to push you away —but you’ve already reloaded, both fists full of flour, ready to strike.
“Say that again!” You growl when he finally manages to open his eyes, his face completely white.
“You’re completely insane!” he practically yells, drawing the attention of the other volunteers.
“Yeah, you’ve said that already,” You reply, raising your hand again. “Go on. Say it again.”
“You’re just a spoiled daddy’s girl who doesn’t know what she wants!” he blurts out, looking seconds away from sticking his tongue out at you.
“And you’re a stuck-up idiot!” You fire back, launching flour straight into his face.
This time, he doesn’t wait to stop coughing before retaliating. Blind in the flour cloud, he reaches into the bag, grabs a handful, and throws it at you with way more force than necessary.
You cough, eyes squeezed shut, letting out a furious yelp. “That’s cheating! You’ve got bigger hands!”
“You started it,” he snaps —right before grabbing the back of your head and smashing flour into your face.
You’re going to kill him.
You don’t know who’s yelling or attacking more —only that suddenly it’s nothing but shouting, grabbed clothes, and flour flying everywhere.
When you deliberately shove some into his ear, he retaliates by dumping it into your hair. You shove some down the collar of his sweater, making him yell. He scratches at his back, trying to shake it off —and instead trips over the table leg.
Naturally, he takes you down with him.
Your eyes widen at the same time when you realize he’s about to crush you —but somehow, miraculously, he catches himself. One hand grips your waist, and he takes the worst of the fall, landing flat on his back with your full weight on top of him. You both groan in pain.
You push yourself up on your forearms, Jungkook’s hand still steady on your waist. Fine clouds of flour drift around you like snow, and you can feel his breath on your cheek —just like he must feel yours on his.
Your gazes lock. Your noses are only inches apart.
And suddenly, you both become painfully aware of how close you are —your body pressed against his, one hand on his chest, one of his still on your waist. And yet, the moment your eyes meet his dark ones, you find yourself completely unable to move.
He doesn’t seem any better.
“Alright, children! What on earth is going on here?!” Mr. Rodolph’s voice— assistant in charge of Christmas activities— booms across the room.
Jungkook and you both jolt like you’ve been struck by lightning. You quickly scramble to your feet, immediately putting distance between the both of you.
You’re covered in flour from head to toe. So is he. Around you, the other volunteers stare in stunned silence. Heat floods your face —and when you glance at Jungkook, his cheeks and ears are bright red.
You apologize in unison, promise to pay for the wasted flour, and once everyone gets back to work, you resume your baking like nothing happened.
Still red.
You’re the first to speak. “Just so you know,” you say. He turns toward you, wearing something other than his usual grumpy expression for once. “You hit the ground first. I’m counting that as a win.”
You suppress a smile when he raises an eyebrow, offended. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Twinkle,” he mutters —his tone sounding suspiciously like a promise of a rematch.
Your smile grows —but you hold it back. At least until you see him hiding one of his own.
When you burst out laughing, he joins in, cheeks still flushed —but this time with a real smile lighting up his face.
Silently, you think that Jungkook is really handsome when he lets himself go like that. You don’t say it out loud, of course.
But when he goes back to stirring his awful dough while half-heartedly holding the conversation you’re forcing him into, you grab the milk bottle and pour at least half of it into his bowl.
And he lets you. Without a single comment.
DECEMBER 17.
Out of all the Christmas activities organized by the village, the ice rink has always been your favorite. The feeling of gliding freely, the wind biting at your face, hours of fun with friends, the inevitable falls that make everyone laugh… Yeah. You’ve always loved it.
Apparently, that’s very much not the case for Jungkook.
On Wednesday, your task is to set up the temporary ice rink —as fast as possible— so it can open to the public the very next day. Your small team of volunteers gathers early that morning, and you’re more efficient than ever. Probably because, for once, Jungkook and you don’t argue.
Well. Except that one time when you got into it because he refused to hand you the wrench —after which you hit him with a scaffolding pipe. He barely felt it. Really. Nothing worth mentioning.
By around four in the afternoon, everything is finally set up, and the small tent with the skates opens just for you and the team, before the rink officially opens later that evening. You’re bouncing with excitement as you eagerly look for your shoe size —then even more so when you sit down near the edge to put them on.
Some of your coworkers are already on the ice, laughter cutting through the air above the soft rush of wind. You double-check that your skates are properly tightened, then push off to join them, starting with your skates parallel to the barrier.
It’s only after a few laps —smiling wide— that you notice Jungkook standing near the railing, phone in hand, looking thoroughly miserable. Frowning, you skate over and lean against the barrier to catch his attention.
“What are you doing? Go get some skates, let’s do a few laps!” You say, giving his shoulder a light tap. He steps back like you just insulted his entire bloodline, shooting a dark look at the rink.
“No thanks,” he mutters, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets. You’d bet good money that if he could cross his arms like a sulking child, he absolutely would.
“Oh, come on. You’re not seriously going home already? Just one lap —not long, I promise!”
His expression darkens. “Forget it. I’ve got stuff to do.”
Without meaning to, your mouth twists into a small pout. “That sucks. You sure you don’t want to take this chance to totally impress me?” You joke, eyes pleading.
Jungkook has always been good at everything —a kind of natural talent that lets him excel at literally anything he touches. Completely unbearable, in your opinion. When he wasn’t busy wiping the floor with you, he used that gift to help you with things you were terrible at —though more often than not, he preferred to rub it in.
“I’m sure you’d be amazing…” You add, more as a last-convincing attempt than anything else.
To your surprise, he doesn’t respond. Instead, the tops of his cheeks turn red, and he looks away. “What?” You ask after a few seconds, confused by the lack of smug teasing you’re used to.
He mutters something you can’t quite hear, then clears his throat, scratching the back of his neck nervously. You frown. “Nothing. I’m heading out.” He tosses out a rushed, barely intelligible “see ya” and walks off quickly —almost jogging.
His escape might’ve worked if he didn’t have to walk all the way around the rink to leave.
“Jeon Jungkook,” You sing-song, your tone half-suspicious, half-amused, skating along the edge to follow him. “Don’t tell me you don’t know how to skate?”
He freezes.
His head drops, clearly trying to hide his burning-red face. Internally, you rejoice. “No way.”
“That’s ridiculous,” he grumbles, glaring at you while glancing around to make sure no one heard. You stare at him, mouth hanging open.
Jeon Jungkook. The kid genius who can do everything. Can’t skate.
You burst out laughing so hard you can barely breathe, clutching the railing to keep from slipping, one hand pressed to your stomach. “Shut up,” he snaps after a few seconds, shooting you a dark look —looking embarrassed, and unfairly cute.
“You never learned?” You ask once you manage to calm down, still smiling way too much.
He scowls but answers anyway. “I was scared of falling and losing a finger.” At your confused look, he adds, “If someone skated over it.”
You laugh even harder. He glares at you twice as fiercely —but at least he doesn’t run off, which you count as a win.
“You’re not going to lose a finger,” you reassure him. “People are careful, don’t worry.” “Still—”
“Come on, go get some skates. I don’t have all day,” you press gently, tapping his shoulder again.
This time, he doesn’t brush your hand away. He just stares at you, eyes practically popping out of his head. “Are you insane? Absolutely not.”
“I’ll teach you! It’s easy, you’ll see!”
“No way. I value my life.”
You don’t answer right away, stung. Sure, you like teasing him —but not like that. If he’s going to be mean, he might as well just go home.
He seems to realize it too, because his expression softens, something like regret flickering in his eyes. He pauses, exhales louder than necessary, and you watch his gaze drift toward the other skaters already on the ice. When he looks back at you, that same awkward expression is back.
“If I walk away with even a single bruise…” he starts threateningly.
You wave him off. “Stop being dramatic, Jeon. Do you really think I’d let you fall?”
In the end, you do let him fall. Three times, actually.
The fourth time, the sore loser clings to you and drags you down with him —and if you yell at him at first, you both quickly lose your seriousness and end up laughing like you did during the flour fight.
Jungkook’s ridiculous talent hasn’t faded with the years. He only needs about ten minutes with you before he’s comfortable skating on his own. And just like that, your moment of glory is over. He beats you every time you race, skates with such effortless elegance you’d swear he’s been doing it his whole life, and even catches you several times when you almost fall.
A group of kids takes a liking to him, amazed by his skills, and he plays with them for a while —smiling far more than he’d ever like people to notice.
You watch from a distance, a fond smile appearing every time Jungkook looks up and meets your gaze, like he’s checking that you’re still there. Actually, you keep smiling even when he’s not looking.
It feels like you’re seeing the little boy from your childhood again —the shy one who was also the funniest and sweetest, who just needed an excuse to let it show.
He joins you by the railing as the setting sun paints long streaks of orange and red across the sky. You turn toward him, smiling. His cheeks and nose are red from the cold, but his grumpy scowl is gone, replaced by a small smile.
“So?” You say, proud of myself. “The ice rink?” He blushes even harder, that awkward look returning. “Told you you’d be amazing.”
“You’re just bad,” he shoots back, nudging you with his elbow and making you laugh. He always has to get his little comment in.
“You know, you’re allowed to admit you liked it,” You tease, turning toward him with a smile.
He pretends to weigh the pros and cons, nose lifted into the wind.“Yeah… it wasn’t bad,” he finally admits with a shrug.
Then he looks at you —and the look he gives you warms your chest in the best way. “Really not bad.”
DECEMBER 19.
“Which one looks better? Red or white?” You ask, holding the two ornaments side by side to compare.
“I don’t know the fuck. Hurry up, we don’t have all week,” Jungkook grumbles back without even bothering to look at the glass balls you’re offering him.
You lower your arms, annoyed. God, he’s unbearable this morning.
Okay, he’s never liked decorating Christmas trees —when the deputy assigned you both to it, you honestly thought he might start crying— but still. He could at least appreciate how lucky you are. The only other group made up of “young people,” besides you, got stuck decorating the giant tree in the village square —the three-meter-tall one everyone walks past all day long. They’re going to be there forever. All day, if they’re fast.
You’ve got the modest elementary school tree. You’re doing great. In an hour or two, you’ll be done. At least, you would be, if Jungkook would stop sulking.
“Okay, and if we go with the polite option, what does that get me?”
He looks up at you, completely unimpressed. “Go fuck yourself.” You sigh. You guess you shouldn’t be surprised.
When you were kids, it used to take you forever to convince him to decorate the tree with you —your favorite activity back then— and he always complained. He didn’t dare insult you yet, because he would’ve gotten scolded. But that’s the perk of being an adult: no one tells you off for being rude anymore.
“Whatever, you’ve got terrible taste anyway,” You say cheerfully, deciding to ignore him since he’s clearly chosen to be insufferable today.
“Go fuck yourself,” he repeats, still not pretending to care as you hang the ornament yourself. Probably because he knows you well enough to guess you’ll end up putting both on. You’ve never been able to choose —they’re all so pretty…
“Excuse me, kids,” one of the volunteers suddenly says, stepping in and reaching toward you just as you’re forced to climb down from the step ladder to grab more ornaments —since a certain unbearable child refuses to pass them to you. “I’m going to borrow this for a minute, but I’ll bring it right back, don’t worry!”
You barely have time to react before the man grabs your ladder and disappears without waiting for an answer. You stare after him, dumbfounded, as he vanishes down the street. Jungkook, meanwhile, doesn’t move an inch —still in full rock mode.
For a ridiculous full minute, neither of you moves. You, because you’re stunned. Him, because he’s been emotionally fossilized since this morning. “So… what do we do?” You finally ask quietly, turning to him.
He looks at you, utterly uninterested, clearly wishing he were anywhere else. “What do you mean, ‘what do we do’? We decorate the tree.”
Translation: do whatever you want, just deal with it —and hurry up.
“Uh… Jungkook ?” He frowns at your evasive look and the way you suddenly start wringing your hands. “He’s with the group doing the supermarket. There are like ten trees over there. I don’t think they’re bringing the ladder back.”
He stays still, but you can practically see the gears turning in his head. His brows knit together slowly, his gaze bouncing between you, the door the ladder thief disappeared through, and your tree.
You instantly regret your habit of decorating the bottom first —because now, without the ladder, the top is completely out of reach. “Is this a fucking joke?” he mutters when he reaches the same conclusion.
You just shake your head. He exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “So what do we do?” he asks in turn. You’re very tempted to answer as sarcastically as he did earlier. But you don’t, because you’re nice like that.
“I can’t reach the top without the ladder,” You point out, gesturing to the entire bare upper half of the tree.
The look you give him seems to make the implication sink in —he’s going to have to do it— but he shakes his head before you can even try to convince him. “No way. I’d rather die,” he says firmly, clearly not open to discussion.
You want to snap back that he could at least try, but you know that would just start another argument, so you bite your tongue. After another minute where no one moves —and your ladder is still very much gone— an idea finally comes to you.
An idea he is going to hate. Still, since it’s your only option, you turn to him anyway, choosing your words carefully. “I mean… I do have an idea. But I’ll need your help.”
He gives you a deeply suspicious look, like he’s convinced you’re plotting something awful. You tense up reflexively, ready to back away the moment he figures it out —especially since earlier he shoved you, which he called a “light tap,” even though you almost face-planted.
After a moment, though, he raises an eyebrow in silent question. You swallow nervously. He’s definitely going to hit you if I say this out loud.
“You know… we could…” You gesture vaguely toward the tree, hoping he’ll catch on quickly. “…Like when we were kids?”
His face falls the second he understands, and you could swear his cheeks turn pink before he shakes his head decisively. “Not in a million years.”
You stomp your foot, annoyed. His wannabe rebellious-teen attitude is getting seriously old. “You got a better idea?”
He looks up at the ceiling with a long sigh, silently screaming please just kill me now. “No, but I’m not—”
“The faster it’s done, the faster we can go home!” You snap, at your wit’s end. “It’s twenty minutes. Max.”
That finally hits home. He goes quiet, lower lip sticking out slightly as he thinks —and no, you were not staring at his mouth to notice that. He shoots you another wary look, eyes narrowed. “Five,” he finally says, reluctantly.
You shake your head, eyeing how much of the tree is still undecorated. No way you can finish that in five minutes, even with the best intentions.
“Fifteen,” You counter with a sigh.
“Six,” he shoots back —and at this point you don’t even know if it’s for him or just to annoy you.
“JUNGKOOK.” “Fine. Ten. But after that, you make sure they never ask us to decorate these shitty trees ever again.”
You suppress a smile at his sulky expression. What a child. “Deal.” “Deal.”
Jungkook complains a lot less than you expected when you climb onto his shoulders. Given how grumpy he’s been all day, you were fully prepared for comments like you weigh a ton or hurry your ass up, but he’s strangely quiet as he gently places his hands on your thighs before standing, gripping firmly to keep you from falling.
You get back to work without a word, silence settling in as he hands you ornaments and garlands one by one so you don’t have to lean too far.
Normally, you would’ve filled the quiet with chatter —but you’re way too busy keeping your focus on the tree, and not on his hands on your legs.
When you were kids, you did this every year. He’d complain while you decorated the bottom, then hoist you onto his shoulders so you could do the top. It worked —you always finished fast enough to avoid the teacher catching you. Otherwise, you would’ve been scolded.
Even now, the method is just as effective.
Still, you’re pretty sure little kid you never had to deal with burning cheeks and that fluttery feeling in her stomach every time he shifts.
You’re proud of yourself, though —for now, you’re keeping it together. You haven’t completely embarrassed yourself yet.
Right as you think that, he tightens his grip on your legs, presses his cheek against the inside of your thigh, and squeezes much more firmly. You gasp in surprise, grabbing his hair to keep from letting out the tiniest sound.
You squeeze your eyes shut, lips pressed together. Having Jungkook’s head there is already more than enough, you really don’t need this turning into full-on groping.
Even if… no. Stop.
“Sorry,” he mutters so quietly you barely hear it, shifting back into place and moving his head just enough for you to breathe again.
The building door opens before you can respond, and a tall woman carrying notebooks storms inside.
Your heart nearly stops when you recognize her.
The teacher.
“Lee and Jeon! What a surprise!” she says warmly. “I almost thought I was dreaming when I saw you two. Up to your old tricks again, hmm?”
Jungkook’s eyes go wide as he recognizes Mrs. Song, your former teacher, who’s smiling at you fondly. When you were kids, you always rushed to decorate the tree before she could see you —and she never actually caught you, even though she absolutely knew it was you doing it against the rules.
Years later, she’s caught you red-handed.
Worse —Jungkook’s head is between your legs, and you’re clutching his hair like your life depends on it.
You’re going to die of embarrassment.
“We’re working for the city,” Jungkook says smoothly, sparing you an awkward silence. That’s when you notice your fingers that are still tangled in his hair. You yank your hands back in a panic, wobbling and forcing him to place a hand at the small of your back to steady you.
A shiver runs straight down your spine. You do your best to ignore it and smile at Mrs. Song. “We’re almost done, I promise.”
She bursts out laughing, setting her notebooks down on a table in the hallway. “Oh, you’re not bothering me at all. Quite the opposite. It reminds me of when you were little…”
Jungkook’s hands tighten on you as you lean forward to hang the last garland. You have to stop yourself from squirming.
“Almost twenty years already… I can still see you arguing over which colors were best…”
“We weren’t arguing. She picked on her own,” Jungkook grumbles, handing you another red ornament.
You tap his forehead lightly, but despite your bickering, Mrs. Song clearly notices your shared smirks.
“It amused all my colleagues every year,” she continues cheerfully. “Watching you two plot to decorate the tree right under the city staff’s noses —and sneaking around so you wouldn’t get scolded.”
You smile without realizing it.
You can still see yourself —tiny as anything— dragging Jungkook along by the ear. He always came. He hid it well, but deep down, you’re sure he loved those moments.
“Every time, we debated catching you in the act,” she laughs softly, crow’s feet forming at the corners of her eyes.
You remember Jungkook tugging at your pigtails while you were still on his shoulders, urging you to hurry down, terrified of getting caught.
“The star,” You say quietly, pointing to the large white one.
He bends to grab it and hands it to you. You lean forward and secure the final touch.
“I even remember that every year, you chose the same colors,” she adds fondly. “Your own little tradition.”
You can feel Jungkook holding back a comment —but he stays silent, too focused on keeping you steady.
“Gold and green would look better,” he always used to complain, stomping his foot.
“The tree is already green, it’ll look awful!” You’d argue back.
And in the end, you always went with red and white —your favorite colors.
“All done,” You say, tapping his shoulder gently.
He grabs your waist to help you down.
The way his hands hold you steals your breath, and you blush at the realization that all these years, you’ve always trusted Jungkook not to let you fall —just like he trusted you on the ice rink. It almost makes you feel guilty, because he’s never let you down.
The bruises he probably still has from the other day say otherwise about you.
With the mess at your feet, he hesitates before setting you down, keeping you suspended against him longer than necessary. You cling to his shoulders instinctively, breath shallow.
When he finally looks up after nudging the decorations aside, your eyes meet. Your noses brush—
“The best part was when your father came to get you early and caught you in the act!” Mrs. Song laughs as she walks toward her office. “The looks on your faces! Ah, good old times...”
She disappears down the hallway, smiling warmly.
But at the mention of his father, Jungkook loses all trace of warmth.
The second she’s gone, his body goes rigid. He grips you —harder this time. Too hard. Not the kind of pressure that gives you butterflies.
His eyes harden, his face closes off, and a moment later he sets you down abruptly.
“I’ll clean this up,” he mutters, grabbing the large box of decorations.
What the—
You don’t even have time to say anything. He’s already gone.
“You could’ve waited for me!” You complain, jogging up to him in front of the school. He’s standing there doing nothing, stiff as a lamppost.
He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t even turn his head. He just stares into nothing, glassy-eyed, his face completely blank. A small spike of worry pricks at you, but you know Jungkook well enough to understand that if he doesn’t want to talk, he won’t —no matter how much you push.
So instead, you choose to worry about his physical health —because once again, Mister decided to go out wearing nothing but a sweater while it’s minus five degrees outside and night is already falling.
“You got your car?” You ask casually, eyes fixed on his profile.
He snaps out of his daze, startled by the sudden question, and stares at you with those big doe eyes of his. “No,” he answers simply, without looking away. He hesitates, as if weighing his options, then adds, “You?”
You shake your head. You both live ten minutes away on foot —why would you have taken your car?
“Wanna walk home together?”
“Do I even have a choice?”
Neither of you speaks as you head down the street toward your place, walking side by side in silence, your breaths forming little clouds in the cold air. More than once, you see Jungkook shiver, but you stop yourself from doing anything about it —because right now, randomly grabbing his hand would be weird, right?.. I think about it for a second, then decide it’s a terrible idea. So instead, you bury your nose in your scarf and keep your eyes fixed straight ahead.
You leave the main road, turning right onto the small path that leads home, but as you round the corner, you cross paths with a man coming the other way. With the poor lighting, you can’t make out his face —just the vague shape of it, lit by his phone screen.
Reflexively, you move closer to Jungkook, your shoulders bumping as you hurry toward him. Startled, he lifts his head, frowning, and follows your gaze to see what caught your attention.
Before he has time to figure it out, though, the guy ahead of you lifts his head too —and a wide grin splits his face when his eyes land on Jungkook.
“Fuck, Jeon! What the hell are you doing here —still crying over your daddy?”
Silence.
You can feel Jungkook tense beside you —his entire face shuts down, and a muscle jumps in his cheek as his jaw clenches.
The guy stops under a streetlamp a few steps away, and now that his face is lit, you recognize him —he was in your class in high school, though you can’t remember his name. You probably spoke to him, what, three times? Max.
You stop short, thrown by his words. What the hell is he talking about? You open your mouth to ask Jungkook, confused, but at the same time the guy’s gaze slides over to you, his grin morphing into something more unsettling.
“Who’s that?” he asks, openly checking you out, jerking his chin toward you. “Didn’t know you had a girlfriend, Jeon. You gonna introduce us?”
That does it —you shoot him a death glare. Who the hell does he think he is, this loser?
“Go fuck yourself, Ryan,” Jungkook snaps through clenched teeth, before grabbing your elbow and picking up the pace, pulling you along with him.
You almost have to run to keep up with his long strides —why are his legs long like that?!— and when you try to tell him to slow down, one hand on his arm, it’s like he can’t hear you, charging ahead just to get away from the guy.
Worse than that, he keeps his eyes fixed straight ahead like a charging bull, holding his breath as he puts distance between you and him.
You turn your head, confused, doing your best to keep up while looking back over your shoulder to glare at the guy.
Your expression hardens when, instead of seeing him walk away like a normal person, you catch him already staring at you, a smile on his lips —and judging by the way he subtly lifts his chin when you turn around, it’s not your back he was looking at, but lower.
That alone is enough to make your blood boil.
Jungkook’s grip on you is too firm for you to go punch what’s-his-face —whose name you’ve already forgotten— so instead you turn to him, brows furrowed.
“Do you know him? Who was that?” You vaguely remember seeing that guy in high school, but you’re pretty sure he was never friends with Jungkook. You were even convinced no one from your class still lived here —Jungkook’s friends, like yours, all moved away to study or work elsewhere.
He waits until you’ve turned onto another street to slow down, casting a glance over his shoulder to make sure the other guy didn’t follow us. His hand stays on your elbow —big, warm, grounding.
“An asshole,” he mutters, so quietly you almost don’t hear it. Then, after a brief moment where your eyes meet, “Forget it.”
You tilt your head, even more confused, but this time he avoids your gaze, staring back into the emptiness ahead.
You sigh, annoyed. You’re willing to give him space —partly because you know how stubborn he can be— but this? You feel like you have the right to know. That bastard just checked out your ass, after all.
“What did he want, exactly?” You mutter with a displeased grimace, fully aware there’s little chance he’ll answer —but you never know. “And why did he talk about your dad?”
You look straight at him when you say that, then add, eyes suddenly wide as your grimace disappears, “How is he, by the way?”
For your studies, you left home right after high school —Jungkook did too, as far as you knew— but at first, your parents —especially your mom— kept you updated on everything going on back here. They always got along well with Jungkook’s dad, so you heard about him now and then, even if you didn’t really talk anymore.
A memory you’d completely forgotten slams back into you like a flash —your dad, on the phone the day after Christmas during your third year, telling you Mr. Jeon had been in a car accident. You vaguely remember asking how he was doing, but now that you think about it, you don’t think you ever got an answer.
And just thinking about it twists something in your stomach, a wave of worry washing over you. Because you’ve been back for almost a week now —and you haven’t seen Mr. Jeon even once.
Jungkook remains stoic, not a flicker of emotion crossing his face while you spiral beside him.
You lean closer to try and see his expression, but he doesn’t look at you when he answers.
‘How is he, by the way?’
“He’s dead.”
The three words hit you like a truck. You stop dead, suddenly unable to move.
Jungkook keeps walking for a few steps before stopping too —without turning around.
All you can do is stare at his back, eyes wide.
Fuck.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
Your third year was three years ago—three years, damn it.
Don’t tell me you’ve been stupid enough not to know for three fucking years?!
Jungkook’s back stays rigid, unmoving, and your fingers itch with the sudden urge to pull him into your arms.
You bet he closed his eyes. You bet he’s keeping his back turned so nothing shows. And you just asked him how his dad was doing —unbelievable, what a—
“I’m going to kill him.”
“What?!”
You take off running in the opposite direction —you’re sure that asshole Rémi —or whatever his name is—is still on the street, you can catch up to him, right?— but you barely make it ten steps before Jungkook grabs you by the collar and yanks you back hard.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he sighs, but at least his eyes aren’t empty anymore.
“I’m going to kill him,” you repeat, swatting his hand away. “Let go.”
He sighs again, this time a mix of exhaustion and irritation crossing his face.
“Stop it,” he mutters, shoving you a little harder than necessary as he releases your coat.
“Stop what?” You ask suddenly, all your anger draining away at the genuinely hurt look in his eyes.
“Don’t pity me,” he says softly, eyes locked on yours. Your heart tightens at all the pain you see there. “I don’t need that. Least of all from you.”
You should be offended —but instead, it’s the opposite. Maybe because you know pushing people away has always been Jungkook’s way of protecting himself.
Too bad your way of protecting him is forcing him to put up with you all day long.
“Who’s pitying you, exactly?” You shoot back, one eyebrow raised. His face falters slightly, confusion written all over it. You click your tongue, feigning annoyance. “That asshole was staring at my ass. I just want to teach him some manners.”
When he doesn’t react —standing still while processing your words— you roll your eyes and start walking again, arms crossed over your chest —toward home this time, not toward the other asshole. You pass him, and Jungkook falls into step beside you automatically, still silent.
Only after a full minute of complete quiet does his voice break through again.
“Everyone stares at your ass, Twinkle.”
You smile to myself, absurdly pleased —because he never calls you Twinkle when he’s angry.
You glance at him over your shoulder as he catches up to walk beside you. “Well, that shouldn’t be allowed,” you retort, because deep down, he’s not the only stubborn one here.
“What shouldn’t be allowed,” he mutters without looking at you, “is having such a nice ass.”
“Wow, Jeon Jungkook. Was that a compliment?”
“Shut up,” he snaps, cheeks flushing red, pretending to grumble while you burst out laughing —and yet, you can clearly see the small smile he’s trying to hide.
Several minutes later, when the silence has long settled again, you finally gather your courage and, giving in to the tingling in your fingers, slip your hand into his, gently squeezing his fingers with yours.
This time, you’re the one who ignores his look as he turns to you, one eyebrow raised —clearly saying ‘see? you ARE pitying me’.
You scrunch your nose, annoyed —and a little embarrassed too.
“Shut up. It’s so you don’t get cold,” you mumble into your scarf, tucking your joined hands into your coat pocket. “What kind of idiot goes out in just a sweater in this weather…”
He doesn’t answer —but he doesn’t pull his hand away either.
And for the rest of the walk home, that small, quiet smile stays right there on his lips.
DECEMBER 21.
Jungkook spent the entire day shut inside his house.
The day before, the two of you had been assigned to the Christmas market that had just opened, while others —luckier, according to him— were stationed at the ice rink, or simply tasked with checking the latest decoration orders at city hall.
You, on the other hand, had been put in charge of the hot chocolate stand —the most popular stand in the entire market.
Still, he has to admit it wasn’t that bad. In fact, generally speaking, he might even go so far as to say it was nice —though he would never say that out loud— and that he enjoyed spending that time with you.
He’d forgotten how easy it was to get swept up in your good mood.
The one moment he might like to forget —maybe, if he really had to— was when a small boy had come over in tears after scraping his knee, and you’d spent long minutes comforting him as if he were your own child.
He still remembers the warmth that bloomed in his chest as he stood there in silence, watching your profile, your smile, the way your eyes shone. And then he noticed the stupid grin spreading across his own face, and hurried to wipe it away, embarrassed.
What the hell is wrong with him?
He’s letting himself go too much since you came back —he hadn’t felt like this since high school, maybe even before, and it doesn’t bode well. You’re only here for the holidays, after all.
Still… he’d forgotten how radiant you were. How kind. Even if you’re unbearable sometimes.
So pretty.
He shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. He really needs to get a grip.
“Bam!” he calls over his shoulder, bending down to grab his dog’s bowl. “Dinner time!”
With a practiced motion, he grabs the bag of kibble and pours it into the bowl. His mind has been foggy for days now, split between his usual grief and… you, even if he’d rather die than admit that to himself.
When you finally asked about his father —the question he’d been dreading the most, even though he knew it was coming— he’d expected to feel sad. Angry. Desperate, maybe.
He’d expected the usual speech —that you were sorry, that you were there for him, blah blah blah.
Instead, you’d confessed your murderous urges and teased him, perfectly true to yourself.
From anyone else, it would’ve offended him. Outraged him. He probably would’ve punched whoever dared say that.
But coming from you, it made him smile —worse, it warmed his entire body, like a blanket wrapped tightly around him.
The best part was certainly when you took his hand.
He wouldn’t be able to describe what he felt the next day, when you met again to manage the ice rink stand as planned, and you talked to him like usual. Nothing had changed in your tone, in your gaze —and it affected him far more than he would’ve imagined.
But Sundays are a day off for volunteers —city hall staff take over instead.
So he stayed home.
And it turns out that without you there to bother him all day, the dark thoughts come back much faster.
He woke up thinking about his father.
Ate thinking about his father.
Watched a show thinking about his father.
It’s his fault, really —everything in this house reminds him of his dad. He should’ve left a long time ago. He just never found the strength.
“Bam?” he calls again when the doberman still hasn’t appeared.
Silence.
That’s strange. Usually the dog comes running at the slightest noise —often just to play— and even faster when it’s time to eat.
But now? Nothing.
Frowning, Jungkook straightens up and searches the house. Nothing in the living room. Nothing in the bedroom. Not even in his office. Where the hell could Bam have gone?
He considers checking the attic —who knows, maybe he snuck up there— when he suddenly notices that the kitchen door leading outside is wide open.
Shit, Jungkook thinks, just before panic takes over.
Shit shit shit shit shit.
Bam —his hyper, uncontrollable dog— loose in the street? Shit.
Jungkook doesn’t think twice. He runs outside, vaguely remembering to lock the door behind him before bursting into the street, shouting his dog’s name. For what feels like an eternity, that’s all he does —running around, calling out— until after long minutes, resigned to the idea that all he can do is put up flyers, he heads back home.
That’s when he passes your house, glowing with Christmas lights —and stops.
Could it be…?
Yes. It would make sense.
He’s had Bam for several years now —since he started working at the restaurant, actually— and your mom always gave him treats whenever she saw him. Over time, the dog learned that going to your place meant free food.
So maybe…
Jungkook ignores the way his chest pounds as he slips through the little red gate, just like he used to as a kid.
He ignores the flutter in his stomach as he walks up your driveway and knocks on your door.
And he does everything he can to ignore the way his breath catches when you open it and you’re suddenly face to face.
“Jungkook?”
You stare at him, surprised, watching him swallow as the tops of his cheeks redden visibly. Suddenly, you remember the tiny shorts you threw on with your sweater without thinking —and instantly regret not considering it before opening the door.
Though, admittedly, the way Jungkook’s eyes linger on your bare legs is… pretty nice.
“Hey, uh…” he starts, nervously scratching the back of his neck.
You tilt your head, amused. You will never stop finding his shy side adorable.
“By any chance, have you seen—”
“WARF!”
He’s cut off mid-sentence by Bam, who explodes with joy at the sight of him and literally jumps on him. You step aside just in time to avoid being taken out —thankfully, because you would’ve ended up flat on your face— but Jungkook isn’t so lucky.
He stumbles back several steps, struggling not to fall as his dog overwhelms him with affection, licking his face enthusiastically while completely ignoring the “stop, stop, THAT’S ENOUGH” Jungkook yells.
The scene is so adorable you can’t help but laugh, which earns you a glare from Jungkook.
“…Seen your dog? Yeah. I might have.”
“Thanks,” he mutters softly, scratching Bam behind the ears. He finally manages to calm him down, gripping his collar to keep him still before petting him gently, visibly relieved.
“I was going to bring him back to your place, but first I wanted to finish—” You trail off, gesturing vaguely toward the inside of the house.
He looks up, surprised. “You were doing something?” he asks, half-apologetic for interrupting you, and half-curious.
You smile, a small laugh escaping you. “I was decorating my tree.”
His eyebrows shoot so high they disappear into his hair. “You haven’t done your tree yet? Three days before Christmas?”
You pout, fake-offended. “I haven’t really had time, you know. I only pulled all the boxes out of the attic this morning. Those things weigh a ton.”
“You should’ve asked me —I would’ve done it for you,” he blurts out naturally while petting his dog.
You both freeze.
Realizing what he just said, he turns bright red. “I mean—”
“You want to help me?” You ask simply, smiling softly.
He rubs the back of his neck, messing up his hair in the process —and the result is far too sexy to be legal. Mentally, you sigh, resisting the urge to bat your eyelashes.
How can he be so cute and so handsome at the same time?
He looks at you like a deer caught in headlights. “…With the tree?” he asks in a tiny voice, as if he can’t believe his ears.
You nod, doing your best to hide his growing smile.
God, he’s adorable.
“Okay,” he finally says, biting his lower lip.
Your Christmas playlist hums in the background, Mariah Carey hitting that high note while you sway your hips gently, humming along. Jungkook is quiet, but the small smile on his lips hasn’t left since he came in.
On the couch, Bam is happily chewing on an old plush toy he found and that you’d forgotten existed —after Jungkook spent a long time making sure you didn’t mind his dog destroying it.
You assured him you didn’t —result: the doberman is seconds away from ripping the teddy bear’s head off. Five-year-old Y/N might cry if she saw this, but you find it hilarious.
“What color do you want?” Jungkook asks absently, crouched in front of the big boxes you dragged down from the attic this morning —nearly breaking your back in the process.
He’s clearly asking out of politeness, since he’s already grabbed a long red garland and a white glass ornament. When he holds them out to you, though, you don’t take them right away, lost in thought.
He looks up, puzzled when you don’t take the ornament —and downright confused when you reach into the box for another one instead.
“That one,” you say simply, pointing to a shiny green ornament.
He stares at you like you’ve grown a second head. “Uh… Y/N ? You don’t want the red one?”
You shake your head, holding out your hand for the green one. “I feel like changing things up.”
He pulls his arm back, pressing the green ornament to his chest, out of your reach when you try to grab it. “You never want to change things, though…?”
“Give it to me!” You complain —but he lifts his arm over his head, forcing you onto your tiptoes, one hand landing on his shoulder, only barely brushing his wrist with your fingertips.
As you stretch higher, you stumble —and he places a hand on your waist to steady you. Your noses brush when he lowers his head to look at you.
“You’re not doing this just to make me happy, are you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” You laugh —but you can feel your cheeks heat as a smile slowly blooms on his lips.
You expect one of his usual teasing remarks, but instead he just looks at you, smiling, eyes bright, his bunny smile lighting up his whole face.
That’s worse.
Because now all you can do is blush and squirm under his gaze.
“You know what?” You grumble, bright red, finally giving up and dropping back onto your heels. “Forget it. We’ll do white and red like always —it would’ve looked ugly anyway.”
You barely have time to turn your back before your hear him snicker —then he slips an arm around your shoulders, pulling you gently against his chest.
“Perfect. Then it’ll be green and gold!”
And because you’re physically incapable of saying no when he’s this adorable —especially when he’s holding you like this— you give in, grumbling only a little.
For the first time, Jungkook doesn’t complain while helping you decorate the tree. He even laughs at your jokes. Even when you tease him for not having done his own tree, he stays in a good mood —smiling, even, though he’d definitely deny it.
“I didn’t do one last year either. Lost half the boxes when I moved back here. Last time I tried, I couldn’t find the star, so I just took everything down,” he explains, shrugging at your stunned expression. “It’s not really a Christmas tree without a star on top.”
And you smile like an idiot, because you never would’ve guessed that Jungkook —the one who claims to hate Christmas— would care so much about a star.
Why does that make him even cuter?
“I can give you one, if you want,” you say at last.
His eyes widen again. “You would?”
Since your parents divorced —when you were thirteen— your mom has bought you a new star every year, and Jungkook came with you to buy it almost every time.
He knows how much stupid little traditions mean to you.
If only he knew that no star was bought this year.
The thought knots your stomach, so you shove it away. “Yeah. I’ll look through the boxes.”
He nods, cheeks pink, and you smile at the sight, fond.
At some point, the playlist loops back to the beginning and Mariah Carey starts singing again —naturally, Jungkook complains, and you burst out laughing. He complains even more when you start singing at the top of your lungs, grabbing his hands to make him dance with you in the middle of the living room.
Eventually, he joins in, flailing ridiculously while laughing, his bunny smile on full display.
“I’ll never understand why you love this song so much,” he says when it ends, breathless.
“It puts me in such a good mood,” you reply softly, rising onto your tiptoes to place the star —when, without interrupting you, he gently lifts you by the waist, just enough for you to set it at the top. “And in a way, it’s romantic too. You know —like in Love Actually!”
He just raises an eyebrow as he sets you back down, his hands still on your waist —and they’re so warm, so comfortable, you’re not sure you want him to move them.
“Love Actually?! The movie!” You turn to stare at him, aghast. “With Keira Knightley!”
He shakes his head. “This might shock you, Twinkle, but I—”
“…Don’t watch Christmas movies, blah blah blah—but still! Love Actually!”
“You do realize repeating the title won’t magically put the movie into my brain, right?” His sarcasm makes you roll your eyes.
“Sit,” you point at the couch after a second of thought. “I’m fixing your culture.”
He sighs. “Seriously…?”
“SIT.”
You don’t wait for an answer —turn on the TV, then dash to the kitchen for cookies and hot chocolate.
When you come back, Bam has his head on Jungkook’s lap, and you leave a small space between you and them. When the movie starts, you grab a blanket and drape it over the both of you, inching closer without even realizing —your thighs brushing.
“What are you making me watch this time…” he sighs, rubbing his eyes, his elbow resting on the back of the couch behind your head.
You glare at him. He shuts up.
The thing is, Jungkook likes to pretend he’s grumpy —but deep down, he’s just as childlike as you are, and it shows whenever he lets his guard down.
He giggles like a kid during almost every John and Judy scene, pretends to be exasperated by David dancing through the house, but can’t hide his smile.
And at the end, when the kids start playing All I Want for Christmas, he pretends to cover his ears —but he keeps smiling as he watches you sing through tears.
Because yes. No matter how many times you’ve seen it, this movie still makes you cry all the same.
By the time it ends, his arm is around your shoulders, your head resting against his, and neither of you dares move —you’re too comfortable.
It’s warm. It’s safe. And being like this against him feels so good you could stay here for hours.
“We should do this every year,” you murmur, half-asleep, cheek pressed to his chest.
He lifts his head slightly, hair falling into his eyes, and your fingers tingle with the urge to run your hand through it.
“Do what?” he murmurs.
“This,” you repeat softly, gesturing vaguely at the room —the tree, the boxes, the credits rolling on the TV. Bam leans in to sniff your hand, and you pet his muzzle, then behind his ears. “You complaining while I force you to watch my favorite Christmas movies. It’s nice, right?”
He thinks about it for a moment.
When you lift your head to look at him, suddenly panicked that he doesn’t think it’s nice at all, he smiles —amused.
“What?”
“I just thought you were asking me to apply for Christmas prep duty next year. I was trying to figure out how to tell you without offending you that I’d rather die.”
His bunny smile makes your heart stutter.
God, you want to kiss him so badly.
“Okay… maybe we don’t have to redo that,” you admit after a few seconds, making him laugh softly. “But I’m totally voting for another movie-and-hot-chocolate night like this one. I’ve always loved doing this kind of stuff with you anyway —the tree was my favorite part. We should do it again, right? Make it our little tradition.”
Your voice drops to a murmur, suddenly heavy with emotion —because God knows you love traditions, and lately that’s been the problem.
He doesn’t answer —but he doesn’t pull away either.
Instead, he pulls you closer, until you’re almost lying on him.
And you don’t want to move.
Only when Netflix automatically starts another Christmas movie does he finally speak —and too focused on the screen, you miss the blush on his cheeks and the emotion in his eyes.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Maybe we should.”
DECEMBER 23
Jungkook is late that morning.
It might be —probably is— because he kept hitting snooze over and over, in a futile attempt to stretch out the time he could spend in the cozy paradise of his bed just a little longer.
The result: he’s nearly twenty minutes late, hasn’t eaten anything, and while he tries to brush his teeth with one hand, he struggles to fasten his jacket with the other.
Bam circles around him, tail wagging lazily, completely oblivious to the rush. Still, all it takes is one glance out the window for Jungkook to feel reassured —there’s a car parked in front of your house. So you must be running late too.
Maybe Jungkook should suggest going together.
At first, it seems like a good idea. It wouldn’t be weird, right? You were the one who suggested spending the evening together just yesterday. There’s no reason you’d find it strange. Right?
Part of jungkook hates how he can feel his cheeks heating up —and hates even more how his heart starts racing at the mere idea of walking to work together.
He’s got it bad. He can feel it. And he doesn’t like it at all.
Even as kids, he’d been drawn to you, unable to refuse you anything —even when you were insufferable. Years later, and he’s still pulled toward you like a magnet. It’s almost insulting.
But as Jungkook gives Bam one last pat, telling him to behave before closing the door behind him and heading down the driveway toward your place, he quickly realizes that something is wrong.
The only time he’s ever seen you use a car in the morning, it was blue. The one parked in front of your house now is completely black.
That’s when he stops dead in his tracks, brows knitting together, as he notices a figure dressed in black standing in front of your door, one hand raised to knock.
“Y/N ! Y/N, open the door —I know you’re in there!”
Jungkook’s frown deepens. He knows that voice —he just can’t place it.
As he approaches from behind the figure —who turns out to be a man slightly shorter than him— he can see without even peeking through the window that the house is dark. You’re clearly already gone.
So why is this man still calling for you?
“Can I help you?” Jungkook blurts out before he has time to think twice, his tone sharper than he intended. His fists clench at the mere idea of a stranger causing you trouble.
But he freezes completely when the man turns around, startled —and Jungkook finds himself face to face with a very familiar face.
“Mr. Lee?!” he exclaims, stunned, as your father’s face lights up.
Jungkook hasn’t seen your dad around this neighborhood —hell, in this city— since your parents divorced, when you were thirteen. What is he doing here…?
“Jungkook! Damn, you’ve grown!” your father exclaims. “You still live here?”
Before Jungkook can answer, he suddenly adds, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, “Don’t tell me I woke you up with all that noise?!”
Jungkook quickly shakes his head at the man’s apologetic look. Your father sighs, rubbing his scalp, casting an almost desperate glance around.
