today, after four long years, i feel like i’m finally back home. my home, my safe place — the harbor i call bts. i don’t know how to express how happy i am about their return. i think i just… feel peace. just enjoy these bios. they’re simple, but i hope you like them, army! 💜
In order to secure your dream job at the New York Times, you need the biggest scoop of the century. Unmasking Spider-Man should do it. Falling for him definitely won’t.
or
In which you’re willing to do whatever it takes to uncover the identity of New York’s newest superhero. There's only one problem: you might already know him—and you don’t even like him that much.
genre: series. spiderman!au. lowkey college!au. romcom. slowburn. action. rivals(??) to lovers. f. s. a.
contents: reader has an established last name —bear with me ladies: Bell (the ones who get it, get it) and she's highkey workalcoholic and scary af. tatted, pierced, nerd and biker jeongguk !!! (the four horsemen of the apocalypse). namjin are a couple (cannonically). taehyung as the guy in the chair (also cannonically). hoseok da bus driver (he's a police chief). haegeum!yoongi (!!!!!) as police inspector. coworker journalist!jimin trying to rizz reader up. i think that's all —all chapters have their own contents/warnings!!
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release date. TBA
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And then your phones vibrated at the same time on the table.
All three of you glanced down in perfect sync. Only Namjoon had his screen set to light up with notifications, so you all leaned in toward him to read.
As journalists in the making, the three of you were subscribed to every major digital newspaper in the city, with notifications turned on to keep up with the latest in the Big Apple. Your group chat was, in fact, flooded with links—most of them regarding the same topic.
“Ha! He did it again!” Seokjin exclaimed, grabbing his boyfriend’s phone and pulling it closer to his face.
From where you were sitting, you had to read upside down and could only make out a couple of words before Jin snatched the phone. Spider-Man. Rescue. You took a sip from your straw, your americano even more watered down now that the ice had melted, and propped your chin on your palm, feigning disinterest.
But you were listening. Completely. Practically buzzing with anticipation to hear more about the latest stunt pulled by that mysterious… what, exactly? Hero? No one seemed to agree on what to call him anymore.
“Is that the Daily Bugle?” Namjoon asked, leaning sideways and resting his chin on Jin’s shoulder to peer at the screen. “Pff. Tabloids. They probably made half of it up—”
Jin elbowed him again, cutting him off with a sharp “shh,” while you watched over the edge of the phone as his pupils darted across the article, lit up by the screen.
“What does it say?” you asked.
Namjoon looked back at you, eyes narrowing with unmistakable amusement. He pointed at you, circling his finger in the air.
“Right! You’ve got a thing for this guy.”
You rolled your eyes, but your cheeks flushed a ridiculous shade of pink.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Namu,” you complained—though you were aware that both of them knew you well enough to read between the lines. “We don’t even know who he is! How am I supposed to have a crush on someone who could be… I don’t know —a balding fifty-year-old named Bob who still lives with his mom?”
Seokjin burst out laughing, smacking the table with the palm of his hand. Namjoon covered his mouth, trying—and failing—to stifle his own laughter.
“Girl, I’ve seen you zoom in on every single photo of our beloved Spider-Man the press publishes,” Jin shot back, glancing down at the article again. “Besides, have you seen what that suit does for his ass? Total heartthrob.”
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
England smells like rain and old stone the second you step out of the airport.
The drive out to the countryside is a blur of green—rolling fields, hedgerows, little postcard villages, everything so clean and picturesque it almost feels fake. Everyone in the van is jet-lagged but wired all at the same time. Your mom keeps gasping at every cottage you pass. Jeongyeon's trying to make the Bluetooth work. Lisa is complaining about the lack of decent Wi-Fi signal. Jungkook's quiet, staring out the window, headphones around his neck but no music playing.
When the Kims' holiday home finally comes into view, the whole van goes silent for a second.
It's absolutely stunning.