“If you’re looking for your daughter,” Jungkook says gently after a few seconds, uncertain. Your father looks genuinely troubled —but he also doesn’t want to impose. “She must’ve already left. She works—”
“What? No. Y/N doesn’t work here. That’s the problem.”
“Yes, she does,” Jungkook insists softly, surprised. “We work together on the city hall Christmas preparations.”
Your father’s face falls. He clearly hadn’t known.
“She must’ve forgotten to tell you.”
Pinching the bridge of his nose, your father mutters something Jungkook can’t quite hear —but it doesn’t sound very kind. Now that he’s paying attention, your father looks downright furious. He stomps his foot, exhales sharply, and pulls out his phone to text someone.
Suddenly, Jungkook regrets talking to him at all. Whatever this is, it’s personal —and your father has always intimidated him, especially when he’s angry.
“Is it urgent?” Jungkook finally mutters, mostly because the silence is starting to make him uncomfortable. “What you need to tell her —if you want, I could—”
“Urgent?!” Mr. Lee cuts him off, cheeks puffed with irritation. “Of course it is! She needs to move out and empty the house by tomorrow, for God’s sake!”
Jungkook feels his entire body go rigid.
…What?
Your father rubs his scalp again, lost in thought. “The real estate agent won’t stop calling me to close the sale… and Y/N’s boss keeps harassing me, asking when she’ll take up her position in Fernsworth…”
“…In Fernsworth?” Jungkook can only repeat, stunned. Fernsworth —the massive business city on the other side of the country ?
What would you even be doing there—
“Yes, for her damn transfer!” your father snaps, practically talking to himself now. “She’s been asking for it for months, and the day she finally gets it, she decides to fool around here —right when her mother’s away! Of course she picks her timing!”
Suddenly, Jungkook can’t move.
It’s as if his body has shut down completely, frozen by a strange knot forming in his stomach —growing, tightening, twisting until it makes him feel sick.
Mr. Lee keeps ranting, but Jungkook isn’t listening anymore. He can’t —his ears are ringing too loudly.
He doesn’t understand anything.
All he knows is that he really shouldn’t have gotten out of bed this morning.
By the time you get off the bus and walk down my street, it’s already dark.
A light breeze carries tiny snowflakes —not heavy enough to blanket the ground, but more than enough to give the moment a magical feel.
You bite your lip to keep from smiling as you glance at the small package in your hands. It’s stupid, really —even you know that— but you couldn’t help yourself.
Jungkook didn’t come to work today. You bombarded him with messages, but he didn’t reply —didn’t even open them, which makes you think he probably slept all day.
Knowing him, it wouldn’t surprise you if he stayed in bed out of pure spite toward Christmas, which is getting closer by the day. He can be stubborn when he wants to be.
You shiver with excitement when you stop in front of his house. You must look like a middle schooler with her first crush, completely unable to wipe the smile off your face.
It surprises you to admit it —but you missed him today. You spent the whole day waiting for news from him, constantly checking your phone for a notification, irritated by anyone who dared speak to you if they weren’t Jungkook. You looked like a neglected housewife. Seriously.
You try to rein in your impatience as you knock, already smiling at the look he’s going to give you when he sees the package. You remember how much he’s always loved—
The door swings open sharply, and you straighten instinctively, stiff as a board.
Jungkook cracks the door open. His face is hidden by his hair and the hood of his hoodie. He doesn’t say anything —you’re not even sure he’s looking at you— but you don’t hold it against him, too busy trying to ignore the way your poor little heart stutters at the sight of him.
God, what is happening to you?!
“Hey! You weren’t answering my messages, I was getting worried…” you say, unable to hide your smile —or the warmth flooding your cheeks at your own words.
To save face, you hold up the small package proudly. “I bought waffles. Your favorite. I thought we could—”
“Go home, Y/N,” he cuts in, his voice dull and low, like speaking itself takes effort.
You freeze.
When you lift your head, he barely looks at you —his gaze tired. The same look he gives people when he’s clearly uninterested. Not the way he usually looks at you.
“…What?” you manage, your excitement gone. Your voice sounds tiny.
Jungkook sighs —sighs— then shakes his head.
“Go home,” he repeats, irritation creeping into his tone. “And stop texting me. I went to city hall. I quit.”
Something collapses inside you.
“What—but… I—” You stammer, completely lost. “I don’t understand.”
He rolls his eyes, though the motion is hidden by his hair. Fed up, he straightens, hand on the handle, ready to close the door. “Forget it.”
Panic hits full force.
What the hell is this?! He can’t just shut you out like that—
Your brain racing, you put a hand on the door to stop him for a few seconds, frowning. You know Jungkook. He’s not the type to ignore people overnight —that’s more your thing. Something has to be wrong.
“Did I do something wrong…?” You finally ask, your voice pleading. You need him to explain. If he doesn’t, You’ll never sleep again. You might never make it home.
“I don’t know. You tell me,” he replies flatly, and irritation flares. Seriously? He expects you to drag it out of him?
You open your mouth, even take a step toward him with what’s meant to be a threatening look —but he doesn’t give you the chance.
“Oh, and by the way —your dad’s looking for you. Apparently your boss is harassing him, and you need to empty the house.”
You freeze again, feeling your face fall apart.
What?
No —that’s all you can think as it sinks in. That can’t be possible. Dad didn’t—
Shit.
You knew you should’ve answered his messages. The temptation to piss him off had been too strong to resist. He must’ve come to clear things up, run into Jungkook, and told him everything…
Shit. Shit shit shit shit.
What did he tell him? Don’t tell me—
“You know,” Jungkook continues, making you look back up at him, “after all this time, I thought you’d stop taking me for an idiot.”
His eyes aren’t the soft, reassuring ones that usually make your chest tighten. They glare at you now, harsh and cold, sending a shiver through you —and not the good kind.
You hate that you suddenly want to cry.
“But nothing’s changed, has it?” he goes on. “You’re still here with your pretty speeches that make people dream —me included— before disappearing without warning.”
You swallow hard.
“I didn’t—” You try, but he doesn’t let you finish.
“Save it,” he snaps, fist clenched. “I don’t know why you came back here —or why you came back to me— but I don’t care. Leave me alone. Go start your life over for the second time and forget we ever met, okay?”
You swallow again, painfully. “I don’t understand what you’re—”
“I’m talking about you filling my head with traditions and futures and Christmases together when you know damn well you’re never staying!” he nearly shouts, his face twisted with anger and grief. “Do you think it’s funny? Playing with me? Lying to my face?!”
You try to speak, to form a coherent sentence —but suddenly you can’t. You’re frozen, stomach twisting, tears burning in your eyes as your mind screams at you to apologize, to explain everything, to say something —anything.
You have to explain. Even if it’s only part of the story. Even if it’s a mess. Your life has been a mess lately, you just need to—
“I didn’t—” you murmur, just as he straightens, avoiding your gaze.
“Good night, Y/N.”
“I love you…” you whisper—
Right as he slams the door in your face.
DECEMBER 24
Mom – 10:03 a.m. Sweetie, please stop doing everything your own way.
Mom – 10:07 a.m. Can you answer my calls? I’m worried. I just want to talk.
Mom – 10:07 a.m. I just don’t want you to be alone for Christmas. Are you sure you don’t want to join me?
Dad – 1:40 p.m. If you don’t want to talk to me, at least answer my messages.
Dad – 5:12 p.m. The real estate agent is coming to pick up the keys in an hour.
You can’t find the words to describe the feeling that settles in you as you stand in the entryway, suitcases in hand.
Just an immense emptiness, as your eyes sweep over the house you grew up in —now stripped of everything that once made it feel safe.
All the decorations, the lights, the personal items… everything has been taken away, carefully packed into boxes your parents will probably never open, leaving only the furniture you made sure to cover with white sheets.
You feel like throwing up and crying at the same time.
But you guess it’s not the time anymore —you already spent the night crying.
And to think you believed coming back here for Christmas was a good idea. Still just as naïve, even after all these years.
Your Mom spent the night texting you when she found out your Dad had sold the house, trying to convince you to join her and your stepfather in their new seaside home so you wouldn’t spend Christmas alone.
You said no, obviously. The only person you wanted to spend Christmas with told you to go fuck yourself —you’re not about to torture yourself further with your stepfather’s company.
You take one last look around, sniffing to fight back fresh tears. With just one glance, you can see yourself as a child running down this hallway laughing —sometimes alone, often with Jungkook. You see your younger selves, getting into trouble together until you were caught and Jungkook complained that you’d forced him.
And damn it —why does that memory hurt even more?
Your vision blurs as you finally grab your suitcases, clutching the small package tightly to your chest.
You feel too empty to react when your heart tightens as you step outside and lock the door —for the last time. Too empty to stop the tears that slide quietly down your cheeks.
You walk mechanically down the driveway to the sidewalk, proud of yourself for not breaking down into sobs as you slip the key into the mailbox, making it unreachable —at least until the real estate agent arrives.
The keys hit the bottom with a metallic clink, and suddenly it’s just you in the winter cold, your breath dissolving into the wind.
You stay still for maybe ten seconds. Then you wipe your tears.
There’s no way you’re standing here wallowing.
You already left this town once because you were unhappy —you can do it again. You’ll cry later, when you’re rich and happy.
Your flight leaves in two hours. You could call a taxi now, sit down at the airport, and wait.
So why does your heart hurt so much at the thought of leaving like this?
Without meaning to, your eyes drift next door —to Jungkook’s house.
The deep breath you take leaves a cloud of steam in the cold air, but you don’t stop to look at it. You step forward decisively, leaving your suitcases on the sidewalk —you don’t want anything slowing you down while you still have an ounce of courage.
You realize you’re holding your breath as you walk up his driveway, nearly gasping by the time you reach his doorstep.
Normally, you wouldn’t hesitate for a second to knock. Today, you mostly hope he hasn’t seen you through the window.
Slowly, silently, you crouch down and place the small package on his doormat. You grabbed the first box you could find —it isn’t sealed very well.
Through the narrow opening, You can see the golden star softly shining, along with the small letter beside it. With a sad smile, you think of his love for green-and-gold Christmas trees.
He’s going to love it.
A sudden thump against the door from inside makes you jump violently, followed by barking through the wall.
You sigh, steadying yourself —and when you hear scratching at the door, you realize sadly that Bam must’ve smelled you from inside and wants to come see you. That thought alone almost brings another tear —but you manage to hold it back, standing up quickly and stepping away.
Bam’s barking grows louder as you walk away, but despite your tightening chest, you only quicken your pace. You absolutely do not want to be here when Jungkook comes home and sees the package.
Otherwise, you’re really going to cry.
You almost start running when a car turns into the street, panic shooting through you.
You barely have time to grab your suitcases and slip into the small pedestrian street before the car stops in front of Jungkook’s house —and out of the corner of your eye, you see a man with messy black hair step out.
Your suitcase makes a horrible noise rolling over the cobblestones. Actually, it doesn’t roll —it screeches. You should probably buy a new one.
Maybe later.
Maybe you still have time to ask your parents for one for Christmas —they owe you that much after the mess they put you through this year. And if you do, you’ll ask for gloves too, because your fingers are freezing.
You half expect them to fall off your hand at any moment —they’re so cold they could probably chill mulled wine just by dipping them in. But you don’t care.
The pain in your frozen fingers doesn’t stop you from dragging your suitcase along as you walk slowly and unenthusiastically down the sidewalk, heading… nowhere, really.
A phone notification a few minutes ago told you your taxi would arrive soon. You barely remember the address you put in —only the plane ticket your dad sent you, which was enough to make you break down crying. A simple ticket, and yet it shattered your heart.
You truly thought coming back here would fix things.
Looks like, once again, you were too naïve.
Your steps are so automatic that you barely notice you’ve stopped —until festive music drifting from a small temporary ice rink pulls you out of your thoughts. In front of you, perched on their skates, a dozen children laugh and play, sometimes joined by their parents. Their smiles and clumsy spins blend perfectly into the scenery, even more than the little Christmas hats snug on their heads.
Without meaning to, a sad smile spreads across your face.
“Stop being stupid, Jeon. You really think I’d let you down?”
“Yeah… that was pretty good,” you whimper, struggling to stop the single tear sliding down your cheek. “Really good.”
You realize quietly that you would’ve loved to go back to the rink with him, brushing away that stupid tear with your cold fingers.
But now that you’ve started, the tears won’t stop.
Shit.
You really wanted to go back with him. Or do anything —anything at all— as long as it was with him.
You force yourself to sniff and take deep breaths to calm your erratic breathing, wiping your cheeks angrily, almost ashamed. So much for courage. “No one’s going to make me cry on Christmas.” Yeah, right.
You hesitate despite yourself.
Would Jungkook really be that angry if you went to see him —just one last time?
The idea of leaving like this, once again, makes you feel awful.
But just as the temptation hits, too strong, too desperate to see him again, the argument comes rushing back —the cold tone he used. The look he gave you. His closed-off face, tense features.
The complete absence of warmth when he said your name.
Maybe he really is better off without you.
Maybe you were the only one who felt… whatever it was between you.
5:47 p.m. Your driver has arrived!
You stand there staring at your phone for far too long.
You’re not even reading the words anymore —just looking at them, like maybe if you stare long enough they’ll change and bring good news.
You feel empty. Empty and desperately sad at the thought of leaving.
Because part of you knows you’ll never come back.
This is the city where you grew up. Where you spent every Christmas with Jungkook. Where so many memories were made.
Soon, all of that will exist only in your head.
Your phone vibrates again —a text from your dad. You don’t open it. You can easily imagine what it says, asking if you’re at the airport already.
That’s when you remember your taxi is there, just a few meters away —you only have to lift your head to see it parked by the curb— and that you should already be gone.
Part of you can’t move.
But another part refuses to wallow, refuses to be weak —so with a deep breath and one last look at the ice rink that brings tears back to your eyes, you grip your suitcase handle tightly and walk toward the black car waiting with its headlights on—
—you’ve barely taken two steps when a hand grabs your shoulder, making you jump violently.
“Lee Y/N, would you mind opening your fucking ears?! I’ve called you at least ten times!”
You don’t know what shocks you more —the words spat in your face, or the voice saying them.
All you know is that when you turn around, disoriented, you find yourself face to face with a very angry Jungkook, his black hair whipped into a mess by the wind.
You freeze completely.
This is impossible. What is he doing here…?
“What are you—” You manage to say, stunned, but his jaw tightens before you can finish.
“Are you fucking kidding me?!” he snaps, glaring at you from beneath his dark bangs.
“What? What are you—”
“What did you think you were doing with this, huh?” He waves a package under your nose, and you instantly recognize the small box you left the star in. For reasons you can’t explain, you feel yourself blush. “I give you this whole speech about not wanting your pity or your stupid games, and you give me this shit?!”
Your face darkens, redder than ever. Okay, leaving him a gift without saying anything before disappearing wasn’t your brightest idea —but still—
“Hey, it’s a gift—” You protest, but he cuts you off again.
“And then what, you disappear?!” The frustration in his voice knocks the air out of you. “I don’t want your cheap-ass present!”
You stand there frozen, completely unable to believe this as he stares at you, breathless.
“I don’t understand,” you finally manage after a few seconds, your voice hollow.
He hesitates, his frown shifting into confusion.
“Don’t understand what?”
“You’re the one who lectured me, who told me to stop talking to you, to disappear from your life —and when I do, you lose your mind?” Your words are muffled by your scarf as you hide your nose in it, lowering your gaze. You’ve never felt so ashamed in your life.
“Yeah, I want you gone!” he snaps. “I want you to leave me alone, stop messing with me all day, stop lying —I just want to go back to my miserable life in peace, but instead I can’t stop thinking about you, about your stupid jokes and your ridiculous obsession with Christmas —and then you ruin everything by making a fool of me and I—” He stops, running a hand through his hair, stewing in his frustration. “I’m… so fucking angry I could kiss you !”
Silence.
Until slowly —very slowly— both your eyes widen at the exact same time.
“Huh?” “Huh?”
“You... -Wait —did you cry?” he blurts out suddenly, all the anger draining from his face as he steps closer, hand reaching for you. You might have been touched by the sudden concern if his words hadn’t frozen in your mind.
“What did you say?”
He hesitates, then abruptly looks away.
“You lied to me.”
You wipe your damp cheeks with the back of your hand and shake your head. There’s no way you imagined that. “No —after that—”
“You lied,” he repeats quietly, shaking his head too. “After six years, you show up out of nowhere and you do the exact same thing again…” You open your mouth to protest, tears already welling up, but he cuts you off. “You mess with my head, you scatter your stupid good mood everywhere, and you— You drive me insane. I should’ve known it was too good to be true. You’re doing exactly what you did last time.”
“I didn’t lie,” You manage, your voice breaking around a sob.
“Yes, you—”
“There’s a difference between lying and not telling everything.”
Your voice comes out louder than you expect, but he just rolls his eyes. “Psychopath logic.”
“You really think I wanted to dump all that on you?!” You explode, and this time you don’t even try to stop the tears spilling freely down your cheeks. “You think after years of not seeing each other, the first thing I want to say is, ‘Hey, my parents finally decided to completely ruin my life, and you, how’re you doing?’” You have to take a shaky breath, no longer bothering to keep your voice steady. “I can barely talk about it without breaking down. So yeah, I admit it —when my dad transferred me without telling me and my mom decided to sell the house, I lost it. But what was I supposed to do, huh?” A nervous laugh slips out, drowned in silent tears. “I shouldn’t have come back at all…”
“He forced you?…”
It’s his voice —oddly flat, stripped of its earlier anger— that makes you look up at him. Only to find his expression unreadable, his eyes fixed on you in a way that sends a shiver through you.
Slowly, you nod, unable to hold his gaze.
“I know it’s for the best —I’ll have more opportunities there. But I don’t want to go. It feels like they’re trying to change everything about me, and I—”
“Why didn’t you tell me any of this?” he cuts in suddenly. His voice wavers with worry, but his face is twisted with frustration, his jaw clenched so tightly it looks like it might crack.
It takes you several seconds to find an answer —because honestly, you don’t have one. “…I don’t know. Maybe I thought it wasn’t worth it. Or that you wouldn’t believe me.”
He lets out a humorless scoff. “I rank that low, huh?” he mutters sarcastically.
“No!” You rush to say, shaking your head. “No, not at all —it’s just… Remember when you asked me not to pity you about your dad? Well, I guess in a way, I’m the same. My whole life is falling apart, but I still have this stupid pride that forces me to pretend I don’t care…”
He doesn’t respond. Not even when you try to soften the end of your sentence with a small laugh —meant to ease the tension, but coming out pathetic instead. Come to think of it, you probably look pathetic. Crying, suitcase in hand, practically begging him to believe you —you’ve seen better versions of yourself.
“Listen,” you manage after a moment, when his silence becomes too heavy even for you. “I’m sorry if I made you feel like I was… playing with you. Or with your feelings. And I know it’s just my word, but you have to know that was never my intention. Running into you again after all this time was a surprise —but I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t hoped, just a little, that it would happen when I came back. And it reminded me how much I love what we have, and how much I wish we could’ve spent all day skating or making gingerbread men because I— I never feel as good as I do when I’m with you, and—and I’m starting to realize that I really like you, and it kind of kills me that we’re parting like this, and I—”
“Hey,” You vaguely hear him say, but your vision is blurred with tears, and now that you’ve started, the words just keep pouring out unchecked.
“I’m just… so sorry, I—” You swear as your words dissolve into sobs. “Forget it, I really need to catch my tax—”
“Don’t you dare run off.”
His words cut through the air. You barely have time to react before he grabs your elbow and pulls you toward him. Your tears soak into his sweater the moment your head hits his chest, and you don’t even try to pull away because his arms wrap tightly around your back, crushing you into one of his rare bear hugs.
You sniffle, saying nothing. His scent fills your lungs. His arms are so warm that suddenly, you’re not cold at all. You think you could stay like this for hours.
Then the tears really come —uncontrollable. “Jungkook… I’m so sorry.”
He doesn’t push you away when you hide your sobs against his chest. Instead, he rubs your back, almost gently. “Don’t beat yourself up. It’s already forgotten.”
“I should’ve told you everything from the start…”
“Shh. Stop crying.”
You lift your head, surprised, eyes swimming. “Why?”
“Because,” he grumbles, his cheeks flushing all the way to his ears as he wipes your tears away with his thumb, “I don’t like it. So stop. Come on —I wanna see a smile.”
You stare at him, torn between amusement and disbelief. Jungkook is the worst person you know when it comes to comforting people. And yet, somehow, his stupid words warm your entire chest. You don’t know what to do with that feeling —except that it’s not unpleasant.
When your expression doesn’t change, he mutters something you don’t catch, then tries again:
“…What if you imagine me dressed as a Christmas elf?”
A small smile tugs at your lips —not so much because of the words (the image is objectively ridiculous), but because of the intention. You think you love the way he comforts you. “There. That’s better,” he says proudly, even if it’s just the tiniest smile.
You burst out laughing, and even when you calm down, your smile lingers —mirroring the discreet one that’s appeared on his lips. “Thank you,” you murmur, wiping your eyes. You bet your mascara is ruined. “I’m still—”
“It’s fine. Really,” he cuts you off with a wave of his hand. “I get it. I probably wouldn’t have said anything either. And I barely gave you time to explain. Let’s say we’re even.”
Hope floods your gaze, warmth swelling in your chest as you nod and extend your pinky. Your heart skips when he doesn’t hesitate for a second before hooking his finger with yours.
Neither of you lets go. Even just his finger is comforting, warm.
So you stay like that —two idiots staring at your joined hands. Mostly you. Why do these little moments of closeness affect you so much?
Until he breaks the silence.
“…Me too.”
You look up, startled. “Hm?”
“Me too —I like you,” he murmurs softly, then immediately drops his head, blushing furiously. You freeze, stunned —and yes, your face is burning too. You open your mouth to say something, anything, but he cuts you off again, his ears now bright red. “Anyway —move it, your driver doesn’t look very hap—”
“Did I hear that right?” You blurt out, a smile tugging at your lips. You try to hide it —you don’t want him to think you’re making fun of him— but the truth is your heart has never pounded this hard. Your whole chest feels tight with hope, and you’re smiling like an idiot. You look like a teenager, seriously.
“Hear what?” he mutters, avoiding your eyes.
“What you said.”
“I didn’t say anything,” he scoffs.
“Yes you did —you said—”
“Go on, get lost!” He grabs your shoulders, turning you and pushing you toward the taxi like a sulking child. “You’re gonna miss your flight!”
You almost tell him you don’t give a damn about this flight —but the words come out before you can choose better ones.
“Jeon Jungkook, you said you liked me!”
He shakes his head furiously, jaw clenched, still pushing you. “Never. Get out of here.”
He groans when you dig your heels into the ground —and even more when you turn back to him, chin lifted, finger poking his chest.
“If I remember correctly, you also said you could kiss me…”
He glares at your finger, though it does nothing to hide the crimson on his cheeks. “Nonsense —you dreamed it. Even if I thought it, I’d never say it out loud, or—” You only realize how wide your smile has grown when his eyes flick up, land on it, and he promptly loses his words, looks away, and blushes even harder. God, how can one be this cute? “I mean—I…” He swallows hard, then seems to make a decision and blurts out, “Hey —are you really just going to leave like that?”
And there it is again —the big, hopeful doe eyes. You smile like an idiot (as usual), your heart squeezing because no matter what you say, one look like that and you melt completely.
Damn it. You like him way too much.
“I mean —I’d understand, but I just thought that… well, you know, I—”
He never finishes the sentence —because before he can, your lips crash into his, cutting him off.
At first, he doesn’t react. You can practically feel his eyes widen as his body goes rigid.
Then he exhales —and leans in, molding his mouth to yours.
Your lips meet, brush, dance together. Suddenly there’s no skating rink, no Christmas market —just the peaceful silence around you, broken only by the soft sighs and sounds that escape you.
When he nips at your lower lip, brushing it with his tongue in a silent request, shivers race through you, your legs trembling on their own.
You have to rise onto your toes to reach him, nearly stumbling, your hands clutching his arm and chest on instinct.
His arms slide around your waist, holding you firmly against him, and you moan into his mouth when his tongue tangles with yours —slow, deep, intoxicating. He tastes like chocolate.
You’re the first to pull back, mostly because you’re out of air —much to your regret.
It’s like he refuses to let you go, tightening his arms as if afraid you’ll vanish if he loosens his grip.
You smile, breathless. His lips curve into a faint smile as he rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed.
“For what it’s worth… I don’t really want to leave,” You murmur at last, a small, sad laugh slipping out.
He opens one eye, then the other, his expression unreadable. Gently, he rubs his nose against yours, almost affectionately, searching for words.
Then he murmurs something you never thought you’d hear him say.
“If you want… you could come spend Christmas at my place. We could decorate my tree together.”
The moment he opens the door, you’re hit by a delightful scent of pine, cedar, and… gingerbread?
But you barely have time to think about it before your back is pressed against the door, Jungkook not wasting a second. Sliding between your legs, his pelvis gently hitting yours, he moves close, your lips meeting, your tongues turning, exploring, holding, in a dance of familiar intimacy. A soft gasp escapes you, delighted, and you follow his rhythm, wrapping your arms around his neck, letting your hand slide down his back, under his sweater.
Shivers run down his shoulder blades at the touch of your fingers, and then it's his that wander, sliding under your clothes, caressing your waist, your ribs, deliciously moving up to the elastic of your bra…
His hands are everywhere. One teases your underwear, the other moves down your lower back, sliding lower to grab an asscheek and massage it between his fingers, drawing another moan from you, more breathless. You’re all over the place.
His name leaves your lips in the kiss, at the exact moment when, without even meaning to —now unable to control your movements— you move your hips a little, just a little. All you want is to feel just a little of the delicious friction that you know will release the unbearable pressure that has built up in your lower abdomen.
And damn it —it works. He's already semi-hard, quivering inside his jeans, and the movement draws a moan of pleasure from both of you. You can already feel your thighs trembling for him.
His lips leave yours —much to your regret— and move away to explore your cheek, your jaw, then lower —all the way down your neck to your collarbones, before stopping at that precise spot where you can feel your heart beating furiously— and he gently sucks on the skin, nibbling here and there, drawing as many little cries from you as ragged breaths, your head falling back against the wood of the door.
The combination of his mouth on your neck and his icy hands on your burning skin sends violent waves of heat through your body, making you shiver, and you can only respond by moving your hips faster, craving the friction that alone is enough to make your head spin.
“Did you buy a Christmas log?” You murmur when your eyes fall on the cake box on the kitchen table, so quietly that even you can barely hear it above your ragged breathing.
His mouth leaves your neck, only to grab your earlobe between his teeth —and his hand massages your butt harder, less delicately, giving it a little slap that makes you arch against his chest. “Mmm. For you, actually,” he mumbles without releasing your lobe from between his teeth, and his voice directly against your skin makes it tremble. His words alone are enough to squeeze something in your chest with the rush of affection. “I wanted to apologize, but you were already gone when I came to your place...”
You can only moan in response, because you can very distinctly feel him harden beneath you, surely at the thought of our argument in front of the ice rink, then your passionate kiss that led to... Well... There. Reflexively, you grind your hips against his, your eyes rolling back as the simple movement sends waves of pleasure through your crotch. He swears before grabbing your hips with both hands, slowing the movement.
“Holy shit, do you want me to come now, or something ?!” he growls more for himself than anything, his hand slapping your thigh again, but the feeling is so good, so perfect, you can't stop.
“Please,” you whisper, drawing his lips back to yours, tugging on his lower lip with your teeth before slowly, so slowly, rolling your hips against his, until you can feel every inch of him rolling against you. His dark eyes lock onto yours, misty, and he swears again.
“Oh, shit.”
You barely have time to respond before his hands slide under your thighs, his arms flexing as he lifts you effortlessly, and you can only cling to his shoulders as he starts walking, kissing you so hard that you lose your breath.
Once in his room, he kicks the door shut behind him, then approaches the bed —only to sit down on it, with you on his lap.
You look at him, puzzled, your eyes slightly higher than his in this position, and he wraps his hands around your waist, gently pulling you toward him before kissing you deeply, his tongue deliciously teasing yours.
Only, when after a few seconds, you start swaying your hips again, placed directly on his, he stops you again, despite the rock-hard bulge you feel directly beneath you.
“Nah-ah. Not like that,” he growls softly, twitching his tongue.
You moan in frustration, but let him have his way when he gently grabs one of your legs and swings it over, spreading his own legs so that you’re straddling just one of his thighs.
You glare at him, outraged, just as he says with a smile, “On my thigh, Twinkle.”
You clench your teeth, ignoring your crotch quivering at the sound of his voice, and that stupid nickname that makes you weak.
“Are you kidding me?” You blurt out, sounding a little too whiny for your liking.
“Take your time,” he says softly, nestling his head in your neck and planting little chaste kisses there. “You're way too eager.”
“But I don't want to take my time!” You grumble, but you still cling desperately to his shoulders, tilting your head to make more room for him.
His mouth moves until it's just below your ear. “On my thigh.”
And, putting his words into action, he flexes the muscle, and you feel yourself shudder with pleasure.
Damn it, this idiot is going to kill you.
It's instinctive —almost animalistic— yet neither of you does anything to stop it when your hips start to undulate on his hard thigh, slowly at first, a curse escaping you without your wanting it to.
The muscle is so hard, you could come right now. His hands on your hips guide the movement, slow, deliciously —painfully— slow, his eyes never leaving yours for a second as little by little, as the pace quickens and your core rubs against him a little more each time, meeting only that rigidity that makes you sigh with pleasure, you feel your thighs tremble, your insides tighten, impatient, and the familiar knot forms in your lower abdomen, tightening a little more with each wave of pleasure that rumbles through you.
Your hands grip his shoulders tighter as he speeds up his movements, and you nails would surely leave little crescent moons on them if his sweater wasn't acting as a barrier. And, this simple fact annoying you greatly, you pull on his collar without ever slowing down the back-and-forth movements of your crotch on his thigh.
You swear his muscles tighten even more as he momentarily lets go of your hips to grab his sweater and pull it over his head, sending it flying randomly across the room.
Your eyes wander over his bare chest, his finely defined abs and firm pecs, but as you pretend to reach out to even touch him, he takes you by surprise by grabbing the edge of your sweater, his gaze suddenly deepening as he meets yours, a silent question in his eyes.
You nod your head, chest pounding —and the next second, he sends your top flying across the room, leaving your chest and black lace bra exposed to his view.
You don't notice how he's watching you, too lost in your own contemplation of his muscular chest, his golden skin covered with a thin layer of sweat that makes it shine even more.
You do look up just in time to see him swallow, though, just before he wraps his arms around you again, pulling you back against him. Your breasts pressed against his chest as he now accompanies your movements with small shiftings of his thigh that only drive you crazier, bringing your attention right back to where he wants it.
A moan of pleasure escapes you, and his only response is to speed up the movement even more, nestling his head in your neck to nibble again on that same sensitive spot just below the hollow of your jaw. You can only cling to him, your eyes rolling back, your fingers caressing, grabbing every bit of him they can reach.
Your nails brush his nipples, scratch his abs, sending a wave of shivers through him before moving lower, down to the ring of his belt...
...only for him to grab your wrists with one hand, lifting his head from your neck to give you a gentle glare.
He opens his mouth to say something, but doesn't —and you, driven too impatient by your increasingly close release, barely think before moving your knee, pressing gently against the already prominent bulge in his pants.
“Why are you holding back?” You almost whine, breathless, as he pushes your knee away and presses you harder against his hard thigh, making you gasp in surprise, clearly intending to make you come before getting down to business.
A hint of a smile plays on his lips. “Let's just say that if it's possible, I'd like to last longer than eight seconds,” he sighs, nibbling your ear and drawing another moan from you as his words fly straight into your crotch, making you shiver inside. “I'd rather not make a fool of myself.”
“There's nothing ridiculous about it,” You whisper, and this time he lets you rub the palm of your hand against the bulge in his pants. “It's cute, even. Sexy.”
He stiffens, a curse escaping him again, but no matter how hard he tries to hold back, you’re not fooled —it only takes a few small presses from you before he starts to rub his hips against your hand, almost unconsciously. His dark eyes plunge into yours, darkened by a glint of pure desire as he seems to make a decision.
"You know what ?" he growls. “Fuck it.”
The next moment, he stands up with you still in his arms and almost throws you onto the bed, a cry of surprise escaping you. While the sudden stop of his ministrations leaves your frustrated core on the verge of orgasm, the darken look he gives you, one knee on the edge of the bed and his hair tousled, is enough to make you come right then and there.
He leans down to join you, your legs opening reflexively to welcome him, and he nestles between your thighs to kiss you, impatient.
His tongue teases yours, just as impatient as you are, and the sensation is so good that you could spend the whole night doing this. But it doesn't take long before you both want more, more, always more, and as your hands leave his shoulders and move towards his belt, his are already busy unzipping your fly.
Hands on your hips, ready to remove your clothes, he gives you that questioning look again. His way of silently asking you if you’re sure. Because there's no going back after this.
You just nod, a slight smile on your lips. Everything has always been less scary with Jungkook by your side —whether it's decorating a Christmas tree in secret or something as intimate as love.
In one fluid motion, he pulls off your pants and panties, tossing them randomly behind him. Then he freezes.
His chest rises and falls silently, the only sign that he's still alive, while his eyes remain fixed on your dripping core, on your thighs spread wide just for him...
...and the next moment, he throws himself at you head first, and your orgasm returns with full force.
You don't know where to look —you’re unable to know where to look. One second, his tongue is on your bud, the next it enters you, cold and burning at the same time, and it makes you shiver all over as he happily licks up all the juice that has escaped.
Your back arched, your eyes closed in pleasure, you try to hold on wherever you can, but he quickly detaches your hands from the sheets and shoves them into his hair —and a groan of pleasure escapes him when you slip your fingers in and pull without hesitation.
“If you only knew how long I've been waiting for this, damn it,” he growls against you lips, the vibration making you moan with pleasure and pull harder on his dark locks. “Ever since Mrs Song found us like this...” He kisses the inside of your thigh delicately until he reaches your knee, which he grabs and gently places on his shoulder, before doing the same with the other. Once again, his eyes lose themselves in contemplation. “Damn, I've dreamed about this way too much.”
Then he traps your bud between his lips to suck, and you scream in pleasure.
He enters two fingers without waiting, his other hand firmly gripping your thigh, and when his fingers curve, you see stars, your heels digging into his back as you arch yours, desperately gripping on his hair like your life depends on it.
You can feel the knot in your lower abdomen tightening, again and again, so tight that you think you’re going to come in a second. His name leaves your lips like a plea, and that only encourages his tongue to work even harder.
Your moans grow higher and higher, more and more breathless, and as you try to hide your face in the pillow, your gaze falls on a small detail —a pretty golden star sitting on his bedside table. The star you gave him before you left.
With your eyes closed, you think back to that day not so long ago when he carried you on his shoulders to hang the star in front of the school. To his head, so innocently buried between your thighs, to his hands that held you so tightly that you had to concentrate not to rub against his skull.
That same head that now so proudly kisses your private parts as if it were his sole reason for being.
And at that sight, that of his tousled hair, your fingers tangled in it, falling in front of his face without hiding the fact that it is disappearing into your pussy, his tongue making you squirm and writhe beneath him, you can't take it anymore.
The knot snaps —and it's his name that leaves your lips.
Everything goes white, your thighs tremble around his head, your fingers grip his hair so tightly you'd think you wanted to pull it out, but he accompanies you all the way, licking slowly, almost affectionately.
It's only when you fall back onto the mattress, your chest rising and falling rapidly as you catch your breath, that he sits up, planting little kisses all along your stomach, your chest, your neck, before reaching your mouth. The kiss is languid, soft, lazy —but gosh, it feels good.
“Damn, you're so beautiful,” he murmurs against your lips, sighing when you grab one of his to nibble on it.
“Jungkook ?”
“Hmm-hmm?” He mumbles without stopping kissing you for a second.
You grab his cheeks so he meets your gaze. “I want you.” You try to ignore how your cheeks are burning at these simple words, but it's difficult given the silly smile he immediately flashes. These are words that neither he nor you ever thought you'd hear. Or maybe you did, but were separated too quickly to be sure.
He smiles, caressing your cheek with the tip of his nose. “Are you sure?” he asks, his voice no louder than a whisper.
You want to complain, to tell him to take you seriously and not make fun of you. But you know it's just his way of making sure you don't do something you'll regret —so without ever taking your eyes off his, you simply reply, “I’ve never been so sure of anything.”
He mutters under his breath. The next moment, your last layers of clothing are gone, his along with your bra.
Jeon Jungkook moves with you as though you’re old lovers reunited after years apart. His hands are gentle, even when eager, when he reaches for a condom on his bedside table —and even more so when he helps you put it on. Tender, as he moves with you, letting you take all the time you need to adjust.
Tender, when he wraps your ankles around his waist and begins to move slowly, his head resting in the crook of your neck, whispering words that send shivers down your spine.
But loving, when he lifts his gaze to yours, dark eyes locked on you as he quickens his pace, hitting all the right spots, filling you completely with each movement.
Loving, as your breaths mingle, your bodies moving together as one, bound and desperate, shivers overtaking you, you holding him tighter as he grows more insistent.
Yes, loving, as you reach the peak together, each other’s name a whispered prayer on your lips, trembling under him, while he uses every ounce of strength to keep from crushing you.
After a few seconds, he collapses beside you, your ragged breaths the only sound in the quiet room. As you slowly come down from the high, his arm wraps around your waist, pulling you close, pressing your chest to his without concern for your sweaty bodies. He buries his head in your neck, sighing with contentment, peppering small kisses across your skin.
The smile on your lips refuses to fade. You play with his hair, stroke his neck. He traces little circles in the hollow of your back, and you remain like that for a long time, simply enjoying the serenity of the moment.
Your eyes drift again to the golden star on his bedside table, and you reach for it. He leans back to watch you, amused. “Thanks for this, by the way.”
You smile, satisfied. “You like it?”
He nods softly, kissing your shoulder. After a moment of silence, he murmurs, “Want to help me decorate my tree tomorrow? You could put it on…”
“Jeon Jungkook, you’re telling me you still haven’t done your tree?!” You exclaim, outraged. He just smiles and shrugs.
“I wanted to do it with you,” he admits softly, and you’re left speechless, your heart warm with a wave of affection that almost brings tears to your eyes.
He kisses your shoulder again, a smile spreading across his lips with a knowing look —as if he understands exactly what’s running through your mind. Then he pulls you close again, nestling your head in his neck this time, resting his cheek on your head like you’re his personal teddy bear.
You let him —partly because his chest is the perfect pillow— but you can’t help murmuring after a few seconds, “I thought you didn’t do Christmas… that you hated it…”
He doesn’t answer —but you can hear him chuckle softly, feeling his smile against your head.
“Hey, Twinkle,” you hear him murmur after a while, and you mumble back to show you’re still awake. He sounds almost solemn as he says, “I think I hate Christmas… except when it’s with you.”
“I told you so,” You whisper with a smile as sleep finally claims you.
His chest vibrates against your cheek as he laughs softly —and that’s the last thing you feel before drifting off.
DECEMBER 25.
Usually, you hate waking up in the morning —often because it also means going to work and resuming that lousy life.
The tree surrounded by gifts, the smell of cookies filling the air, everyone smiling, laughing…
But above all, that smile that comes to you the moment you wake, even before you open your eyes, as you nuzzle your face into the soft pillow beside you, feeling it shift closer, holding you tighter—
Wait. Who’s shifting?
Like a bolt of lightning, you sit up, coming face to chest with a bare-chested Jungkook, a tray of cookies on his stomach, half a pastry in his mouth, his arm wrapped around you. His big doe eyes meet yours, and you remember.
Your argument from the night before. Your return to his place, then the wildly passionate moments that followed…
You feel your cheeks warm, but you don’t move. Jungkook, for his part, slightly widens his eyes, and that alone makes you smile, even just a little —because you know perfectly well that at this moment, he’s afraid you’ll regret what happened and bolt.
If only he knew you have no intention of leaving —his chest is by far the best pillow you’ve ever had.
Slowly, you reach for a cookie, taking a bite without a word. His eyes follow your hand, but he still doesn’t move, as if afraid to scare you. “Did you make these yourself?” You ask after a moment, because the image of Jungkook getting up to make cookies for you makes your heart skip a beat.
He just nods. “I know you love them.” You smile. He smiles too. And in that moment, you truly feel at home.
“I’ve got something for you,” he says after a while, getting up to fetch something from a cupboard. You slip on his t-shirt while he’s gone, and when he returns, he holds a small package wrapped in red paper, tied with a white bow. He hands it to you silently, and you stay there, speechless.
“You got me a gift?!”
Again, he shrugs, but the tops of his cheeks are flushed. “I know how much Christmas and all those silly traditions mean to you. And you’re not with your family this year, so I thought…”
You smile like an idiot, your heart swelling with affection. That fool is really going to kill you one day.
You study the package for a few seconds before lighting up. Jumping up, you push him gently onto the mattress and run off.
“What are you doing?”
“Don’t move !” You order, laughing at his clearly confused expression.
In the living room, you find your suitcase where you left it and open it without hesitation, rummaging until you find what you’re looking for. When your fingers close around it, you glance around the room, spotting an old piece of newspaper that you wrap around your find before heading back to the bedroom.
Jungkook waits on the bed, the package in his hands, and you sit beside him. You exchange gifts, but he nudges you lightly with his elbow.
He chuckles as, like always, you tear the wrapping paper with zero delicacy —you’ve always done it this way as a kid, while he always made sure to keep it intact. You gasp softly when you discover a lovely beige cardigan embroidered with tiny blue and yellow stars. The wool feels so soft under your fingers, just the way you like it, and you melt when you see the small embroidered message on the wrist.
‘Twinkle, Twinkle, little star.’
“It made me think of you. Not in a weird way, okay, just… you know. We can always swap it if you don’t—”
You cut him off by leaning in to kiss his cheek, instantly shutting him up. “I love it,” you smile, and he smiles too, silently proud. You don’t wait another second before trying it on, and you fall instantly for the cardigan, both beautiful and cozy. Only once the garment is carefully folded on your lap do you turn to Jungkook, this time giving him a little nudge. “Your turn,” you say, smiling.
His eyes widen, and he looks at the small newspaper-wrapped package like he’d completely forgotten it. Silently, still so careful in his movements, he removes the paper and lets it fall to the floor.
He freezes as his fingers close around the small golden frame on his lap. Inside, the photo isn’t very large —barely postcard size— but big enough to recognize the faces.
Jungkook and you, maybe seven years old, in front of the town hall’s huge Christmas tree.
It’s easy to see that you forced Jungkook to pose with you, judging by how you’re holding his hand. Mini-you beams, wrapped in that purple coat you adored. Jungkook stands next to you, barely taller than you were back then. Except he’s turned toward you, not the camera.
He looks at you with those big dark eyes that seemed enormous when he was small, a little pout on his face, as if sulking, yet his eyes sparkle with joy —it’s impossible not to see.
He opens his mouth to say something but stays silent, and you rest your chin on his shoulder, prouder than ever as you notice tears starting to form in his eyes.
“I found this on my mom’s desk,” you explain softly, smiling. “I love this photo. I thought I’d take it with me, but actually, I like that it’s you who has it.”
He turns to you, looking as touched as if you’d just offered him a kidney to save his life. You laugh softly, shrugging. “I can always make another print if I want it at home.” He nods, eyes shining with a light you can’t describe, but immediately adore.
“Thanks,” he says simply, caressing the photo with his thumb. “I love it.”
“I know,” you reply, tossing your hair over your shoulder, making him laugh. Then, straightening up, “So, breakfast? I heard we have a tree to decorate too…”
You barely finish when he gently pulls you back by the wrist.
“Hey, before we get up, I was… I mean, I was wondering… Your transfer to Fernsworth. Are you planning to go?”
You stare at him, surprised by the sudden change in topic. “I guess. I don’t know. Why?”
He avoids your gaze, cheeks red. “Well, let’s just say… it’s stupid, I know, but… I’ve been thinking that I’d like to move. For a while, actually.” He meets your eyes, hesitant, as yours widen. “And I was thinking… Well, you know, I wouldn’t have trouble finding a job in a big city like Fernsworth, so... If that’s what you want?” His big dark eyes almost plead, hesitant but full of hope at the same time.
You can’t find a word, too shocked. And moved too. You can’t believe he’s ready to follow you there.
“Well, I’m just suggesting,” he continues after a moment, stammering a bit, and you realize you haven’t answered. “I’d totally understand if you…”
“And your dad’s house?” You cut in.
He raises his eyebrows, surprised —it clearly wasn’t what he expected. He shrugs. “I’ll keep it. I’ll go back from time to time. We can just come back for Christmas.”
He says it almost casually, as if it’s the most logical thing in the world, and it makes something flutter in you —in the delicious sense.
God, you love him so much.
He adds something you barely hear, too busy watching him lovingly, until your lips cut him off, pressing against his. Though surprised, he doesn’t take long to respond, one hand on your waist.
Your noses brush as we finally pull apart. “Okay,” you say simply, smiling.
He nearly chokes. “Okay? I mean, are you serious? I was pretty sure you were going to tell me to piss off…”
You place a hand over your chest, feigning outrage. “As if I’d refuse a personal chef at home!”
He squints, making you laugh. “So you only love me for my cooking, huh? I knew it.”
You laugh harder as he grumbles. “For your big arms too, don’t worry.”
“That, I had guessed, Twinkle,” he chuckles, then uses those same big arms to pull you onto his lap and kiss you again.
Yes, there’s no denying it —you really love Christmas mornings.
Thanks for reading ! Don't hesitate to reblog, like or comment ! I always love to hear 'bout what you guys thought of the chap :) Also don't hesitate to ask if you wanna be tagged in my next posts !
I hope you all have a merry christmas and happy holidays lovelies <3
• chapter warnings: smut!! very explicit smut, unprotected sex, cuddle fucking, cnc undertones A BIT, jk licks his cum off ur tits, he cums on ur tits + inside, cock + nipple play/stimulation for basically the whole thing lol. multiple orgasms, reader cums from just that. breastfeeding kink (jk is obsessed). overstimulation, dirty talk!! a lot!!, light teasing + soft dom jk kinda, mentions of pregnancy, uhh pregnant!oc kink LMFAO. possessive jk. a lot of praise + some vry light degradation (but it’s hot). jk being so obsessed w ur tits it’s insane. experimentation bc he didn’t even know u could cum like that. he’s just in awe. lots of teasing but also lots of love!!!!! he basically praises u. oh and jk lowk has a breeding kink ngl, m!masturbation. idk kissing uhh thats it i think.
• a/n: rlly wanted this pairing to havw some hot but fluffy smut!! not much family fluff except for the first part ig but its super brief. its just like super smutty and fluffy!
• taglist: @jenniebyrubies @lovingkoalaface @iamstilljk @elinaki92 @rpwprpwprpwprw @mafersame @parkinglot-nights @reallygenerouskoala @mimi1097 @aznstoner @jungshaking @pinkpunkdynamite (cmnt to be added)
masterlist , series masterlist
It’s late when Jungkook finally slips into bed beside you, the soft creak of the mattress barely cutting through the quiet hum of the baby monitor.
Hana is fast asleep, and you know he just spent the last half hour making sure of it, murmuring to her softly until her tiny fingers went slack around his.
But now, he’s here, warm and solid in front of you, pressing a lazy kiss to the nape of your neck before his hands wander lower, over the soft curve of your stomach, the stretch marks from the life you carried he always traces like scripture.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, voice deep, reverent, as his fingers find your breast and flick lazily at your nipple.
You twitch at the stimulation, a small gasp escaping before you can stop it. They’re still sensitive, more so after nursing, and Jungkook knows it—knows and loves it. His breath fans against your ear, lips curving as he teases, “Missed these. Missed tasting you.”
Your face heats instantly. “Jungkook—”
“What?” He laughs, dipping lower to mouth at your neck, his fingers still toying with you. “Just saying. You gonna stop me, baby?”
You don’t, and he knows you won’t. Because despite the embarrassment, despite the way his filthy words always make your face burn, you trust him. Completely.
Jungkook takes his time. Pulling over your nightie and murmuring assurances against every bit of skin exposed.
His mouth is warm, wet, and torturously slow, dragging over the stiff peak of your nipple as his fingers work the other one, rolling and pinching just enough to make your toes curl. The combination is dizzying—so much stimulation, so much attention, and it’s doing something to you.
You don’t even realize you’re moving at first.
But suddenly, you are.
Hips shifting, chest pushing forward, chasing his tongue every time he pulls back, your hands buried in his hair, keeping him close because you don’t want him to stop.
“Jungkook,” you whimper, breath hitching as he sucks harder, the pressure of his lips sending sparks straight between your legs. You can’t help it—you roll your chest again, desperate for friction, pressing your nipple firmly against his lips as you gasp.
And then—he stops.
Pulls away just slightly, just enough for his breath to ghost over your damp skin, for his lips to hover but not touch, for his hands to rest still against your ribs instead of moving.
You make a noise of protest, but he only grins.
“Use me, baby,” he murmurs, voice low, coaxing.
You freeze, body going tight beneath him, face burning.
“W-What?”
Jungkook tilts his head, one brow raising, his gaze molten as he watches you. “You wanna grind on my mouth, don’t you?” he says, teasing, licking his lips. “So do it.”
Your stomach clenches, something white-hot pooling deep inside you at the way he’s looking at you—so openly eager, so completely wrecked already.
Hesitantly, you move.
Rocking forward again, feeling the heat of his mouth just barely brushing against your nipple. His lips part slightly, his tongue peeking out, and—
“Oh, fuck.”
A shaky moan spills from your lips as you press against him, the sensation sending a new, dangerous type of pleasure straight to your core. Jungkook groans, like he can feel it too, his hands gripping your hips but not guiding you—just holding, just letting you take what you need.
“That’s it,” he whispers, voice strained. “Fuck, that’s it, baby.”
And then—you feel it.
The unmistakable rhythm of his hand, the slick, wet sounds between his own legs, the way his breath stutters as he strokes himself while you move.
Your eyes flutter open, dazed, and Jungkook is watching you—watching you with a hunger that makes you tremble, his other hand gripping your waist, like he’s trying not to lose it completely.
“Jungkook,” you whimper, heat flooding your body, every nerve alight at the realization.
His jaw clenches.
“You feel so good,” he groans, hips bucking slightly into his own hand. His tongue flicks over your nipple again, his eyes locked on yours. “You’re making me so fucking hard.”
Your thighs tighten, body shivering.
This is new. This is different.
It’s desperate.
It’s you learning him, him learning you—how far you can go, how much you can take, how much he can give.
And the way he’s watching you, the way he’s losing himself just from you grinding against his mouth—
It makes you want to give him everything.
Jungkook is panting.
His lips are slick, swollen from where he’s been sucking at your skin, his pupils blown wide as he watches the way your chest rises and falls—your nipples still glistening, still stiff, still aching for more.
And then, suddenly—
He moves.
Pushes himself up, his hands gripping your waist as he flips you onto your back in one smooth motion, pressing you into the sheets before you can even catch your breath. “Jungkook—”
He doesn’t answer.
Just kneels between your legs, his cock flushed and leaking, his chest heaving, and you swear you’ve never seen him this wrecked before.
“I need to—” His voice breaks off, rough and unsteady, his hands sliding up your torso, thumbs brushing over your sensitive nipples again—watching, studying, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. “Fuck, I need—.”
Your stomach tightens.
The realization makes your breath hitch, heat pooling low in your belly, and you barely have time to react before he grips himself—his cock heavy in his hand, the tip swollen and glistening, and then—
“Oh!”
He presses it against your nipple.
A sharp gasp escapes you, your back arching off the bed as the slick warmth of his tip drags over the sensitive bud, rubbing, circling, teasing.
“Fuuck—”
“You’re so fucking sensitive,” he groans, watching your reaction, his other hand palming at your breast, tweaking your other nipple in time with the slow, deliberate glide of his cock. “Shit, you like this?”
You whimper.
Because, yes.
Yes, you do.
It’s messy, new and filthy and you should be embarrassed, but all you can feel is the sharp, electric pleasure zipping down your spine—the way your thighs clench, the way your stomach tightens, the way your body throbs with every slow pass of his cock over your aching nipple.
Jungkook groans again, deeper this time, his fingers twitching against your skin, his hips pressing forward as he starts moving faster, more desperate.
“Fucking hell,” he chokes out, his breath ragged, his gaze locked onto you. “You’re—shit, you’re so pretty like this, baby. You gonna come for me?”
You don’t know how to answer.
Because you don’t know how you’re this close already.
But the stimulation is too much, the friction too perfect, your body too wound up from everything before, and when he grips your breast tighter, when his cock drags over your nipple just right—
Your world tilts.
You cry out, pleasure slamming into you, white-hot and all-consuming, your entire body trembling beneath him. Your walls flutter, your stomach tensing, your nipples aching as you come undone from nothing but his touch, his mouth, his cock against your chest.
And that—
That is what undoes him.
Jungkook curses, head tilting back, his body shuddering as his hips jerk forward—his cock pulsing, spilling over your nipples as he moans, as he watches you, as he loses himself completely in the sight of you coming just from this.
Silence follows.
Just the sound of your heavy breathing, the faint tremor in your limbs, the lingering heat between you both.
Then—
“Holy fuck,” Jungkook exhales, staring down at you, his chest rising and falling, his fingers twitching like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. “Baby—”
You’re barely able to focus, your mind still hazy, your skin still tingling—but when you meet his gaze, you see it.
Shock.
Awe.
Desperation.
Something in his throat bobs, his voice coming out rough, wrecked.
“Did you—” He swallows, his hand sliding over your stomach, your ribs, like he needs to feel you to believe it. “You came from that?”
Your face burns.
But you nod.
And Jungkook groans, gripping your hips, leaning down to kiss you like he’s starving, like he can’t fucking believe what just happened.
“Fuck,” he breathes against your lips. “You’re gonna kill me.”
You’re still trying to catch your breath.
Everything feels too warm, your skin still tingling, the ghost of your orgasm still pulsing through your limbs. But Jungkook— Jungkook is staring.
You can feel it, the weight of his gaze, even as you try to focus on the rise and fall of your chest. And when you finally manage to meet his eyes, he’s already smirking.
“You came,” he murmurs, voice low, teasing, his fingers ghosting over your ribs. “From just this.”
You swallow.
Heat rushes up your spine, embarrassment bubbling in your chest, but Jungkook only grins, tilting his head as his palm slides higher—his thumb swiping lazily over your oversensitive nipple, making you twitch.
“Shut up,” you mumble.
But he just laughs.
“I mean, baby,” he hums, his fingers tracing the curve of your breast, his expression downright sinful, “I knew you were sensitive, but this—”
His other hand moves—his cock, still soft, still resting against your thigh, shifting slightly at the movement.
“—this is fuckin’ insane.”
You groan, reaching up to shove at his shoulder, but Jungkook only chuckles again, catching your wrist and kissing your palm, his lips soft and warm against your skin.
And then—
Something changes.
His eyes darken.
His fingers twitch.
And before you can process it, before you can ask—
His head dips.
Your breath stutters.
Because Jungkook—
Jungkook licks. Soft. Deliberate.
His tongue drags over your nipple, slow and purposeful, collecting the remnants of his own release—and your entire body locks up.
“Jungkook,” you whisper, your throat suddenly dry, your stomach tightening, your skin burning as you watch him, as you feel him—
But he only hums.
Does it again.
And when he finally pulls back, when he tilts his head up to meet your wide eyes, there’s something unreadable in his expression—something dark, something knowing.
“Trust me,” he murmurs.
And then— He leans in.
Feeds it to you.
You don’t even hesitate.
Your lips part instinctively, your breath hitching as his thumb coaxes your chin up, as he presses his mouth to yours, as you taste him—warm, salty.
Your stomach flips. Because it’s not just filthy. It’s Jungkook. And when he finally pulls back, when he licks into your mouth one last time, when he watches you with those dark, desperate eyes—
You realize something. You’re turned on again.
Jungkook watches you. Eyes flickering over your face, your parted lips, your dazed expression. He can see it, the need building in your chest, the way you’re still trying to catch your breath but already wanting more.
And then— You whine. A soft, needy little sound, high in your throat, breath hitching as you shift, pressing closer.
Jungkook’s brows twitch, his fingers flexing against your ribs.
“What, baby?” he murmurs, voice low, coaxing, stroking gentle circles against your skin. “Tell me.”
You blink up at him, swallowing hard, “Want more.”
His expression darkens. “Yeah?”
Your stomach flips. Because he’s already moving.
Hand sliding down, fingers wrapping loosely around his soft cock, stroking himself to hardness again—his eyes never leaving yours, his touch slow, teasing.
“You want more,” he repeats, rasping, amused, his lips brushing against your temple, your cheek, as he shifts, pulling your leg over his waist. “Like this, baby?”
He slides in. It’s slow, lazy, his cock still thick and warm and just barely hard enough, but your body welcomes him immediately—soft, wet, aching, molding to him like you were made for it.
And Jungkook—
Jungkook moans.
His hands clutch at you, arms locking around your waist, pulling you into him completely—his chest flush against yours, his breath hot against your lips.
Cuddle-fucking.
It’s the only way to describe it.
Your leg thrown over his hip, bodies tangled, faces pressed so close together that you can feel every sound he makes. His hands wander, palms smoothing over your back, your sides—
And then—
Your nipples.
Because now that he’s found this out, now that he knows— He can’t not touch you there.
He rolls one between his fingers, his other hand curling against your breast, and you gasp—
And Jungkook groans.
“Fuck, baby, you’re so sensitive,” he pants, rutting into you, his voice wrecked, strained, breath shaky as he presses open-mouthed kisses along your jaw. “Can’t stop touching you—need to touch you.”
And you let him. Because you trust him.
Because it’s him.
Because as overwhelming as it is—his touch, his voice, his desperate, slow thrusts—you want it. You need it.
And when his lips find yours, when his tongue slides into your mouth, when his hips stutter and he whispers, “Let me take care of you, baby,”
You don’t hesitate. You let him lead. Because you know he will.
Jungkook doesn’t waste any time. His cock is still slick from his precum, hardening more as he slides deeper, pressing close. His lips are at your ear, murmuring filth, each word sending a new wave of heat down your spine.
“Still so fucking tight,” he groans as he pushes in, stretching you slow. “Shit—you’re made for me, baby.”
You whimper, fingers digging into his shoulders as he starts to move, the slow rock of his hips melting you into the mattress. His hands never stray far from your chest, thumbs still circling your sensitive peaks, still teasing as if he knows you can’t handle much more.
But you let him lead. You always do.
“Taking me so well,” he praises, kissing your jaw, your throat, the space between your breasts where his cum had been just moments ago. “Know you can give me another one. Know I just have to get you open for me.”
Your breath stutters as he angles deeper, his cock pressing right where you need him most. He’s relentless, thrusting in deep, grinding his hips into yours as if he can’t get close enough. The pleasure builds fast, hot, overwhelming, and when his fingers find your nipple again, rubbing, tweaking, pinching—
“Jungkook,” you gasp, back arching, hands scrambling at his shoulders. “I—”
“I know, baby,” he groans, voice tight, desperate. “Come with me, yeah? Give me one more.”
You do. You can’t hold back, not when he’s coaxing you through it, his words nothing but praise as your body clenches around him, as your release crashes into you so hard your vision whites out. Jungkook follows right after, hips snapping deep as he spills inside you with a wrecked moan, burying his face in your neck as he grinds through it.
For a long moment, there’s nothing but heavy breathing, your bodies still locked together, sweat-damp and trembling. He’s still inside you, still pulsing, his hands lazily kneading at your waist as he comes down.
Then—
“Shit, baby,” he murmurs, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. “Just—one more.”
Your breath catches. “…What?”
“Wanna come inside again.” He grins against your skin, hands splaying over your stomach, thumbs stroking the soft skin there. “Think you’d look so pretty carrying my baby again.”
Your heart stutters. Your body is still trembling from your orgasm, mind barely catching up, but the way he says it—like it’s a fact, like it’s inevitable—has you gaping at him.
“Jungkook—”
He just smirks, kissing your cheek before rolling his hips again, still half-hard inside you.
“Think we should start trying soon, don’t you?”
Jungkook groans as he shifts, sitting up and grabbing the backs of your knees, pushing them up—higher, deeper—until you’re spread open beneath him, helpless to the way he presses into you. His cock slides deeper, the new angle making you cry out, hands scrambling for something to hold onto.
“Fuck, baby,” he groans, voice wrecked, hips snapping forward in hard, relentless thrusts. “Missed—missed fucking you while you had Hana inside you.”
You whimper, overwhelmed by the way he’s looking at you, like he can see it—like he’s imagining it all over again. His eyes are dark, focused entirely on the way your body takes him, the way your tits bounce with every snap of his hips.
“You looked so pretty carrying my baby,” he murmurs, leaning down, pressing his forehead to yours as he grinds deep. “So full—so fucking beautiful.”
Your face burns, body trembling beneath him, and yet the way he’s talking—the pure adoration in his voice—has heat pooling low in your belly, has you clenching around him so tight he groans.
“Jungkook,” you gasp, nails dragging down his back.
He moans at that, dropping to his elbows, pressing you further into the bed as he pounds into you. “Wanna make you all big again, baby,” he breathes, licking into your mouth, swallowing your soft, broken cries. “Wanna fill you up—fuck, wanna see you carrying again, see your pretty tits get all full for me.”
Your breath stutters, hands clutching at his shoulders, overwhelmed by his desperation, by the raw, aching need laced in every word.
“These tits, baby—” He groans, dipping his head to latch onto one, sucking, flicking his tongue over your sensitive nipple. “So fucking perfect when you’re pregnant—” He moans as you tighten around him, sucking harder, like he’s already imagining it. “Wanna see them leak again—wanna drink from you, baby—”
You whimper, body arching, everything too much, too hot, too overwhelming. And then he presses in deep, hips stuttering, and you feel it—the way he spills inside you, his cock twitching, voice breaking on a desperate moan of your name.
For a long moment, he just breathes against your skin, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses to your chest, his body still trembling against yours. Then he leans up, eyes soft, cheeks flushed, voice a little shy despite everything.
“Think we should try again, baby,” he murmurs, hands still tracing over your stomach. “Wanna see you like that again.”
A classic 90's enemies to lovers skit. Mixtapes, rooftop hangouts, and harmless bickering between classes. But somewhere between hallway glances, stolen car rides, and one kiss under the stars, everything changed.
pairing : jungkook x reader
genre : enemies to lovers ( my favv )
The classroom buzzed faintly with low chatter and the soft hum of the overhead fan, lazily spinning in the warm air. Pages rustled. A pencil rolled off a desk and clattered to the floor. Somewhere in the back, someone was half-asleep with their head against the window.
And in the middle of it all, Y/N was glaring at Jungkook.
"That’s not even the right metaphor," she muttered under her breath.
Jungkook didn’t look up from his notebook. “It is if you actually understood the poem.”
She scoffed. “I understood it fine. You just love the sound of your own voice.”
“Good thing it’s a nice voice, then.”
Jimin, sitting between them like some long-suffering referee, groaned softly. “You two are like divorced parents. I’m begging you—let me get through one class without a custody battle over Shakespeare.”
Y/N leaned over Jimin to poke Jungkook in the arm with her pen. “You think you’re so smart just because Mr. Kim actually likes your essays.”
“He likes them because they’re good. Unlike your tragic five-paragraph breakdown of 'Romeo + Juliet' where you called Romeo a walking red flag.”
“Am I wrong?”
Jimin stifled a laugh. Jungkook rolled his eyes but the corner of his mouth twitched.
The bell rang before Y/N could get another jab in.
Outside the classroom, muffled voices were already echoing down the hallway.
“Lunchtime!” Hoseok’s voice cut through the noise like a trumpet. “Let’s goooo, I’m starving.”
As students poured out into the corridor, Y/N grabbed her things and slung her denim jacket over one arm. Jimin stuck close by her side, nudging her playfully.
“You’re gonna marry him one day, y’know,” he whispered.
She scoffed. “I’d rather marry my Walkman.”
Jungkook, just ahead, turned slightly like he’d heard—but didn’t say anything. Just that little smirk again.
Outside the classroom, the rest of the crew was already waiting — Hoseok with a candy bar halfway to his mouth, Mina reapplying her lip gloss using the reflection in the vending machine, Jiwoo balancing her textbook on her head like a crown, and Yoongi leaning against the wall with his headphones in, pretending not to care.
“There they are,” Mina sang. “Finally. What took you so long—fighting again?”
“No,” Jimin said. “Just academic foreplay.”
Y/N elbowed him.
They all fell into step down the hallway, laughing, bumping shoulders, voices rising and falling in that chaotic harmony only best friends could make.
-
The cafeteria was full, so the group had claimed their usual spot — a half-shaded corner of the courtyard, where Hoseok’s guitar case was used as a bench and someone had definitely carved “KIM WAS HERE” into the picnic table.
Y/N popped a fry into her mouth while Jiwoo dramatically told the story of how she tripped over her own shoelaces that morning and almost took Mina down with her.
“It was like watching a slow-motion disaster,” Mina said between bites of her sandwich. “I literally felt my life flash before my eyes.”
“Don’t blame me!” Jiwoo whined. “These are the school’s floors, not mine. Slippery as hell.”
“Or maybe your boots are just for fashion, not function,” Yoongi muttered, eyes behind his sunglasses, sipping his iced tea.
Everyone laughed.
Jimin stole a grape off Y/N’s tray; she slapped his hand but offered him another anyway. Jungkook leaned back on his elbows beside her, legs stretched out in front of him, chewing gum and watching the clouds like he couldn’t care less about anything — except he kept glancing her way every now and then.
That was when Mark, Dongyeon, and Chanyeol strolled over, reeking of too much cologne and fake confidence.
Mark leaned against the end of the table. “Ladies.”
Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Gentlemen. Or… whatever you are.”
Jiwoo choked on her drink.
Mina looked amused. “What’s up?”
“There’s a party at mine tonight,” Mark said. “Figured we’d invite the pretty half of this table.”
Chanyeol winked. “You girls should come. Bring that chaotic energy. We like that.”
Dongyeon added, “It’ll be fun. No parents, music, drinks... all the things good girls need to loosen up.”
The air shifted.
Yoongi pushed his sunglasses down, eyes sharp now. “You done?”
Mark blinked. “What?”
Jungkook sat up straighter. His gum hit the ground. “They said no.”
“No one actually said no,” Dongyeon muttered.
“They don’t have to,” Jimin said, voice light but eyes hard. “But since you’re not picking up on social cues, let me translate: no means no. Leave.”
Mark snorted. “Damn, relax. Didn't know they came with bodyguards.”
Hoseok stood. “And you didn’t come with manners.”
The courtyard quieted around them — not enough for teachers to notice, but enough for a few heads to turn.
Mark raised his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Message received.”
As the trio walked off, Chanyeol threw one last wink at Y/N. “Offer still stands.”
Before Y/N could respond, Jungkook said flatly, “She’s not interested.”
The second they were gone, Jiwoo broke the silence. “Well, that escalated quickly.”
“Ugh,” Mina rolled her eyes. “I wasn’t gonna go anyway. Their parties are just cheap beer and bad flirting.”
Y/N glanced at Jungkook, whose jaw was still tight. “You alright there, hero?”
He shrugged, not looking at her. “They’re just idiots. Doesn’t mean you have to listen to them.”
She smirked. “Aw, was that you caring?”
He gave her a look. “Don’t get used to it.”
“You so totally care,” Jimin said, grinning.
Jungkook kicked his shin under the table.
-
Mina’s place was their go-to hangout spot — big enough to fit the chaos of seven teenagers and loud enough that no one cared if someone accidentally knocked over a lamp during charades.
By the time they got there, shoes were already piled by the door and someone had claimed the remote. Jungkook tossed his backpack in the corner, flopped on the bean bag, and declared he wasn’t moving unless someone bribed him with snacks.
Y/N rolled her eyes. “You’re already eating my chips.”
“Exactly. You bribed me without knowing.”
Mina and Jiwoo were arguing over which CD to play next — Backstreet Boys or Nirvana — while Hoseok tried to convince Yoongi to play a stupid card game he swore he wasn’t rigging.
Then the door creaked open.
Mina’s mom peeked in, smiling warmly. “Well, well, the usual suspects.”
“Hi, Mrs. Lee,” the chorus chimed.
She looked around the room like it brought her joy to see her daughter’s life laid out in laughter and tangled limbs.
“You all staying for dinner?” she asked.
“Only if you’re making your kimchi stew,” Jimin said brightly.
“Oh, I might be persuaded,” she teased — then turned to Mina, voice shifting.
“By the way, I ran into Mark’s mom at the store. She said Mark’s throwing a pre-end-of-semester party tonight. Apparently you girls turned down his invite?”
Mina froze halfway through detangling her hair. “Yeah, uh… wasn’t really our scene.”
Mrs. Lee gave her a pointed look. “Well, she seemed really disappointed. Said Mark had been looking forward to you girls coming. Poor thing, probably nervous about throwing a party.”
Jiwoo muttered, “Yeah, nervous is one word for it.”
But Mina’s mom had already decided. “You should go. Be polite. Just for a little while.”
The boys all exchanged looks. Jungkook’s eyebrows raised. “Did she just guilt-trip you into partying?”
“Apparently so,” Mina sighed.
“We’ll go,” Y/N said with a shrug. “We’ll make an appearance, sip some soda, judge his music choices, and dip.”
“You guys should come too,” Mina said, turning to the boys.
Jimin raised a brow. “You just assumed we’d follow you into social hell?”
“Yes,” Mina deadpanned. “Because you’re whipped for us.”
Hoseok clapped his hands together. “Alright, alright. One hour. That’s it. We go, we dance ironically, we leave.”
-
“No, you can’t wear that,” Jiwoo said, snatching a sparkly crop top out of Y/N’s hands.
“Why not?”
“Because I wanted it.”
The girls raided Mina’s closet like they were prepping for a concert instead of a high school party thrown by a boy who once got suspended for graffitiing his own locker.
Meanwhile, in the living room:
Jimin sprawled on the couch. “Should I change or do I already look too good for this party?”
“You wore that to biology,” Jungkook said.
“And still looked better than you,” Jimin replied.
Yoongi didn’t bother changing — he just swapped his hoodie for a leather jacket and called it a day.
By the time the girls came out — Mina in platform heels, Jiwoo in glitter, Y/N in a cropped tee and low-rise jeans — the boys actually stopped talking for a beat.
Hoseok let out a whistle. “Damn. Okay, maybe we do stay longer than an hour.”
Y/N looked at Jungkook. He looked… unreadable for half a second. And then he tossed her his car keys.
“You call shotgun.”
She caught them. “Why me?”
“Because if I have to suffer through Mark’s voice for an hour, at least I should have decent company.”
-
They stood outside Mina’s driveway, debating the car situation.
“Yoongi’s driving me,” Jimin said, already sliding into the passenger seat.
“Obviously,” Yoongi muttered.
Hoseok gestured to his car. “Girls, hop in.”
Mina paused. “Wait — where’s Y/N going?”
“I’ll take her,” Jungkook said before anyone else answered.
Y/N blinked. “You sure?”
He shrugged. “My car’s quieter.”
Mina raised an eyebrow at her but didn’t say anything.
Y/N slipped into Jungkook’s passenger seat, tossing the keys back to him. “You always this generous with rides?”
He smirked. “Only with people who argue about Shakespeare like it’s a sport.”
The others pulled away, leaving just the two of them under the soft pink glow of the sunset.
The car doors shut.
The music turned low.
And for the first time all day — it was just the two of them.
Jungkook had one hand on the wheel, the other resting loose on the gearshift. The windows were cracked, letting in the breeze, and the stereo played something mellow — probably one of Yoongi’s burned CDs. Lo-fi with a bit of a grunge edge.
“You don’t mind giving me a ride?” Y/N asked casually.
He shrugged, eyes on the road. “Wouldn’t have offered if I did.”
“Could’ve made Jiwoo sit on Mina’s lap in Hoseok’s car.”
“I could’ve,” he said, smirking faintly. “But then you’d be stuck in a car with Dongyeon’s house in your future.”
She laughed. “God, imagine.”
“Don’t even joke about it.”
Y/N nudged his arm lightly. “What, jealous?”
Jungkook glanced at her, jaw twitching ever so slightly. “Of Dongyeon?”
“Of anyone,” she teased.
“Why would I be jealous?”
She tilted her head. “I dunno. You were awfully quick to shut them down earlier. Kind of heroic. Hot, even.”
He rolled his eyes, but she didn’t miss the way his grip tightened slightly on the steering wheel.
“They’re not good guys,” he said, quieter. “Not the kind who look at you the way they should.”
“And what’s the right way to look at me, Jeon?”
This time he glanced at her — really looked. And for a moment, his voice dropped, softer, less guarded.
“Like you’re not just something to win.”
Y/N’s breath caught.
The car settled into silence, but it wasn’t awkward. It was thick with all the things they weren’t saying.
Then she smiled, leaning back again, breaking the tension. “So philosophical all of a sudden. You trying to win me over with depth now?”
He scoffed. “Nah. Just tired of guys who think throwing parties gives them the right to hit on whoever they want.”
“Sounds like someone’s taking this personally.”
He didn’t answer at first. Then:
“Maybe I am.”
That hung in the air.
She looked over at him again, eyes narrowing slightly. “You’re being weird today.”
He glanced at her again, his voice low. “You make me weird.”
Her heart did a little stutter-step.
Before she could say anything, his phone buzzed in the console. He ignored it. Then it buzzed again. And again.
Y/N peeked over. “Someone’s popular.”
He glanced, saw the name, and rolled his eyes before flipping the phone facedown. “Just Hana. From science. She’s been weird lately.”
Y/N raised a brow. “Weird how?”
“She asked if I wanted to go to the party with her,” he said, casually, like it meant nothing. “I said no.”
“Oh?” Her tone was too light.
“Yeah.” A beat. “Didn’t want to go with anyone else.”
She looked out the window, hiding the tiny smile tugging at her lips. “You’re really laying it on thick tonight.”
He shrugged, a little smirk forming. “Maybe I’m finally done pretending I don’t mean it.”
Y/N didn’t respond right away. But when they pulled up to the party house, music thumping faintly in the distance, she turned to him.
“I like this version of you.”
“What version?”
“The one that’s just a little jealous. And not afraid to show it.”
He glanced at her, cocky smirk replaced by something gentler.
“Stick around tonight,” he said, voice low. “You might like what else you find.”
-
The bass was already thumping by the time Jungkook pulled up along the curb, headlights washing over a line of cars crammed into Mark’s street. Multicolored lights leaked out through the living room windows. People milled around on the lawn, red solo cups in hand, yelling over music and laughter.
He killed the engine and looked over at Y/N. “You sure you wanna do this?”
She leaned forward, peering at the scene. “Not even a little.”
“Wanna ditch and hit the convenience store instead? Instant ramen and peach soda?”
She smiled, tempted. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”
Just then, Yoongi’s car pulled up behind them. Hobi’s headlights followed seconds later.
The gang regrouped on the sidewalk, dressed like a band of misfits forced into a high school teen drama.
“I already regret this,” Jiwoo muttered, tugging her jacket tighter around her.
“You and me both,” Yoongi sighed.
Mina groaned. “Let’s just go in, make a loop, and get out.”
As they approached the porch, the music grew louder—fast-paced 90s hip hop, all bass and no taste. Jungkook lingered close to Y/N, his shoulder brushing hers as they climbed the steps.
One of them knocked.
A beat passed.
Then the door cracked open—and there stood Mark, frozen mid-sip of his drink.
“Oh.” His eyes trailed over the girls first. “Didn’t think you were coming.”
Mina crossed her arms. “Yeah, well, my mom ran into your mom.”
Mark blinked. “Seriously?”
“She made us come,” Jiwoo added flatly. “So say thank you to Mrs. Lee.”
His gaze flicked to the boys. “Didn’t know this was a plus-one situation.”
Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Problem?”
Jungkook stepped forward, calm but unreadable. “We’ll only be here a bit. We won’t get in your way.”
Mark hesitated—clearly annoyed, but too proud to say no. “Yeah. Sure. Whatever.”
He stepped aside, letting them in.
The second the door opened fully, music hit them like a wave. The living room was packed—kids dancing, some standing around the kitchen shouting over each other, the lights dimmed and replaced by neon strips and someone’s terrible strobe setup. A couple was already making out near the coat rack.
“Classy,” Yoongi muttered.
They filed in, awkwardly scanning the room.
“I need a drink,” Jimin said immediately.
“Peach soda doesn’t sound so bad now, huh?” Jungkook said to Y/N under his breath.
She grinned. “We’re committed. Let’s suffer.”
Hoseok motioned toward the kitchen. “We’ll do a lap. Grab snacks. Scout the exits in case we need to make a dramatic escape.”
As they moved deeper into the house, Mark disappeared into the crowd—but not before throwing one last look at Y/N.
Jungkook noticed.
Of course he noticed.
He didn’t say anything, but his hand brushed the small of her back, gently guiding her away from the doorway, his voice low in her ear.
“Stay close, yeah?”
-
The house was packed.
It smelled like cheap cologne, orange soda, and someone’s burned popcorn. The music bounced off the walls, some mixtape of late-90s bangers that had been left on loop. Every conversation was a shout, every hallway a squeeze.
Y/N stuck close to Jungkook’s side as they moved through the crowd, shoulder-to-shoulder in the worst way. Not that she minded. He was warm and familiar, even in the chaos.
He leaned in toward her, voice low in her ear. “You alright?”
“Yeah,” she said, tugging on the hem of her borrowed top. “Just don’t feel like being here.”
He nodded. “Then don’t leave my side.”
“Wasn’t planning to.”
They found the rest of the group gathered near the kitchen counter, already mid-debate about whether or not the red punch had alcohol in it.
Jiwoo took a cautious sip and cringed. “That’s a no from me.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Hoseok said, dramatically wiping down the countertop with a napkin. “The vibe here is sticky.”
Suddenly, a too-familiar voice rang out across the kitchen.
“Well, look who finally showed up.”
They turned just in time to see Chanyeol, drink in hand, flashing his signature too-wide smile.
He approached the girls first, eyes blatantly scanning Y/N, Mina, and Jiwoo.
“Thought you three were too good for this party,” he said, stopping a little too close. “Changed your minds?”
“Nope,” Mina replied. “Our moms did.”
Chanyeol smirked. “Lucky for me, then.”
Jungkook was beside Y/N in half a second, body angling slightly in front of hers.
Chanyeol noticed. Smirked wider.
“Relax, Jeon,” he said lazily. “Just saying hi to our guests.”
Jimin cut in with a grin that didn’t quite meet his eyes. “And now you’ve said hi. Congrats.”
Chanyeol shrugged and moved off, disappearing into the crowd with a wink Y/N pretended not to see.
Once he was gone, Jungkook exhaled slowly.
“You okay?” he asked her again, voice softer.
She nodded, but tucked herself just a little closer to his side.
“You’re sticking to me like glue tonight,” he teased gently.
Y/N gave a half-smile. “That a problem?”
“No,” he said quickly, eyes flicking to her mouth for a second too long. “It’s not.”
They stood like that for a moment—too close to be casual, too quiet to be normal.
Then Jimin appeared beside Y/N with a can of soda in hand.
“For you, m’lady,” he said with a mock bow.
She laughed and took it. “You’re too good to me.”
Jimin bumped her shoulder with his. “You doing okay?”
She gave him a small smile. “Better now.”
He looked at her knowingly, then at Jungkook. “He hasn’t left your side.”
“I haven’t let him,” she said, a little too honest.
Jimin’s expression softened. “That’s how it should be.”
Across the room, Chanyeol was watching again.
And Jungkook noticed.
He reached for Y/N’s hand without a word—just laced their fingers together like it had always been that way.
She looked down at their hands, then up at him, heart beating louder than the bass.
“Just so he gets the message,” Jungkook said, voice low.
She nodded. But they both knew it wasn’t really about Chanyeol anymore.
-
The party continued to pulse around them, but Y/N was only half-aware of it. She could feel Jungkook’s hand still wrapped around hers, thumb brushing gently across her knuckles like he was grounding himself with the contact.
His touch was calm. His energy? Not so much.
Across the room, Chanyeol was still watching — too casual, too smug — while Mark had reappeared, chatting up two girls from their chemistry class and throwing occasional glances in Y/N’s direction.
Jungkook noticed every single one.
“You alright?” she whispered to him, tilting her head just enough so only he could hear.
He didn’t answer immediately.
Just leaned a little closer, his breath brushing her ear as he murmured, “They keep looking at you like they’re waiting for me to slip up.”
She blinked. “Well, you haven’t.”
He gave a soft huff of amusement. “Don’t plan to.”
Just then, Mark sauntered over — red cup in hand, grin a little too practiced.
“Didn’t think you guys would last this long,” he said, eyes sweeping over their intertwined hands.
Jungkook didn’t let go.
“We were about to bounce, actually,” Jiwoo said flatly, already reaching for her bag.
But Mark was quick. “Wait, hold up—me, Dongyeon, and Chanyeol were gonna head upstairs. Start a game.”
Y/N’s brow lifted. “A game?”
“Truth or dare,” he said smoothly. “Classic. Stupid. Fun.”
Jiwoo crossed her arms. “Sounds more like a setup.”
“C’mon,” Chanyeol chimed in, appearing behind him with that lopsided grin. “Just the group of us. Old-school. Like spin-the-bottle but less gross.”
“Can’t promise that,” Dongyeon added, smirking.
The girls exchanged a glance.
Mina rolled her eyes but smiled. “We’ll come only if the boys come too.”
Mark laughed. “Wasn’t gonna exclude them. Especially not Jungkook.”
He clapped Jungkook’s shoulder — a little too hard, a little too familiar.
Jungkook didn’t even blink. Just smiled a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Lead the way.”
Y/N squeezed his hand once.
“Are we seriously doing this?” she whispered as they followed the group toward the stairs.
“Apparently.”
“You’re not gonna kiss Chanyeol if the bottle lands on him, right?”
He looked over at her, deadpan. “Only if you kiss Dongyeon.”
She burst into laughter, leaning into his arm, and just like that — the air between them was warmer again. But something electric hummed underneath.
Because they were heading upstairs.
And if there’s one thing high school parties in the 90s were famous for…
It was what happened when the dares got too real.
-
The group slowly filed in, forming a lopsided circle on the carpet. Jiwoo and Mina plopped down first. Yoongi settled beside Hobi near the corner, arms crossed and expression unreadable as always.
Y/N went to sit in the space between Jimin and an empty spot—clearly left for Jungkook.
Jungkook followed right after her.
But just as he stepped forward—
Chanyeol slid right in, shoulder bumping Jungkook’s arm as he casually dropped down next to Y/N.
“Oops,” Chanyeol said with a smirk, not even looking up. “This spot taken?”
Y/N blinked, startled. “Oh—uh—”
Jungkook froze.
For half a second, his jaw clenched. His eyes dropped to Chanyeol’s hand, which had conveniently braced itself on the carpet a little too close to Y/N’s leg.
But Jungkook said nothing. Just exhaled through his nose and moved to sit on the other side of Jimin, opposite her now.
Jimin noticed everything.
He leaned slightly toward Y/N and gave her arm a gentle nudge. “Don’t worry. He’s fine. He just doesn’t want to ruin the game by launching Chanyeol through a wall.”
Y/N tried not to laugh—but it bubbled out anyway.
Chanyeol didn’t notice. Or pretended not to.
Instead, he turned to her, lowering his voice with faux sincerity. “Haven’t seen you around much this semester. You good?”
She gave a polite nod. “Yeah. Just been busy.”
“With Jungkook?” he asked, with that too-sweet tone.
She tilted her head, answering without hesitation. “Yeah. With Jungkook.”
Across the circle, Jungkook smirked quietly to himself.
“Alright!” Hoseok clapped his hands, grabbing a battered glass soda bottle from the shelf. “Shall we get this 90s cliché started?”
“Let’s,” Yoongi muttered.
Mina spun first. It landed on Jiwoo, who ended up doing a silly dance move in the middle of the circle.
Then Jiwoo spun. “Truth or dare, Dongyeon?”
“Dare.”
“I dare you to compliment Mark. With genuine emotion.”
The room howled.
It was lighthearted. Silly. And for a moment, everyone relaxed.
The bottle moved again. Jimin took a truth and admitted he once got detention for dancing too hard in gym class.
Then it was Chanyeol’s spin.
It stopped on Y/N.
“Oh boy,” Mina murmured under her breath.
Chanyeol leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Truth or dare?”
Y/N hesitated for half a beat. “Truth.”
“Alright,” he said, grin stretching. “Who in this room do you think has the biggest crush on you?”
Jungkook’s eyes snapped up.
The room went quiet for a second, the energy shifting ever so slightly.
Y/N stared at Chanyeol. He was enjoying this.
Jimin, beside her, muttered under his breath, “You can say ‘pass’ if he keeps being weird.”
But Y/N just smiled sweetly and turned to glance at Jungkook across the circle.
Then, calmly, she looked back at Chanyeol.
“Easy,” she said. “The guy who knows not to ask questions just to prove a point.”
Oof.
Yoongi gave a short, quiet laugh.
Even Hoseok raised his brows. “Damn.”
Jungkook’s mouth tugged into a grin — small but real.
And for the first time all night, Chanyeol looked caught off guard.
The game continued, but now there was a silent undercurrent flowing between Y/N and Jungkook. Every glance, every brush of eye contact held more weight.
-
The game kept going, the circle relaxing again after the slight spike in tension.
Mark got dared to sing a random love ballad with his eyes closed. (He chose the cheesiest one possible — everyone regretted it.)
Yoongi, when asked for a truth, revealed he once broke a vending machine at school and walked away pretending nothing happened. (“We knew it was you,” Hoseok said flatly.)
Then Mina spun the bottle, and it landed on Hoseok.
“Truth or dare, dance captain?” she asked with a grin.
Hoseok dramatically sighed. “Dare.”
“I dare you to text your crush right now and say ‘I’m thinking about you.’ No context.”
Half the room screamed.
“Do I have to send it?” he groaned.
“Yes!” Mina shouted.
He pulled out his phone, muttering, “I swear, if this ruins my life…”
They watched as he typed and hit send, dramatically flinging his phone face down on the floor.
The laughter continued. Y/N started to genuinely relax, resting her arm against Jimin’s and occasionally glancing at Jungkook, who caught her eye more than once from across the circle. Every time, it felt like their own private thread pulling tighter.
Then it was Jimin’s turn.
He spun the bottle with too much flair. It rattled, clinked, and landed…
…on Jungkook.
“Ohhh,” Mina teased. “Finally.”
“Truth,” Jungkook said coolly, brushing a hand through his hair.
Jimin grinned like he’d been waiting.
“Alright, be honest. When was the exact moment you realized you liked someone in this room?”
The group immediately ooooooh’d like a sitcom audience.
Y/N tried not to freeze.
Jungkook didn’t blink. He leaned back slightly, one arm draped over his knee, expression unreadable but eyes locked on Jimin’s.
“You’re assuming I like someone in this room.”
“You didn’t say no,” Jimin replied, smug.
There was a beat of silence.
Then Jungkook shrugged. “Okay. It was the second week of school last year.”