A huge, sprawling country house built of pale stone, ivy crawling up one side, tall windows, a dark slate roof, chimneys. There's a gravel driveway that curves around a fountain, with manicured lawns stretching out on either side and trees lining the edge of the property like something out of a period drama. Rose bushes. A little greenhouse. Actual stone steps leading up to a big front door with black iron hardware.
"Holy shit," Jeongyeon whispers.
Your mom grabs your hand, her face lighting up. "Honey," she breathes. "This is really all gonna be yours after the wedding?"
You swallow, nodding. "Yeah. I guess so."
The front door opens and Namjoon steps out with a grin, jogging down the steps to meet you. He looks perfectly at home here—wearing a thick sweater, the sleeves rolled up his forearms, hair a little messy, that easy confidence in his stride.
He pulls you into a hug the second your feet hit the gravel, spinning you once before kissing you hello. "You made it," he murmurs.
"Barely," you tease. "The countryside has too many cows and not enough rest stops."
He laughs, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead before greeting your mom, helping with luggage, and making everyone feel welcomed.
Behind you, Jungkook drags two suitcases out of the van and looks up at the house again, his jaw tight. Of course it's gorgeous and cinematic. Of course it's the type of place where people like Namjoon grew up learning how to swirl wine and talk about the quality of soil.
Lisa saunters over to where Namjoon is talking with your mom and gently slides into the conversation.
"So," she smiles brightly, looking up at the house. "You don't happen to have a brother, do you?"
Namjoon chuckles faintly. "Uh...no. Only child."
"Tragic," Lisa sighs dramatically. "If you ever find a rich cousin lying around, give him my number."
Everyone laughs, including Namjoon.
Jungkook rolls his eyes so hard he almost sees his brain.
Inside, the house is even more ridiculous. High ceilings with dark beams, two big fireplaces with stone mantels, shelves full of old books, big worn leather sofas, framed black-and-white photos of the distillery and family gatherings. The floors and doors creak in that charming way expensive old houses do. Everything smells faintly of wood polish, coffee, and something roasting slowly in the kitchen.
Namjoon leads everyone into the main sitting room where two people are waiting.
"Everyone," he smiles, slipping effortlessly into host mode, "this is my mum and dad."
Mr. and Mrs. Kim step forward with polite smiles.
They're Korean but their accents are unmistakably British—crisp, rounded, that particular London softness. His father wears a wool vest over his shirt, his hair neatly styled, glasses perched low on his nose. His mother has pearls, a silk scarf, and posture that says she's been to a lot of charity galas.
"It's such a pleasure to finally meet you all," Mrs. Kim says, hands clasped together. "We've heard so much about you."
Your mom bows, looking a bit nervous and very proud. They exchange slightly awkward, very earnest greetings. Mr. Kim shakes Jungkook's hand a little too firmly, sizing him up in that 'who is this handsome young man hovering near my future daughter-in-law' way.
"You must be Jungkook," Mrs. Kim says, smiling. "The famous maid of honor."
Jungkook's ears turn a subtle shade of red. "Uh...yeah. That's me."
"Well," she smiles kindly, "we are very grateful to you for looking after ___ all these years. She's a lovely young woman."
He smiles, small but sincere. "She sure is lovely."
You feel that hit you straight in the heart.
Namjoon starts explaining room assignments like a tour guide while showing everyone the rest of the downstairs area. "So! The house is big, but not infinite, so we had to get creative. My parents are in their bedroom. ___, you and I are in the second biggest room at the end of the hall upstairs. Your mom is two doors away. Everyone else is scattered along the same corridor and the one across."
He glances at Jungkook. "You're just down the hall from us. Second door on the right after the stairs. It's a bit small, but cozy."
Jungkook nods. "Sounds good."
You all traipse upstairs, suitcases bumping against the old wooden steps. The hallway is long and bright, with a runner rug and framed sketches on the walls, doors on either side and a big window at the far end.