Y/N blinked.
“That’s… weirdly specific,” Jiwoo said.
Jungkook didn’t elaborate.
He just looked briefly—so briefly—at Y/N.
And her heart stuttered.
Mina leaned over to Jimin, whispering behind her hand, “We are SO steering the next one.”
Jimin nodded solemnly. “Let’s make history.”
Next spin landed on Jiwoo, who had to wear a kitchen glove on her head for the next five minutes. (“This is bullying,” she said while posing like a queen.)
Then Mina took her turn.
The bottle spun.
And it landed between Y/N and Jungkook.
The group paused. So did Y/N’s breath.
Mina tilted her head dramatically. “Hmmm… we’ll let fate decide.”
She reached over, adjusted the bottle slightly (not subtly), and smiled.
“Looks like it’s Y/N.”
Y/N narrowed her eyes. “That bottle didn’t even stop moving yet.”
“It did emotionally,” Jimin added, nodding.
Mina smirked. “Truth or dare, sweetheart?”
Y/N glanced across the circle. Jungkook wasn’t smirking like the others. He was just watching her—quietly.
“Truth,” she said.
Mina didn’t miss a beat.
“If you could kiss someone in this room tonight... would you?”
Another beat of silence.
Jiwoo gasped. “That’s not even fair!”
“It’s just a question,” Mina said innocently.
Jimin, beside Y/N, leaned in. “Be brave.”
Y/N looked down, fiddling with the hem of her jeans.
Then she glanced up—only at Jungkook—and said:
“Yes.”
Not loud. Not bold.
But sure.
And just like that, the room seemed to still for a second too long.
Someone cleared their throat. Mark started laughing awkwardly. Jiwoo broke the tension with a joke about wanting another soda.
But Jungkook?
Jungkook’s gaze didn’t waver.
-
The room hadn’t quite recovered from Y/N’s answer.
The air felt heavier now — not uncomfortable, just charged.
Y/N could feel Jungkook’s stare, even when she looked away.
Mina tried to act casual. “Okay. Who’s next?”
Jungkook leaned forward, grabbed the bottle without a word, and spun it with two fingers — smooth, controlled, almost lazy.
It clinked around the circle once… twice…
Then landed on Mina.
“Ugh,” she groaned dramatically. “Knew I shouldn’t have interfered with fate.”
“Truth or dare?” Jungkook asked, calm as ever.
She narrowed her eyes. “Dare.”
Jungkook tilted his head slightly. “I dare you… to pick two people in this room to switch seats.”
Mina blinked. “That’s your dare?”
Jungkook shrugged. “Use it wisely.”
Y/N’s stomach flipped.
Mina took about two seconds to think before pointing between Chanyeol and Jungkook.
“Switch.”
Chanyeol groaned. “Seriously?”
“Yeah,” she said sweetly. “You’re in Jungkook’s seat.”
Jungkook didn’t wait for permission. He stood, walked back across the circle, and this time, dropped down right beside Y/N.
No one said anything, but they didn’t have to.
Y/N could feel the heat of him now — how close he was, the subtle way his knee brushed hers as he leaned back on one arm, gaze forward but attention on her.
The game went on — more spins, more laughs, more noise — but none of it registered.
Because now it was Y/N and Jungkook.
Side by side.
His voice dropped near her ear when the others were distracted by Mark doing a handstand.
“Was your answer earlier for real?” he asked quietly.
Y/N turned slightly, just enough to meet his gaze.
“You asking because you want to dare me to prove it?”
His lips twitched. “Maybe.”
She raised a brow, whispering, “Then ask.”
A long pause.
Then—
“Mina,” Jungkook called across the circle, voice casual. “Dare for Y/N.”
Mina looked up from where she was watching Hoseok try to chug orange soda. “What?”
“She said truth before. I’m saying dare now.”
The group oooh’d again.
Y/N felt her pulse in her throat.
Mina, grinning like the chaos fairy she was, nodded. “Alright. Dare it is.”
Jungkook turned to Y/N — slowly, deliberately.
“I dare you to kiss someone in this room.”
Everything stopped.
The music downstairs. The laughter. Even the buzz of cheap light bulbs overhead seemed to fade into static.
Y/N didn’t hesitate.
She leaned forward, caught Jungkook’s collar between her fingers, and kissed him.
It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t overdone.
But it was real.
Too real for a party game.
His hand came up to her jaw, warm and steady, holding her like he’d wanted to for ages.
No one spoke. No one dared to.
Because even if it was just a dare…
Everyone in the room knew:
That kiss wasn’t part of the game.
-
The party buzzed on without them.
Laughter still echoed down the hall, muffled behind closed doors. Music thumped faintly beneath their feet. But none of it mattered anymore.
Because Y/N was slipping on her jacket, and Jungkook was already holding the door open for her.
They didn’t say anything as they stepped out into the cool night air.
Just moved together — side by side, like muscle memory — until they reached his car parked on the street out front, quiet under a flickering streetlamp.
Jungkook opened the passenger door. “Get in.”
She did.
He walked around, climbed into the driver’s seat, but didn’t turn the key.
Instead, he leaned back, exhaled slowly, and tilted his head up toward the sky.
“Look,” he said softly. “You can actually see stars tonight.”
Y/N followed his gaze.
The sky above was velvet-dark, scattered with tiny pinpricks of light — rare for their town, rare for nights like this.
“You ever think about how crazy that is?” she murmured. “That those stars are millions of years old? And we’re just… here. Existing beneath them for a second.”
Jungkook looked at her. Not the stars.
“Yeah,” he said. “I think about that every time I’m near you.”
She turned to him, breath catching.
“I’m serious,” he added, quieter now. “You walk into a room, and everything slows down. Like the universe forgot what it was doing and just… paused.”
Y/N blinked. “That’s… kind of the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
He gave a lopsided smile. “Well, I don’t say it to just anyone.”
They fell into a comfortable silence. The kind only possible between two people who’ve known each other too long to pretend. The kind that held a weight — not of pressure, but of possibility.
Jungkook leaned forward, resting his arms on the steering wheel.
“You meant it, didn’t you?” he asked. “During the game.”
Y/N nodded slowly. “Did you?”
He smiled again. “You kissed me first.”
She laughed softly, turning toward him. “Only because you dared me to.”
“Only because I wanted you to,” he said.
Her heart fluttered. Like it used to when she was younger. Like it always did around him.
He reached out, his fingers brushing against hers on the center console.
“Y/N,” he said, voice low, “I don’t know what this is. I don’t even know when it started. But I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since… forever.”
Her fingers turned and laced through his.
“You don’t have to,” she said gently. “I don’t want you to.”
The silence returned — this time warmer, wrapped in headlights and starlight and soft glances that said everything words couldn’t.
Neither of them said “I like you” or “let’s make this official”.
They didn’t need to.
Because right then, in the quiet hum of Jungkook’s car, watching the sky that had seen them grow up…
They knew something had changed.
And neither of them wanted to go back.
-
The drive home was quiet — but in the best way.
Jungkook had the windows rolled down halfway. The cool night breeze slipped in, playing with strands of Y/N’s hair as she leaned back in her seat, half-smiling to herself.
He glanced at her when they stopped at a red light. “What?”
She shrugged, barely looking over. “Nothing.”
“Liar.”
She turned to him with a lazy grin. “Okay. Maybe I’m just thinking.”
“About?”
She hesitated. Then, softly: “About how weird it is that… tonight felt kind of perfect.”
His grip on the steering wheel relaxed.
“Yeah,” he said. “It really did.”
They pulled up in front of her house a few minutes later.
The porch light was still on — a warm, yellow glow washing over the front steps. The rest of the house looked dark.
Jungkook stepped out first, rounding the car to open her door without even thinking.
Y/N rolled her eyes playfully. “You know I’m capable of doing that myself.”
“I know,” he said. “Still wanted to.”
She stepped out, and for a second, they just stood there on the path, their arms brushing.
The energy between them had changed since the party — softer now, but still buzzing underneath their skin.
At the doorstep, they slowed.
Neither made a move to unlock the door just yet.
“So…” she murmured.
“So…” he echoed.
They both laughed quietly. The air smelled like summer grass and sleep.
“I had fun,” she said.
“I had more.”
She raised a brow. “Competitive even now?”
“Only when it comes to you.”
She rolled her eyes again — but this time, she was smiling too wide to hide.
He stepped a little closer.
The space between them was so small now.
“I’m really glad you kissed me,” he said softly.
Y/N’s breath caught. “I’m really glad you dared me to.”
And then, finally—
A kiss.
Not like the one at the party.
This one was gentle. Slow. The kind of kiss that said we don’t have to rush anything — we’re here now.
It lingered for a moment, both of them quietly afraid to pull away.
But then—
A small voice from behind the screen door broke the silence.
“Oooohh I am so telling Mom.”
Y/N jumped, nearly stumbling back as the porch light flickered behind the front window.
Her seven-year-old sister stood there with a juice box in her hand and the smuggest look in the universe.
“Mina!” Y/N gasped. “What are you—why are you awake?!”
Mina just blinked innocently. “I was getting apple juice. And then I saw you kissing a boy.”
Jungkook awkwardly cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck with a nervous laugh.
Mina pointed straight at him. “You’re really handsome.”
Y/N groaned. “Oh my god.”
“Are you her boyfriend?” Mina asked, eyes wide.
“Uhhh…” Jungkook looked like he was about to melt into the ground. “Something like that?”
“Cool,” she said, then turned to Y/N. “Can I be the flower girl at your wedding?”
“Mina, GO TO BED!”
Still grinning, Mina turned and walked back inside, mumbling something about “diaries” and “blackmail.”
Y/N covered her face with both hands.
“I swear, she’s not usually like that.”
Jungkook just laughed, eyes crinkling as he stepped backward down the porch steps.
“I like her. She’s chaotic. Like you.”
She narrowed her eyes playfully. “Goodnight, Jungkook.”
He smiled. “Night, Y/N.”
And with one last look — the kind that held way too much affection for a single glance — he turned and headed for his car, disappearing down the street as the porch light flickered softly behind her.
-
The morning sun was lazy, bleeding gold across the sidewalk as Y/N walked beside Jimin on their usual route to school.
He was sipping iced coffee from a cup twice the size of his hand, eyebrows raised as he watched her try (and fail) to hide a very suspicious smile.
“…So,” he said, drawing it out.
“So,” she replied.
“You’ve been quiet for approximately two and a half blocks, and you never shut up in the morning. Something’s up.”
She side-eyed him. “I don’t always talk.”
“You once recited your entire math homework aloud just to ‘hear how stupid it sounded.’”
Y/N tried not to laugh. “Okay, fair.”
“So…” Jimin bumped her arm lightly. “You and Jungkook.”
She blinked. “What about us?”
He gave her a deadpan look.
“Y/N, please. You sat next to each other at lunch yesterday like two magnets that just learned what touch was. And you haven’t stopped smiling since we left your house.”
She hesitated, cheeks warming.
“We kissed,” she said quietly.
Jimin nearly tripped on the curb. “I knew it! I knew there was weird tension at that party!”
“He kissed me back,” she added.
Jimin beamed. “You say that like it’s not the most obvious thing in the world that he’s obsessed with you.”
“Shut up,” she muttered, swatting him, but she was grinning now.
They reached the school gates, voices blending into the morning rush. Students poured in from all sides, some dragging feet, others already cracking jokes and chasing each other up the stairs.
But before they could even reach the front steps—
“Y/N!”
Chanyeol’s voice cut across the crowd like a bad ringtone.
She winced. Jimin rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle he didn’t see the future.
Chanyeol jogged up beside them, brushing his messy hair out of his face.
“Hey,” he said, giving Y/N a grin. “You left early last night.”
“Yeah, just got tired,” she said, keeping it short.
Chanyeol leaned a little too close. “We didn’t even get to finish talking.”
“We didn’t start talking,” Jimin muttered.
Chanyeol ignored him. “Anyway, I was thinking maybe we could hang out this weekend? Just us. Something chill—”
“She’s busy,” Jimin cut in flatly.
Chanyeol blinked. “How would you know?”
“Because she has better taste.”
Y/N sighed, already inching toward the doors, but Chanyeol wasn’t done yet.
“I don’t get it,” he said, louder now. “We’ve known each other forever—why are you acting like I’m some creep?”
“Because you are,” Jimin said, smile sharp.
“Dude, back off.”
Chanyeol glared, but Jimin stood his ground, and after a tense pause, Chanyeol scoffed and walked off, shaking his head.
Y/N sighed in relief. “Thanks.”
Jimin just gave a tiny smirk, tapping his coffee cup like he’d just come up with something evil.
“…What?” she asked warily.
“Oh, nothing,” he said sweetly. “I just had an idea.”
-
The courtyard was packed during lunch — bright sun, open tables, and every group claiming their territory across the grass.
Jimin sat beside Jungkook, chewing on his straw, leaning in like he was sharing state secrets.
“You want me to what?” Jungkook said, blinking.
“Just one kiss. Quick. Soft. Maybe a little showy,” Jimin said. “You don’t even have to dip her dramatically, though that would be iconic.”
“Hyung…”
“Chanyeol won’t stop pestering her,” Jimin said seriously. “And Y/N doesn’t like confrontation. But you? You’re the statement.”
Jungkook glanced across the courtyard. Y/N was sitting with Jiwoo and Mina under the big tree, legs crossed, laughing at something.
And Chanyeol was, not so subtly, hovering nearby.
Jaw tightening, Jungkook stood.
Jimin grinned. “That’s what I thought.”
Across the grass, Y/N looked up just as Jungkook approached — hands in his pockets, jaw sharp under the sun, confidence in every step.
He didn’t say anything.
Just walked up.
She stood instinctively, confused. “Jungkook—?”
Before she could finish, he gently cupped her face, leaned down, and kissed her.
Right there.
In front of half the school.
It wasn’t aggressive. Wasn’t rushed.
Just a kiss that said she’s mine. This is real. We’re done playing around.
When he pulled back, her eyes were wide — stunned, heart thudding, hands still frozen midair like she forgot how to move.
And then he smiled — really smiled — and turned, walking back to his table without a word.
Around them, the courtyard exploded.
“OHHHHHHH!”
“WHAT?!”
“HOLY—”
Jiwoo screamed. Mina screamed. Someone from the basketball team yelled, “FINALLY.”
And off to the side…
Chanyeol stood completely still.
Mouth slightly open.
Then he turned and walked away without another word.
Defeated.
Jimin leaned back with his arms crossed, sunglasses on indoors, sipping from his straw like a smug villain.
"Park jimin you wizard. How'd you pull this off?" Hoseok gasped next to him, seeing the look on Jimin's face was enough to tell he was behind this.
He simply smirked. "I did nothing really, they did this to themselves."
"Chanyeol's probably pissed." Yoongi says with a pleased smile, eyes looking back down at his ukulele from the newly announced couple.
Y/N turned slowly back to her seat, dazed.
“Are you okay?” Mina asked between gasps of laughter.
“I… I think I just got publicly claimed,” Y/N whispered.
And somewhere in the distance, Jungkook smiled.
-
Later that night, the sky over town stretched wide and quiet. The streets had gone still. The party echoes and school gossip had long since faded.
But up on Jungkook’s rooftop — a little above it all — two people sat side by side on a blanket, legs dangling over the edge, the night humming gently around them.
The stars were scattered like salt, and the air was cool enough to press them closer.
“I can’t believe you did that,” Y/N murmured, nudging him with her shoulder.
He looked over, grinning. “Did what?”
“You know what.”
“Oh, you mean the epic, public, once-in-a-lifetime kiss in front of the entire school?”
She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. “You’re so annoying.”
“You kissed me back,” he said.
“You kissed me first.”
They both laughed quietly.
The kind of laugh that felt like something new beginning.
“Was it too much?” he asked after a pause. “Too showy?”
Y/N looked at him for a long moment.
And then, simply: “No. It was perfect.”
A breeze drifted between them, and she leaned into his side, head on his shoulder.
They sat like that for a while. No rush. No pressure.
Just two people who had always almost been something… now finally were.
“You know,” she said after a while, voice soft, “I used to think we were just too different.”
“But then,” she added, “I realized maybe that’s the point. We balance each other out.”
He looked down at her, warmth in his eyes.
“You’re my favorite balance,” he whispered.
She smiled.
“You’re my favorite everything.”
And then he kissed her again.
Not like the one from earlier — not to prove anything, not to claim or perform or make a scene.
Just to feel her smile against his lips.
And when they pulled apart, the stars still above them and the town still asleep below—
“You used to fight me over grammar, you know?” Y/N said, bumping her shoulder against his.
Jungkook smirked. “Only so I could talk to you without sounding obvious.”
She laughed. “Obvious about what?”
He looked at her — soft, a little smug.
“Liking you.”
Her breath caught just slightly, but she covered it with a playful eye roll. “Still never beat me in English though.”
He shrugged, that same boyish grin tugging at his lips.
“Maybe not. But I did get the girl.”
a/n : btw if you can't already tell, I loved writing this and am currently kicking my feet over my own story and I usually NEVER re-read my stories after it's posted. hehehehe, like, reblog and lmk what you lovelies think below mwahh
genre : boxer!best friend, best friends to lovers au, literally felt like I was in a kdrama while writing this.
• also highkey recommend you guys to put on ‘so far away’ by agustd during the final fight scene and loop it until the end hehe… trust me xx
The apartment smelled faintly of coffee and dust, papers scattered like fallen leaves across the table. Bills. Tuition reminders. Rent notices. You rubbed your temple, staring at the numbers like they’d magically shrink if you glared hard enough.
The door clicked open behind you.
“Princess,” a familiar voice called — low, warm, teasing. “Still fighting with those bills? Or are they winning again?”
You glanced over your shoulder. Jeon Jungkook stood in the doorway, hair messy from training, hoodie half-zipped, gym bag slung carelessly over one shoulder. His knuckles were still wrapped in tape, fresh bruises blooming beneath the skin.
“Depends. Are you gonna spot me a billion dollars so I can wipe them all away?” you muttered, tossing your pen down with a sigh.
He grinned and stepped inside, kicking off his shoes. “A billion huh? You aiming low tonight.”
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the soft smile tugging at your lips. “What are you doing here so late? Shouldn’t you be home icing those hands of yours?”
He dropped onto the couch with a dramatic sigh, sprawling like he owned the place — like he always did. “Maybe I like being here better.”
That made your stomach twist in that stupid familiar way. You shoved the feeling down.
But then he looked at you — really looked — and the playful spark in his eyes dimmed.
“Y/N… I need to tell you something,” he said, sitting up, resting his elbows on his knees. His voice dropped low. Serious. “And you have to promise to let me finish. No interrupting.”
The shift in his tone made your heart skip. “Jungkook… what is it?”
“Promise me first.”
Your fingers curled around the edge of the table. Something cold settled in your chest. “Fine. I promise.”
He inhaled slowly. “I’ve been offered a fight.”
You blinked. Relief flickered for half a second. “That’s it? Kook, you fight all the time—”
“Not like this.” His gaze locked with yours, no teasing now. “It’s underground. The kind they don’t talk about. No rounds. No rules. No time limit. No referee. You fight until one guy can’t stand. Or until he doesn’t get up at all.”
Your blood ran cold. The pen slipped from your fingers, clattering onto the bills.
“What…?” you breathed.
“The payout is fifty million.” His voice was soft. Almost careful. “That’s enough to wipe everything. Your tuition. Your rent. You wouldn’t have to worry anymore. You could finish school. Get out of this crappy apartment. Start over.”
Your heart pounded painfully hard against your ribs. “And what about you? What happens to you if this goes wrong? If you lose—”
“I won’t.” His jaw tensed. “I can win this. You know I can.”
“You could die, Jungkook.” The words cracked from your throat before you could stop them. “Or end up broken. For what — me? You’re gonna risk your life because I can’t pay my bills?”
His brows drew together. Hurt flickered in his eyes. “It’s not because you can’t. It’s because you shouldn’t have to. You work two jobs, go to class all day, come home to this stress every night… alone.” His voice dropped to a rough whisper. “I can’t stand watching you wear yourself down like this. I can fix it.”
You blinked hard, heat stinging behind your eyes. “I don’t care about money, you idiot. I care about you.”
A tear slipped free. Before you could wipe it away, his hand was there — warm, gentle — cupping your cheek like you’d break if he touched too hard.
“Hey…” His thumb brushed the tear, gaze softening. “Don’t cry. Not for me.”
“Then don’t go,” you whispered. “Promise me you won’t do this.”
His lips curved, a small, sad smile. The kind he only ever showed you.
“I promise.” His forehead touched yours, breath warm on your skin. “I won’t do it. Not if it makes you hurt like this.”
You shut your eyes, breathing shaky, letting yourself believe him.
For a moment, the weight in your chest eased. Like the world was right again. Safe.
But deep down, something still twisted. Something unsettled. Like the calm before a storm.
—
It had been two weeks since Jungkook promised you he’d drop the underground fight.
And yet… something felt off.
“Late again, boxer boy?” you called as he stumbled through your apartment door, hoodie soaked with sweat, hair sticking to his forehead. “What’d you do — wrestle a bear on the way home?”
Jungkook grinned, tossing his bag onto the floor. “Please. The bear would’ve tapped out in the first round.”
You crossed your arms. “Seriously though… why so late? The gym closes at ten.”
He bent down to unlace his shoes, voice light. “Coach kept me back for extra work. Said I needed to tighten my form.”
“Uh-huh.” You squinted, walking over and grabbing his wrist gently. His knuckles were raw — scraped fresh, bleeding slightly.
“Looks like you tightened your face into someone’s fist.” You held his hand up. “Who did this?”
“Calm down, princess.” He smirked. “Just sparring. You know I can take a punch.”
“Yeah, but can your face?” you muttered, inspecting the bruise forming under his jaw. “If you get any uglier, I’m gonna have to find a new best friend.”
“Ouch.” He pressed a hand dramatically to his chest. “Betrayed by the only girl I trust.”
You snorted. “Like I’d trade you. Who else would carry my groceries and open every jar I own?”
He grinned. “Exactly. I’m irreplaceable.”
You fell quiet, eyes scanning his face — the sweat, the busted lip, the bruises that hadn’t been there this morning.
“Kook… You sure you’re not… training for something else?” you asked softly.
His smile flickered — just for a split second. But you caught it.
“Why would I lie to you?” he said easily, ruffling your hair like always. “I told you. I dropped that fight.”
“Mhm. You better have,” you muttered, swatting his hand away. “I swear, if I find out you’re doing something stupid—”
“You’ll what?” he grinned, inching closer. “Yell at me? Cry again? Guilt trip me with those sad pretty eyes?”
You glared, cheeks heating. “I’ll throw this entire shoe rack at your head.”
“Oooh. Scary.” He leaned down, eyes twinkling. “You’re cute when you’re threatening murder, princess.”
“Stop calling me that,” you grumbled, heart thudding.
“Why?” He smirked. “It suits you. My little princess.”
You shoved him lightly, trying not to smile. “Go shower. You smell like a wrestling mat.”
He laughed, grabbing his bag. “Anything for you, your highness.”
But as he disappeared into the bathroom, the knot in your chest tightened.
Because no matter how good his smile was… something in his eyes was hiding something.
And you weren’t stupid.
Something was coming.
—
“Don’t forget,” you called from the couch, flipping a page in your textbook, “you promised to be back by eight.”
Jungkook grinned, crouched by the door tying his laces. “Eight sharp. Swear on my life.”
“You better,” you muttered, glancing at him. “If you show up past eight I’m locking the door and you can sleep outside.”
He laughed under his breath but didn’t stand right away. Instead, he sat back on his heels, staring at the floor for a second too long.
You frowned. “Kook?”
He looked up fast — forcing that familiar crooked grin. “Nothing. Just tired.”
You eyed him suspiciously as he grabbed his bag, slinging it over his shoulder like usual… but his hand lingered on the doorknob.
He didn’t open it.
“Why are you just standing there like a weirdo?” you teased lightly, trying to ease the strange knot forming in your chest.
He turned to you, soft eyes flickering — the way they always did when he didn’t want to say something.
“You sure you’ll be okay here alone tonight?” he asked quietly.
You blinked. “What’s with you? You leave for practice all the time. Since when do you care if I’m fine for two hours?”
He chuckled — but it was hollow, forced. “Just asking, princess. You get lonely without me, don’t you?”
“In your dreams,” you muttered, cheeks warming. “Besides, you said you’d be back by eight. So no time for lonely.”
“Right…” His fingers curled slightly on the door handle. Still not opening it.
“Jungkook.” You sat up straight, narrowing your eyes. “Why are you acting so weird?”
He glanced at you — and for a flicker of a moment, you saw it. The doubt. The fear.
Then it was gone — buried under that usual teasing smirk.
“Guess I just don’t wanna leave my favourite girl yet.” He crossed the room, crouching beside the couch, resting his chin on your knee — like he used to when he wanted you to forgive him for something dumb.
“Stop looking at me like that, you idiot,” you grumbled, but your heart squeezed painfully tight. “You’ll miss practice if you keep wasting time here.”
“Maybe I don’t care.” His voice was soft.
You looked down at him. He stared up, gaze warm but strange — like he was memorising you.
“Jungkook…” you whispered.
He stood slowly. Ruffled your hair like always.
“Eight o’clock,” he said gently. “I’ll be back before you miss me.”
“You better,” you muttered. “Or I’m stealing your favourite hoodie and burning your stupid boxing gloves.”
He laughed, soft and quiet.
And finally — finally — he turned and left.
The door clicked shut.
The apartment was too quiet after that.
You tried reading. Couldn’t focus. Tried scrolling on your phone. Nothing stuck. Even Netflix couldn’t hold your attention — every few minutes your eyes flicked to the clock on the wall.
7:45pm.
7:58pm.
You smiled to yourself. “He’ll walk in any second now.”
But eight came and went.
8:15.
8:30.
You texted him: Still alive, boxer boy?
No reply.
You frowned, chewing your lip. Maybe coach kept him again.
9:00.
Still nothing.
A cold knot twisted in your stomach.
9:30.
You called.
No answer.
Okay… maybe he’s showering. Maybe he forgot his phone. Maybe—
9:45.
Panic now. Full-blown.
You called again. Voicemail.
“Jungkook, where the hell are you? You said eight. Call me back.”
You gripped your phone so tightly your knuckles ached. Something was wrong. You felt it — the way your skin prickled, your heartbeat kicked up, like some terrible storm was creeping close.
You bit your lip. One last call.
Jimin.
The phone rang. And rang.
Then, finally — “Hello?”
“Jimin.” Your voice cracked. “Where’s Jungkook? He’s not home. He’s not answering. You know where he is, right?”
Silence.
You swallowed. “Jimin, please. Tell me.”
A shaky breath on the other end.
“…Y/N.” He hesitated. “I thought… I thought he told you. The big fight’s tonight. The underground one. Warehouse 17. Outskirts. Nine p.m.”
The world stilled.
“No…” you whispered, vision blurring. “No, he promised. He said he wasn’t doing it…”
“I thought you knew. I thought he told you—”
The phone nearly slipped from your hand.
Jungkook. You liar. You promised.
You shot up, grabbing your coat, bag — hands shaking, breath short.
“Jimin—” your voice broke. “I’m coming. Stay there. Don’t let him start—”
“He’s already in the ring, Y/N.”
You didn’t wait. The door slammed behind you as you ran — heart hammering, throat tight — sprinting down the hall into the night.
—
The cold night air bit through your thin jacket as you stumbled toward the warehouse entrance. Your eyes were red and puffy from crying, cheeks stained with tears you hadn’t been strong enough to hold back.
“Y/N.” A steady voice caught your attention.
You looked up to see Jimin waiting patiently by the entrance, arms crossed, his usual calm presence anchoring the chaos inside you. To you, he was more than a friend — a brother who’d always been there when things got tough.
“Hey,” he said softly, stepping closer. “You okay?”
You shook your head, voice barely above a whisper. “No. I’m not. He shouldn’t be here.”
Jimin sighed but didn’t argue. Instead, he gently rested a hand on your shoulder. “I know. But he’s here. And I know he needs you.”
You let out a shaky breath and tried to pull yourself together, leaning on him as he guided you inside.
The warehouse was thick with tension — the smell of sweat, metal, and adrenaline hung heavy. The crowd roared in the distance, but your eyes locked on the center of the chaos.
There he was.
Jungkook, standing in the ring with his coach, his fists wrapped and bruised, eyes sharp but flickering with exhaustion.
Without hesitation, you pushed past the crowd and climbed up to the edge of the ring.
“Kook!” you shouted, voice breaking but fierce.
He looked up, startled, then relief and guilt washed over his face.
“What are you doing here?” he whispered, but you didn’t care.
“You promised,” you scolded softly, stepping closer so only he could hear. “You promised you wouldn’t do this.”
He swallowed hard, eyes darkening. “I had to. For you.”
Your heart clenched.
“You idiot,” you breathed.
Before you could say more, Jungkook reached up, fingers tracing your cheek with surprising tenderness. “I’m sorry. But I’m here now. And I’m not leaving until I win.”
You swallowed the lump in your throat, eyes locked on his.
Then, with a playful smirk, he whispered, “Now, come on — if you want me to win, you better cheer louder than anyone out there.”
You laughed through your tears, heart pounding.
“I’m not letting you off the hook, princess.”
He winked.
And for that moment, surrounded by the roaring crowd and the flashing lights, the world narrowed down to just the two of you — fierce, tangled, and full of everything you’d never dared to say out loud.
—
The backstage corridor was quiet except for the faint hum of the crowd beyond the walls. Flickering lights cast a soft glow, making everything feel fragile and suspended in time. You stood close to Jungkook, your fingers still trembling slightly from the rush of emotions by the ring.
He leaned casually against the wall, but you could see the tension in his jaw and the way his eyes darted away every time they met yours. For a moment, neither of you spoke.
“So,” you said softly, breaking the silence, “you picked a hell of a night to get all mysterious on me.”
He cracked a small smile, one eyebrow quirking up. “You know me — I like to keep you guessing, princess.”
You rolled your eyes but your lips twitched. “That nickname again?”
“Can’t help it,” he teased, stepping closer, voice low. “You’re the only one who gets it.”
Your heart hammered in your chest, but you fought the urge to lean in. Instead, you kept your voice steady. “Why now, Jungkook? After all this time… why wait until right before you jump into something this dangerous to tell me?”
He looked down for a beat, fingers fiddling with the hem of his shirt, then back up, eyes soft but full of something like vulnerability. “Maybe I was scared. Scared I’d lose my nerve, or that telling you would change the easy way we have—”
“—The way we don’t have to say things out loud?” you finished for him, stepping closer. “Yeah, I get it.”
He nodded, swallowing hard. “But sitting here, with you standing right in front of me, knowing this might be the last time for a while… I couldn’t keep it in.”
Your breath caught. “And what exactly couldn’t you keep in?”
He took a shaky breath, voice barely above a whisper as he stepped closer, eyes locked on yours with an intensity that made your heart seize.
“Y/N… I’ve been carrying this inside me for so long… pretending it was just friendship, pretending I was fine with that.” His voice cracked, vulnerability breaking through the usual calm. “But every time I saw you, every time I heard your laugh, felt your hand brush mine… it wasn’t enough. It never was.”
He swallowed hard, pain flickering behind his eyes. “I’ve been scared—scared to admit it, scared of what it would mean if I said it out loud. But I can’t hide it anymore.”
A pause. His breath hitched.
“I like you. More than a friend. More than I ever dared to hope. I’ve been falling for you — every single day — and it terrifies me how much I want you to feel the same.”
The silence hung thick, your breath catching in your throat.
Your hands trembled as you reached up, cupping his face. Tears spilled down your cheeks, but a shaky smile broke through your fear.
“You idiot,” you whispered, voice cracking. “You really are… but I’ve waited for you to say that for so long.”
You laughed softly through your tears, the tension in your chest melting just a little.
“I thought you’d never say it. I thought you were scared too.”
He brushed a stray tear from your cheek, his own eyes glistening now. “I was. Still am. But I needed you to know — before I walked into that fight.”
You leaned in, your forehead resting against his, breath mingling.
“You promise you’ll come back?” you said, voice barely above a whisper.
“Of course,” he said, playful light returning. “Hey, if I make it out alive, let me take you out on a proper date.”
You smiled through your tears, poking his chest lightly. “You better win. Or I’m crashing that fight myself.”
He laughed, pulling you into a gentle hug. “Deal. And princess?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m not just fighting for the money anymore.”
Your heart squeezed tight as he pulled back, eyes shining with quiet determination.
“For you.”
—
The warehouse vibrated with noise — stomping feet, wild cheers, curses echoing off the iron walls. Smoke curled through the air, and the lights above the cage flickered harsh and cold.
You stood frozen near the edge of the ring, knuckles white around the metal bars, your heart hammering so loud it drowned out the crowd.
Jimin was right behind you, quiet but firm, his hand on your arm. “Stay still,” he murmured. “Watch him. He can handle this.”
But your eyes never left Jungkook.
He stood in the cage — alone — his fists clenched, his chest rising and falling slow, steady.
Across from him was a mountain of a man, bigger, heavier, brutal looking, grinning like he’d already won.
Jungkook licked his cracked lip, shaking out his arms, gaze steady, jaw tight.
I have to win. For her.
The bell clanged.
The crowd exploded.
They circled each other — slow at first, tension stretching tight as a wire. Jungkook feinted left, testing, dodging the first wild swing.
He’s fast… but that guy’s heavy. One wrong step…
A swing missed. Another grazed his arm. Jungkook ducked, countered — sharp jab to the ribs — the man grunted but grinned wider.
The crowd roared.
Suddenly — too fast — the fighter lunged, driving his shoulder into Jungkook’s chest.
The air cracked.
Jungkook staggered back, ribs screaming, the cage rattling behind him. But before he could recover—
BAM.
A brutal hook crashed into his jaw.
His head snapped sideways, sweat flying. His vision exploded in white.
BAM. Another punch — this time to the gut — folding him like paper.
“Jungkook!” you screamed, panic raw in your throat.
He stumbled, legs buckling — and then fell.
Face down. Hard.
The crowd gasped… then cheered wildly.
“STAY DOWN!” they chanted.
“STAY DOWN!”
Your body lunged forward, but Jimin caught you, wrapping both arms around your waist, holding you tight. “No — no, Y/N — wait. He’s not done. He’s not out. Watch.”
Your hands trembled violently. Your vision blurred. “Jimin — he’s not moving—”
“He’s got this,” Jimin said fiercely. “Just watch him.”
On the mat, Jungkook groaned, chest heaving, head spinning. Blood in his mouth. Lights flickering. His body screamed at him to stay down.
But then…
Through the haze — he saw you.
Your face — beautiful, tear-streaked, full of fear — pressed to the cage, crying his name.
His heart clenched so tight it burned.
No. Not in front of her. Not like this.
He pushed against the mat. Trembling. Slow.
Up to his knees. Then one foot. Then the other.
The crowd roared again — shock, excitement, disbelief.
His vision swam, blurry and broken — until he focused.
On you.
And only you.
A shadow moved beside him. The fighter.
The man chuckled darkly, leaning in close, sneering in his ear.
“That little princess yours?” the man mocked lowly. “Sweet. Maybe I’ll take her out when you’re done here. Maybe I’ll show her what a real man—”
Something in Jungkook snapped.
He turned — slow, dangerous — eyes dark as midnight.
And he smiled.
A low, wicked smile.
The fighter barely had time to flinch.
Jungkook exploded forward.
Fist to his jaw — CRACK.
Knee to the gut — THUD.
Left hook — blood sprayed.
The man stumbled, stunned — but Jungkook was already on him.
For her.
Another punch — vicious, wild, merciless.
For every tear she cried.
A jab to the face — teeth breaking.
For every night she struggled alone.
A savage blow to the temple — the man dropped to one knee.
And then — the last punch — an earth-shattering uppercut that lifted the man clean off the ground before he crashed down, flat, unmoving.
The crowd froze — silent.
Then a thunderous, deafening roar.
But Jungkook didn’t hear it.
He stood over the broken man, chest heaving, eyes blazing — staring straight at you.
At his girl.
The reason he rose. The reason he fought.
And the reason he would never lose.
“AND THE WINNER… BLUE CORNER!!”
The announcer’s voice boomed through the speakers, barely heard over the eruption of the crowd — a thunderous wave of cheers that shook the metal beams of the warehouse.
Jungkook stood in the center of the ring — chest rising and falling in deep, ragged pulls, sweat and blood dripping from his jaw, fists still clenched by his sides.
But his eyes — God, his eyes — were on you.
Locked. Unmoving. Like the crowd, the lights, the screaming world around him didn’t even exist.
The referee grabbed his wrist and yanked it up high.
“BLUE WINS!!!”
The crowd roared even louder. Stomping feet. Fists pounding the rails. Cameras flashing in frantic bursts.
You gasped, a messy sound of relief and joy breaking from your throat as your knees gave out — but Jimin caught you, holding you steady.
“He did it,” Jimin breathed beside you, grinning wide. “He really did it.”
You shook him off, stumbling toward the ring. “Jimin — boost me — I have to—”
He laughed softly and gave you a lift up onto the apron, pushing you gently under the ropes. “Go get him, princess.”
You scrambled inside — breathless, wild — heart hammering against your ribs.
And then… you froze.
The noise faded into a dull hum.
The air thickened — slow, heavy — like every second was stretching into eternity.
There he was.
Jungkook.
Standing tall under the harsh lights, battered, bruised — beautiful. His chest rose slow, steady. His hair damp, clinging to his forehead. Blood on his lip. But his gaze — soft and burning — was only for you.
Neither of you moved.
Just staring.
Drinking each other in.
Like a scene pulled straight from a movie — pure, slow, fragile.
A corner of his bruised mouth lifted.
“See, princess?” His voice was rough, broken, but teasing. “Told you I’d make it out alive.”
Your breath hitched.
Tears filled your eyes — falling warm and fast — and before another word could escape him, you ran.
Straight into his arms.
He caught you instantly, strong and trembling, pulling you tight against his chest as your arms flew around his neck.
You clung to him like life itself, sobbing into his shoulder — messy, gasping, relieved sobs. Your whole body shook.
“You stupid—stupid—idiot!” you cried into his neck. “Why did you do this to me?! You scared the hell out of me— I thought— I thought I’d lose you—”
His arms tightened around you, hard and warm. He dropped his head into your hair, breathing in like he needed you to stay upright.
“Shhh… I’m here,” he murmured. “I’m here, baby. I’m right here.”
And slowly, knees weak, the two of you sank — collapsed — onto the mat, tangled together in the middle of the ring, the roar of the crowd swelling all around.
Your faces stayed close — breathing, shaking — forehead to forehead.
Jungkook cupped your cheek gently, brushing away your tears with the softest touch.
“I love you,” he breathed, voice trembling, eyes wet. “I love you, Y/N. I fought for you. I lived for you.”
Your chest broke open with a shaky, laughing sob. “You absolute idiot… you could’ve told me that before nearly dying, you know…”
He smiled, soft and ruined. “Would’ve been less dramatic.”
And before you could say more, he kissed you — hard, slow, desperate — like this was the only moment in the world that mattered.
The crowd exploded into wild cheers.
Cameras flashed.
Jimin whistled from the side, grinning wide as he cupped his hands around his mouth:
“YEAH! ABOUT TIME! LET’S HEAR IT FOR THEM!!”
The warehouse shook with the sound — whistles, shouts, stomping feet — but none of it touched you.
Only him.
Jungkook pulled back, panting softly, thumb tracing your jaw, eyes drinking you in like he was afraid to blink.
“Hey…” he whispered, teasing, raw. “Told you I’d win. For you.”
You laughed through your tears, leaning in, pressing your nose to his.
“I hate you,” you murmured, breathless. “But I love you more.”
His smile was crooked, beautiful, full of every unspoken promise.
The world spun — lights, sound, chaos — but here, in the center of the storm, it was just you.
Just him.
And finally… everything was exactly where it belonged.
—
“…and that was the first time your dad ever kissed me. Right there. In the middle of the ring, bruised, bloody, and grinning like the world was ours,” you finished softly, eyes warm with the weight of old memories.
Your sixteen-year-old daughter sat cross-legged beside you on the couch, hands clutching a cushion to her chest, wide-eyed and grinning.
“No way,” she gasped. “You’re telling me Dad actually confessed in the middle of a fight? Like in some K-drama?!”
You laughed gently. “Exactly like a K-drama. Lights. Cameras. The whole crowd cheering. He waited until the most dangerous, ridiculous moment to tell me he loved me. Typical Jungkook.”
She groaned dramatically. “Ugh… so extra. I can’t believe you fell for that.”
“I couldn’t help it,” you teased, ruffling her hair. “He was impossible not to love.”
She giggled but hugged the cushion tighter, suddenly shy. “…He’s gonna do the same to Jae when he gets here, isn’t he?”
“Oh definitely.”
As if on cue — the sound of keys at the front door.
“I’m home, princesses!” Jungkook’s familiar, deep voice called as the door opened. He stepped inside, pulling off his work jacket, shaking his slightly messy hair. “Did I miss the storytelling session?”
“Just finished telling her about the ring kiss,” you smiled, tilting your head. “You drama king.”
Jungkook smirked, walking over to drop a kiss on your cheek. “Best confession ever, no regrets.”
“Gross,” your daughter muttered, face burning. “Please don’t start kissing again—”
The doorbell rang.
Jungkook’s brows lifted. “Is that him?”
Your daughter leapt to her feet. “Don’t—! Don’t be weird, Dad—please—”
Jungkook grinned wide and opened the door.
Standing awkwardly on the porch was Jae — hair neatly combed, holding a small bouquet of baby’s breath flowers.
“Uh… h-hi, Mr. Jeon. I’m Jae. N-Nice to meet you, sir,” he stammered, bowing politely.
Jungkook eyed him slowly, arms crossing. “Hmm. So you’re the one taking my daughter out tonight.”
Jae swallowed hard. “Y-Yes, sir.”
Your daughter tugged Jae’s arm with a groan. “Dad… stop. You’re scaring him—”
“You know the rules, right? Home by nine. No funny business. And if you make her cry—” he flashed a slow, dangerous grin— “I still remember how to throw a punch.”
Jae paled. “Yes sir! No funny business! Nine o’clock, sir!”
You bit your lip, smiling behind your hand as your daughter smacked Jungkook’s arm. “You’re embarrassing me to death—”
Jungkook chuckled, ruffling her hair. “Can’t help it, baby. First dates are serious.”
He looked over at the trembling kid in front of him, lightly chuckling before patting his shoulder.
“I’m just playing, kid. You guys have a good time tonight yeah? Take care of her.”
He chuckles, fist bumping the boy, now with a more relaxed look on his face.
“Have a good night princess, I love you, text me if you need anything.”
You watch your husband kiss your daughter on the head softly, your heart melting at the sight.
They headed out the door, Jae nervously glancing back until they were gone, the soft click of the door behind them.
Silence settled.
Warm. Familiar.
Jungkook sighed, sliding an arm around your waist, pulling you close to him as you leaned into his chest.
“First date already…” he murmured, pressing his lips into your hair. “Feels like yesterday I was dragging you into underground fights and confessing in the stupidest way possible.”
You chuckled, turning to look up at him. “Still the best confession I ever heard.”
“Still the best fight I ever won,” he whispered, eyes soft.
His thumb brushed gently along your jaw — and he leaned in, pressing a slow, quiet kiss to your lips.
“Worth every bruise,” he breathed against you.
“Worth every scar,” you whispered back, smiling.
And just like in the ring all those years ago…
Neither of you ever planned to stop fighting.
For this life.
For this love.