Namjoon opens your room first, letting you step in. It looks like something out of an interior design magazine—light-grey walls, a big bed with a wrought iron frame and white linens, a window seat overlooking the garden, a little vanity in the corner. It's romantic without trying too hard.
"This is…" you start, turning in a circle to admire the whole room.
"Nice?" Namjoon offers.
"Insane," you chuckle. "In the best way."
He laughs and sets your suitcase down. "I'll let you settle in. I'm going to show Jungkook his room."
You nod, smiling over at him. "Okay. I'll just...freshen up."
Out in the hall, Jungkook waits with his duffel bag slung over his shoulder, acting very interested in a framed drawing of the house.
Namjoon gestures down the corridor. "Yours is here."
He opens the door to a smaller room—still nicer than any place Jungkook has ever stayed at voluntarily. There's a double bed, a desk, an armchair in the corner, and a small window that looks out over the back garden and fields beyond.
"Wow," Jungkook scoffs. "Horrible. Really. Just awful."
Namjoon chuckles. "Sorry we couldn't put you in the tower with the moat and the dragon. We're on a budget."
"I'll survive," Jungkook shrugs.
He drops his bag on the bed and steps back into the hallway, watching Namjoon disappear into your room at the very end with a flirtatious grin.
He stands there for a second, listening to the muffled sound of your laugh drift out when Namjoon says something he can't hear. He hates that you're close enough to hear yet too far to touch.
He takes a breath, shoves his hands into his pockets, and forces himself back into his room.
Wedding week has officially begun.
—
The house settles early the first night.
Jet lag hits everyone all at once, so after a big family dinner of roasted chicken and glazed vegetables, and Mrs. Kim insistently offering second helpings, people start peeling off to bed one by one.
Your mom disappears to her room to read her book for a while before hitting the sack. Mina and Jeongyeon head up to theirs as well, already talking about who gets the side of the bed closer to the outlet. Lisa announces she's "absolutely dead" and vanishes to get her beauty sleep.
You and Namjoon retreat to your room at the end of the hall too, the door closing behind you with a soft click and muffled conversation.
Jungkook feels restless. He scrolls aimlessly on his phone in his own room for a while, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling, listening to the quiet creaks of an old house adjusting to new guests. Before he knows it, it's already 1am. He can't settle down, probably because the countryside silence feels heavier than the city. No honking, no neon glow. Just the wind outside and the distant cry of some animal Jungkook assumes is a horse or a cow.
His muscles ache from travel, his brain buzzes, and he feels like he's still wearing three layers of airport air. It might be time for a shower.
He grabs his toiletry pouch and steps out into the hallway in search of the bathroom, which he finds after a minute or two.
The upstairs bathroom is big and old-fashioned, with vintage tiles, a clawfoot tub, and a glass shower. He locks the door, turns the water on hot, and lets himself stand under the spray until his skin turns flushed and the last remnants of airplane stiffness melt off him.
For a few blissful minutes, it's just steam and water and nothing else, his brain empty and his body relaxed. He scrubs his hair, washes the day off his body, and tries not to think about what you're up to in your bedroom at the end of the hall.
When he finally turns off the water and steps out, the mirror is completely fogged over. He towels his hair dry, then wraps the fabric low around his waist, water still dripping down his chest, feeling human for the first time all day.
He reaches for his toiletry bag, zipping it closed.
Then freezes.
He looks around the bathroom. The counter. The radiator. Hooks on the back of the door.
No underwear.
No pyjama pants.
Nothing but steam, tile, and one embarrassingly thin bath towel separating Jeon Jungkook from a public indecency charge in a rich person's house.
He closes his eyes, groaning. "Fuck."
For a second, he considers sleeping naked and calling it a night. But his room is down the hall, and this is not his house. With your mom and Namjoon's parents and you all sleeping within a twenty-step radius, that feels…deeply unsafe.