For each other.
a/n : okay highkey- why am I proud of myself for this…. also is it obvious I LOVEEEEE making jimin the matchmaker/the one that’s always their #1 supporter 😐 Anyways I hope you loved this one lovelies mwah mwah xx lmk what you think! 🥹
Summary: “Being a human isn’t that bad when he gets to be one with you by his side.”
Before everything shatters like a mirage of an impossible dream, you teach Jungkook how to live a fulfilling life far from Heaven. His numb heart starts to gradually light up again; you make him begin believing in love and hope when not even starting afresh could. But then… everything shatters.
warnings: major and minor character death (but the fic has a happy ending nw !!), themes of death / rebirth / illness, bad childhood / foster parents, not exactly biblically correct - i took some liberty with these themes (no insults or anything offending tho), jk is mean at first but softens up and becomes the sweetest guy ever, swearing, unrequited love for like… 5 seconds; explicit sexual content: outdoor foreplay, handjob, oral (f. receiving), groping, fingering, soft dom!jk, lots of kissing, unprotected sex (reader is on pill just for him, be careful guys), praise kink, marking, some manhandling, dirty talk, jk’s goddamn muscles and moans gawd
word count: 26.6k
a/n: first of all, look at this banner by @ddaechwita, I’M SO IN LOVE, TYSM !!!!! T_T this fic was written for the wings collab hosted by @missgeniality who also beta’d this fic and listened to me ramble about it for months, along with @jimilter, my talented lil goofball !! thank you for making fallen angel jk (and the summary smh) so much better <3 PLUS, ash and @ressjeon, i love you babies for lending me your beautiful names for some of the scenes *cries* !!
uploaded to AO3, too (for those who prefer pdfs or mobile readings!)
MASTERLIST | WIPs
Angels fall with a dull thump and the flash of a light.
A human ear registers the sound as a small whimper, a soft wind blowing and howling in a somewhat strange way for only moments before normality returns. But differently from mere mortals, Heaven and Hell shake at the disturbance, the rare happening indicating the failure of another superior creature.
Jungkook doesn’t remember the thump and the fall, but he remembers the brightness vividly - a striking and blinding light before he entered the life he’s gotten used to now. The punishment he’s wandered into would certainly be less frightening if he knew how he’d gotten to suffer through it and how he can fight it.
Pairing: Prince Jungkook x Sorceress Reader (Featuring Platonic Jin x Reader Friendship)
Genre: Fantasy • Soulmates • Enemies to Lovers • Fairytale
Word Count: 12.5K
MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. MINORS PROHIBITED. I DO NOT CONSENT TO ANY INTERACTIONS WITH PERSONS UNDER THE AGE OF 18. NO EXCEPTIONS.
Warnings: explicit sexual content • mentions of death • injury with a knife • passing mention of patricide • mentions of blood in relation to magic • literally none of this is graphic at all • I am just trying to be safe • loss of virginity • some hurt/comfort elements • social inequality and classism • pseudo-infidelity but not really •
Rating: Explicit (18+)
Summary: You were born to nothing, but your powerful craft caught the eye of a charming prince. However, his distinctly un-charming younger brother challenged your betrothal and is routinely challenging you. Jeon Jungkook is (probably) a former necromancer and (definitely) the wrong prince…
But the bracelets tell a different story.
Author’s Note: This story would not be here without the love, support and friendship of my incredible support system. You talk with me, you laugh with me, you listen when I’m crying, and you read my chaotic drafts when I am ready to pull my hair out of my head in frustration. I love you all. @ppersonna @xjoonchildx @untaemedqueen @lemonjoonah Special thanks to my lovely beta Hope @hobi-gif who keeps my work sharp and gives so generously of her time to help me. If I shine, its because you ladies are lighting up my life. And finally, shout-out to the lovely @wwilloww who read the very first version of this story year before we ever connected through BTS. I hope you like this new version–my brain clearly ran away with me…
Content Note: In this universe a necromancer is defined as a magic user with the ability to drain and/or manipulate the life force of living beings to fuel their own power. Using life force magic temporarily grants them advanced abilities—most of which are forbidden or illegal in the Kingdom of Dionysia where this story is set. Most mages with the ability to use this type of magic do not elect to do so. Magic users in this universe are typically proficient in three to four varieties of magic generally determined by their genetic make-up (meaning you are likely to inherit the same type of magical abilities as your parents or family members).
꧁ Prologue ꧂
It is said that the world of mortals contained three sacred wells where ancient magic rose up within the waters like springs from the depths of the earth.
One such well could be found in the Kingdom of Dionysia—a nation of great warriors and powerful crafters who served as its caretakers for generations.
The Dionysians called this place Sanguine Well and, as a reward for their devotion, the gods honored them with a remarkable gift…
Bonding Bracelets
—a set of unique magical artifacts used to join, identify, and empower soulmates.
On the first day of their twentieth year, Dionysian youth traveled to Sanguine Well for the ritual creation of a bonding bracelet pair.
When the appointed hour arrived, a young seeker ventured into the depths of the well and held their breath beneath its waters till the currents receded—leaving a bracelet pair behind.
One bracelet formed fully clasped around their wrist. The other remained open and would only close for the seeker’s destined mate.
Naturally the people of Dionysia did not take the gift of bonded soulmates lightly…
All proposed matches were registered and approved by the Ruling Council before an open bracelet could even be tried on by a potential partner and both parties were required to present evidence of their commitment to one another.
If the alliance was approved, the betrothed pair participated in a public ceremony where the first seeker’s intended would activate the bond by placing the open bracelet around their wrist.
When an unclaimed bracelet united with its true owner, the open ends stretched and intertwined to form a rune.
From that moment on, the seeker and their soulmate were blood bonded in a supernatural union of their hearts, powers, and abilities that was—to all known craft—unbreakable.
Dionysia believed that this care and reverence honored the craft and the gods, thereby allowing the sacred tradition to continue.
In 900 years of recorded history, only five bonding ceremonies ended with a bracelet that did not close.
Now there were six…
꧁ Once Upon a Time ꧂
“Jin!”
Your voice echoed through the elegant corridors of Solemn Truth Palace as you chased after your betrothed. “I’m sorry! I—”
Jin whirled on you, shaking his head vehemently.
“None of this is your fault.”
“There are many reasons why this could’ve happened,” you offered breathlessly.
“There’s only one reason why this happens.”
He sighed and you rubbed your temples in frustration.
“I don’t understand… The Council gave permission.”
The Ruling Council was a sovereign governing body of three kings and three queens—one monarch from each of Dionysia’s six royal bloodlines.
“The Council isn’t all knowing…” Jin collapsed against a nearby wall. “This is a disaster,” he whispered.
And it was.
You had no family, but all of your friends and colleagues from the Academy were there.
Jin was technically an orphan as well, but his adopted family, the Jeons, were there.
Jeon Alaya was high queen of the Ruling Council, so half the kingdom was there to see the prince, her (adopted) son, bond with the craft prodigy from The Wastes.
Half the kingdom, but not her blood. Not her youngest son…
The two of you were silent for several moments as you struggled to process the shock.
“Do you think the rumors—what they say about me—is true?”
Jin’s head shot up in an instant.
“No,” he swore, “they’re absolutely not true.”
Your heart warmed at his fierce defense, but after today’s debacle you were beginning to question yourself…
Whispers that ‘Wastelanders’ like yourself were citizens of no nation and loyal only to their own desires had plagued the majority of your academic and professional career.
You were forced to work twice as hard as any of your peers for each of your achievements, relying on nothing more than your natural talent and a stubborn determination to succeed in spite of the prejudice you faced.
And you did succeed.
The gatekeepers of Dionysian society may have sneered at your background, but the powerful craft in your veins and the mastery with which you wielded it earned you undeniable respect and acclaim.
in which... you absolutely hate your co-worker, the insufferable Jeon Jungkook. but you're badly hurt, and somehow, your feet led you to his door.
pairing: jungkook x f!reader ✶ ( secret agents au )
word count: 7.7k
content warning: smut ( mdni ) ✶ angst ✶ mentions of blood, bruises, fights, sex, and lots of cursing.
a/n: although I'm a sucker for the arctic monkeys original version, this one was inspired by hozier's cover of "do I wanna know". hopefully it's not too soft for what I've written, and if it is... well, sorry bout that !
𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒏 was biblical—like the city itself had decided you were a stain it needed to scrub off the map.
You staggered through alleys slick with city grime, rainwater swirling in neon puddles at your feet. Every step punched a fresh flare of agony through your side, where your coat clung wetly to the blood seeping from beneath. You didn’t know if your ribs were bruised, fractured, or split like kindling—but every breath felt like dragging lightning into your lungs and hoping you didn’t catch fire.
They’d said four men. Maybe five.
They’d lied. It had been closer to eleven—if you were counting the one catapulted through the window. You’d clawed your way through that hell. Fought like an animal in a trap. And you’d gotten what you came for. The hard drive burned cold and hard against your belly, its weight heavier than steel.
But now you were bleeding.
And somehow, your body—battered, burning—had walked you here.
Of all places.
To him.
You stood at his door, water dripping off your soaked clothes to pool at your feet, hand raised in mid-air, suspended in hesitation. The alley behind was too quiet. The storm outside sounded muffled, like the world was pressing in from all sides and this was the eye of it.
You hated him.
You hated him with an intensity that tasted like smoke and felt like lust. Hated his smirk. His arrogance. His voice. His eyes. His mouth. Hated how often you imagined it against your skin, even now.
But you couldn’t walk another block.
And you couldn’t risk what was in your hidden pocket. Couldn’t risk losing yourself out there when you'd already lost too much.
Your fist met the door before your pride could stop it. The knock echoed through the porch. You turned your head, checking behind you out of habit, expecting a shadow to crawl from the storm. Nothing. Another knock, this time louder—sharper, more frantic. Pain bit at your side, sharp as a blade twisting. You doubled slightly, hand pressed harder over the heat blooming beneath your ribs.
And then the door jerked open.
And there he was.
Jeon Jungkook.
Fucking hell.
His black hair was a mess—still damp like he’d just gotten out of the shower, frowzy strands falling across his forehead. His raven eyes, sharp as always, scanned you in a single, sweeping glance. No flicker of surprise. No warmth. Just that same infuriating coolness that always made your blood boil.
“Seriously? Where the fuck have you been? Losing a fight with a sewer?”
His voice was a cold blade, smooth and deadly.
You didn’t reply. You looked past him instead, scanning the dark corners behind his shoulder—checking for threats, anything to distract from his judgment.
“Hi to you too,” you muttered, lips twisting in a smile that wasn’t a smile at all. Sarcasm was armor, and you wrapped yourself in it fast.
He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stood there with his arms crossed like he’d been expecting you—and maybe he had.
That was the thing about Jungkook. He knew your tells like battle scars. And he used them.
"Can I come in?" you asked, the words rasping out before you could steel yourself. Your voice cracked, just slightly, under the weight of everything you were trying not to show. "Please."
That made him pause.
Jungkook wasn’t used to you asking for anything—let alone pleading.
He didn’t say a word. Just stepped aside, eyes never leaving yours.
You passed him like smoke, brushing too close, too fast, but not fast enough to miss the heat radiating off his skin. You didn’t look at him again. Couldn’t.
“Thank you,” you muttered, half breath, half defeat.
The door shut behind you with a soft click.
You and Jungkook had been orbiting the same hell for too long. Tossed together by whatever bastard thought pairing oil with fire was a great tactical move. You worked like wolves. Clashed like storms. And when it mattered, you covered each other’s backs with snarls and bloodstained fists.
Still, you had rules. Self-made. Non-negotiable.
No drinking with him.
No sleeping in the same room.
No letting him see you bleed.
No showing up at his door when you were breaking.
Too late.
The couch called to your bones, but his voice cut through the air like a whip. “You’re soaking wet.”
You rolled your eyes, dragging a hand through your drenched hair. “No shit, Sherlock.”
Your fingers found the back of the sofa, steadying yourself as exhaustion clawed at your spine. Your clothes felt like lead. Your skin itched from the dried blood you knew clinged underneath. If you closed your eyes, you were done for. So you didn’t.
He moved to the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. Leaned against the frame, arms folded, every muscle taut beneath the hold of a black shirt. The battered—and quite edgy—fabric hugged his torso like it wanted to be torn off. His sweatpants hung dangerously low, a taunt all on their own.
Your gaze flicked down. Just once.
Big mistake.
"I’m assuming you got it?"
The husky scrape of his voice pulled your head up. You stared for a beat, then moved to the table in the kitchen like your legs weren’t screaming with every step.
"What do you think?" you bit back, reaching into your jacket and yanking out the hard drive. You chucked it at him without ceremony. “Prick.”
He caught it with the kind of lazy precision that always pissed you off. No flinch. No reaction. Just a long look, like he was trying to read past the rain and bruises to what lay underneath.
But your coat was still on. Your secrets still safe—for now.
You slumped into a chair. He moved beside you, sliding his laptop across the table and plugging in the drive.
"‘Kay then, let's just throw the thing around so we lose the leverage we have and money we won’t be paid for."
You allowed yourself to shut your eyes for a second, and leaned your head against the wall behind you. “Dramatic as ever.”
The clicking of his keyboard filled the room. Rhythmic. Familiar. You focused on it like it might keep you conscious.
“What took you so long then? Are you that out of shape?”
A small laugh escaped, tight with pain. “As if.” You shifted in your chair, wincing as fire flared under your ribs. “They lied. There were more of them than their intel promised. A lot more,” you muttered, voice brittle with leftover rage.
The keyboard stopped.
You opened your eyes to find him staring.
“How many?”
You let out a breath. Winced again. “Ten? Maybe twelve? I didn’t exactly count heads while they were trying to break mine open.”
His expression faltered.
Just a crack. A flicker. Barely there—quick enough that anyone else might’ve missed it. But you saw it. The sharp flash of something unspoken that darted through his gaze like a blade—gone just as quickly as it came.
He stood slowly. Like he was bracing for impact. Like he could already taste the blood in the air. His movements were quiet, calculated. An animal not yet sure if it needed to strike or mend.
“You’re hurt.”
The words were low, almost a growl. Not concerned. Not yet. But deadly focused.
“Not really.” You shot back too fast. Too automatic. The deflection barely made it past your lips before another sharp wince cut through you, slicing clean under your ribs like a warning. “I’m just soaked… and sore. Pretty normal after rain and knocking out a few men.”
His gaze sharpened.
Whatever he’d been doing on his laptop no longer mattered. Jungkook stepped closer, leaving the glow of the screen behind like it was nothing. His full attention snapped to you like the click of a safety being released.
His eyes dragged over you—slow, deliberate. Mapping out every flinch, every shiver of pain beneath your soaked jacket. You felt stripped bare, despite the layers you still wore. You hated that look. Hated how closely he could read you. Like his fingers weren’t the only things that could undo you.
You shifted back in your seat instinctively, tension rippling down your spine.
But his voice cut through your retreat like iron.
“Take that off.”
The command didn’t even try to be soft. You saw the way his jaw tensed around it, like he hated how much he wanted to say it—and how badly he meant it.
Your breath stilled. An unholy cocktail of defiance and heat clawed up your throat.
“Excuse me?”
“You're drenched,” he said, cool and precise, but his tone wasn’t nearly as detached as he wanted it to be. “You're shaking. And now I can bet my ass you're bleeding too.”
His eyes dropped—too focused, too dark—and locked onto your side. His voice lowered, rough like gravel. “Just get in the bathroom.”
Oh. Oh. He was fucking serious.
And that made you want to punch him.
Your throat bobbed as you swallowed the heat rising in it—rage, maybe. Or something worse. Your fingers curled tight against your thigh, jaw grinding. “You can ready your ass then ‘cause you couldn’t be more wrong!”
But even you didn’t believe that. Your body throbbed in agreement, every nerve screaming betrayal beneath the slick black of your sleeves. You knew how to fake strength. But you were running out of it.
You stood. Slowly. Painfully. If you could just make it to the door—
“You have the package,” you muttered, trying to keep your spine straight, even as your knees threatened to fold. “I already did my part. Now you keep it safe.”
You turned your back to him. The mistake was thinking he’d let you go.
You barely made it four steps before his hand was gripping the collar of your jacket, yanking you to a halt. “Just get in the fucking bathroom, for fuck’s sake!”
"Or what?" You spun, fury lashing in your tone, a snarl curling your lips as your fingers fumbled furiously with the zipper.
You would leave his place with or without the damn jacket. You didn’t care. This was a mistake—coming here, letting him see you like this, giving him even an inch of something he could hold over you.
"Or I'll fucking make you," he growled, yanking the jacket from your shoulders as the zipper finally gave way.
The motion twisted your arms awkwardly, pain lancing through your side with a white-hot burn. You faltered. A sharp breath escaped you as your knees buckled.
He caught you immediately.
And when he steadied you, it wasn’t with roughness. It wasn’t with victory.
“Sorry. Fuck—I'm sorry.” His voice dropped, rough and ragged, hands gently guiding you back upright. “Just… please, let me help you.”
Your head fell forward, forehead brushing the side of his shoulder. Not from affection. From sheer exhaustion. From not having the strength to keep up the fight.
When you finally opened your eyes again, his were already watching you, one hand dragging through his hair in a clear sign of restraint. His chest rose and fell beneath that clinging shirt, his breath a little too uneven.
“Look—you came to me. You’re already here.” His hand returned to your hip, grounding and firm. “Let me just take a look at that.”
You opened your mouth, ready to throw another snarky line just to keep the rhythm of control in your corner, but before you could, he was already steering you—gently, insistently—toward the bathroom.
“Jungkook—”
His hand shot up near your mouth, not touching, just fingers curling in the air like he was this close to losing whatever thread of patience he had left.
“Just—shut your pretty mouth for a second.” He turned to open the bathroom door, not waiting to see if you obeyed. “Get in. Take that off.”
He nodded toward your shirt and gave the smallest push to your lower back. “I’ll be right back. No arguing.”
And then he was gone.
The door clicked shut behind you.
His bathroom was bigger than expected. Clinical. Sterile. Almost too neat for someone in this line of work. But it made sense, in that strange, maddening way Jungkook always did. Controlled chaos in the field—total discipline at home.
The dim light spilled down the tiled walls in long, moody shadows. The floor was freezing under your bare feet as you peeled off your shirt, every movement stiff with pain. Your fingers trembled, but you managed it.
Your cargo pants stuck to your thighs, soaked and heavy. You unfastened them, sliding them low enough to access the damage—only to the curve of your hips. Anything more and your pride would unravel too.
You sank onto the closed toilet lid in just your open pants and a black sports bra, arms bracing hard on the basin. Your breath came shallow, dizzy from blood loss.
The door swung open, startling you.
You jerked, arms flying up to cover your chest. “You could always knock.”
“And miss the show?” His voice was low, shameless—but it didn’t bite. There was no cruelty, only that maddening velvet steel that was his signature.
He stepped in slowly, kneeling before you with a med kit tucked under one arm, movements deliberate and devastatingly calm. The sight of him like that—on his knees, flushed skin and damp hair, inked arm flexing beneath that cursed black shirt—made your stomach twist violently.
Desire, or pain. Maybe both.
“Just give me that—I can manage,” you said, reaching for the bottle of antiseptic in his hand.
But his fingers wrapped around yours, guiding your arm down with a tenderness that disarmed you more than any threat. “No, you can’t.”
He looked at you—really looked—his eyes falling to the crimson trail running from your ribs, jaw tightening as he exhaled. “This’ll sting.”
His hands hovered over your skin, the gauze paused midair. He wasn’t moving. Just staring at your torso like it told a story he hated reading.
You shifted. “Well?”
That snapped him out of it.
He pressed the antiseptic to your wound and your world exploded.
“Son of a—”
“Breathe.” His voice was a rasp, low and oddly soft, his free hand finding your hip. His fingers didn’t press—just steadied. A quiet promise not to let you fall.
And for a second, you let him hold you like that.
You lost track of everything once he peeled the bloodied gauze away, his movements deft and careful. Jungkook picked up a hooked needle with the same deadly focus you’d seen him use while disarming a bomb or loading a gun. His teeth came down to snap the nylon thread, the noise sharp in the bathroom’s too-quiet air. Your breath hitched.
Modesty didn’t matter now. Not with the sweat on your brow, the taste of copper in your mouth, and the burn that spread from your side like a live wire. You uncurled your arms from your chest and gripped the basin and wall behind you, knuckles whitening, fingers digging into porcelain.
“Oh, God…”
You didn’t mean to say it out loud.
He noticed—of course he noticed. Jungkook’s eyes darted to your face. Then his hands came down to your knees, grounding you with a touch that was unexpectedly steady. Unexpectedly warm. Like an anchor.
You couldn’t stop staring at the needle, though.
Your gaze clung to it like it might jump at you. You weren’t new to fieldwork—scars littered your skin like a patchwork of every mission that had gone sideways. But stitching? That was personal. Up-close and brutal. It wasn’t the pain that got to you. It was the implication. The intimacy of being opened and closed again in someone else’s hands.
Worse than all that was him seeing you like this.
Panicked. Fraying. Human.
“Hey.”
His voice slipped through your spiraling thoughts.
Then his hand was on your face—firm and unrelenting. His fingers curved under your jaw and tilted your chin down, forcing your eyes to meet his. He looked thunderous, but not in the way you’d grown to expect. Not cruel. Not smug. He looked… patient. Focused. Like he was trying to will the fear out of you.
“You really need the stitches, baby,” he said, and the nickname unraveled something low and sharp inside your chest. “I don’t have anesthesia—But I’ll make it quick, I promise.”
You blinked at him, momentarily mute.
It wasn’t just the pain—it was the softness, the way he said baby like it was a secret he hadn’t meant to let slip. You didn’t know if you wanted to slap him or lean into him.
Your chest tightened. So you nodded, barely.
“That’s it. Keep your eyes on me.”
And then he stitched.
The pain came instantly. Sharp and molten. Your whole body flinched, muscles locking as you grabbed your discarded shirt beside you and shoved it into your mouth to muffle the cry. It was either that or scream.
But you didn’t look away from him.
Not once.
Even through the haze of agony, you couldn’t ignore how he looked up at you between every pull of the thread. His brows furrowed in concentration, his lashes casting shadows over cheekbones sharpened by the low light. That little scar he had on his left one. Every few seconds, his eyes found yours, like he needed to make sure you were still breathing.
And worse—you liked that he was watching.
His fingers moved too near your skin, grazing the edges of you, slow and precise. With each tug of the needle, a jolt ran through your spine. Not all from pain. Your body was buzzing, alive in a way that made you clench your jaw and hate every molecule of awareness you had.
Because why did he have to be this close?
Why did you want him closer?
You took the shirt out of your mouth and swallowed hard. The tension in your voice matched the tension on your skin. “You always do this?”
He didn’t look up. “Do what?”
“Play medic for strays?”
His jaw clenched tight, shadow gathering under his cheekbone. His hand paused on the final stitch, threading the knot harder than needed. His silence was louder than a curse.
He tossed the needle aside like it had burned him, shoving the med kit across the tiles with a careless flick of his hand.
“Only the ones that run into traps alone.”
The words cut deeper than the stitches.
His hands hovered in his lap, still curled into fists. You watched his teeth bite down on his bottom lip, hard enough to make that faint, telltale line dent his cheek. The one that only showed when he was furious. When he was trying to hold back.
You knew that look. You’d seen it too many times. He always wore it before things exploded.
“You should’ve told me,” he said finally. His voice was raw, softer than before. A confession, almost.
You couldn’t handle that softness.
Your gaze dropped to the floor, jaw tight. “It’s just a scratch,” you muttered, but the words rang false in your ears yet again.
He sat back on his heels, eyes still burning through you. “Just a scratch,” he repeated, the laugh hollow. “Yeah, right.”
The silence that followed wrapped around you like a vice.
Not peaceful. Not even quiet. It throbbed—the kind of quiet that made your skin prickle and your lungs tighten. It felt like something had cracked open between you, and neither of you knew how to close it.
You moved to stand, needing air, space—anything that wasn’t this. But before your muscles could engage fully, his hand came down, flat and sure, against your thigh.
Not a grip.
Not a threat.
Just there.
“Don’t,” he said.
You made the mistake of meeting his raven eyes.
Electricity. That’s what it felt like. His pupils were blown wide, swallowing the dark brown whole, and there was something feral clawing behind them. Something wild. Untamed.
Not hate.
Need.
“I’m not staying,” you whispered, barely able to push the words past the burn in your throat.
Jungkook rose in one fluid movement. He was suddenly there, towering over you, too close, too solid, the heat of him crowding the air.
“You’re not going anywhere.”
The words were a promise. A warning. Maybe both.
He turned his back to you before you could respond—walked to the sink like the conversation was over. He scrubbed his inked knuckles hard, the water hissing as it hit the porcelain, blood swirling down the drain in thin, ghost-red streams. He didn’t look at you once.
But he didn’t have to.
He thought you’d stay.
So you stood. Fast. Pain stabbed through your side, but adrenaline burned hotter. You clutched your wet shirt like a weapon, storming for the door with your pride clenched so tight it nearly suffocated you.
He moved before you could touch the handle.
“What is it now? Huh?” His voice snapped like a whip. “What’s the hurry?”
He stood in front of the door like a sentinel. Like he’d expected this after all. His body blocked every inch of escape.
“I’m going home,” you bit, hand flying to the knob. “You have the damn drive, you don’t need me to run it. I’m done here.”
His hand clamped over yours, solid and immovable. His grip was hot, skin calloused. Like steel locked against silk.
“You were bleeding just a second ago, goddammit! You’re hurt. There’s no way in hell I’m letting you out of here.”
Your voice dropped, venomous. “You don’t get to decide.”
Jungkook leaned in, so close you could feel the fire of him, smell the faint cotton-and-cigarette scent clinging to his skin—a contradiction so sharp it made your breath hitch. His voice came out low, all grit and fury, the heat of it brushing your cheek like a threat.
“I do when my co-worker is falling apart and pretending to be fine. You’re not going the fuck out there like that and that’s final. I didn’t stitch you up only for you to drop dead.”
You didn’t speak. Not with words.
Your body did.
You shoved him.
Hard.
Your palms collided with his chest and he staggered back, spine hitting the door with a thud that echoed like a gunshot. His jaw clenched. A muscle ticked in his neck. And for a second—just one second—you thought he might lunge. There was that flare in his eyes again. That glint of the monster you knew better than most. Want tangled with rage. But he didn’t move.
He just stood there, breathing hard, teeth clenched behind those pierced lips he didn’t part. The way he stared—like he could rip you apart and worship you in the same breath—lit something molten in your chest.
Then, abruptly, he turned his face away, playing nervously with the loops piercing his bottom lip. Calmed himself. Swallowed it all.
“I’m running you an ice bath,” he muttered, voice flat but dragging like smoke over gravel. “It’ll help with the bruises. Trust me, you’ll thank me tomorrow.”
You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. You stood there, vibrating with the fury and the pull, while he moved like a storm through the bathroom, filling the tub. You could hear the splash of the water hitting porcelain, could see the slow swirl of mist rising where frost met heat. Jungkook crouched and pulled something from behind the tub—a coiled noose of silver tubing, a trickle system you hadn’t noticed. Typical. Always had a backup.
“There’s clean towels there,” he said, passing you on his way out, pointing to a cabinet with one long finger. His shoulder brushed yours—intentionally or not, it didn’t matter. It burned. “Don’t lock it,” he added without looking at you, already opening the door. “Just in case something happens. I won’t come in. Just—spare me from having to barge through it, will you?”
Then he was gone, the door closing behind him like a full stop.
You blinked.
Once.
Twice.
The room was quiet except for the hum of the water. You exhaled slowly, peeling away the rest of your clothes as you hated yourself for complying so easily. The sports bra clung to your skin like a second wound, and your pants stuck as if determined to keep every painful inch of the night stitched to you. Your underwear followed. Cold air rushed in against your naked skin, but it wasn’t the chill that had your blood racing.
You stood over the tub for a moment, teeth sinking into your lip as your fingers hovered. Then, jaw tight, you slipped in.
It was ice.
Literal ice.
You hissed, biting down a scream as the freezing water bit into your bones like knives. But you didn’t get out. You let it happen. Let it burn the heat off your skin. Let it numb the ache in your side and slow the beat of the panic still coiled in your gut.
You stayed submerged there until the pain was dulled by another—the kind that started to settle in your fingertips, the subtle ache of skin flushing blue at the nails.
That’s when you moved. Slowly. Deliberately.
You rose, dripping and goose-pimpled, wrapping yourself in the thick towel you found exactly where he said it would be. Your body felt like it didn’t belong to you anymore, your brain spinning in that hollow, too-calm way that meant you were still in survival mode.
Your eyes fell to your soaked clothes on the floor and tugged at your bottom lip again. Maybe you could use Jungkook’s drier and then call a cab or something. You gulped drily, looking down on yourself and the towel that hid even less than your previous attire.
But then again, the feeling of having the wet clothing itching back your skin, tormenting your wounds, made you want to yell.
You decided by leaving them in a heap in the corner and opened the bathroom door with a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding.
And there he was.
Leaning against the wall right across from the door.
Waiting for you.
Like he knew you wouldn’t bolt.
Like he dared you to.
His eyes dragged up your form slowly, drinking in the towel, the steam curling around your hair, the flush in your cheeks—not just from the water. His lips parted slightly, breath shallow, but he didn’t speak.
The silence between you screamed enough.
He exhaled like he was trying to drag the edge off himself, and you stood there in a trance, waiting for him to move first in this chessboard you stood on every time you were face to face.
“It’s late. Take my bed,” Jungkook said finally, shoulders tensing, fists balled up inside the pockets of his sweatpants. “The couch is a wreck and you’re not curling up on the floor like some damn street cat.”
Your laugh cut through the air, sharp and disbelieving. “Don’t fucking order me around.”
“Oh, I will, since you bled all over my bathroom and all that,” he shot back without missing a beat, turning down the hall like he’d already won. He didn’t even check if you were following, but of course you did—seething and restless and not quite finished.
Jeon Jungkook was the king of final words. He collected them like weapons. Filed them sharp and threw them with intention. You doubted he even knew how to end a sentence without stamping it in blood.
When he reached his bedroom, the sight of his rumpled sheets made you pause in the doorway. They looked like him. Dark and messy and lived-in. He strode over to a dresser, fingers trailing over the wood as if the casualness could fool either of you. It didn’t. His every movement was intentional—controlled, like he was holding himself together at the seams.
“I’m not staying,” you said again, softer this time. A warning, or maybe a plea.
He didn’t turn around. “You are.”
Then his gaze lifted—through the mirror perched above the dresser. It met yours with devastating precision, and the current in the room sparked like something struck metal.
The bedroom shrank. The walls leaned in. The air felt heavier with every breath you stole, your pulse thudding traitorously against your skin.
You felt everything too much—the towel clutched tight around your chest, the damp fabric molding to your curves; the tendrils of wet hair brushing along your spine; the sting of cold air on your bare thighs. Your nipples peaked beneath the cotton, begging for a little more friction.
Jungkook turned finally, grabbed a shirt from the drawer—white, of all things—and tossed it to you with a flick of his wrist, eyes somewhere over your head. “I’ll dry your clothes after you put that on.”
You caught the shirt with one hand, inhaling as it settled in your grip. It was soft. Lived-in. You could smell him on it.
He gestured with a jerk of his chin. “Bed’s clean.”
You rolled your eyes instead of answering. Arguing now was pointless.
You could dig your heels in, sure. But your body ached. Your side pulsed. Outside, the rain hadn’t let up for hours. And the bastards you’d escaped tonight weren’t going to rest easy. If they were hunting, you weren’t up for round two.
Plus, he did say he would dry your clothes for you. You’d have to wait for that anyway.
Jungkook watched your stance shift—read the surrender in your silence like the tactician he was. Deciding it was safe, he stepped forward, back to the mirror, facing away from you.
He gave you privacy. As if it mattered anymore. As if he hadn’t already seen you stitched and half-naked, skin marked with blood and bruises.
Still, you waited.
You kept your eyes locked on his broad back, on the way his shoulders tightened when you didn’t immediately move. He wasn’t relaxed—he was steel braced for impact. Like he knew what would happen if he turned again.
You let the towel slip. Slowly. Let it fall in a whisper at your feet before grabbing his shirt and tugging it on. It clung in places, soft cotton sticking to damp skin. His scent curled around you, confusingly comforting, irritatingly intimate.
You tugged at the hem—useless. It barely brushed your thighs.
“Of all the black shirts you own, you had to choose the white one for me? For real?”
He turned then—and froze.
His eyes dropped again. Just for a second. Took in the stretch of your legs, the curve of your hips, the little puddle starting to soak through the shirt as you brought your hair all to one side. His throat bobbed.
And when his gaze snapped back to yours, it was searing.
“I’m fine,” you found the need to reassure him, stepping forward. Too close. “This isn’t my first rodeo.”
“I know,” he said hoarsely, voice wrecked. “That’s the problem.”
His eyes were wild—something caged came back, clawing just behind them once more. Like if he stayed a second longer, he’d do something neither of you could undo.
And so, he bolted.
“I’ll finish checking the drive,” he barked, already halfway through the door, not sparing a glance back, closing it behind him.
You were left alone, blinking in the sudden silence, his scent still clinging to your skin, your blood still thrumming like a war drum.
You crossed the room slowly, each step softer than the last, until your legs hit the edge of his bed. And then, without thinking too hard, you slipped beneath his sheets, still warm from his body.
And for the first time in hours, you let exhaustion win.
Your eyes felt too heavy to open, but it was your own voice that betrayed you first—a soft medley of a moan and a whimper, curling out of your throat like it hadn’t asked for permission.
Everything smelled like him.
The cotton warmth of Jungkook’s bedsheets clung to your skin, soaked in his scent, and it made your limbs feel heavier, your thoughts more tangled. You shifted beneath its weight, your body aching and too warm under the covers. A chill skittered down your spine regardless.
Was there a window open?
You clenched the pillow under your head, breath catching as another whimper slipped out, softer this time, needier. “Jungkook,” you whispered into the sheets, the sound too raw for comfort, too real.
And then you felt it—that presence.
Like a sixth sense, prickling beneath your skin. The faint light beneath the door drew the silhouette of a man carved out of stillness, perfectly rigid, perfectly silent.
Your pulse surged.
Maybe he hadn’t heard. Maybe you were imagining it. Fever dreams could do that.
But your breathing turned shallow, and the room spun slightly, dragging your consciousness fully awake. You could feel him, even without seeing his face. You could feel the way his attention wrapped around you from the other side of the door like a noose waiting to tighten.
And then your mouth betrayed you again, raspy from sleep and dry with nerves. “Are you coming in or not?”
The silence fractured.
The door creaked, slow and deliberate. The knob turned with a soft click, and then he was there.
Jungkook’s eyes latched onto yours like a hook in the gut. Gone was the usual sharpness, replaced by something raw—wide and glassy, like he’d just lost a fight with his own thoughts. His hair was a darker mess than earlier, like he’d run his hands through it in frustrated loops. His face looked shadowed, haunted. Sleep hadn’t touched him.
You propped yourself up on your elbows, heat flashing beneath your skin. The thin sheet pooled at your hips, clinging to the sweat and fever coating your bare legs.
He just stood there.
“I tried the couch,” he said, voice low, almost hoarse. Like it hurt to speak.
You swallowed. Hard. “M-My clothes are probably dry now, I’ll go—”
“No.” His voice cracked with something too sharp to be gentle. He gripped the frame of the door with both hands, like he needed to anchor himself or else he’d do something reckless. “Stay. It’s not that.”
His eyes followed your leg sliding beneath the sheets, and your breath stilled.
“What is it then?” you asked, trying not to let your voice tremble.
Jungkook hesitated—then his jaw clenched, breath flaring through his nose. “I kept hearing you… couldn’t sleep.”
You licked your lips, nodding faintly. “I think I’m breaking down in a fever.”
That was all it took.
He stepped inside, slow like he was wading through quicksand. As if afraid you might flinch. His knees met the edge of the bed and he hovered there, wavering fingers finally lifting to your forehead. Then your cheek. Then the slope of your neck. His touch was gentle, hesitant. Like he was afraid to confirm what he already knew—but hungrier for the permission to touch you than he should’ve been.
You didn’t look away.
Your eyes stayed locked on his while his palm lingered against your pulse. And there was heat there, not just from the fever. Your thighs shifted under the sheets, friction teasing your skin in all the wrong—and right—places.
“So?” you asked, breathless.
Jungkook didn’t respond right away. His hand was still on your neck, fingers grazing the sensitive skin behind your ear. His lips parted like he’d forgotten how to breathe.
“Let me… uh, let me check on the stitches.”
He pulled his hand away too slowly, reluctantly, and the air felt colder where he’d been. You nodded faintly, heart hammering, remembering suddenly—damn. You were still only wearing his shirt.
You swallowed again and tugged the covers higher over your hips before raising the hem of his shirt. You stopped right under your breasts, baring the stitched flesh to his eyes.
His breath caught audibly.
He didn’t say a word. Just reached out, and when his fingers found the edge of your wound, they were soft. Reverent. He traced the perimeter of the bruising like he was learning it by touch.
Your eyes fluttered. You hadn’t expected that kind of delicacy from him. But it was undoing you in pieces.
Then his fingers drifted lower. Barely an inch, grazing your skin like they had no business being there—but made themselves welcome anyway. Your stomach coiled, every inch of you taut with anticipation. And when he reached your lower belly, your breath hitched and a moan slipped out.
He froze.
“I—” he whispered, mentioning to pull back his fingers. “I should stop.”
You were faster.
Your hand shot out, seizing his wrist, eyes blazing. “Don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop.”
His breathing turned frantic, eyes wide and searching your face like it was a war he didn’t want to win.
“You don’t know what you’re saying.” his voice trembled but made no move to get out of your hold. “You have a fever and—”
“And I’d say the same if I hadn’t one,” you interrupted, pulling him closer by the collar of his shirt until his lips hovered over yours.
Jesus, you had to be fucking delirious.
You struggled to pin his gaze, feeling the burning of your wound from holding your abs tight from the position you were in. But you weren’t stopping this.
He growled low, like something deep in him finally snapped—and crashed his mouth onto yours.
Your fingers threaded through his hair instantly, tugging with just the right amount of pressure. He moaned into the kiss, biting your lower lip, devouring you with an intensity that blurred every line you’d drawn.
Clothes started melting away, yours first. Jungkook’s mouth only left yours to slide his t-shirt over your head. Then his hands ran all over your naked back as he trailed a path from your neck to the sweet spot beneath your ear, lowering you back down.
His tongue lashed and you could feel his body was heat and tension and want as you pulled him closer to you. “You’re mine.” he whispered.
God, you needed his clothes gone.
You tipped your head back into the pillow, a whimper falling out of your mouth as you savored the warmth of his mouth back on your throat. The faint sting of his hand brushing against your ribs completely subsided by the knee he had between your legs, occasionally brushing against your core through the sheets.
“For tonight,” you teased with a grin.
Jungkook fisted your hair and covered your mouth ardently, and you moaned feeling his damn tongue all the way down between your legs where you needed him most. Your toes curled in pleasure.
You didn’t know if it was the burning fever taking control over your body or your own unbridled desire, but you needed him closer, needed to feel his skin on yours.
You started clawing his black t-shirt impatiently and he chuckled against your mouth, bringing his hand to the collar of it, pulling it out for you.
His heat poured onto your torso immediately and you shivered, letting your fingers glide over his narrow waist, getting under the waistband of his sweatpants and pulling them down to his thighs.
When you mentioned doing the same with his boxer briefs, mind dizzy as you felt him hard beneath it, he gripped your wrist, halting your movement.
“God, you’re killing me,” he lifted himself inches off your face, staring deeply, voice wrecked with need. “We can’t—”
“I told you. This is not my first rodeo,” you said against his mouth. “And I don’t want to think about all of this. Just finish what you started.”
Jungkook growled and his hand came down on your collarbone, pushing you. You fell back down onto the pillow, gasping as your hair fanned around you. He got up, baring his teeth, yanking his sweatpants and briefs all the way down.
Your heart started thumping in your ears, heat firing your chest, neck, cheeks, as your eyes drifted up his body. Your own burning for him.
Fuck. Perfect golden skin. Tight stomach, narrow waist. Toned arms, one of them inked to the knuckles—a devil in the night ready to pounce.
Killing smile.
Gentle, so fucking gentle with you tonight.
Jesus, you really were fucking delirious.
You clenched your thighs, but he kept pinning you down with his eyes, clearly unhappy about you being injured as well as you not wanting to think about the repercussions of what was going on between the both of you. Which you found adorable because his eyes kept darting to your breasts and then to your thighs as you peeled the sheets from them and watched him struggle to breathe.
Jungkook was as untamed as you were, and he couldn’t stop the storm coming any more than you could.
Suddenly, all of him was stretched above you, fitted against your body like sin. He squeezed your thigh, pushing it down on the mattress, and you spread your legs wider. A whimper left your mouth when he came down grinding on you. Your back arching, eyes closing as he sucked a nipple into his mouth.
“Mmm,” you fisted his hair back again, relishing on the softness of his raven locks.
His hips dipped again, rolling against you, and you bit your lips, pulling his face toward your mouth. “You have—” you tried as another roll of his body made you clench. “Ah—please tell me you have something.”
He looked up to your eyes, smiling. “Yeah.”
You bit his lower lip, dragging your teeth as he gasped and squeezed your under-thigh. You locked one ankle on his lower back, pushing him into you.
“Ah, fuck,” he moaned.
His body stretched as he reached for his bedside table, opening the drawer and haphazardly pulling out its contents until he found what he was looking for. Your mouth only left his neck once he rose up, taking out a condom, looking down at you from between your legs.
Jungkook’s eyebrows were etched in anger as he tore the wrapper with his teeth. His eyes never leaving your body as he tossed it and fisted his cock.
Instinctively your hand came down to rub your clit and he groaned.
He looked like a god staring down on you as he rolled the rubber on. Your head swarmed with the vision, your fingers working faster, tummy coiling expectantly.
“You’re so fucking hot it hurts,” he breathed hard, coming down on you again. Your eyes locked as he reached between you to guide himself.
Your hands snaked around his neck, one tugging at the hair on his nape as he crowned your entrance, pushing inside just barely. You couldn’t help but clench. “JK…” and he groaned in response.
“You’ll be crawling back to me,” he whispered, pressing himself deeper and deeper.
You moaned, relishing how he stretched you.
“You can run away as much as you like,” he kept going, grunting as his inked knuckles wrapped around your neck. “Throw a tantrum for all I care…”
He sank into you, filling you to the brink, so deep, stretching you so completely, that a single cry torn straight from your throat.
“But after tonight, you’ll be crawling back to me,” Jungkook growled. “Again and again—You’ll be fucking mine.”
His mouth crashed into yours, making you moan, bringing your legs to the small of his back as he withdrew and sank back in deeper and harder.
“Oh, fuck,” your back arched off the bed.
Your breathing became labored as he propped himself with his other hand, staring you down as he plunged into you over and over. He gave a little squeeze on your neck, and you clenched around his cock, making him moan, dipping his head back for a moment.
Jeon Jungkook felt so good.
God, he felt amazing on top of you.
You clawed your way from his pecs, down to his abs, and you felt it tighten under your touch. His pace turning unruly, wild.
You spread your legs wide, as wide as they would go, dazed with fever and how good it felt the deeper he went. “Nhg, you feel so fucking good—fuck,” he gasped.
“I need–” you held onto him and he sucked the air groaning, “Harder, JK.” he rolled his hips into you on command.
God, you were spiriling.
Your hands snaked around his waist, and you digged your nails into his ass, helping him roll into you harder, as you met him halfway.
Sweat glistened your bodies, and it was getting hard to breathe. You couldn’t give a damn if the stitches would tear, the lush pressure of him on top of you, inside of you, kept your mind reeling.
You’ll be fucking mine, he had said.
You already were.
“Jungkook, I–” you gasped, trying to mold his body to yours as your orgasm started building. “Jungkook–”
“What, Jungkook, what?” he teased.
But your mouth came to the curve of his neck and collarbone instead, biting and moaning as he kept ramming your spot over and over.
Your nails dragged down his back, burning his skin as you arched into him. You cried out as you found your release, the world spinning, your body wrecked as euphoria crashed into you.
Holy shit.
Jungkook came completely undone a few erratic thrusts later, with the sexiest moan you’d ever heard in your life. He managed to hold himself from collapsing on top of your wound, shifting gently to the side.
You were both a tangled and panting mess. You closed your eyes, enjoying his heavy breathing on your mouth.
You felt his hand snaking to your hair again, turning your head to the side. He pecked on your mouth slowly until you opened for him, not helping the whimper as your tongues collided again.
“Jungkook, what?” he asked again lazily, his eyes barely opening, hazy with pleasure. “What was it that you were going to say before?”
A laugh rumbled on your chest, low. You nuzzled your nose on his and although you were unable to remember what the hell you were about to say, you decided to do what you did best—tease him.
“Oh, nothing… I was just going to say that, uhm, I hate you.” you kept your eyes closed, waiting for his reaction.
When he didn’t utter a single word, you opened one of them to see his eyebrows were angry and he tilted his head in that way you fucking loved to tease him about it.
“You do know I’m literally still inside you—?”
You snorted, rolling to the side and claiming his mouth once more.
⇒ summary: jeon jungkook is famous, talented, and on the hunt for his childhood friend and first love. you are self-deprecating, a little awkward, and exactly who he’s looking for. only, there’s one (1; single, a solo) problem: he doesn’t know it.
⇒ childhood friends!au, celebrity!au
⇒ pairing: jungkook x female reader
⇒ word count: 15k
⇒ genre: fluff, comedy, light angst
⇒ warnings: n/a
⇒ a/n: finally!!! after literally a month of no bts writing, here is this 15k beast that i’ve been hyping up. inspired by true events, kinda. i will work on getting the sorted series out next, so please be on the lookout!
Genre/Tags: best friend! jungkook, best friend! reader, college! au, unrequited love (?), idiots to lovers, best friends to ??? to lovers, angst, fluff, implied smut.
Summary: You never meant for him to find them. Hundred little confessions, folded away, never meant to be read. But now, they’re in his hands. And Jungkook—your best friend—knows everything. But he doesn’t say a word. He just watches you, with that same unreadable expression, like he’s waiting for something. And this Valentine’s Day, you might just have to find out what.
Inspired by: To All the Boys I've Loved Before
Word count: 10.2K+
Warnings: arguments, jungkook is a jerk, misunderstandings (a lottt of it), angstttt, reader and jk are huge idiots, mutual pining, implied smut (its not too detailed so that the story maintains the emotional connectivity), romantic intimacy, tooth-rotting fluff.
MOODBOARD
A/N: HERE IT ISSS! this is the longest fic ive written! tysm for all the support yall have given me in the teaser of this fic. i put out a taglist thinking no one would actually want to be a part of it but so many of yall asked to be tagged 😭 im so grateful! tysm i hope you enjoy reading this as much as i enjoyed writng it. lmk ur thoughts abt it after u read too <3
ALSO HAPPY VALENTINES DAYYY (someone date me pls)
The door clicks shut behind you as you step into the dorm, kicking off your shoes with a tired sigh. The evening air still clings to your skin, carrying traces of laughter and the lingering warmth of Jungkook’s presence.
It had been another perfect night—one filled with inside jokes, stolen bites of each other’s food, and his usual exasperated attempts to get you to study.
Joy, your roommate, is nowhere in sight, giving you the solitude you need. You don’t hesitate. Your steps are purposeful as you cross the room, crouching down beside your bed. With practiced ease, you reach under the frame, fingers brushing against the familiar surface of a small pink, heart-shaped box. You pull it out carefully, as if it were a fragile secret, and place it on your lap.
A soft breath escapes you as you grab a nearby pen and a book, neatly tearing out a tiny slip of paper. The motion is second nature now. Without even thinking, you let your emotions spill onto the paper, crafting a fleeting moment into something permanent.
Tonight’s memory is simple, but it still tugs at your heart. Jungkook had sent you another blurry picture of the moon, captioned with a casual, “Looks kinda pretty, right?” He knew how much you loved the moon—how it fascinated you in a way you could never quite put into words. And he had remembered. Of course, he had remembered.
A fond smile tugs at your lips as you write:
Jungkook remembers the little things.
Once the ink dries, you fold the note with care and add it to the collection. The box is almost full now, brimming with countless tiny confessions—whispers of feelings you’ve never had the courage to say aloud. A hundred little moments, a hundred little thoughts, all dedicated to the boy who had unknowingly stolen your heart.
Jungkook.
Jungkook, your best friend, who always saves you the last bite of his food, even when it’s his favorite. Jungkook, who sends you blurry pictures of the moon just because he knows you love them. Jungkook, who insists on studying with you, despite his major being entirely different from yours, just so he can make sure you actually open a book instead of procrastinating.
This little tradition of yours had started as a joke. One night, after an especially soft moment where Jungkook had wordlessly placed his hoodie over your head because you were shivering, you had scribbled on a piece of paper: Jungkook is warmer than the sun.
You had smiled to yourself as you rolled up the paper and dropped it into the box. It had felt oddly nice—preserving that moment, capturing the feeling of it in something tangible. So you did it again. And again. And again.
Until, one day, you realized you had written over a hundred of them.
You hadn’t meant to fall in love. And you certainly hadn’t planned to confess.
But each tiny slip of paper holds a truth your heart refuses to say aloud.
And you're going to keep it a secret forever.
You met Jungkook almost three years ago, during freshman year. The first time you met him, he had been infuriatingly kind.
You had been struggling under the weight of a precariously tall stack of books, barely able to see over them, when suddenly, a few disappeared from the top. Startled, you looked up to see Jungkook grinning at you, effortlessly holding the books you had nearly dropped.
"You looked like you were about to tip over," he teased, his dark eyes twinkling with amusement.
With a playful huff, you had responded, "Maybe I wanted it to tip over."
Jungkook had only laughed, shaking his head. "I'll catch you next time," he had promised.
That night, you had written a tiny note and slipped it into your box: He wants to catch me when I fall, even without me asking.
From that moment on, your friendship grew in ways you hadn’t even noticed at first. Midnight walks and late-night study sessions became routine, pulling you closer together with every shared moment. What had started as swapping notes for the one class you had together turned into sharing secrets. Somewhere along the way, before you even realized it, Jungkook had become your favorite person.
The box was almost full now.
You had written so many things over the years, each note capturing a small piece of him, a fragment of your feelings. Some were simple observations:
Jungkook frowns when he eats something delicious.
His hair is always a mess in the mornings. He hates it, but I love it.
His eyes smile before his lips do.
But one night, you had written something different. Something deeper. Something that felt like the truest thing you had ever put to paper.
I love him.
The moment the ink dried, panic had set in. You had almost torn it up, almost removed it from the box as if keeping it there would somehow make it real. But in the end, you had left it. Because the box was safe. No one was going to see it.
Especially not Jungkook.
One afternoon, you came back from your classes, ready to relax and unwind before the stress of exams fully set in. You had been looking forward to a quiet evening, maybe even a movie marathon with Jungkook to take your mind off things for a while.
But the moment you stepped into your dorm, you felt something was off.
Joy was sitting on the couch, sipping her coffee, her expression smug—too smug. A knowing smirk curled at the corners of her lips as she watched you walk in, and instantly, your stomach twisted with unease.
You narrowed your eyes. "What did you do?"
"I did you a favor," she said casually, taking another slow sip of her coffee.
A cold shiver ran down your spine. "What favor?" you asked, dread creeping into your voice.
Joy grinned. "I found that little cute box of yours."
Your heart stopped. "What?"
"Don't look at me like that," she waved a hand dismissively, as if what she was about to say wasn’t about to shatter your entire world. "It was just sitting there collecting dust, and I thought—what a perfect Valentine's Day gift for Jungkook. So…I wrapped it up and dropped it off at his place."
Silence.
A deafening, all-consuming silence as her words echoed in your head.
"You WHAT?!"
Your entire body froze in place, your breath catching in your throat as horror washed over you in waves. Your chest felt tight, your pulse roaring in your ears.
Joy merely raised an eyebrow, seemingly unbothered by the sheer panic on your face. "You're welcome," she said cheekily—before promptly sprinting out of the room for her life.
But you couldn’t chase after her. You couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think past the ringing in your ears.
No. No. No.
This couldn't be happening.
Still desperate to deny the possibility, you dropped to your knees and scrambled to check under your bed, your hands shaking as you reached into the familiar space where you had hidden the box for years.
Empty.
It was gone.
The tiny wooden box that held a hundred little moments, a hundred little secrets—your secrets—was gone.
And now it was in Jungkook's hands.
Of all people…Jungkook.
Jungkook lived in an apartment a little further away from your dorm. The second the realization hit, you bolted out the door without a second thought, heart pounding so hard it nearly drowned out the sound of your footsteps against the pavement.
Your plan was simple—get to his apartment before he did. You knew his habits well enough to guess that he was probably grabbing a late lunch at that fast-food place near campus. If luck was on your side, you still had time.
He hadn’t seen it yet.
He couldn’t have seen it yet.
As you ran, your mind spiraled into chaos, bombarding you with every possible scenario—each one worse than the last.
What if he had already opened it?
What if he read through every single note?
What if he found the one that said I love him?
Your stomach twisted painfully at the thought.
Jungkook was your best friend.
He was your person.
And now, he might know that you wanted to be more than just friends.
The mere thought made your chest tighten as memories of the two of you flashed through your mind. The times you spent together at the arcade, the countless movie nights, the time you and Jungkook had crashed Jimin’s birthday party with a ridiculous amount of booze.
And then…there was that moment.
The moment you almost confessed.
"I wish I could find someone who truly understood me," he had said one night, his voice softer than usual, lost in thought.
And you had almost said it. The words had been on the tip of your tongue, so painfully close—"I do."
But you swallowed them down.
Because what if he didn’t feel the same way? What if saying those words ruined everything?
And now, thanks to Joy, you didn’t have a choice anymore. The truth was out there, sitting in a neatly wrapped box in Jungkook’s apartment.
The thought of his reaction sent your mind into overdrive.
Would he laugh?
Would he think it was weird?
Would he—
Would he reject you?
No. No. No.
You shook your head violently as you rounded the corner, lungs burning from the sprint. You’re going to get there before he does. You’re going to take the box back, and he’s never going to know about it.
That was the plan.
It had to work.
As soon as you reached Jungkook’s apartment building, you barely paused to catch your breath. Your legs ached from running, but panic kept you moving. You made a beeline for the mailbox section in the lobby, frantically scanning the names, searching for his.
Box 109.
You yanked it open.
Empty.
Your stomach sank.
Maybe his roommate took it upstairs? Yeah. That had to be it. Maybe it was sitting untouched on the kitchen counter, still wrapped, still safe, still unseen.
You latched onto that sliver of hope as you rushed up the stairs two at a time, unwilling to wait for the elevator. By the time you reached his floor, your hands were shaking. You raised a fist and knocked on the door, urgency making your knuckles sting.
No response.
You knocked again, harder this time.
Then—finally—you heard shuffling from inside. A few footsteps. The creak of the floorboards. A pause.
The door swung open.
And there he was.
Jungkook.
Standing right in front of you, framed in the dim light of his apartment, wearing an oversized grey hoodie that draped over his frame in a way that shouldn't have been so unfairly attractive. His dark hair was slightly damp, messy from a shower, strands falling into his eyes. His lips were parted in surprise, his brows slightly furrowed, and the expression on his face—confused yet soft, dangerously soft—made your already erratic heartbeat lurch violently.
But then, your gaze dropped to his hands.
And the world stopped.
The box.
The open box.
Your box.
Your secret, sacred collection of unsent confessions, of words meant only for the safety of your own solitude. The pieces of your heart you had never dared to show him.
You felt like you were going to be sick.
No, no, no, no—
"You—" You gasped, barely able to form words, chest rising and falling rapidly as you fought for air. "You opened it?"
Jungkook blinked, holding the box loosely in one hand, fingers curled around the edges as if he had been going through its contents just moments ago. He tilted his head, his expression unreadable.
"Yeah," he said simply, as if the weight of the universe hadn’t just come crashing down on you.
Oh. Oh no.
Your legs wobbled. You had to physically stop yourself from collapsing right there in front of him.
His gaze flickered downward, and you followed it instinctively. In his other hand, he held one of the notes. One of your notes. The handwriting was unmistakably yours, a little smudged, a little rushed, but still legible.
He cleared his throat, then read aloud.
"I don’t know when it happened. But one day, he became my favorite person."
Silence.
It stretched on for what felt like an eternity.
You thought you might actually pass out.
"Jungkook, I—" Your voice cracked, but before you could even attempt to explain, he looked up and met your eyes.
And then, to your absolute horror—
He smiled.
Not a teasing smirk, not an awkward grimace, but a real, genuine, knowing smile. A little shy, a little amused, as if the weight of what he had just discovered didn’t terrify him nearly as much as it did you.
And then—oh god—he spoke again.
"So… do you still think my hair looks best when it’s messy?"
Your breath hitched.
Your brain went blank.
You wanted to scream.
The change was almost instant.
In the days that followed, Jungkook became… different.
Not in the way you had imagined, though.
You had been bracing yourself for a talk—a conversation where he’d tell you gently, maybe even apologetically, that he didn’t feel the same way. Or, at the very least, a moment of awkwardness before things slowly went back to normal.
But instead, Jungkook just… pulled away.
It started subtly at first. He stopped texting as much. The late-night calls that once lasted for hours dwindled into one-word replies and seen messages. The casual lunch meetups, the spontaneous arcade runs, the easy, natural way he used to gravitate towards you in a crowded room—all of it changed.
And yet, despite the distance, he never fully let you go.
Instead, he turned it into a joke.
Like today, when he leaned in—far too close for comfort—during your shared class. His voice was low, teasing, the warmth of his breath fanning against your ear.
"So, I’m warmer than the sun, huh?"
You stiffened instantly, your hands tightening around your pen. He pulled back with a smirk, his dark eyes glittering with mischief as he watched your reaction unfold in real-time.
It was unbearable.
He kept doing it.
Whenever you tried to talk to him—really talk to him—he would either dodge the conversation entirely or turn it into something lighthearted, something unserious.
Like the time you finally found him alone, determined to just get it over with, to ask what had changed between you two. Before you could even get the words out, he cut you off with another one of those smirks, his voice laced with amusement.
"So I look best in black? Good to know."
And then he walked away.
That was when you finally got the message.
Jungkook had taken it as a joke.
He didn’t care about your feelings.
It was like the caring, affectionate boy you had known for years had vanished the moment your heart had been laid bare. Like now that the truth was out in the open, he didn’t know how to handle it—so he chose to mock it instead.
And worst of all?
He was pulling away from you completely.
The time you used to spend together? Gone. He was hanging out with other people now, filling his days with anyone but you. And when you did manage to cross paths, he only acknowledged you through those insufferable little comments, those cruel reminders of the things you had never meant for him to see.
It hurt. More than you wanted to admit.
Because maybe—just maybe—you had hoped that if he knew how you felt…
He wouldn’t push you away like this.
The next week brought the on-campus career fair—an event mandatory for all students. You weren’t particularly excited about it, but at least it was a distraction, something to keep your mind occupied.
Or so you thought.
Because that’s when you saw him.
And he wasn’t alone.
He was walking around with Hana, a junior from your college. They moved easily through the crowd, side by side, completely immersed in conversation. And then, to make things even worse—he laughed.
A real laugh. The kind that made his nose scrunch up and his eyes crinkle, the kind you hadn’t heard in what felt like forever.
Your stomach twisted.
You weren’t expecting him to make it this obvious.
If he wanted to reject you, fine. If he didn’t feel the same way, you could live with that. But did he really have to parade it around like this?
Maybe this was his way of sending a message. Maybe he wanted you to know, without actually having to say it out loud.
A silent rejection.
What a jerk.
These days, you barely have the motivation to attend classes. You go through the motions—waking up, dragging yourself to campus, sitting through lectures—but your mind isn’t really there.
Because no matter how hard you try to distract yourself, the brutal reality of rejection lingers like a shadow, following you everywhere you go.
Jungkook threw away your feelings like they meant nothing.
You should have expected it, right? You should have known this was how it would turn out.
Maybe you were never meant to be anything more than a friend to him. Maybe, the moment he realized you held deeper feelings for him, he got scared. Or worse—maybe he just didn’t care at all.
The thought makes your chest ache.
Jungkook has always been a romantic at heart. You’ve seen it in the way he talks about love, in the way he watches romance movies with a dreamy look in his eyes. But clearly, you were never part of that dream.
And now, because of your stupid feelings, you’ve ruined everything.
You used to be his best friend. The one he joked around with, the one he trusted, the one he leaned on.
But now?
Now he barely looks at you.
And if he does, it's only to throw some teasing remark your way—like your feelings were some kind of joke.
The person you were most angry at was Joy.
Not Jungkook. Not yourself.
Joy.
Because none of this would have happened if she had just left that damn box alone.
That day after the box incident, the moment you stepped back into your dorm, she was there, lounging on the couch like nothing had happened. She glanced up as you walked in, a smirk already forming on her lips.
“I didn’t expect you to come back so early. I thought you guys would—” she wiggled her eyebrows—“get freaky after the whole confession, you know?”
She laughed, expecting you to groan or throw a pillow at her like usual.
But then she saw your face.
Her laughter faded. “Wait… what happened?”
You didn’t answer. You just walked past her and sank into the couch, staring at nothing, your mind still replaying every moment from earlier—Jungkook’s teasing, his smirk, his distance.
You heard Joy shuffle closer, her voice softer now. “I… I’m sorry. Did I send the gift too early? Did Jungkook not like it?”
You let out a hollow laugh. “Oh, no, he loved it.” You turned to her, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “Thank you so much for your help, Joy.”
Her expression faltered. “Wait… what do you mean?”
You shook your head, exhaling sharply. “Jungkook probably thinks I’m pathetic now.”
Joy winced. She sat beside you on the couch, guilt written all over her face. “I— I really thought—” she hesitated, chewing on her lip. “I was so sure, though. That boy always had heart eyes for you.”
You let out a bitter chuckle. “Well, now you know he didn’t.”
Silence settled between you both.
And for the first time, Joy didn’t have anything to say.
The next time you see Jungkook, he’s with Hana again.
They’re standing by one of the campus notice boards, deep in conversation. You don’t mean to eavesdrop—you’re not even sure why you stop—but the moment you hear them talking, something in your gut tells you to listen.
Hana tilts her head, her voice low but clear. “Are you sure she won't find out?”
Jungkook sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know… Maybe it's better this way”
Your breath catches in your throat.
Your first instinct is denial—maybe they’re not talking about you. Maybe it’s about someone else entirely. But deep down, you know.
As far as you’re aware, there isn’t another she in Jungkook’s life. Not before. Not when you were still close.
You’ve already been replaced.
Your chest aches as you piece it together. He doesn't want you to find out—because he's probably in a relationship with Hana now. Because he doesn’t want to hurt you with a direct rejection, he thinks hiding his relationship with her is the kinder option.
It isn’t.
You swallow the lump in your throat and force yourself to step back, turning away from the scene before you can hear any more.
You decide then—no matter how much it hurts, no matter how pathetic it makes you feel—you can’t bear being apart from Jungkook.
Even if he doesn’t love you back.
Even if he only sees you as a friend.
Losing him completely? That’s not something you’re ready for. Maybe you never will be.
So, you do the only thing you can think of.
You wait for him after class.
Your heart pounds against your ribs as you watch the door, your hands clammy with nerves. When Jungkook finally steps out, your breath catches. He looks the same—same hoodie, same soft brown eyes—but everything feels different now.
Taking a deep breath, you step forward.
"I get it, okay?" you say, voice firm despite the way your throat tightens. "You don’t like me. And that’s fine. I hope she makes you happy."
Jungkook halts mid-step.
His jaw clenches. His fists curl at his sides.
"You don’t understand," he mutters.
"Then make me understand, Jungkook," you plead. You take a shaky breath, forcing yourself to keep going, even as your last shred of dignity slips through your fingers. "Can we still be friends, at least?"
Silence.
Jungkook doesn’t reply.
And somehow, that hurts more than rejection ever could.
There's a party happening, hosted by one of the biggest party animals on campus. Everyone is invited, and Joy insists that you go.
After much convincing, you finally give in. You've mended things with her—finally forgiven her. Maybe it wasn’t entirely her fault. Maybe you just needed someone to blame.
You decide to go, hoping for a distraction. Maybe the music, the drinks, and the endless chatter will help you forget, even if just for a night.
But you already know Jungkook will be there.
Probably Hana too.
And that's fine.
You'll just stay out of their way.
The party is in full swing when you arrive—loud music, flashing lights, bodies moving wildly on the dance floor, and the unmistakable smell of booze in the air. Bottles are being passed around, and the energy is electric.
A few friends from your classes spot you and pull you in, offering drinks. You take them all without hesitation, reaching for the strongest ones, letting the alcohol burn away the ache in your chest.
Jungkook is nowhere in sight.
Good. Maybe he didn’t come. Maybe you can actually enjoy yourself tonight.
With the alcohol settling in, your limbs feel lighter, your mind a little hazy. You dance to the outdated playlist blaring through the speakers, laugh with strangers, and let yourself let go—just for a while.
But after some time, it all feels like too much. The heat, the noise, the overwhelming buzz in your veins. You slip away from the crowd and make your way to the rooftop, breathing in the crisp night air, letting it cool your flushed skin.
And then you sense it—someone else's presence.
You turn, your head spinning slightly, and there he is.
Jungkook.
You blink, wondering if you're imagining him, but his gaze is fixed on you, a slight furrow between his brows. There's something like concern in his expression as he watches you, taking in your drunken state.
Your heart stumbles in your chest.
The alcohol makes everything feel lighter—your body, your thoughts, your inhibitions. So when you see Jungkook standing there, looking at you with that unreadable expression, the words just spill out before you can stop them.
“I liked you, you know,” you mumble, swaying slightly. “But now I realize… I was just wasting my time.”
Jungkook doesn’t react. No apology, no denial, not even a flicker of emotion across his face.
He just exhales softly, shoving his hands into his pockets. “You’ll be fine,” he says simply, then turns on his heel and walks away.
Just like that.
The cool night air suddenly feels suffocating, the weight in your chest heavier than ever. You watch his retreating figure, your heart shattering all over again.
The next morning, you wake up with the nastiest headache ever. Your head throbs, your mouth is dry, and your body feels like it’s been wrung out. You groan, forcing yourself to sit up as the hazy memories from last night slowly piece themselves together.
Jungkook. The rooftop. The way he just… walked away like he didn’t care.
You shake the thought from your mind, dragging yourself out of bed. There’s no point dwelling on it. Your exams are approaching, and you need to focus.
Deciding to get some studying done, you head to the library. The quiet atmosphere should help clear your head—or at least distract you from the mess that is your life.
But the moment you step inside, your breath catches.
Jungkook is sitting at the table you both used to frequent, completely absorbed in scribbling something into a notebook. For a second, you consider turning around, but then something catches your eye.
He rips out a small piece of paper, folds it neatly, and—without hesitation—slips it into a glass jar sitting beside him.
Your heart clenches.
Is it for Hana?
You don’t stick around to find out. Before Jungkook can notice you, you turn on your heel and walk away.
February 10th. Your birthday.
You wake up with a small flicker of hope. Maybe today would be different. Maybe Jungkook had been ignoring you all this time because he was planning something—some kind of surprise. That had to be it, right?
Surely.
So you wait.
By 3 PM, your phone is filled with messages—friends, family, even distant relatives reaching out to wish you. Everyone but Jungkook.
Not even a single text.
The hope that had carried you through the day starts to crumble, replaced by a hollow ache in your chest. You don’t go to class. What’s the point? This might just be the worst birthday ever.
That’s when Joy bursts into your room with a grin.
"You got a package!" she announces, holding out a neatly wrapped box.
Your heart leaps.
Jungkook?
You rush over, fingers fumbling as you tear open the wrapping—only for your stomach to drop.
It’s from your parents.
Disappointment washes over you, but you push it aside. They went through the trouble of sending you something, and you should be grateful. You take a deep breath, forcing a smile as you pick up your phone and call them.
"Thank you," you say, voice steady. Because at least someone remembered.
There was still time.
It was only evening—plenty of hours left before midnight. Jungkook would surely text before then. He had to.
Joy, noticing your gloomy mood, tries to lift your spirits. "Come on, let’s go out drinking. Have some fun, at least for your birthday."
But you shake your head. "I’m not in the mood."
She sighs, clearly frustrated but doesn’t push you. Instead, she flops onto your bed, staring at the ceiling. "I hate this," she mutters. "I hate seeing you like this. And I hate him for treating you this way."
Her voice is laced with anger, but there’s something else there too—guilt.
Because deep down, Joy still blames herself.
If she hadn’t sent that gift early, if she hadn’t tried to play cupid, maybe things wouldn’t have turned out this way. Maybe you wouldn’t be spending your birthday like this—waiting for a boy who might never come around.
Jungkook didn’t text that day.
He forgot your birthday.
You waited all day, checking your phone every few minutes, hoping for a message that never came. Midnight passed, and still—nothing.
The realization settles deep in your chest, heavier than you expected. You feel pathetic.
Pathetic for hoping. Pathetic for waiting. Pathetic for still caring.
It’s the day before Valentine’s Day.
You can’t afford to miss any more classes. You haven’t stepped foot on campus since your birthday, but today, you decide to go.
You have no motivation to see or talk to anyone. You tell yourself that you’ll just quietly attend your classes and head straight back home. No distractions. No unnecessary interactions.
But as soon as you reach campus, you notice a crowd gathering. There’s some kind of matchmaking event happening for Valentine’s Day tomorrow.
Great. Just great.
Everything about it feels like the universe is mocking you, rubbing salt on an already raw wound. Heart-shaped decorations, pink confetti floating in the air, and couples laughing—completely oblivious to how suffocating it feels for you.
You try to move past the crowd, but suddenly, someone pushes forward, and you get caught in the chaos. You stumble, losing your balance—bracing for impact—
But you don’t hit the ground.
Because Jungkook catches you.
His hands grip your arms, steadying you out of instinct. His touch is firm and warm, familiar in a way that makes your chest ache.
For the first time in days, you look up at him. And for the first time in days, he looks right back at you.
He doesn’t let go of you immediately.
His grip stays firm, his fingers pressing into your arms like he’s grounding himself, like he’s hesitating. His throat bobs as he swallows hard, his lips parting slightly—like he’s about to say something.
The music playing in the background fades into a distant hum. Everything around you slows. The laughter, the chatter, the festival lights—it all blurs.
All that’s left is him.
Still holding you.
Your voice barely comes out, a whisper against the space between you.
“Do you even care, Jungkook?”
His hands tighten for a fraction of a second. His jaw clenches. And for a brief, fleeting moment, you think you see something—something raw and unspoken flash through his eyes.
But then, like a switch flipping, he lets go.
So fast that you nearly stumble again.
"No, Y/N. I don’t."
His words cut through the air, sharp and merciless.
Then he turns. Walks away.
And you’re left standing there, alone in the middle of a festival meant for love.
This is it.
This is your answer.
Jungkook has made his choice.
And now, it’s time for you to make yours.
You have to move on.
That night, you decide—Jungkook was never meant to be yours.
It’s a painful truth, one you’ve been avoiding, but tonight, you accept it.
Needing a distraction, you start clearing out your closet, pulling out old clothes, forgotten trinkets, anything to keep your hands busy. That’s when you see it.
The pink heart-shaped box.
Your breath hitches.
You had snatched it from his hands that day, barely able to meet his gaze before bolting out of his apartment and driving straight back to your dorm. You had shoved it deep into your closet, hoping that if you buried it away, you could bury your feelings too.
For a moment, you consider throwing it away. What’s the point of holding onto it now? Jungkook knows. He read the notes, saw every piece of your heart laid bare. And in the end, it changed nothing.
Your fingers tremble as you lift the lid.
One by one, you pull out the little folded papers, unfolding memories you once held so close.
"I don’t know when it happened, but one day, he became my favourite person."
"His laugh is my favorite sound."
"I wish he knew how much he means to me."
Tears blur your vision.
You never wanted him to know.
Because you never wanted to lose him.
And now, you have.
The weight of it crashes over you all at once, and before you can stop it, the tears spill over, hot and relentless.
You clutch the notes to your chest as silent sobs wrack your body.
You’ve been holding the pain in for too long.
So tonight, you let the dams break.
And you cry yourself to sleep.
It’s Valentine’s Day.
You feel miserable.
Forget having a Valentine this year—you don’t even have a best friend anymore.
So you stay in bed all day, buried under the covers, refusing to acknowledge the world outside.
Your mind drifts, unbidden, to last year’s Valentine’s Day.
You and Jungkook had gone out for dinner—not as lovers, not as anything more than friends, just two people who didn’t have dates. You remember how he laughed at the terrible restaurant music, how he stole fries from your plate like they were his.
You miss it.
No—wait. You shouldn’t be thinking about him.
Shaking off the thought, you grab your Nintendo Switch and start playing, trying to distract yourself.
Then the doorbell rings.
You ignore it. Joy is probably home—she’ll get it.
But it rings again.
What is Joy doing?
Then it hits you—she probably stayed over at her boyfriend’s place last night.
With a groan, you push off the covers and make your way to the door. You swing it open, ready to shoo away whoever it is—
But there’s no one there.
Your gaze drops to the ground.
And then you see it.
A singular jar, placed carefully on the doormat.
You stare at the jar, a strange sense of familiarity creeping in, but you can’t quite place it.
Where have you seen something like this before?
Your mind scrambles for an answer, flipping through memories like pages in a book, but nothing surfaces.
With hesitant fingers, you reach down and pick it up, feeling the cool glass against your palm. It’s heavier than you expected.
That’s when you notice the writing on the lid, scrawled in red marker.
"To Y/N."
Your heart stutters.
You blink, trying to steady your breath, but the moment feels unreal—like you’ve stepped into a dream.
It’s only then that you notice the jar is filled with tiny rolled-up notes, crammed inside like secrets waiting to be unraveled.
Your mind starts spiraling.
What is this? Who left it? Why does it have your name?
Your hands tremble as you twist the lid open, the slight pop of the seal echoing in the silence.
You reach inside, fingers brushing against the countless little slips of paper.
With bated breath, you pull one out.
You carefully unroll it, eyes scanning the words scribbled in rushed, familiar handwriting.
"I lied."
That’s all it says.
Two words.
Your breath catches in your throat as your eyes trace the messy yet unmistakable handwriting.
Jungkook.
Your fingers tighten around the note as your pulse quickens.
It’s his.
The realization slams into you with a force that leaves you momentarily stunned.
Your breath turns shallow as the memory crashes into you—
Yesterday.
The crowd. The music. The overwhelming blur of people around you.
You had stumbled, nearly falling, only for Jungkook to catch you. For a fleeting moment, he held you close. His grip was firm, his expression unreadable.
You had searched his face, your voice barely above a whisper.
"Do you even care, Jungkook?"
You had wanted him to say yes. Even a little. Anything to make the ache in your chest feel less unbearable.
But instead—
"No, Y/N. I don’t."
His words had cut deeper than you ever thought possible.
And then he had let go. So fast, like touching you had burned him. Like you meant nothing at all.
You remember the way your heart had cracked, the way he had disappeared into the sea of people, leaving you stranded in the middle of a festival meant for love.
But now—
Now you stand here, gripping a jar full of his words.
"I lied."
Your hands fumble as you reach into the jar again, pulling out another note.
Unrolling it with shaky fingers, you read:
"I thought if I pushed you away, it’d be easier for you to move on. But the truth is, I don’t want you to."
A sharp pang strikes your chest.
Your mind reels, and suddenly, you're back at the rooftop party—drunk, vulnerable, spilling your heart out in slurred words.
“I liked you, you know? But now I realize I was just wasting my time.”
Jungkook had stood there, silent, unreadable, his hands stuffed in his pockets.
No apology. No denial. Nothing.
And then, just as effortlessly, he had turned away.
"You'll be fine," he'd said before walking off, leaving you alone in the cold night.
The memory burns like an open wound, and yet, here you are, standing in your doorway, holding the truth he should have told you that night in the palm of your hands.
Your fingers tremble as you pull out the next note.
"I missed your birthday on purpose because I wanted to give you something that lasts longer than a text."
Your breath hitches.
He didn’t forget?
He chose not to text?
A bitter chuckle escapes your lips, but it fades just as quickly as the weight of his words settles in.
You reach into the jar again, pulling out another note, heart pounding against your ribs.
What you didn’t know was—
Jungkook had spent hours writing your birthday note.
He had sat at his desk that night, a dozen crumpled papers around him, rewriting the same message over and over, never satisfied. His hands had been shaky when he finally folded the note and slipped it into the jar.
Because words were permanent.
Because he was afraid.
Because deep down, he knew—if he told you how much you really meant to him, he wouldn’t be able to push you away anymore.
And that terrified him.
Your grip on the jar tightens as you pull out the next note.
"I was scared you’d see me in the library that day. And you did. I almost stopped writing. But I wanted to finish this for you."
Your breath catches in your throat as a memory rushes back—
The library.
That afternoon, when you had finally dragged yourself back to campus to study for your exams, you had seen him sitting at your usual table, scribbling something into his notebook.
At the time, you thought nothing of it—until you watched him tear out a tiny slip of paper and slip it into a jar.
A jar.
The very same one you now hold in your trembling hands.
Back then, you had turned away, assuming it was for Hana.
But it wasn’t.
It was for you.
Every note in this jar was for you.
Your vision blurs as you stare down at the tiny rolled-up messages still waiting to be read.
He had been writing to you all along.
By the time you reach the last few notes, your hands are trembling. Maybe you can’t even read them through the tears clouding your vision. The weight of all those misunderstandings—every ignored confession, every painful silence, every moment you thought he didn’t care—crashes down on you all at once.
Your breath is uneven as you unroll another slip of paper.
"You thought I didn’t care. But I did. I always did."
A sob escapes your lips, the ache in your chest unbearable.
You clutch the jar against you like it’s the most precious thing you’ve ever held—because it is. Because it’s him.
Every unspoken word. Every hidden feeling. Every truth he was too afraid to say aloud.
And now, you finally know.
Your breath catches as you reach the bottom of the jar, realizing the significance—there are exactly 100 notes, just like the box you once gave him.
With shaky hands, you pull out the 99th note.
“I was always bad at saying things out loud. So I wrote them instead. I just hope it’s not too late for you to read them.”
Your chest tightens.
You take a deep breath and reach for the last note, your fingers trembling. Slowly, you unroll it, heart pounding in your ears.
“Y/N, will you be my Valentine?”
The paper almost slips from your fingers as your vision blurs with fresh tears. A shaky laugh escapes your lips, somewhere between disbelief and overwhelming emotion.
After everything, after all the silence, the pain, the misunderstandings—he’s finally saying it.
And suddenly, all that matters is what you’ll do next.
The moment the words register, you don’t think.
The jar nearly slips from your grasp as you scramble to your feet, your heartbeat hammering louder than the thoughts racing through your mind. Jungkook. He couldn’t have gone far—he must have just dropped it off.
You fling the door open, barefoot, barely even stopping to grab your keys. The cold air bites at your skin, but you don’t care. You sprint down the stairs, nearly stumbling in your rush to get outside.
Your eyes dart wildly around the street, your breath coming out in frantic puffs. Where is he?
Then, you see him.
A few feet away, Jungkook is walking slowly, hands in his pockets, head low like he’s already bracing for disappointment. Like he’s already convinced you won’t come after him.
But you do.
“Jungkook!”
He freezes.
You don’t stop running until you’re right in front of him, breathless, clutching the jar close to your chest like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the moment.
His eyes widen when he sees you—messy hair, no shoes, trembling hands still gripping his gift like it’s the most important thing in the world.
You swallow hard, voice shaking. “Did you mean it?”
Jungkook looks at you for a long moment, the night stretching between you like a fragile thread.
Then, barely above a whisper—“Yeah.”
Your chest heaves, breath uneven, voice shaking as you clutch the jar tighter.
"You absolute—jerk." Your voice wavers, but the anger, the hurt, the sheer weight of everything he’s put you through spills out in every word. "You sat there, letting me think I meant nothing to you. And the whole time, you were—" You shake the jar, almost laughing in disbelief. "—writing these?"
Jungkook doesn’t answer. He just stands there, hands stuffed in his pockets, jaw tight, like he’s bracing himself for whatever you’re about to say next.
"You could’ve just told me, Jungkook. You could’ve just—" You pause, gripping the jar like it’s the only thing holding you together. "Why? Why lie to me?"
He exhales sharply, his voice rough, like he’s been holding it in for too long.
"Because I was a coward."
You blink. You weren’t expecting him to admit it so easily.
Jungkook runs a hand through his hair, looking away. "I thought pushing you away was the right thing to do. If I let you think I didn’t care, maybe you’d move on. Maybe you’d find someone who wouldn’t hurt you like I did."
Your throat tightens. Your fingers dig into the glass of the jar. "You were the one hurting me, Jungkook."
His eyes finally meet yours, and the weight of them almost knocks the air from your lungs. He looks wrecked.
"I know." His voice is barely above a whisper.
"Then why?" Your voice trembles, frustration bubbling over. "Why did you let me think I was chasing something that wasn’t even there?"
His jaw clenches, and for a second, he doesn’t answer. But then, his voice comes, low and raw.
"Because I was afraid you’d realize you deserved better."
Silence settles between you. A silence so thick it presses against your chest, making it hard to breathe.
You stare at him, your vision blurring. You should walk away. You should scream, cry—anything. But instead, you do the only thing you can think of.
You reach into the jar, grab a note at random, and shove it into his hand. "Read it."
Jungkook hesitates. Then, slowly, he unfolds the paper. His fingers tremble as he reads the words he once wrote.
"If I had been braver, I would’ve told you every single day how much you meant to me."
He sucks in a sharp breath, gripping the paper like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. His eyes flick back up to yours, burning with something you can’t quite name.
"Say it now," you whisper.
Jungkook's breath catches. His grip on the note tightens like it’s the only thing keeping him together.
You wait. Trembling, heart pounding, eyes locked onto his. Daring him to finally, finally say it.
He exhales shakily. His voice is low, rough—like it hurts to speak, but he does anyway.
"Y/N…"
You don’t look away. Don’t let him run from this.
His throat bobs. His hand curls into a fist at his side, then slowly unclenches.
"I love you."
A sharp inhale cuts through you. Even though you were waiting for it, the words hit like a tidal wave.
Jungkook shakes his head, almost laughing, but there’s no humor in it—just raw, aching regret.
"I loved you then. I love you now. And I don’t think there’s a single version of me that won’t love you."
Your vision blurs, the weight of everything pressing down on you all at once.
"Then why—" your voice cracks, "—why did you let me think you didn’t?"
Jungkook exhales sharply, raking a hand through his hair. His face twists with something close to pain.
"Because I was scared." His voice is barely above a whisper. "Scared that if I let myself have you, I’d ruin you. Scared that you’d wake up one day and realize I wasn’t worth it."
Your hands clench at your sides. "You don’t get to decide that for me."
He nods. Swallows hard. Takes a step closer.
"I know." His voice is softer now. "And if I could go back, I’d do it all differently. But I can’t. All I can do is stand here and tell you—"
Your lips crash into his, years of longing and heartbreak unraveling in a single, desperate moment. Your fingers fist into his jacket, pulling him closer, closing the distance like you’ve been waiting forever. Because you have.
Jungkook catches you. His arms wind tight around your waist, grounding you, anchoring you like he’s afraid you’ll slip away again. His grip is firm, unyielding, as if holding you is the only thing that makes sense anymore.
The kiss isn’t soft—it’s frantic, raw, filled with all the words you never got to say. It’s a confession, an apology, a plea. His lips move against yours with urgency, pouring everything into it, like he’s trying to make up for every second he spent pushing you away.
Jungkook tilts his head, deepening the kiss, and a shiver runs through you as his fingers tangle into your hair, tugging just enough to make your breath hitch. His other hand spreads against your back, pressing you impossibly closer, like even this isn’t enough, like he’d fuse you together if he could.
You melt. Every wall you built, every ounce of anger, every misunderstanding—crumbling, dissolving into the heat of him. The way he kisses you feels like an answer to a question you didn’t know you were asking. Like a promise.
When you finally pull apart, neither of you lets go.
Jungkook rests his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours, still uneven, still shaken. His hands remain on your waist like he’s afraid that the second he lets go, this will all disappear.
Your fingers stay curled in his shirt, gripping the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.
His voice is raw when he finally speaks, barely more than a whisper. “I don’t deserve you.”
You exhale, shaking your head, the weight of everything still pressing against your chest. Your voice is quiet, but steady. “Then spend every day proving that you do.”
Jungkook lets out a soft laugh—one that sounds broken and real, like he can’t believe he’s still allowed to have this moment with you.
“Deal,” he murmurs.
And then he kisses you again.
The door barely clicks shut before Jungkook is on you again, his hands framing your face as his lips crash into yours. There’s no hesitation now, no careful restraint—only heat, only the raw, aching need that’s been simmering between you for far too long.
His body presses against yours, pushing you back into the door, and you gasp against his lips. He swallows the sound, deepening the kiss, his tongue sweeping over yours with slow, deliberate intent. He tastes like something addictive—like want, like longing, like the kind of hunger that makes your stomach tighten and your knees go weak.
Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, needing him closer. His hands roam down, slipping under the hem of your shirt, fingertips skimming along your bare skin. His touch is scorching, leaving a trail of fire wherever he moves. He pauses, his breath ragged, lips barely brushing yours.
"Tell me to stop," he murmurs, voice rough, uneven.
You shake your head, tilting your chin up until your lips ghost over his again. "I don’t want you to stop."
The words break something inside him.
His mouth crashes onto yours again, hungrier this time, more desperate. His hands slide up your back, pulling you flush against him, and you can feel the hard lines of his body, the way his chest rises and falls unsteadily against yours. One hand grips your waist, fingers digging in just enough to make you shudder, while the other slides lower, gripping your thigh and hitching it up against his hip.
A quiet moan escapes you at the feeling, and he groans in response, pressing harder into you. His lips leave yours, trailing a path down your jaw, to the sensitive spot beneath your ear, where he lingers. His teeth scrape lightly against your skin before he soothes it with his tongue, sucking gently, enough to make you arch into him, enough to make your breath hitch.
"Jungkook—" His name leaves your lips in a breathless whisper, and he exhales sharply against your skin, like the sound is enough to undo him.
His grip tightens as he lifts you effortlessly, hands settling under your thighs. Instinct takes over, and your legs wrap around his waist as he carries you across the room. He lays you down on the bed with care, but there’s nothing careful about the way he follows you down, covering your body with his own.
He hovers above you, his breath warm against your lips, his dark eyes searching yours. His thumb brushes over your cheek, then lower, tracing the curve of your bottom lip, his touch unbearably light.
"You’re sure?" he whispers, voice thick with something heady.
Your only answer is a whispered "Yes," breathless, certain.
Something shifts in him at your words. His lips find yours again, but this time, he takes his time—exploring, savoring, as if he wants to memorize every inch of you. His kisses trail downward, along the curve of your neck, across your collarbone, his mouth mapping out a path of heat and sensation. His hands move with just as much purpose, slipping under fabric, pushing it aside, fingers tracing bare skin with an intimacy that makes your pulse stutter.