He takes a breath, tightening the knot on the towel.
His plan right now is just to move quickly and be quiet. No one's awake. No one will see. Three seconds from bathroom to bedroom, tops. He can do it.
He cracks the bathroom door open slowly, peeking out into the hallway. It's dim, the lights turned low. The house is quiet, just faint shadows and soft moonlight spilling through the window at the corridor's end.
He steps out carefully, bare feet silent on the wooden floor, every sense tuned to the possibility of a creak or a door opening.
Jungkook shuts the bathroom door behind him with a gentle click, his heart thudding, walking as if he might step on a landmine any second now.
Across the hall, you can't sleep. Your thoughts are buzzing—too many emotions, too many things happening all at once—and even with Namjoon peacefully dozing beside you, you feel a little…off. Not in a bad way, just restless. With the wedding days away and everyone settling into this picturesque countryside house that will soon be yours, everything's beginning to feel a bit surreal. You just want something familiar. So, like muscle memory, your brain goes to Jungkook. You always talk before bed—about the dumbest things or the deepest things or whatever floats to the surface—and for a second, you want to find him and just chat about absolutely nothing, the way you always do. Maybe it'll help you breathe a little easier. So, you slip out of bed quietly and open the door
You slip out in your nightgown, the wood cool under your feet. You pull the door shut behind you and turn, and your heart drops to your stomach the second you see him.
He's right there, halfway between the bathroom and his room. Hair wet and pushed back off his forehead, droplets of water running down his firm...broad chest. A thin towel slung low around his hips, his v-line teasing your brain to wonder what rests lower. Bare arms, bare shoulders, bare abs, everything on display.
You both freeze. For a second, no one moves or even breathes.
His eyes go wide. Your hand stays on your doorknob like it's the only thing keeping you upright. The hallway suddenly feels ridiculously small.
Your mouth falls open before your brain catches up. "What are you—"
He blinks. "I, uh...I...forgot my pyjamas." He gestures weakly toward his door. "Took a shower, didn't plan ahead, I guess."
Right. Clothes. That's a thing most people wear.
You reluctantly drag your gaze back up to his face, trying very hard not to look at all the wet, warm, very naked skin before you.
"Oh," you murmur. Your voice comes out a little breathless. "Well. Congratulations on…basic hygiene."
He huffs out a tiny, nervous laugh, rubbing the back of his neck, his bicep muscles flexing.
You want to scream.
"And you?" he asks quickly, desperate to focus on literally anything other than his little predicament. "Why are you out of bed? Thought you'd be dead asleep already."
Your brain scrambles.
"I was just—" you pause, trying to come up with a lie. "Going to…get a glass of water."
He nods slowly. "Of course. Water. Very responsible."
You're close enough to see the droplets of warm water on his expertly carved collarbones, close enough to notice how the veins in his forearms stand out when he grips the edge of his towel a little tighter. His bedroom door is a few steps ahead of him and yours is right behind you, but neither of you have moved yet.
You are an engaged woman. You are in your fiancé's family's home. You are absolutely not thinking about ripping that towel from your best friend's hips while your fiancé is asleep ten feet away.
You tear your gaze away as if it burns to look at him, your heart absolutely hammering against your ribcage. "Well...uhm...enjoy your…underwear."
He scoffs, his cheeks blooming with a red flush. "That's...that's not a sentence we ever have to say again."
You nod, refusing to look back at him.
"Goodnight, Jungkook," you whisper, because you can't trust yourself to stand there another second.
"Night," he mutters softly.
You duck back into your room, shutting the door a little too quickly, leaning your back against it as if holding back a wave of emotions.
The room is quiet and peaceful, a stark contrast to the situation going on in your chest...and frankly speaking; between your legs.
Namjoon is still asleep on his side of the bed, one arm curled under the pillow, breathing slow and even.
You press a hand to your chest, feeling your heart do somersaults.
It was just surprising, that's all. You've seen him shirtless before. You've been on beach trips, and you've seen him in even worse states in university dorms. This is just jet lag and wedding stress. And a lot of confusing hormones you haven't felt in a while.
Except your skin feels too tight and your stomach is twisting and your brain is replaying the image of him in the hallway over and over like a glitching loop.
Towel. Droplets. Muscles. His startled eyes. The way he looked at you like he didn't know where to put his hands.
Guilt pricks at you immediately. You have a fiancé—a very loving fiancé who you are very much attracted to. A fiancé you would much rather channel this sexual frustration into.
Perhaps to also mask the guilt eating you alive? You're not sure.
You push off the door and carefully crawl back into bed, looking down at Namjoon's sleeping face. His lashes rest upon the tops of his cheeks, his mouth slightly parted. He looks so peaceful, so dry and clothed.
"Joon," you whisper, reaching out to gently touch his shoulder. "Baby, wake up."
He stirs, his eyelids slowly fluttering. "Mm…what time is it?" he mumbles, his eyebrows furrowing.
"Late," you murmur. "Sorry. I just…"
He peers blearily at you, slowly rubbing his eyes. "Is everything okay?"
You hesitate, the guilt blooming fiercely in the pit of your stomach.
"I'm fine," you murmur quickly. "I just…can't sleep."
He shifts, trying to sit up a little, still very groggy. "Do you need tea? Or melatonin? I can—"
You cut him off with a kiss.
He startles for a second, then kisses you back slowly, still half-asleep. You deepen it, your fingers curling in his t-shirt, trying to drown out the lingering phantom image of Jungkook in the hallway with something real. Something that belongs to you.
Namjoon pulls back just enough to ask, "Sweetheart…what's gotten into you?"
"Let's have sex," you whisper against his mouth, blunt because if you're not, you'll overthink it and crash back into a guilty spiral.
His brows raise. "Right now? It's the middle of the night."
"I know," you mumble, a hand sliding under his shirt, searching for warmth. "I just…I'm really excited for the wedding. My brain's all worked up and I can't sleep and I just…want you."
You hear yourself lie and you hate how easy it sounds.
He softens, the confusion in his expression melting into something fond and pleased. "Yeah?" he chuckles softly. "You're really that excited?"
You nod, kissing along his jaw. "Yeah...'m so excited, baby..."
He laughs quietly, sleep fading from his voice as his hands find your waist. "God, I love you."
You swing a leg over his lap to straddle him and lower your mouth to his once more, trying to convince yourself that if you pour all this restless energy into the man you're going to marry, the noise in your head will quiet. At least for tonight.
Your mouths move slow and insistent, your hands braced on either side of his head. He tastes like sleep and warmth, like safety and a lifetime of stability. He lets out a small, pleased moan against your mouth when you adjust your hips and press down against his crotch, just enough to feel the thick outline of his cock through his pyjama pants.
"Mm," he hums, his lips curving into a sleepy smile. "This is one way to wake a man up."
You huff a breath of laughter into the kiss, but your chest feels tight. You don't want to think. You don't want to see a hallway or a towel around a slender waist or familiar brown eyes in your head. You just want something simple.
Your fingers trail down his chest, over the thin cotton of his shirt, until they reach his stomach. You feel the muscles there twitch slightly as you slip your hand lower, brushing over the soft fabric of his pants, finding him already starting to harden beneath your palm.
He inhales sharply. "Baby…"
You pull back just enough to look at him, your thumb rubbing a slow circle over his cock head through his pyjama pants.
"Can I make you feel good?" you whisper, slowly palming him.
"Yeah," he nods, his voice a little hoarse. His hand slides up your thigh, his fingers squeezing gently. "Do whatever you want to do."
You lean down to kiss him again—slower and deeper—before you start to shift back. His hands glide along your sides as you move, as if he doesn't want to let you go too far away.