Every brush of his lips, every slow, deliberate touch sends waves of electricity through you, igniting something deep and primal. Clothes are discarded in slow, teasing movements, the heat between you building with every layer that falls away.
His lips ghost over your shoulder, down your arm, over the curve of your breasts, his breath hot and uneven. He watches you, eyes dark with something intense, something almost reverent, as his fingers trace slow, lazy patterns along your bare skin.
"You’re so beautiful," he murmurs, voice filled with something deeper than desire.
You reach for him, pulling him back up, needing his mouth on yours again, needing more. He obliges, kissing you fiercely, like he never wants to stop, like this moment has been waiting to happen for far too long.
His hands explore moving towards your heat, his touch reverent yet possessive, like he’s memorizing every inch of you, like he’s making up for all the lost time. You arch into him, breath hitching, hands gripping onto his shoulders as heat coils low in your stomach.
"Jungkook," you whisper, his name falling from your lips like a plea.
His breath catches, and he exhales shakily. "I’ve got you," he murmurs against your skin, voice barely above a whisper. "I’m right here."
And then there’s no more talking—only movement, only passion, only the feeling of finally, finally being exactly where you both belong.
The air is thick with warmth, bodies tangled beneath the sheets, hearts pounding in tandem as the last echoes of your shared breaths settle between you. The world outside might still be turning, but in this moment, it doesn’t exist. It’s just you and him, skin against skin, the weight of what just happened pressing down like the softest, heaviest thing in the world.
Your body is spent, muscles trembling faintly from the aftershocks, but you don’t move. You can’t.
Jungkook is still holding you. One arm draped lazily around your waist, the other tracing absentminded patterns against your back. His touch is slow, soothing, like he’s still trying to convince himself you’re real. Like if he lets go, you might slip away.
You stay like that for a while, chests rising and falling in sync, your head resting just above his heart. The rhythm of it is steady now, no longer racing like it had been just moments ago. Still, there’s a softness to it, an unspoken question lingering in the quiet space between you.
It’s you who finally breaks it.
“So…” You shift slightly, fingers trailing absentmindedly along his chest. “Hana knew about the jar?”
His hand stills for the briefest moment before he exhales a small, breathy laugh. His voice is thick with exhaustion, but there’s amusement in it too.
“She didn’t just know about it.” His fingers resume their slow, idle circles against your bare skin. “It was her idea.”
You blink. “…What?”
Jungkook hums in confirmation, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “Yeah. She was the one who told me to do it—to fill a jar with everything I wanted to say but couldn’t.” He pauses, then adds, “She also threatened to expose me if I didn’t.”
You scoff, though you can’t help the warmth blooming in your chest. “So let me get this straight… You couldn’t tell me how you felt, but you told Hana?”
Jungkook turns his head slightly to look at you, eyes still heavy with sleep, but the amusement in them is undeniable. “I didn’t tell her. She just… figured it out.”
Of course, she did.
You huff, feigning annoyance, but your fingers betray you, tracing soft, aimless patterns along his collarbone. “Still. She knew before I did.”
Jungkook grins, rolling onto his side to face you fully. One hand slips beneath the sheets, finding your waist, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you. His voice is low when he asks, “Are you jealous?”
You glare at him. “Shut up.”
His laughter vibrates against your skin, rich and warm, before he dips down to kiss you—slow and lingering, like he’s trying to pour everything he can’t say into it. When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the quiet.
Then, softer now, more serious, he murmurs, “Are you gonna answer me?”
Your brow furrows slightly. “Answer what?”
Jungkook leans over, reaching toward the nightstand where the jar still sits, its notes untouched—except for the last one.
“The question,” he says, retrieving the single unfolded slip of paper. He holds it between you, and even though you already know what it says, your heart still stutters when your eyes skim over the words again.
Y/N, will you be my Valentine?
Earlier, you had left it unanswered, too overwhelmed by everything that had come before it. But now, after everything—after confessions, after heartbreak, after finally finding each other again—there’s no hesitation.
You reach out, plucking the note from his fingers. Slowly, carefully, you fold it again, tucking it beneath your pillow like something precious, something worth keeping. Then, meeting his gaze, you whisper, “You never needed to ask.”
Jungkook exhales, slow and shaky, like something inside him has finally settled. His hand cups your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin like he’s memorizing the moment.
“Good,” he murmurs, voice thick with emotion. “Because I wasn’t planning on taking no for an answer.”
Your breath catches. Not because of his confidence—but because, deep down, you realize you’d never wanted to say no in the first place. Maybe you had tried to fight it. Maybe you had convinced yourself that the past had built too many walls between you. But now, lying here in the warmth of his arms, the truth settles into your bones like something that had been waiting for you to accept it all along.
It had always been him.
Your fingers tighten in the sheets as you search his gaze, looking for hesitation, for doubt—for something to make this feel less like a dream. But there’s nothing. Just him. Just you. Just this moment you both fought so hard to reach.
Jungkook watches you, waiting, always waiting, his hand still resting against your cheek as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear.
So you close the distance.
You kiss him slowly this time, letting it sink in. The warmth of his lips, the taste of him still lingering, the way he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years. When you pull away, his forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing the same air, hearts beating in time.
And then, with a quiet, knowing smile, you whisper, “Then don’t.”
Jungkook’s lips part slightly, his expression shifting—softening, melting—as if those two words had knocked down every last barrier between you. And maybe they had. Because before you can say anything else, he’s pulling you against him again, tucking you close, his hand slipping into yours beneath the sheets.
Neither of you speak for a long time after that. You don’t need to.
Outside, the world keeps turning, time moving forward just as it always does. But here, in the hush of your dorm room, wrapped up in him, it feels like the universe has paused just for you.
Not to make up for lost time.
But to remind you that some things—some people—were never really lost at all.
And maybe, just maybe, they never would be.
EPILOGUE : Years Later – Valentine’s Day
The door clicks shut behind you as you step into the apartment, kicking off your shoes with a tired sigh. The evening air still clings to your skin, carrying traces of laughter and the lingering warmth of Jungkook’s presence.
It had been another perfect night—one filled with inside jokes, stolen bites of each other’s food, and his usual exasperated attempts to get you to pick a restaurant instead of saying, “Anything’s fine.”
Jungkook is nowhere in sight, giving you the solitude you need. You don’t hesitate. Your steps are purposeful as you cross the room, crouching down beside the bed. With practiced ease, you reach under the frame, fingers brushing against the familiar surface of a small pink, heart-shaped box.
But this time, there’s something else.
Your fingers find the jar—the one that started it all.
You pull them both out carefully, as if they were a fragile secret, and place them on your lap.
Soft footsteps approach. Then, a familiar weight sinks onto the mattress beside you.
Jungkook’s voice is quieter now, fond. “Didn’t think I’d see those again.”
You smile, running a thumb over the worn edges of the box before glancing at him. “I don’t know what made me reach for them.”
He hums, gaze flickering between the objects in your hands. “Habit, maybe. Or fate.” Then, smirking, “You always did have a thing for digging up answers.”
Rolling your eyes, you pop the lid off the jar, fingers fishing out an old note. The paper is creased, the ink slightly faded, but you already know what it says.
"Y/N, will you be my Valentine?"
Jungkook watches you, expectant. “You never actually answered me, you know.”
You exhale a laugh, shaking your head. “Jungkook, we’re literally married.”
“And?” He leans in, teasing. “I’m just saying, a verbal confirmation wouldn’t hurt.”
You scoff but humor him anyway, fingers curling into his sweater as you whisper against his lips—
"Yes, Jungkook. I’ll be your Valentine."
His arms wrap around you, pulling you in. The jar sits forgotten on the floor, the pink box nestled beside it.
Once upon a time, you had pulled it out, searching for clarity. Looking for a sign.
You didn’t realize then—you never needed the answers inside.
"You are stuck in time, and Jungkook doesn't stop running from it until he eventually does, and you learn that grief doesn’t wait for death, that love isn't all that dignifying."
→ Pairing brother in law!Jungkook × widowed fem!reader
→ Warnings unrequited love :(, oc is in love with his older brother, early character death of the said older brother who is haunting the narrative, cute childhood sweethearts who are doomed by me, mentions of dealing with grief and acceptance, mention of cancer, a minor scene where harassment is attempted,emotionally troubled! oc, emotionally troubled and detached! jk, simp jk, pathetic man in love, he's so so lovesick, ceo! jk, protective jk, yearning, pining, loads of angst, fluff if you squint, breif yoongi mention, namjin yay!!,rich people party, mentions of anxiety,sexual tension,slow burnish,smut (omg everyone look away), kissing, unprotected sex (raw and deep, next question),dirty talking, oc is insecure,hickies,oral (f! Receiving), he cums in his pants,big dick jk, soft Dom Jungkook, fingering, penetrative sex, creampie, praise, cuddles if you squint again
→ Playlist Guilty as sin, control, killing me softly with his song, do I wanna know?
→ A/N the idea of this one shot came to me at 1 am when I was supposed to be studying for a test that probably my future depends upon and after much much complementing I'm finally posting it. To me, its very experimental and I was just trying to explore my writing style and writing things that I haven't before, like smut 🫠 so please please bear that in mind!! I hope you enjoy reading and if you did please comment!! It makes my whole day 🥰💕💕
P.S: cross posted on wattpad.
It is a believed fact that it takes three to four short months to fall in love.
For you, it took one summer. The summer spent watching him sketch galaxies in the dirt with a twig, summer spent learning the way his laughter sounded after stealing popsicles from the freezer, summer spent holding his hand as they made paper planes under the blazing sun. It was the kind of love that grew roots so deep, you couldn’t separate where he ended and you began.
That summer, you met Minho. The boy next door with a mind as wild as his curls and a heart so warm it seemed to shine blindingly bright. He showed you how to climb trees, told stories he'd crafted all by himself, convincing you that the universe could be held in the palm of your hand. He shared his world with you, and you fell in love with it.
You kissed his cheek on the porch of your house one late July evening, bold and brimming with the kind of confidence only childhood summers could bring. “Now you’re gonna have to marry me, Min Min,” you teased, hands behind your back, your toes curling against the wooden floorboards.
He blushed, a shade of red that rivaled the setting sun, but his grin mirrored yours.
The porch of your house was a witness to many things. Your first steps, held your first scraped knees, your first dog and Minho's new brother; your new friend.
A boy of your age, younger than Minho had appeared from right behind him, his hands clutching onto Minho's flannel, his watchful eyes going everywhere all at once. The kind of boy who never spoke unless he had to, the kind who was more familiar with loss than comfort, lingering on the edges of things, unsure if he belonged.
Jungkook.
Now, Jeon Jungkook.
You and his brother had taken it upon themselves to bring him into your fold, turning your duo into a trio. With time, he laughed with you both, trusted you both, became one of you both.
The three of you were inseparable— in the backyard of your house, in elementary school, in high school. How could you not be? You had tied the promise in the form of handmade friendship bracelets around the wrist of both boys.
Even though what you wanted with minho was far from friendship. A bold dreamer, you always have been. But not so much when you turned sixteen. Sixteen; what a awkward age.
An age of overthinking haircuts, dreams, and the lives your peers are gonna live all at once. Visits to the school councilor are doubled. Relationships happen; Friends part.
But you only grew closer with Jungkook. He didn’t seemed interested in making a move on the timid, short haired girl who passed him notes in chemistry class, neither did he talk much about the future. When you asked him what he wanted to do, he’d shrug and say something like, “Whatever makes sense at the time.” He wasn’t aimless, exactly—just grounded in a way that made you think he didn’t feel the need to plan everything out.
Minho, though, was spiraling.
He now spent more time with the councilor that he spent with you both. Had this bitter look on his face every morning you saw him on the bus stop that will have you sharing a knowing look with Jungkook—Minho had been having a lot of fights with his dad, had been overthinking a lot more because the world seemed so much bigger than he had imagined.
Maybe for the eldest son and heir to a family that ran a company as old as the town itself, the world really was big. But to you, he was just a hopeful boy with all the colors in his eyes. The colors that you loved. The colors that didn't belong in a office, crunching numbers.
Your heart ached for him, but you didn’t know what to say. At sixteen, nobody has the answers.
Seventeen is a different story. It's a starlight dream. It's you acing the college entrance test. It's Minho surfacing back. It's Minho kissing you on that very same porch, promising, “One day, we’ll have our own porch, and I’ll kiss you there every day.”
And he was one to keep his promises.
You married him at twenty-five, in crisp autumn. To your family and friends, it was "About time." To you, it was nothing short of a dream as you walked to promise forever to the man you love, a vision in white. It was nothing big, just a dreamy intimate affair with soft twinkling string lights. Something you both agreed on. Because you were content with what you had, overjoyed actually after picking out a quite cozy apartment for the both of you and landing a job as a humanities professor in a university that wasn't too far from the said apartment. Minho was too and while things weren't the same with his father now, he did what he loved. Ever the artist at heart.
It was like everything you ever wrote in your middle school diary, everything you wished for was now laid under your feet like a carpet unfolding.
You were given a good time before it started pulling away from your feet.
At first, it was subtle. A missed dinner here, a canceled hangout there. Then he told you both he’d taken up an opportunity abroad to manage the family business, something Minho had no interest in, just on the night of your wedding after he had fulfilled his role of the groom's best man, watched you walk down the aisle.
You hadn’t seen the decision coming—not that night, not like this—but you couldn’t deny it either. Jungkook had seemed restless here, especially after finishing college.Conversations with him in those days had been brief, distracted, his eyes darting to the distance even as he smiled at you. It felt as you were trying to talk to the Jungkook who had appeared on your porch the first time. He hadn’t asked for understanding, and you hadn’t known how to offer it. His reasons were vague, more like placeholders for something unsaid. And so he left, quietly, with little fanfare, and though Minho seemed sad to see him go, you could tell he understood.
“It’s good for him,” Minho had said. “He deserves something for himself.”
Relationship happened; Friends parted.
You weren't sure if you understood. While you agreed with Minho, you couldn’t help but feel the loss of a friend now that his calls became less frequent until they stopped altogether. One day, he was simply gone, leaving behind only the memory of the boy who had once trusted you with his rare, precious smiles.
"You’d laugh if you saw me right now. I tried to fix the leaky sink in the kitchen, and now the entire floor is flooded. Minho’s being no help—just standing there laughing."
"Hey, stranger. Our anniversary is next weekend. We’re just doing a small dinner. You should come. Seriously, koo, don’t make me guilt-trip you."
"Saved you a slice of cake, but Minho ate it. You’d better show up next year, or I’ll stop saving you anything."
"Hey, Koo. Just checking in. Hope you're healthy and happy. Would love to hear from you"
You'd text him timely, in hopes that he still knows how to use a phone. But apparently, not.
Still, you had Minho. Your husband, your best friend.
Until you didn't.
Until the carpet was at last, snatched right down from your feet.
The diagnosis came in the spring. It started with a faint weakness in his voice. A shortness of breath he dismissed with a wave of his hand. “Just tired,” he’d say, smiling that same easy smile. But tired turned into tests. Tests turned into results. And results turned into a diagnosis that was oh so cruel.
Leukemia. Early stages. Aggressive.
The months that followed were a blur of hospital visits, treatments, and quiet nights where you held him as he cried. You tried to be strong, for him, for both of you. Told him what the doctor in the sterile white office will tell you. "They've caught it early so we're not at a great risk here." You'd reassure him. "You have yet to get away from me, min min." You'd try making him laugh but he had always been better at that.
Now, suddenly he wasn't. The next two years, your life was just the slow, agonizing process of watching the man you loved fade away, losing every bit of his lively soul to the cancer, holding his hand when he was too weak to hold yours back.
Perhaps it wasn't only Minho who was chipping away. It was you too.
You turned into the woman who knew exactly how to track medication schedules, who could list every side effect of his treatment in order of severity, who spoke with doctors as if reciting a memorized script. You learned how to bite back the frustration when he snapped at you because he was in pain, and how to smile when all you wanted was to scream at the unfairness of it all.
You started to measure time not in days or months but in cycles of chemotherapy, in percentages of remission and relapse. Life was divided into hours spent in sterile hospital rooms, waiting for results that were never as hopeful as you needed them to be, and hours spent at home trying to pretend those results didn’t exist.
You had stopped dreaming. And minho had stopped painting.
Grief doesn’t wait for death— or so you've realized as you often found yourself grieving the life you had built together, the one you knew would never be the same. You grieved the sound of his laugh, which became quieter as the months passed. You grieved the way he used to tease you about your love for terrible reality shows, You grieved the mornings spent tangled together, talking about everything and nothing.
By the time the end came, you had already lost so much of him that you thought you might be prepared.
You weren’t.
And then he was gone.
With an, "I'm sorry. I love you." He was gone.
The house was too quiet without him, the days too long. You withdrew, not just from the world but from yourself, letting grief shape the edges of your existence.
The world moved on, even if you didn’t. They tell you how long it takes to fall in love but not how long it takes to get over it.
2 years, 240 days. And you're still counting.
Time passed in pieces—fractured and unrelenting.
Your family, Minho’s family, even well-meaning friends—none of them knew what to do with the mess you’d become, so they did what people often did. They tried to fix it. To fix you.
Blind dates were their answer, little nudges toward what they called healing. The word had been said so many times it began to lose its meaning. Healing. As if it were something—a destination you could stumble upon.
You didn’t have the energy to argue anymore, so you let them dress you up, hand you phone numbers, and convince you that this—whatever this was—was what you needed.
But your heart wasn’t in it.
Because as the man sat in front of you in the dimly lit bar continued to talk about how his ex couldn't handle his success, the trials of being a man with ambition, you really couldn't even bother to pretend you were interested. He was nice enough—tall, well dressed (consdering the dingy bar) with a confident smile but your thoughts kept drifting, as they often did.
2 years, 240 days since Minho had died.
2 years, 240 days of waking up alone in your bed, his side untouched.
2 years, 240 days of trying to find your way back to the woman you used to be.
“Hey,” the man interrupted your thoughts, leaning forward with an eager grin. “I feel like I’m talking too much. Tell me about yourself. What do you do for fun?”
You forced a smile, your stomach twisting. “I paint. It’s... therapeutic.”
“That’s nice,” he said, reaching across the table to touch your hand. You pulled back instinctively, your stool scraping against the floor. His brows furrowed.
“Sorry,” you muttered. “I just—”
“You don’t need to apologize,” he said, but his tone was tighter now. He leaned back, shrugging as if trying to dismiss the moment. “You know, you should loosen up a little. You’ll never find anyone if you keep acting like you’re still married.”
The words hit you like a slap, your chest tightening as you struggled to process the audacity of his statement. “Excuse me?”
“I’m just saying,” he continued, ignoring the warning in your tone, “you should give people a chance. I mean, you’re here, right?” He smirked and stood, coming around the table. “Let me take you home. We can—”
“Stop,” you said sharply, rising to your feet.
But he didn’t listen. His hand reached for your arm, his grip firm.
Then, just as suddenly as he’d grabbed you, he was gone.
The man stumbled backward, a hand jerking him by the collar. The force was so swift, so unexpected, that it took you a moment to register what had happened.
And then you saw him.
“..Jungkook?” The name caught in your throat as you turned.
You took in the man standing before you, taller and broader than you remembered, the years etched into the sharp lines of his jaw and the set of his shoulders. His dark eyes were fixed on the man who had dared to touch you, glinting coldly.
His voice was low, dangerous. “She said stop. I suggest you listen.”
For a moment, the world tilted.
You weren’t in a dingy bar anymore.
You were standing at the edge of a memory—the first time you’d ever seen Jungkook, the quiet boy who clung to Minho’s shadow.
And the last.
The last time you’d seen him, a looming figure in an ocean of black suits. A barely recognizable shadow among the mourners at your husband's funeral.
Now, standing before you, he was real, tangible—and so was the flood of emotions crashing over you.
It was so loud, you could barely hear as the the man stammered out an excuse, something about a misunderstanding.
“Leave.” Jungkook snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut and bring you back to the moment.
The man hesitated, his mouth opening as though he wanted to argue, but one glance at Jungkook’s expression and he decided against it. Without another word, he turned and stalked out, muttering something under his breath that neither of you caught.
Silence followed.
Only then did you felt his gaze on you. His presence was larger than life, and you were suddenly hyper-aware of how much had changed. How much he had changed. You hadn’t registered that at the funeral. Now, you didn't know what to say, you could hardly manage to look at him. While he wasn't Minho's real brother, didn't share any resemblance with him, it still hurt you, sucked you back into those times when it was the three of you, when it wasn't.
He too didn't reply right away, his gaze searching your face, as though he was also trying to piece together the version of you he remembered with the one standing before him now. When it landed on the arm you were clutching, the arm that dipshit had grabbed, you saw his eyes glint again.
"Did he hurt you?" It sounded more like a demand rather than a question but you couldn't even deciper the words, too focused on how his boyish tone had turned sharper, harder.
"W-What?" You fumble out like a fool.
"Did he hurt you, y/n?" This time, you heard him.
Letting your hand fall, embarrassed, you shook your head, finally managing to utter something sensible out. “No—yeah. I’m fine.”
He glanced back at the door that man had fled from before looking back at you. Finally, he exhaled, his voice low and quiet.
“You weren’t answering your phone.”
You blinked. “My phone?” You don't remember getting a call from anyone but then you realize your battery had died down as you looked down to see your dead device laying flat. "Oh. I didn't realis—"
“Mom said you’d been gone a while. Told me where you were.” He interrupted. There was an edge to his voice now, faint but undeniable.
You feel more embarrassed now that you know it's because of your mother in law's anxious nature that he is here. Your fingers brushed against the strap of your purse, desperate for something to do, something to hold onto as he speaks again. "Are you ready to leave?"
“I’m fine,” you said quickly, the words tumbling out before you could think them through. “I can get a cab.”
His brows furrowed, just slightly, and you noticed for the first time the faint shadows beneath his eyes, the hint of weariness in his expression. “It’s late,” he said simply.
"So?”
“So,” he echoed, his tone calm but unyielding, “I’ll take you.”
You hesitated, your pride and your exhaustion warring within you. Finally, you exhaled out in defeat, reaching for your coat. It's just a thirty minute ride. You reassured yourself. It'll be fine.
The cool night air wrapped around you and so did your coat as you stepped outside, and the streetlights cast long shadows that flickered as you walked toward his car. He opened the passenger door for you, his movements deliberate, and waited for you to slide in before closing it softly behind you.
The drive started in silence.
It wasn’t the silence of old friends, the kind that felt easy and safe. This was different—fraught, taut, like a thread stretched too tight.
You stole a glance at him as he started the engine, too aware of the small space you were packed in with him.
“I didn’t know you were back,” you said finally, your statement sounding more accusatory that you or he would have liked.
“Just for a little while,” he replied, his tone ofcourse, unfazed. “Business.”
Buisness. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes at the word. If someone could look like that word, you thought, it'd be the man in the fine tailored suit with eyes fixed on the road ahead and a rolex that didn't look any more cheaper than the car he was driving and you wondered.
Wondered if the lines of his palms—the callouses from late-night basketball games, the way they had felt solid and familiar when he held yours to steady you on the wobbly bike Minho had convinced you to ride—had changed too.
Had they turned forigen, unyielding? Had time eroded their familiarity?
When the car slowed, you glanced out the window, expecting to see the acquinated sight of your apartment building. But instead, the streetlights gave way to a quieter, darker road. You frowned, turning to him.
“This isn’t the way to my place.”
“I know,” he said simply, not bothering to elaborate. "You're coming with me."
You felt your chest tighten, your pulse quickening as unease prickled at the back of your neck. “Jungkook,” you started, the word heavy with protest.
"Y/N." He ends, sparing you a glance that has you sinking back into your seat, arms folded across your chest like a petulant child that you could swear made his lips twitch at the corner, you could swear you saw your old friend who had grown a sassy tounge at the age of fourteen that'd earn smacks at the head from his older brother for a fleeting cruel second there. But that was it. It was gone as fast as it had appeared, summoning the return of the silence that felt like its own living thing.
The house was still the same.
That was the first thing you noticed as the car slowed down in front of the building that loomed at the end of the road like a memory waiting to consume you.
The overhead lights still flickered faintly, casting shadows across the steps where you and Minho had once sat, daring each other to stay outside until the stars disappeared. Even the smell was the same—faintly woody, with the comforting hint of whatever candle Jungkook’s mom always lit in the hallway.
You hesitated in the doorway, the memories rushing in too fast, too loud. It's not like you haven't been here in ages but since the year you celebrated your first marriage anniversary with Minho here, it felt like you have lived a thousand lives.
Lives that haunted you still, made you randomly pause in the grocery aisle and now before this house until you felt Jungkook’s presence press behind you as if silently urging you on.
Clearing your throat, you slipped out of your heels that have been as much as pain as the man you had been on a date with. The floor creaked softly beneath your feet as you stepped inside, the sound jarring. The same hardwood floors, polished to a faint sheen. The same floral wallpaper lining the hallway. The same photo frames arranged along the wall—a collection of childhoods captured and frozen in time.
But as you glanced toward the corner of the living room where the three of you used to pile up pillows and blankets for makeshift forts. The corner was bare now, save for an old armchair, but in your mind, you saw it vividly: Minho’s determined grin as he shuffled the pillows, Jungkook, always following the lead but never quite competing for it. You would snuggle a pillow to your lap, nestled between the two brothers, peeking from behind your fingers and giggling at the the way Minho’s face would light up in triumph when he won another round of rock-paper-scissors.
A type of smugness that came from knowing he’d get to flick Jungkook’s forehead next. But your smile would fade as soon as you would realize that it's your turn next. “Wait, wait!” you’d plead, wide-eyed, deploying the best puppy-dog look you could muster. It was the same look that had, on occasion, earned you extra TV time with your dad. Jungkook would glance at you and chuckle. Relent like your father would and sheild your forehead with his palm that'd have Minho pouting. "Hey! That's not how you do it!"
"Y/N?" A well recognized voice pulled you back to the where you were supposed to be, back from the fort of pillows and blankets.
You turned around and instantly found yourself wrapped up in a tight hug. You managed a small smile, letting your arms wrap around the warm frame of your mother in law, the scent of her jasmine oil and apprehensive energy pulling you in. "Mom." You greeted back.
Mrs Jeon hadn't always been this.. overbearing. Though after the passing of your husband, she had teamed up with your mother and been on a determined mission to make sure you are well and on a road to healing.
The next few minutes, she did what she had been doing best—fussed over you, asking how you’d been, if you’d eaten, if you were warm enough. In that time being, Jungkook had resigned to wherever his room was.
You planned to do the same, especially now that you could see on her face how she is on the brink of asking about the disaster tonight. You showed some obvious sign of weariness, in hopes she'd let it go for the night and tell you where you're supposed to go to bed for.
"Third on the left, my dear. And I'm gonna need you to stay for breakfast, okay?" You wondered if stubbornness was a running streak in this family.
Hours later, sleep had yet to come.
You lay awake, staring at the ceiling, counting the faint grooves in the plaster as if they could somehow lull you into rest. The trick didn't work. It hadn’t worked in your own apartment either—the one you and Minho had picked out together, picked the colors of the walls together, and argued over where the bookshelf should be. Yet, it was still your space. You could control how you faced the memories there, pacing them, deciding when and how to confront them.
There, at least, you’d managed four or five hours of sleep on a good night. Here? In this house that held so much of him, so much of them, you weren’t sure you’d manage even one.
The room you were led to was neat and welcoming, the kind of space that had been carefully prepared for guests. But there was no comfort to be found in the knowledge that two doors down lay Minho’s childhood room, untouched, a shrine to a boy who grew up into the man you loved and lost.
At some point, you gave up.
Sliding out of bed, you wrapped your arms around yourself as you padded quietly downstairs. The house was silent as you made your way downstairs, the faint hum of the refrigerator the only sound, the indistinct glow from the kitchen spilling into the dimness. You didn’t expect to find anyone there, but as you rounded the corner, your steps faltered.
Jungkook stood by the counter, a glass of amber liquid in his hand, his other resting on the marble surface. His jacket was gone, abandoned somewhere, leaving him in his dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
Tattoos.
They sprawled across his skin, intricate designs etched into muscle and sinew, that you didn't think you'd ever see on him.
Perhaps you thought wrong. Perhaps you never knew. Never knew him.
He glanced up, his dark eyes meeting yours that looked just as caught off guard as yours did. For a moment, you didn't feel comfortable moving from your spot until he eventually spoke.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, his voice quiet.
You shook your head, stepping into the kitchen. “Needed some water.” You said and opened a cabinet, finding the glasses exactly where you remembered, and filled one with water.
Behind you, Jungkook leaned against the counter, his presence impossible to ignore. Funny, how he always preferred to blend in the background as a child, now his mere cologne—earthy and warm—demanded attention, filled the room before he had even entered.
“Do you… do you drink often now?” you asked hesitantly, glancing over your shoulder, at the way his fingers curled around the glass, the tattoos on his hand shifting as he tilted it.
“Sometimes.” he said, his tone vague.
If things were anything like before between you two or anything like before at all, maybe you'd have pushed further, asked him if this was growing to be a unhealthy habit.
Now, it didn’t seem right when there was an ocean between you—a chasm of time. Felt intrusive. And you know it would only sound hypocritical from your mouth—talking about unhealthy mechanisms. Hah.
You ended up only nodding and put the washed glass back so you could go back to counting the grooves in the plaster. Resume your restless attempt at sleep.
But Jungkook spoke again.
"How long have you been going on.." He started suddenly, setting his glass down with a quiet clink. His voice was calm, but the muscle in his jaw twitched as he spoke. "These dates?"
You blinked at him, taken aback by the question. "Uh—for a while now, I guess?"
“Are you willing, or are they forcing you?”
The question, the way he asked it—sharp, direct—left you off balance. So did the way he was looking at you now, his eyes no longer holding the casualty as they once did when he had the glass of alcohol in his hand.
“I—” You faltered. “They just want to help. They think it’s time.”
“And what do you want?”
To go back to your room. To ask him what did it even matter to him, after all this time.
But what came out was forthright honesty. “I don’t know,” you admitted, “I don’t know what I want anymore.”
He stepped closer, his feet padding softly against the kitchen floor—a contrast to his rigid frame that now towered just close enough. Close enough to see how his chest rose and fell with every breath. Close enough to see how his eyes lingered on you, like he was trying to unravel something he didn’t understand.
“You don’t have to do anything for them or anyone,” he said, his voice soft but no less rough. “Not if you’re not ready.”
You opened your mouth to respond, to deflect, to do something, but his gaze held you in place, tracing down from the dark circles that weighted your eyes to your parted lips. All you could feel was his gaze burning on you and hear your own pulse in your ears.
“Jungkook…” His name escaped your lips in a whisper, barely audible.
He lingered for a beat longer, his eyes searching yours, then he stepped back, his jaw just as tight. “Get some rest.” He clipped out before he turned and walked away, leaving you alone again.
You didn't got any sleep that night.
8:00'o clock. The time's a etched number in your brain ever since you started your job at the university.
It's a routine that needs no alarm clock. It's a number you keep waiting for as you blink at the time passing. And you're more than eager when the morning comes softly along with smaller needle stopping at 8, sunlight slipping through the curtains in streaks too gentle to match the weight in your chest.
With Minho, you were the one to wake up first but here you find that the house was awake before you.
The smell of freshly brewed coffee drifted through the air, mingling with the faint sound of voices coming from the dining room. Breakfast was warm and lively, much like your mother in law. She greeted you with a brightness that almost made you feel guilty for your somber disposition.
“Good morning!” she said with a smile that could have been plucked from a painting. Reaching for a plate of toast, setting it down in front of the empty seat beside her.
“Good morning.” you murmured, sliding into a chair.
Across the table, your father in law sat at his usual spot, his attention fixed on his phone, only looking up to give you a nod of acknowledgment. You had never fully understood him, not as Minho’s father, not as a man.
Perhaps, It had always been because of the sore spot between him and your husband, the way his father disapproved of his wishes—choosing art over business, passion over practicality. You remembered the arguments you thought would never hear after the age of sixteen, the way Minho would come home, his face tight with frustration. “He doesn’t get it,” he’d say. “He never will.” You saw the way it wore on him, the way he carried the weight of his father’s disapproval like it was stitched into his very skin.
Even now, as you sat across from him, you wondered if he ever regretted it—if he ever wished he had spoken softer, loved louder. But his face was as impassive as ever, his thoughts a mystery.
“Jungkook left early this morning,” his mother said, breaking the silence. “Something about a meeting downtown.”
You nodded, relief washing over you in a way that felt almost shameful. You hadn’t realized how much you were dreading seeing him until you knew you wouldn’t have to.
“Busy as always,” you said lightly, reaching for your coffee.
The conversation drifted into familiar topics—neighbors, extended family, stories you half-listened to with polite nods. The table felt both too full and too empty, the gazes of all the people that sat there never straying to the right one in the left corner, just right beside yours.
The older woman turned to you, her tone bright with enthusiasm.
“There’s a party this weekend,” she said, her smile widening. “Just a small gathering with some friends and business partners. It would be lovely if you came with us.”
The suggestion made you squirm uncomfortably in your chair. “Oh, I don’t think—”
“It’ll be good for you,” she interrupted gently, her gaze soft but insistent. “Everyone would love to see you.”
You hesitated, the thought of mingling with people, of putting on a brave face for strangers already making you want to go back to bed. “I’m not sure I’d be good company,” You glanced towards your father in law, half-hoping he might say something to discourage the idea, but he couldn't be any less bothered.
“Nonsense!” she pressed. “You don’t even have to stay long. But it would mean so much to us.”
There was no malice in her persistence, no attempt to guilt you, just a genuine desire to include you in their lives. You couldn’t bear to disappoint her.
“Okay,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll come.”
Her face lit up with a smile. “Wonderful. Jungkook will pick you up and bring you there. That way, you don’t have to worry about driving.”
You froze, cup midway to your mouth. "There's no need for that, mom."
"Oh hush." she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “He’ll be coming from the office, so it’s no trouble.”
You nodded slowly, your appetite not too great or you just wanted to get out of here.
8'30. You glanced at the rose gold wrist watch, your first anniversary gift. Your first class is due in an hour, the perfect excuse wrapped around your wrist which you use to excuse yourself from the suffocating walls that always feel like they are closing in on you.
You have come to prefer the morning buzz of the university more—the hum of young adults chatting in the hallways, the scrape of chairs against tiled floors.It was a rhythm you found comforting, predictable in its own way. Here, you were just a professor, the one who explained history and philosophy with hands that only shook sometimes.
The teenage year you would have thought predictable as boring but you— a woman gone through a dubious sets of events found a fellow feeling in it.
Found the task of grading thesis, making power point presentation better than you would have ever imagined.
But Gods, your students need to realize that they can't dump about their toxic ex in every essay. A woman can only take so much.
You were sorting through the said papers in your office when the door creaked open, and a woman peeked her head in, the light from the outside catching in her curly locks.
“You busy?” she asked, her voice light and familiar.
You looked up to see Mira, the economics professor and one of your closest colleagues, walking toward you with her usual warm smile. Mira was more than just a coworker though—being practically family, the wife of Minho’s dark haired cousin who didn’t talk much in family gatherings, and over the years, she had become a friend you could rely on and share lunch with.
“Not for you,” you said, smiling as you waved her in.
She dropped into the chair across from you, setting her bag on the floor. “You look like you didn’t sleep a wink.”
Was it that obvious?
“I didn’t,” you admitted, sighing softly. “I stayed at the Jeons’ last night.”
Her eyebrows rose, but there was something in her eyes—a softness, an understanding—that made you look away for a second. “How’d that go?”
You hesitated, picking at the edge of a notebook on your desk. “It was… fine.”
“Just fine?”
“Jungkook’s back,” you said, and her eyes widened slightly, the topic seeming to catch her attention.
“Really? I didn’t know he was in town.”
“Neither did I, until yesterday.” You shrugged, leaning back in your chair. “Just for a while, though. Business stuff, y'know?”
Mira tilted her head, a small, knowing smile tugging at her lips. “And how’s that going?”
You frowned, caught off guard by the question. “What do you mean?”
She shrugged, but her eyes stayed on you, curious. “I mean, it’s been years, hasn’t it?"
“Yeah,” you said slowly. "It's fine, I suppose. We didn't talk much."
“Hmm.” Mira hummed thoughtfully as if tasting the question she was gonna ask on her tounge. “Are you okay with him being back?”
Were you okay with him behind back? Okay with him stepping in your vicinity after years of acting like you were not even family, let alone a friend?
“I don’t know,” you admitted finally. “It’s strange seeing him again after all this time. But he’s been… kind. Quiet, mostly.”
Mira didn’t press further, but there was something in her expression that made you uneasy, as if she knew something you didn’t.
You cleared your throat, desperate to change the subject. “There’s a party this weekend. His mom invited me. Please tell me you’re going.”
Mira winced, her smile apologetic. “Date night with the husband. Non-negotiable.”
"Oh." You tried not to show the dejection on your face but it was there. "Lucky you."
She studied you for a moment, her expression gentle. “Are you okay with going?”
“I don’t know,” you admitted. “I feel like I have to.”
“You don’t have to do anything for them. Not if you’re not ready.”
If only he understood how much easier it was to do things for others than to face yourself.
“Y/N…” Her voice softened, and for a moment, she looked like she wanted to say more. Instead, she reached out and squeezed your hand. “You’ll be fine. And if you’re not, you can text me. I’ll make up some excuse to get you out of there.”
You smiled, grateful for her before bidding bye to her for her next class and focusing back on the pending work spread across your desk while simultaneously going through your closet in your mind.
Minho had always said red made the brown of your eyes excel more.
And you have really tried to believe it, looking at yourself from above your shoulder, from the side of your arm in the mirror but perhaps it's not only this red, off shoulder dress that's not doing your eyes justice. It's every color you have once known, once loved.
It's like, it's you that's not doing them justice.
As you stared into the mirror, your eyes flitting from one detail to the next—the slightly uneven tuck of fabric, the exposed skin of your collarbone—it felt wrong.
The little things were missing—his hands fixing the clasp of your necklace, his voice telling you not to overthink it, that you looked beautiful. That it didn’t matter what you wore, because it was you who wore it.
But he wasn’t here.
With a sigh, you adjusted the necklace you had chosen yourself, a simple silver chain that rested delicately against your collarbone. The mirror wasn’t forgiving, but you looked anyway, searching for something familiar in your own reflection. You smoothed your hands over the fabric, told yourself this was just another party, and dodged the doubts of this being a mistake.
The knock at your door came too soon, sharp and punctual, like everything Jungkook had become.
You felt your stomach clench, nerves twisting with something else you couldn’t name. Smoothing your dress one last time, you crossed the small space of your apartment, pausing just before the door.
When you opened it, Jungkook was standing right before you.
He had stood on the edge of cliffs where oceans met skies too, in countless countries at that, walked through streets that droned with history. Scrawled through the wonders of the world—the kind that made poets immortalize them in verse—but nothing—nothing—would ever measure up to this.
To you.
You, standing in the doorway, framed by the soft glow of the hall light, your hair falling in waves that he had memorized long ago.
His chest tightened, the memory of another doorway bleeding into the moment as gaily as if it had just happened. He had been in the room meant for waiting, where your parents had sat moments before, your mother sniffling into a tissue, your father pacing in his polished shoes. Now it had been his turn.
The thought alone of being the second person to see you before you walked away from him for good had made his tie that he had been trying to get the hang off felt too stressed around his neck, his palms clammy despite the air conditioning. He rubbed them on his pants, glancing at the small clock on the mantle every few seconds. The minutes dragged, each one seemed longer than the other.
What would you look like?
The thought ran circles in his mind, only for a creak of the door to startle him back.
Footsteps had echoed in the quiet, minimizing the distance until he could practically feel the nervous energy of a bride bounce against his. "Okay. You can turn around now." He had heard you speak, had seen the skittish smile on your face before he even turned around.
And when he did, he felt as if the air had been sucked out of the room.
The dress hugged you like it had been designed with only you in mind, its soft fabric flowing as if in defiance of gravity. Your veil cascaded behind you, catching the light, and your smile was small, almost shy, as you looked up at him, waiting for his reaction.
“Well?” you prompted, turning slightly, your hands brushing the fabric at your sides. “What do you think?”
What did he think? He thought the universe was wicked for allowing him to witness this and still expect him to let you go.
He had swallowed hard, forcing his voice to steady when he finally said, “You look—” His tongue had faltered over every adjective that came to mind. Beautiful wasn’t enough. Breathtaking felt like a cliché. “Perfect.”
You—Beautiful, Devastatingly, so.
You—who weren’t his to look at this way.
He feels his breath catch, his hands clenching at his sides to keep himself from reaching for you.
Because while that version of you had been a dream, this version—worn, weathered, but still so unmistakably you—was real. And the reality of you had always been what he wanted most.
Fuck. He shouldn’t be here.
He shouldn’t have agreed to pick you up, shouldn’t have stepped into this space, should have kept the distance he had spent years bridging.
But he has always found himself hopeless and running back to wherever you were concerned, hopeless in a way that had him studying for a test he didn’t even have to keep you company or show up.. here. Content to be near you in whatever capacity he could. He told himself it was enough. That it would be enough to watch you from the sidelines, to sit across from you at family dinners.
It wasn’t.
Because Jungkook wasn't a virtuous man. He never had been.
Virtue belonged to his brother—the one who could weave dreams out of thin air, who saw the world in colors Jungkook had never learned to name. His brother—Minho—who had been the light, the warmth that people, he gravitated toward. He had admired Minho, even envied him, resented him in ways he never admitted aloud and kept it in shadows.
When Minho died, the shadow became a man. And that man had spent years running.
Running into work, into unfamiliar cities, into the kind of purpose that left no room for thought. No room for the times when everything was right, when he tasted family and friendship for the first time ever, no room for the last time he tasted it when you walked down the aisle to his brother looking at him like he was the sun and how it burned, how he had burned with nails biting into his palms.
And only men with no integrity burn. Men who are cowards, restless, afraid of thier own greed try to run, in hopes that the distance would save them.
But distance didn’t save men like Jungkook.
Because here he was again, standing before you, the fire still smoldering.
“Hi,” you said softly, your voice pulling him back, creating a doubt in his belief.
“Hi,” he replied, his own tounge feeling heavy in his mouth.
“You’re early,” you said, your tone carefully light.
He cleared his throat, his hands slipping into the pockets of his slacks in an attempt to keep them to themselves. “Traffic was lighter than I expected. Are you ready to leave?"
You nodded and he stepped back, revealing his sleek Mercedes benz parked just right in front. He let you walk before him, watching how your movements were hesitant, as if the ground beneath your feet wasn’t entirely steady. He wanted to ask you if you were okay. He wanted to tell you it was okay if you weren't.
He settled for opening the car door for you.
“Thanks for this,” you said, your gaze fixed on the passing streetlights. “I know it’s probably the last thing you want to do.”
His grip tightened against the leather of the steering wheel with a force that made his knuckles ache. There was a rancorous way that you spoke to him, carefully restrained, that he couldn't even blame you for.
"It's not." He gritted out. "It's not a problem."
He had earned every inch of this gap between you, had spent years building it brick by brick, mile by mile. He's all to blame for. For carving the space between you with every ignored call, every excuse he made to avoid family dinners where you’d inevitably be.
For the leaving the wreckage in his wake—yours, his, theirs.
It wasn’t fair to hate the consequences of his own choices.
But hell, if he didn't outright loathed feeling like he was staring at a wall of frosted glass when he looked at you—where he could see the outline of you, but the details were blurred, distant. Like he had lost the privilge of knowing you from one glance, lost the privilge of having you speak up to him whenever you wanted, call him out, intoxicate him with your laughter that lightened up a room he wasn't even aware was dark. Found it fucking unbearable.