You slip down his body, your knees sliding along the sheets, your nightgown riding up your legs as you go. You press small, distracting kisses along his chest and stomach through his shirt, feeling him tense and relax under your lips, under your palms.
By the time you settle between his legs, he's fully awake and almost fully hard as well.
He lifts his head a little to look down at you, his eyes dark, hair messy, t-shirt rumpled. There's so much trust in his expression it makes your heart twist.
You lower your gaze to how tight the fabric of his pants is, the way he shifts slightly as you rub his cock through the pyjamas. You take your time, working him through the thin cotton, exactly how you know he likes it when you're easing him into the moment instead of rushing it.
His head falls back against the pillow with a quiet exhale. "Is this gonna be a regular thing once we're married?" he chuckles faintly.
You don't answer. Instead, you tug his waistband down, watching as his hard-on springs free against his lower belly, thick and aching to be licked and sucked on.
"Take your time," he breathes. "You know I love it when you—"
You do.
You take his length into your hand and lift it to press a slow, tender kiss to the tip, then another, and another, your tongue peeking out to gently tease the sensitive underside of the head before puckering your lips and letting your spit dribble down his shaft.
"Just relax and let me make you feel good," you smile, getting to work.
You stroke him slowly at first—just enough to let the anticipation stretch and simmer between you. Your thumb circles the head, mixing your spit with his precum as you jerk him off. Your eyes remain on his face, watching as he sucks in a sharp breath, surrendering to you completely.
Namjoon takes ahold of your chin, lightly trailing his thumb along your bottom lip and slowly, deliberately, pushes it past your lips. He watches as you lick the digit, sinfully wrapping your lips around it while you pump your fist along his cock, twisting your wrist at the tip, feeling his precum coat your palm. Your tongue curls around his thumb, sucking just enough to make his breath hitch sharply.
"Fuck, I love you," Namjoon whispers, letting out a soft moan when you replace his thumb with the head of his cock, your lips wrapping around it delicately.
You meant to say it back, but for some reason you just can't right now, so you focus on something you can do—sucking him off.
"Oh my...f-fuck—" His voice breaks, turning into a gasp as you swirl your tongue around the swollen pink tip, sucking. "That's it. Just like that."
Your left hand drifts down your own body, slipping between your thighs, your fingers rubbing your clit through the thin fabric of your panties. You moan softly against him at the contact, hips rocking just a little.
Namjoon notices instantly.
"Are you touching yourself?" he moans, lifting his head enough to watch.
You nod, taking his cock deeper into your mouth, your throat growing tighter at the stretch. You concentrate on feeling good, on making him feel good, fighting the urge to disappear into your own head again. This is about him. About you and him, no one else.
"Shit…" His hand trails through your hair, gently massaging your scalp, his fat cock sitting heavily on your tongue, the mushroom head brushing along the walls of your throat. "You're so fuckin' sexy."
You moan at the praise, the vibration sending a sharp shudder through him. His hips jerk involuntarily, his breath coming out in broken gasps as you suck him a bit harder.
Every quiet moan he lets out feels like fuel. Every soft curse. Every whispered please. Every time his fingers twitch against your scalp while your lips move up and down his thick shaft sends shockwaves through your aching pussy, making your hole clench.
You hollow your cheeks and bob your head, focusing on breathing through your nose to avoid gagging. Your panties are wet and slightly uncomfortable, but you can't find it in yourself to care when his cock hits the back of your throat so deliciously.
"Fuck, ___," Namjoon whimpers softly, fighting to keep his hips from thrusting up into your throat. "That feels...a-amazing—"
He tries to stay quiet for the sake of decency, of the old house and the family sleeping down the hall, but a low groan still slips out when your left hand leaves your pussy to wrap around the base of his cock, stroking what you can't fit into your mouth before sliding it down to massage his heavy balls.