So much that he felt relief washing over him when the venue of the gathering came in view. A grand mansion, framed by manicured gardens and sprawling oaks that seemed to whisper old secrets to one another. It had a timeless elegance that made you wonder how many lives it had seen pass through its doors.
Small gathering, she said. You scoffed internally at rich people and their definition of small.
“Nice place,” you murmured as you walked beside him, your steps careful on the stone path after the car was eased into a parking spot.
“It’s the Kim's family home,” Jungkook said. You nodded, though the name didn’t spark much recognition. The Kims had been mentioned here and there at family dinners—names dropped in passing between sips of wine and shared laughter. You had barely paid attention then, too busy suppressing laughs at the jokes that Minho whispered near.
The front doors were open, the faint scent of fresh flowers and expensive cologne wafting out to greet you. Inside, the space was as opulent as expected—high ceilings adorned with crystal chandeliers, polished floors that gleamed under the soft light, and clusters of well-dressed guests milling about with drinks in hand.
A tall man stood near the entrance, his broad shoulders and sharp jawline making him impossible to miss. Beside him, another man stood with a softer air, his eyes crinkling with warmth as he leaned into the first man’s side.
The taller of the two men turned, his expression lighting up as he spotted Jungkook. “There he is,” He said, his deep voice carrying effortlessly.
"Hyung." Jungkook softened, clasping hands in a firm shake before pulling each other into a brief hug, the kind that spoke of collaboration and respect.
You shifted awkwardly on your feet, your fingers curling around the strap of your purse as you wondered whether to step back and leave him to his conversation or stay and risk being out of place.Would it be rude if you chose the former?
You were saved from your uncertainty when the two of them pulled away from Jungkook and took you in, a gleam of recognition passing through their face. Recognition, shock, then pity. You know how it went.
“You must be Y/N,” the taller one said, his gaze shifting to you with a warm smile.
You blinked, clearly caught off guard by the direct attention. “Yes, that’s me.”
“Kim Namjoon ” he said, offering his hand. “And this is Seokjin, my partner.” You smiled, nodding in acknowledgment before taking the hand of the charming one in the beige suit. “It’s nice to meet you, both. This is a beautiful venue.” You assume that they're the hosts of the party. The Kims that this house belonged to.
“Thank my father for that,” Namjoon said with a chuckle. “Sixty years old and still insists on hosting the most extravagant parties. He’d never let me live it down if I didn’t pull out all the stops.”
“Extravagant is an understatement,” Seokjin chimed in, his tone playful as he glanced at Namjoon. “I’m pretty sure half the flowers in the city ended up here.”
You smiled again, but it faltered when Seokjin's expression changed in a beat.
“We’ve heard a lot about you too,” he said gently, his gaze dipping briefly to Jungkook before meeting yours again.
You tilted your head, curiosity flashing across your face. “All good things, I hope.”
“Of course,” Namjoon assured you. “Your family is well-regarded, and we-we're sorry about Minho. He was brilliant in every sense of the world. We can't even imagin—"
“Thank you,” you said softly, trying really hard to not let the tightening of your throat strain your voice. “He was.”
Jungkook watched as your smile faltered, just slightly, at the mention of Minho. He decided to steer the conversation away but you recovered quickly, offering a polite nod and beat him to it.
There was a brief, loaded pause before you glanced at Jungkook. “I should find mom. She asked me to join her earlier.”
"Yeah, right.” Jungkook said, his voice steady despite the way his chest tightened again when he looked at you.
You walked by Jungkook, brushing close enough that your shoulder brushed against his chest, the faintest hint of your vanilla perfume that was so maddeningly you lingered in the air. He tensed, his breath catching before he could stop it. His fingers twitched at his sides, an almost imperceptible motion, but it was enough.
Subtle as he tried to be, he caught himself leaning slightly, his chest rising with a quiet inhale as though he could take the ghost of your scent and keep it for himself.
"Not as subtle as you think." Seokjin snickered by his boyfriend's side who also raised an eyebrow, his expression knowing and somewhat giving away his discomfort. “Is there something you’d like to share with the class?”
Shit.
Jungkook straightened, his jaw clenching as he avoided their eyes, fixing the collar of his shirt hoping they won't catch on the heat creeping up on his neck too. “Don’t.” he said quietly, his tone low and edged with warning.
"Maybe you don't sniff her like a dog in public? Maybe you have some decorum?" Seokjin judged, proud and loud.
"I have plenty, hyung." The younger male side eyed the older one, his eyes narrowed and the tips of his ears already crimson red like he was a boy caught watching porn for the very first time.
Namjoon sighed, though there was a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Let him be, honey.”
But the look he gave Jungkook was far from dismissive. It was the kind of look that saw too much, that peeled back layers Jungkook wasn’t ready to confront. Gods, he needed new friends.
He turned his attention back to the crowd where you disappeared.
The soft hum of conversations and the faint clinking of glasses followed you as you weaved through the grand hall, your eyes scanning for your mother-in-law’s familiar figure. The air in the mansion was heavier than it had been when you arrived, the brush of silk against silk, the way every movement seemed calculated, observed, and weighed.
You navigated through the crowd like a ghost in a gallery, your steps measured and slow, eyes flicking to the floor more than once to avoid the speculative stares. With rich circles came dirty gossip—whispered words disguised as laughter, false smiles that hid daggers. You’d learned to let them roll off your back, like rain on stone.
The Jeon matriarch had mentioned being near the back, closer to where the banquet tables were set. You followed the direction she’d gestured toward earlier, passing servers who moved seamlessly with trays of sparkling champagne.
Halfway through the journey, your steps faltered as your gaze landed on the centerpiece of one table—a chocolate fountain. Warm, rich, and cascading like liquid satin, it stood surrounded by an array of treats. Strawberries gleamed like rubies in the low light, their surfaces polished and inviting.
You hesitated, glanced around as if expecting someone to berate you for indulging in something so ordinary, but eventually, you plucked a strawberry and dipped it into the cascading chocolate.
You let the sweetness settle on your tongue, closing your eyes for a brief moment. For the first time all evening, you found this place somewhat tolerable.
Free food always making things better.
“Excuse me, miss.” a small voice piped up beside you, tugging on the flowy end of your dress.
A boy, no older than six or seven, stood by your side, his wide eyes flicking between you and the fountain. He looked as if he had stepped out of a luxury children’s catalog, his little suit tailored perfectly, his bow tie slightly askew. “Can you grab one for me? I’m not allowed to reach it by myself.” he asked, pointing at the fountain. His voice was polite, but there was a hopeful edge to it, as if he wasn’t used to asking for things twice.
“Of course, love.” you said, your lips curving into a small smile. You picked another strawberry, dipping it with care before crouching slightly to hand it to him. "There you go."
“Thank you!” he chirped, grinning immediate and radiant, the kind that softened the edges of a hard day.
"What's your name?" You asked him, crouching down to his level.
“Do-yun!” came a sharp voice, the kind that turned your stomach before your brain even processed it.
Who you assumed was the boy's mother stepped forward, her elegance severe, her lips painted in a red that matched the strawberries. She took her son’s hand but not before her eyes raked over you, head to toe, with an expression that left no room for interpretation.
"What did I tell you about bothering strangers?” she scolded do-yun who stared at the skewer in his hand apologetically.
“He wasn’t bothering me,” you said gently, straightening up and having the woman’s eyes flicker to you again, assessing.
“He just wanted a treat.”
Her eyes flicked to the chocolate fountain, then back to you, her lips pressing into a tight smile. “how kind of you.”
There was no warmth in her tone, no hint of gratitude. Just a faintly dismissive air. And with that, she turned, her child in tow, leaving you with the faint scent of something floral and the taste of bitterness on your tongue.
You'd learned better than to expect warmth from people bound by history.
You'd learned not to mind it. To overlook it. To not pay attention to them at all.
"That's her, isn't she?"
“Such a shame, losing her husband so young.”
“Yes, but you know, they weren’t exactly power players, were they? He was an artist, wasn’t he?”
The words hung in the air like cigarette smoke, acrid and inescapable.
A laugh, soft and cruel. “I suppose she’s lucky the Jeons still keep her close. Poor thing, all alone now. Must be awful.”
You stopped in your tracks. The sharp sting of their voices cut through the party’s hum, louder than the music, louder than your own heartbeat.
You could feel your palms start to get sweaty, eyes suddenly unable to meet anyone's.
Breathe. You reminded yourself.
One: Find your breath.
Two: Focus on something neutral—the fountain, the floor, the chandelier above.
Three: Remind yourself: They don’t know you. Their words are weightless.
But weightless wasn’t the right word.
“Though, you’d think she’d be a bit more modest. That dress isn’t exactly… widow-appropriate, is it?”
You tried to focus on your numbers but you lost it.
You turned, your fists clenched, your lips thinned, the polite demeanor cracking away from your face under the weight of your frustration.
“I’m sorry,” you said, your voice sharper than you intended. “Was there something you wanted to say to my face?”
The women froze, their eyes widening in surprise. One of them, a younger woman with a nervous smile, tried to backpedal. “Oh, no, we didn’t mean—”
“Because if you have an issue with me or my dress, feel free to say it outright,” you continued, your voice clear despite the way your heart hammered in your chest. “I’d hate for you to waste any more time whispering behind my back.”
The group exchanged glances, communicating in a language of their own, you couldn’t care less about. Atleast not in this moment.
“We didn’t mean to offend,” one of them muttered, her tone brittle.
“Of course you didn’t,” you said, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “How could I possibly take offense to strangers dissecting my life as if it’s some dinner party entertainment?”
Stupid old hags with no life of their own!
You kept that to yourself.
Then, without waiting for a response, you turned on your heel and stormed away.
The chandeliers above blurred as tears pricked the corners of your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. Not here. Not now.
You weren’t looking for anything specific—just distance, just air that wasn’t thick with judgment and whispers. A bathroom, maybe, though you weren’t going to ask for directions not when your voice felt like it would crack the moment you opened your mouth.
People brushed past you, their scents of expensive perfumes swirling in the air, their muted voices blending into a hum you couldn’t quite focus on. One or two bumped into your shoulder, but you didn’t apologize, didn’t bother looking back.
You just needed to get away—you just needed out of here.
And then, as if the universe wasn’t finished testing you, a firm hand of another one of a frame you jerked into, closed around your wrist, halting your momentum.
You looked up, brows scrunched, eyes glossy and mouth parting, ready to snap but then you were met with a amicable pair of dark eyes.
A crease of his own wrinkling his forehead as he looked down at you. "Is something wrong?" He asked and you almost wanted to laugh mockingly.
Instead, you did what you initially wanted to do. Your eyes flicked to his hand, then back to his face. “Let me go.”
He hesitated for a moment, tounge poking his cheek, grip on your hand loosening but not releasing entirely. "What's wrong, y/n?"
“I said, let me go,” you repeated, your voice firm, frangible at the edges before you pulled your hand away from him and pushed past to walk away without another word.
The next random hallway you stumbled into was quieter, emptier, and for that, you were grateful, stretched ahead like an endless corridor of polished wood and muted gold accents. The noise of the party faded into the background, muffled by the thick walls and heavy doors.
You couldn’t find it in yourself to roam around mindlessly any further. This should be good enough, you told yourself and leaned against one of the walls, your forehead pressing against the cool surface as you tried to breathe through the wave of vehemence emotions that crashed through you.
One: Inhale.
Two: Exhale.
Three: Forget the words they said. Forget them.
But they echoed, persistent and savage, circling in your mind like vultures.
Poor thing, all alone now. Must be awful.
You’d think she’d be a bit more modest. That dress isn’t exactly widow-appropriate, is it?
Your chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, your hands clutching at your dress as if the fabric could somehow hold you together. But nothing could, nothing had. You had tried and tried and tried.. and fuck you didn't wanted to do it anymore.
Turning around, your head tipped back against the wall, the ceiling swimming in and out of focus as your vision blurred.
You shouldn’t have come here.
You should have stayed home, buried yourself in the comfort of your quiet apartment where no one whispered behind your back or looked at you with pity thinly disguised as deference.
Why did they care? Why did it matter to them how you dressed, how you existed, how you grieved?
It shouldn’t have mattered.
But it did.
You pressed the heels of your palms against your eyes, trying to will the tears away. Crying wouldn’t help. It wouldn’t change anything.
Your hands gripped your clutch tightly, the edges digging into your palms, and for a moment, you considered throwing it—hurling it across the hall just to feel something break.
But you didn’t.
You couldn’t.
Because even here, in this quiet, empty hallway, you felt the silent expectation that you hold yourself together, that you keep smiling, keep nodding, keep existing in a way that made other people comfortable.
You hated this. You hated being you. You hated being the one who was left behind. And God you hated being alone. No Minho to make a quiet joke about the ridiculousness of it all and pull you toward something fun and irreverent.
Just you.
It will be always be just you. You've never admitted that to yourself but now that you did, you feel such panic rise in your chest that you don't hear him at first. Not until his voice broke through the haze.
“Y/N.”
It was soft, tentative, but it still cut through the silence like a blade.
You flinched, your head snapping toward the source of the voice. Jungkook stood a few feet away, his dark eyes searching yours, his expression shadowed with concern.
He had followed you.
“I told you to leave me alone,” you managed, your voice trembling as you turned away, willing him to disappear.
“I’m not leaving,” he said, his footsteps growing louder as he moved closer with a cautiousness that made you feel like a wounded animal. “Talk to me.” He added, the pleading in his voice almost running free.
"I mean it, Jungkook.. go away." You tried putting distance between the both of you again but far too quick for your slowed senses, he was now standing right in front of you, hands hovering in the air as if he didn't know what to do with him while also knowing.
"And I told you, I'm not leaving." His tone had coarsened and your dam had broke.
“Why now?” you cried, stepping closer to him, your fists balling at your sides. “Why do you want to stay now? You’ve spent years acting like a stranger, Jungkook. Years acting like I didn’t exist. And now—”
You shoved at his chest, your fists pounding weakly against him, but he didn’t move.
“Now you want to act like you care?” you yelled, your voice cracking as you hit him again. “Now you want to be here? Why?”
Jungkook stood still, his arms at his sides, his chest solid and unyielding beneath your fists. He didn’t flinch, didn’t step back, didn’t even try to stop you. He just let you hit him, let you pour out everything.His silence infuriated you, and yet it steadied you in a way you couldn’t explain.
"Why do you care now?" you repeated, your voice cracking, trembling like your hands as they hit his chest incessantly. Each word felt like it scraped raw against your throat. "Where were you, Jungkook? When everything fell apart, when I—when I needed someone. Where were you?"
“I don’t need you now!” you snapped, your tears falling freely now. “I don’t need you to come here and act like you care, like you’ve always cared, because we both know that’s not true."
“Because you left!" your voice cracked, the words laced with betrayal. The hurt from the breach of faith weakening you and your punches on his chest until they finally stilled, your hands trembling still as they curled into the fabric of his shirt. Jungkook caught your wrists, his hold firm but gentle, and for a moment, you fought him, your breaths coming in sharp and ragged. But when he didn’t let go, when he didn’t flinch or step back, the fight drained out of you.
Your knees buckled, and his arms came around you slowly, hesitantly, as if he were afraid you might push him away. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. You were too tired now. Empty hands that had been holding onto something for as long as you could remember were too tired, have forgotten the feeling of what it felt like to be held instead.
You allowed to let yourself feel that. You allowed yourself to feel someone else other than the woman you couldn’t even recognize in a mirror as you sagged against him, your head pressing against his shoulder as your tears soaked into his shirt, body shaking and shivering from the quiet sobs that you let out.
"I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry, angel." You heard him say those words like a mantra against your hair, arms tightening around you, nestling you close against his chest.
For a moment, you heard pain there, raw and unfiltered, pain that felt similiar to your own in ways you hadn’t expected. You clutched his shirt tighter. You didn't wanted to be alone and Jungkook felt and smelled of times when you weren't. Earthy and Warm. Like that one time when he pulled you in to him after the death of milo- your first dog, and didn’t even mind your snort.
You had clung to those memories but it felt better clinging to him. A small, desperate part of you wanting to drag him closer, to cling to what little you had left of the past. The rest of you wanted to push him away, to keep screaming at him for daring to come back after all this time, after all this distance.
The sobs subsided slowly, leaving behind the kind of stillness that felt fragile, as if it might shatter with the wrong word or movement. Jungkook didn’t push you away, didn’t loosen his hold. If anything, he pulled you closer, as though he feared you’d slip through his fingers if he let go.
You pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him, your gaze searching his face. His eyes shadowed, a stupid perfect strand of his stupid perfect hair falling on his forehead with tension prominent in his jaw and you wondered if there was a time there wasn't.
You wondered if it would make you any more vulnerable that you are right now if you say the words that sit on the top of your tounge, sting in the tears that linger in the corner of your eyes.
“I missed you,” you said softly, the words slipping out before you could stop them. They felt dangerous, like exposing a wound that had barely begun to scab over.
His eyes darkened, a low sound rumbling in his chest—something between a growl and a sigh. “Fuck,” he muttered, his hand coming up to cradle the back of your head as he pressed his forehead to yours. “I missed you too, angel."
The rawness in his tone made your chest clench, a part of you craving more, while another part shrieked at you to stop this before it went any further, gather whatever semblance has left of you and walk away, play his cards against him.
But you have never been too good with cards or walking away.
“Then why did you leave?” you croaked. “Why did you stay away for so long?”
His gaze dropped to the space between you before meeting your eyes again, his own breathing now getting uneven. You could feel it beneath you. Rising. And Rising. And Rising.
"I didn’t knew how to look at you and not feel like I'm.. betraying him." His voice trembles as he drews in breath and you're so close you feel the heat of it brush against your temple. "And I can not, not look at you. That became a problem."
His eyes darkened, a low sound rumbling in his chest—something between a growl and a sigh. “Fuck,” he muttered, his hand coming up to cradle the back of your head as he pressed his forehead to yours. “I missed you too, angel."
The rawness in his tone made your chest clench, a part of you craving more, while another part shrieked at you to stop this before it went any further, gather whatever semblance has left of you and walk away, play his cards against him.
But you have never been too good with cards or walking away.
“Then why did you leave?” you croaked. “Why did you stay away for so long?”
His gaze dropped to the space between you before meeting your eyes again, his own breathing now getting uneven. You could feel it beneath you. Rising. And Rising. And Rising.
"I didn’t knew how to look at you and not feel like I'm.. betraying him." His voice trembles as he drews in breath, and you're so close you feel the heat of it brush against your temple. "And I can not, not look at you. That became a problem."
Your body stiffened at the confession, the world around you shrinking until it was just the two of you, his voice echoing in your ears.
Your first instinct was disbelief.
This can't mean what you think it does.
This can’t mean what you think it does!
The words replayed in your mind, over and over, refusing to settle. Each repetition twisted something deeper, something buried in the hollow space that had once been you.
You pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him, needing space, needing air.
He didn’t move. His gaze followed you, his expression resolute, like he was determined to lay everything bare now that the first truth had slipped out.
But you didn’t even wanted to acknowledge it as something, let alone, a truth. “That’s not—” Your voice cracked, and you forced yourself to start again. "Are you drunk, Jungkook?" You found the thought so repulsing, you could only think of ways to brush this up, put all the blame on the champagne.
From the way his eyes narrowed and brow ridged, you could tell that it was not the champagne.
“Y/N.” he says with a warning. “I’m not fucking drunk.”
“Well, you sound like you are,” you shot back, your tone sharper than you intended. “Because that—what you just said—sounds like something someone says when they’re not thinking clearly. You're not making any sense, Jungkook!"
“It makes sense,” he was starting to get frustated now. “It’s the only thing that’s ever made sense to me.”
And you were starting to get scared. You needed him to stop talking. Anything and everything he said made you physically want to recoil. You took another step back, your arms wrapping around yourself as if you could shield yourself from the weight of unsaid words that are no longer so.
“Don’t,” you said, your voice breaking, hands tempted to cover your ears like a child. His confession felt like a pin pulled from a grenade, and now the blast was unfurling within you. “Don’t do this. It's not fair. It's-It's not fair to him. Or me. Or you."
I know. He admits quietly to himself because he doesn't think anyone knows better than the man who was holding the jagged ends of a once delicate thread. And he hates himself for it because hating you was as unrealistic as the existence of a greater being to him. He had tried. Tried turning to salvation. Tried to despise you for being the one thing that has turned him the best and worst person he can be but he just can't. He prefers hating himself better.
He wants this punishment, that is you. He wants to whisper I'm sorry- I'm sorry for leaving- I'm sorry for coming back in every crook and nook of your body for the rest of his life so you'd feel his expression of regret that could only be a product of love so consuming embedding into you.
Because it's truth. It's his truth, has been for years and years, before he even knew what are the consequences of being a honest person. Now that he is seeing you in front of him—you with a revolting look, a stray tear rolling down your eyes that is nowhere near as angry as it had been before, he understands that it's not a consequence he can take.
He dares to step forward again and even if takes a whole lot of power in him not to pull you into him again, he doesn't and only raises a hand and catches the tear with his thumb.
“You don’t get to do this to me.” you repeat, your voice low and trembling.
And so does his. "I know."
Jungkook didn’t know what he expected you to say, what he hoped for. Forgiveness? Understanding? He wasn’t sure he deserved either.
Yet when you don't pull away, look back at him with the same daring he had stepped forward with, a silence understanding passes between the space that is separating you from him. And he's done being separated from you.
He tilted his head down, his breath stirring your hair when he inhaled deeply, his nose tracing a path down until it rubbed against yours—softly, deliberately—as if giving you time to move away. You didn't and his eyes fell on your inviting mouth again.
Fuck it.
Jungkook surged forward, his hands cupping your face, tipping your face up to him as his lips crashed against yours. The way he kissed you was nothing like the way he had touched you. It was rough, desperate with the way tounge and teeth clashed, filled with years of pent up desire and regret and emotions too tangled to name.
He kissed you like the nights he’d spent staring at the ceiling in places too far from home, wondering if you’d be happier without him there to complicate things, wondering if things had been any different if he said something before. Will you have looked at him like the way you looked at his brother? Would that choice have saved you from years and years of tragedy? Would that have saved him from the weight of his guilt, his love—love that had been a silent, unwelcome presence in his life for so long that it felt like another organ, vital and inescapable?
When he felt you grip him again and kiss him back. Nothing else mattered. The world stopped spinning and he didn't wanted to run anymore.
His hands found your waist, gripping tightly. A low groan slipping from his mouth to yours at the feeling of how you melted against him when he deepened the kiss, tounge proding and exploring all that your sweet mouth had to offer. Gods, he was drunk now.
"Shit." He shuddered as the taste of you finally started to settle in, pulling you closer and closer, then pushing you back until your back met the wall of the hallway.
You should be scared, anxious and pushing him back. The mere thought of someone walking in on you kissing him, your supposed family. Should make you want to end this because you could only imagine the stake they'd pin you on. They'd be not wrong to.
This is traitorous—what you're doing, what you're allowing yourself. But so is a shameful part of you that had always reached for him. Something that whispered to you, so soft it felt like it came from inside your own chest.
It's not so bad. His lips feel good.
But oh, it is. It makes you sick from just thinking how bad it is. Anger, confusion, guilt—oh, the guilt—swirl together and make you so sick.
"W-We shouldn’t.." You gasp against him as your unpracticed lips suck on his in a contradiction.
"No, we shouldn't." He kisses you harder, his mouth only leaving yours to trail a train of kisses along the column of your accessible throat to him, making you whimper out loud that he takes as an sign to nibble and bite.
Your hands find their way to his shoulder and his to your hips. "Legs around me." He licks the length of your neck, narrowing your world down to the feeling of his provoking wet tounge on your skin, his calloused fingers squeezing your hips. It felt all too real now. And despite you being balant enough to start this in the first place, you're not sure if you're still feeling bold. What you are feeling is this sinful, unexplainable craving seeping into your bones, curling around your ribs, making it hard to breath and think. Or maybe it's him.
Whatever it is, you get yourself to pause his eager hands and hungry mouth and speak, your breath coming in short, hot puffs. "Jungkook.. I don't think-" He straightens up and the vulnerability in his voice and eyes is gone as he squeezes your hips tighter.
"Finally gave me that perfect mouth of yours and now you want to walk away? Do you like tormenting me, angel? Do you like knowing that I'd fuck my fist to only the thought of you when you do?" He growls against your ear and you feel yourself flush so hard you're sure he even feels the heat coming off you in ripples.
"Please, baby." He pleads unapologetically, fingers tugging you closer even when all of you is pressed against all of him. "I want you." So bad it hurts.
Gone is the man who had once been so armored, seemed so unreachable and untouchable. And left is Jeon Jungkook, who looks like he will crumble to the ground if you pull away now.
You wouldn't want that. But the words came anyway, right from where shame twisted in your stomach, tangling with the guilt that clawed at your throat. "Do you still want me even if I'm nothing like the woman I used to be?" It came out breakable and in segments, and the second they left your lips, you weren’t sure what to except as a answer.
For a moment, all you could hear was the ragged rhythm of your combined breathing.
You swallowed hard, pulling back slightly to meet his gaze. The intensity in his dark eyes was almost unbearable, raw and unrelenting as they searched yours.
"Don't ever say that again." he bit out, every syllable heavy. "I want you always. I want you with my every breath. There's always been only you for me, understand?" He added with a brief grind of his hardened arousal against your front, making you mewl.
The words, though, hit you like a physical forcek, breaking through the walls you’d built around yourself, the ones you’d convinced yourself were impenetrable.
Before you could respond, he moved.
His mouth fell onto yours again and with practiced ease, his hands slid to the backs of your thighs, lifting you like you weighed nothing. "Now. Legs around me, baby." he murmured in the kiss, and though your mind was a whirlwind of what seemed like every single thought you've ever had, your body obeyed.
You could barely figure out to where he was taking you, too engrossed in the kiss that you steered towards a softer, mellow one, fingers tangling in the hair that has grown a little bit on the nape of his neck. Feeling like you both were two audacious college students trying to find a space in a messy party where you both won't be interrupted.
When he halted in his steps, you assumed that he found it as he kicked it open with a firm nudge of his boot, the room beyond dim and quiet but he barely give you time to register anything else, his movements urgent and frantic as he carried you over to the bed in the middle after swiftly locking you both away. You bounced on the silk mattress as he set you down, though his intentions were grave, his actions or the way he held you was gentle, tounge swiping over his glistening lips like chasing the taste of you that made you want to give him once more.
Audacious, you were.
Your eyes on his face, shadows played along the planes, softening the hard edges of his jaw, but his gaze burned. Dark and piercing, it held you in place as if daring you to look away.
You didn’t.
Your eyes followed the sluggish movements of his hands as he reached up, his fingers deftly working the knot of his tie. The fabric slid free, whispering against the buttons of his dress shirt before he cast it aside, forgotten on the nearby chair.
Next came his jacket. He shrugged it off with practiced ease, the broad span of his shoulders rolling beneath the fabric. Your breath hitched as he discarded it, leaving him in the crisp white shirt that clung to his frame, the outline of him barely hidden.
And then his hands moved again, this time to his wrist.
You watched, mesmerized, as he undid the strap of his watch, the silver buckle catching the faint light. He pulled it free and set it down on the nightstand, the movement so fluid it felt almost rehearsed.
It wasn’t until he turned his wrist slightly that you noticed it—the worn thread of a bracelet wrapped around his wrist, faded from time and use but unmistakable.
The one you’d tied around his wrist when you were kids in an action of promise to stay friends for years to come.
But he still wore it.
He still wore it.
Your fingers twitched against the bedspread, the urge to reach out and touch him almost overwhelming.
And as if understanding your anticipation, he soon followed you down, your breath catching as he hovered above you. You waited for him to kiss you again because god help you, you liked a little too much but he only pressed a chaste one, smirking subtly at the pout that subconsciously formed on your lips that soon parted in a gasp when he started to suck on your neck again, this time with the intention to claim the spot with the scrape of his teeth.
He hummed against your skin, the sound deep and satisfied, before he drew your flesh into his mouth again, harder this time. The sharp pull sent a jolt of pleasure-pain coursing through you, thighs clenching together.
"My angel." he said softly, yet nothing was soft about the way he pulled down on the straps of your dress. The fabric slipped, baring the smooth skin of your shoulder, and he pressed his lips there, warm and firm, before trailing lower, his mouth following the path he’d just uncovered. "My undoing."
The red fabric gathered at your arms as he pushed it further, exposing the tops of your collarbones and the swell of your chest. His gaze flicked up to meet yours then, dark and questioning, seeking permission even though his hands were steady, his intention clear.
You nodded, perhaps with too much enthusiasm and earned a chuckle from him that you were sure was the reason for the wetness pooling between your legs.
You had missed that sound. You had missed him.
And he was hell bent on making up for lost time as he dived face first into your chest, humming again when he took in your pebbled nipple in his mouth, swirling his tounge around the roundness of you.
"Oh shit." Your back arched, hands finding their way to his hair again. Pulling and tugging. Urging him on until his hand was fondling the other, abandoned tit. Squeezing under his rough palms that made the heat lowering your stomach worse—all of it felt too much, too soon. And yet, it wasn’t enough.
It had been so long.
Too long since someone had touched you like this, with a reverence that made you feel seen, whole, wanted.
You told yourself it was natural, that anyone in your position would respond this way. That it wasn’t about him—it couldn’t be. But your body betrayed you before your mind could even catch up. Your legs wrapped around his waist once more as you ground yourself against him. Against the print of his bulging length you could feel pulsing against you.
"Fuck yeah.." You cursed low, head falling back on the pillows and Jungkook looked up, his own cock twitching at the sight of you, at the feel of you. Of everything he has ever wanted. Of everything he thought he would never have. But here you were straight from his flithest wet dream that would have him taking more cold showers that he could keep count of.
A goddamn miracle for him, this wasn't a dream.
"This here needs some attention too, hmm?" He rasped, hands slipping down from the curve of your waist, to bunch up your dress to your hips. Wasting no time in finding the wet mess you made of your panties. "Look at this." He grunted, hand cupping your clothed mound. "So wet."
You exhaled out like you'd been freed from shackles that felt too heavy and a whimper followed right after when he disposed you of them, exposing your deprived cunt to the cold air that had you clenching around nothing. "And so fucking responsive." He breathed against your bare sex after moving his head down.
You hadn’t expected that. You breath was bated, cheeks were flushed and heart was pounding at the view alone of his face between your thighs.
Then again, he was all about surprising you today.
Though, it didn't make it any less overwhelming.
The way his hands gripped your thighs, firm yet careful, as if he were both anchoring you and holding himself back. His fingers dug into your skin just enough to leave the faintest imprint, a reminder of where he had been, where he was. Your legs draped over his shoulders, trembling with a mix of anticipation and disbelief, as though your body was still catching up to the reality of this moment.
Never in your wildest dreams, it would have come to this. Come to Jungkook licking a greedy strip up from your folds.
"Jungkook—oh God!" You gasped and he groaned, feeling all of his restraint and the plan to savor this, to savor you, slip away from his tightening hands. One taste of you and he wanted to grasp every drop of like it would be his last.
And so he did.
Burying his face in your wanting pussy like a man with purpose, he lapped. His mouth wrapped around your clit, tounge swiping and licking with a reverence because you were something sacred, something he had put on a pedestal so high, others in his life barely mattered.
"Oh- mhm. Feels so good!" You moan out, mind in a haze of pure fog and he takes it as his cue to plunge his digit inside your dripping core. You're sure you've got no mind now. Grunts of his own leaving him at the thought of your heat wrapping around his aching cock instead.
He felt no shame in that. No shame in what he was doing right now. Because then you moved, your body arching toward him as if to erase every doubt. Your fingers found their way to his hair, tugging as selfishly as he fed on you, flatenning his tounge on your slit to take all he can get, to give you all he can.
A shaky exhale brushing against your folds. The sound was low, guttural, and filled with more longing than he knew how to contain. "Does it, baby? Sweet pussy's feeling good?" His fingers—knuckles deep now—worked you faster, curling and testing ways to get you closer to the edge.
This was more desire that he knew he was possible of as his hips started to rut on their own, seeking friction in a way that was both instinctual and helpless. Brain flat lining. Face drowned in the essence of you. Desperate, as you pulled on his hair. Pathetic, as he chased his own high from just the taste of you, from just how you enveloped his curving fingers. Ecastic, when you finally reached your breaking point from how he alternated between broad strokes and targeted flicks, making you come all over his mouth that kindles his face, that he swallow all because he refuses to let anything go to waste.
"Ah fuck—Oh lord!" You fingers tear in his scalp and hips bucked against his face, eyes rolling back until they whitened.
Oh.
Oh.
It was in this moment, with your thighs braced against his shoulders and his name spilling from her lips, that Jungkook knew.
He would never be the same again.
That he too would be coming in his pants like a high school boy.
It wasn’t enough—nothing would ever be enough—but it was all he had, and it drove him to the edge faster than he would’ve liked to admit. The tension inside him snapped before he could stop it, his body tensing and toes curling because he found everything else secondary to the sheer joy of watching you fall apart beneath him.
"Oh shit, y/n. Shit. Shit. Shit." He whimpers against your cunt, his hips finally slowing down their mindless movement. His forehead pressed against your thigh as he caught his breath. His chest heaved, his heartbeat thundered in his ears, and his entire body felt like it was vibrating, the aftershocks of his release making his muscles twitch.
He swallowed hard, his throat dry, and shifted slightly, pressing a kiss to your clit before leaning back up to feel another wave of release threatening to overcome him when he sees your content expression, hands loosening their grip in his raven hair, half lidded eyes meeting his own before they trail down. "Y-You.." You didn’t know what to say, couldn’t have spoken even if you tried.
A lazy smirk made it's way to his lips that caught the light before he licked whatever remnant what was left of you on his fingers.
"I'm a starved man, angel. Cut me some slack." He panted, pinching your bud in emphasis and moved back up before you could even process it, the warmth of his breath retreating, replaced by the cooler air of the room as he straightened. The absence of his lips against you left you gasping, your chest heaving, your pulse thundering in your ears or maybe it was you still riding your orgasm or maybe it was the knowledge that he came in his pants from just eating you out.
Then he was there again, his hands sliding from your thighs to the mattress on either side of you, bracketing you in like a secret he refused to let escape.
"Hi." He breathed against your forehead.
You felt a shy smile twitch on your lips. "Hi." You reply just as breathlessly.
He presses another kiss, this time to the tip of your nose. "I'm gonna fuck you now, yeah?" You couldn’t reconcile it.
How could he say things that made your cheeks flush, your body respond in ways you couldn’t control, while his lips brushed against your temple with a tenderness that felt like an apology?
How could he make you feel like you were unraveling and being held together all at once?
You wanted to know. "Mhm. Please." You mewl, hands softly going through the beautiful mess that you made of his hair.
"Please, what?" He demanded, lips on your cheek.
"Please fuck me." You whine and he bumped his nose against your face, chest rumbling from a sound so feverish that you can't help but grind against him again. Coaxing his cock back into hardness with your bare cunt against him, from the realization that you shared the insatiable urges with him.
It got his hand trembling when they reached down to unbind his belt, pushing the fabric down his hips to reveal predicament he's made of his boxers that were bounding his hard, leaking cock but hell if he had it in himself to care.
He had been bidding his time for far too long. Waited enough—longer than any man should have to wait for something that felt this inevitable, this right, this his.
Ridding himself of the last piece of clothing on him, other than the white dress shirt that flexed against his coiled muscles, he took himself In a fist, groaning when he pumped himself in one slow stroke. Eyes never leaving your wide ones like you weren’t sure if you should be impressed, intimidated, or both.
Your breath hitched audibly, and your chest rose and fell as your eyes darted from his face to the undeniable evidence of his arousal. Heat bloomed across your cheeks, but you couldn’t seem to tear your gaze away, couldn’t stop the thought that immediately took hold.
"You're too big." Your throat dry, and your fingers fisted the sheet beneath you, trying not too think too much about how thick he would feel down your throat. The sounds he'd make when you would lick him just right.
"And you're gonna take every inch." He said it like a statement, a prominent vein popping in his neck when he finally let go of the locked gaze and focused instead on compressing the tip of his angry, veiny cock to your slick folds.
"Won't you, angel?" He asks with a confident smirk passed your way for a second before his breath wavered again, brows scrunched together and if it wasn't for his tip nudging inside you, you'd thought him endearing.
But once his tip is actually is in, you're left with no thought. Rendered speechless, eyes falling shut when he starts to jab inch by inch.
"Dear lord—" You gasp out loud. The sheet beneath you not providing much semblance so you switch to his shoulders. And you swear, he feel him shake when he is finally all in. Closes his eyes and relishes in your heat stretching around. "Fucking hell." The sensation was overwhelming—heat and softness so consuming it felt like his mind short-circuited, every thought dissolving into static.
But you feel that its your pussy that feels like it's going to split apart any moment now that's stopping him from moving. And partly it is. "You're so..tight." He hisses out and squeezes your hips with great roughness.
"Been long since you've been fucked, eh?" He muses, dark hungry eyes devouring yours when he makes an attempt to move inside you like he was testing your limits. Your mind reels, caught between the sharpness of the initial sensation and the overwhelming desire that followed.
He felt impossibly big, like your body wasn’t prepared for the sheer intensity of him, and for a fleeting moment, doubt crept into your thoughts.
It’s been so long.
The thought came unbidden. Your body had grown used to quiet nights and cold sheets, to the impersonal hum of a vibrator and the absence of warmth.
"Been so long." You confirm, nails clawing at his shoulders, mimicking the roughness that only spurs him on. His lashes fluttered shut, his forehead drops to your shoulder and with a whine of disagreement from you, he pulls back fully just to (to your satisfaction) bury himself back to the hilt.
An unadulterated moan from you broke the silence, a sound so sweet it made him want to come right there and then again. But he'd much rather have you convulse first. Priorities.
His jaw clenched, a low groan rumbling in his chest as he started to move his hips against yours, slow and deliberate, like he needed to feel every inch of your.
Your legs tensed around his hips, pulling him closer. You couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop the way your body reacted to him, your mind a dizzy blur of heat and need and overwhelming sensation.
He pulled back again, the drag of him leaving you feeling empty, only to return with the same slow, measured thrust.
“That’s right,” he muttered, his voice rough and uneven, barely coherent through the sounds your free spilling moans and the fact that his face was buried in the crook of your shoulder. “You’re—fuck, you’re perfect.” His voice unrefined at the edges, raw with honesty and disbelief, like he couldn’t believe you were really here, with him, like this.
Your hands slid down his back, clinging to the flexing muscles beneath your palms. You suddenly didn't like that his shirt was still on. Wanting to map out his bare skin with every graze of your nails. But with each thrust, pleasure sparked at the base of your spine and spread outward, your thoughts scattered like autumn leaves.
"Yeah- Oh mphm! Just like that!" He flourished in your cries of encouragement, his grip on your hips tightening, his fingers digging into your skin as he was afraid he'd lose control too soon.
And you wanted nothing more. "F-Faster! Please go faster!" His pace was unhurried but devastating, every pull and thrust deliberate, designed to drag you to the edge and keep you there, teetering. You couldn’t take that anymore.
And Jungkook couldn’t take keeping you unsatisfied. His lips found the corner of your mouth, brushing against it in a fleeting kiss before moving lower, his teeth grazing your jaw. His hands moved to your thighs, urging them higher, wrapping them around his waist as he drove into you with more force, more intent.
“taking me so well, was made for this cock.” Were made for me. he praised, his voice sounding like a backdrop to the obscene sounds his hips snapping against yours as your own body moved with his, meeting him with the same intensity, the same desperate need. "Yeah." He grunted, punctuating his words with a squeeze to your boob. "Fuck me back. Use me. Feel me."
All you could possibly do was feel him.
He felt like fire and electricity all at once, a heat that spread from your core to the very tips of your fingers and toes.
“Jungkook…” you whispered again, your voice catching on the syllables when his head tipped forward, his forehead pressing against yours, his damp hair brushing your skin.
He whimpered in response, a deep, guttural sound that reverberated through you, and he pistoned his cock harder, pulling a cry from your lips that you couldn’t hold back.
"I-I missed you." You can feel tears gather in your eyes again. You don't even know why. Why you're repeating what you've already admitted. Why the words feel more vulnerable now. All you know that you missed him and the coil is tightening in your stomach.
Jungkook, too feels like he will break down any moment when he stares down at you. But he’s got a impending orgasm to deliver.
He kisses your eyelids, is tempted to lick the tears that slowly make their way down to your chin but doesn't. He's not sure he'll be able to handle the taste of your despair without feeling like he has to chastise himself for ever being the reason for it.
"I know. I know." His cock thrusts with renewed vigor. "I missed you too. I missed you." He says through his gritted teeth, feeling how your walls fluttered around him.
"Gonna cum now?" He knows what your answer will be. There's a smug underline tone in his rasps that gives him away. How he takes pride in knowing that he's the one to make you release all this tension; once on his mouth; then on his cock that is pulsing with an reoccurring ache.
You can only manage to nod, lips tightly tucked between your teeth, hands scratching and marking on his once crisp shirt that is now crumpled from the fate of your hands.
"Gonna soak my cock, huh? Go ahead, baby. Go ahead and come with me." He demands, his hand slipping between you to rub tight circles against your puffy clit that is just enough to tip you over at last.
"Koo.. ah..oh god!" The name you've always called him with a fondness falls unintentionally from your lips when your walls tighten for the last time and you release all over his cock that is now stuttering with it's every thrust.
"Oh fuck. Call me that again." He all but snarls. Cock turns firmer inside your heat that hugs him. And balls screw up.
"Koo.." You whine and that's all he needs before thick ropes of white hot cum is spilling inside you, filling you to the brim. "Mhm, take it all. There's my girl. Pussy looks so good stuffed with my cum." He grinds the best his spent body can into yours that still welcomes him and fuck if that doesn't make him never want to leave.
And he doesn't, for a moment, when he collapses onto you. Just not enough to crush you under his weight. Just enough to latch his lips where ever he can find and whisper words of affection. "Could'nt fucking breathe without you." He's yet to get enough of you. This life won't suffice, he thinks. Then finally pulls out his softening cock from your slick hole with a hiss.
You too feel the loss the of the connection that had pulsed faintly between you, leaving you achingly empty.
He moved with the same carefulness, reaching for the tissues on the bedside table. The room was quiet save for your mingled breaths as he knelt beside you, his touch impossibly tender as he wiped at the inside of your thighs. You shivered under the cool press of the tissue against your skin, the sensation making you acutely aware of the aftermath—the way your body still quivered, the way your breaths still came uneven.
You stared at the ceiling while he did so, the edges of your perception blurred as you tried to silence the tingles that still hummed across the length of your legs. A reminder of how throughly he had disentangle you, how throughly his very essence had penetrated into you.
You were ruined by him.
There was no going back from this. You knew that.
What scared you was the realization that you didn’t want to.
You just didn't know how to admit that out loud where everyone and he could hear you.
Your eyes seeked out for him as if that alone could answer all your questions. He returned back against you without a question. Hands finely adjusted the strap of your dress and drew you closer to him with a soft voice, hoarse from the strain of everything he’d given you. "Come here, angel." Bundled you up in his arms and then only did he breathe out.
Your breath stayed differing. “Why do you call me that?” Your voice was curious but tentative. “I don’t think I’ve ever asked you.”
You felt his lips curve up against your temple. "You were wearing this really pretty white dress the first time I met you." he began, his voice quiet, almost wistful. “Had these frills on the sleeves. I thought you looked like an angel."
You tried to piece together the memory. “That was so long ago."
It might be understood that it takes months to fall in love but Jungkook had been falling all his life.
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