"Sweetheart, I…" His voice cracks, his fingers flexing against your scalp. "I'm so close…"
You feel the moment he gets close to cumming—the way his breath stutters, the way his hand tightens in your hair, the way his hips threaten to thrust before he forces them still.
"___," he warns softly, his voice strained. "Oh fuck, I'm gonna—"
You pull back before he can finish his sentence, wiping your mouth as you watch his chest rise and fall, his cock twitching against his lower belly, the tip red and glistening, begging for release.
"That was so mean," Namjoon chuckles weakly, feeling his orgasm slowly slipping from his reach. "I was so close to cumming."
"Oh, 'm sorry, baby," you smile, crawling back up his body, bracing your hands on either side of his shoulders. "I want you to cum in my pussy, not my mouth. Is that okay with you?"
His eyes light up at that, the corners of his lips twitching. "Oh...o-okay...please proceed..."
He's still catching his breath when you swing your leg back over his hips, settling into his lap again. His hands immediately find your thighs, sliding up under your nightgown, thumbs stroking over warm skin like he can't stand to not touch you.
You hike the silky fabric up around your hips, bunching it at your waist with practiced motions. Your panties drag against your skin as you hook your fingers in the elastic and pull them aside, baring your wet folds to him.
Namjoon's gaze drops to your pussy, his throat working as he swallows. His hands shift, one gripping your hip, the other lightly kneading your asscheek.
"You sure?" he asks, his voice low, his eyes meeting yours.
You nod, kissing down the column of his neck while you reach between your bodies to line him up. "I need you, Joon."
You sink onto him slowly and a shudder rolls through his spine, his strong arms tightening around you as he gasps out your name, his breath catching in his throat.
"Fuuuck," he groans, his head tipping back. "You're so warm and...tight...fuck—you feel so good."
You pause once you reach the base of his cock, your chest rising and falling as you adjust to his size, the stretch sweet and satisfying.
His hands grip your thighs, desperate and helpless, trying not to thrust up into you too quickly. He's already trembling, his resolve paper-thin.
"Please," Namjoon whispers, his hips twitching, "you have to move. I can't take it...feels too good."
You roll your hips slow and deep and his eyes squeeze shut at the pleasure of having your pussy wrapped around his cock, his thick shaft fitting nice and snug, your clit grinding against his pelvis.
He's a lot more submissive and pliable when he's a bit tired, let's you do whatever you want with him.
"Fuck—"
You rock your hips, your wet folds dragging along his cock at a steady rhythm, your hands pressed to his chest, his muscles taut under your touch. His eyes are half-closed, lips parted, whispering breathless praises that hit you like sparks.
"You're so sexy," you breathe, moving your hips in a slow, sensual grind. "Always so sweet for me. You love when I use you like this, don't you, baby?"
He groans again, his cheeks flushed, his fingers digging into your thighs. "Yes, my love. I love it—I love you."
You lean down and kiss him again, this time deeper—your tongue licking into his mouth as you fuck yourself down onto him harder, your thighs starting to shake.
"God, I love your pussy," he breathes, fighting to stay composed as your inner walls suck him in repeatedly, leaking down to his balls.
You rock your hips a little harder, a little deeper, your lips parting at the way the thick, familiar sensation curls through your belly. Each slide up and down his cock makes a wet squelching sound, making your walls clench around him.
You don't speed up much; you don't need to. The slow, steady pace feels almost overwhelming on its own, each stroke drawn out and thorough. It gives you time to enjoy the heat and pressure, the way every small shift changes the angle, the pleasure of having him inside you.
You focus on Namjoon's hands on your thighs and hips, his voice whimpering and moaning as you rise and sink back down on him again, the way his chest rises and falls beneath your palms.
You tell yourself that this is right. That this is how it's supposed to be.
You ride him with determination, your eyebrows furrowing and your eyes falling shut as you chase your high, the pleasure growing tight in your core, your toes curling as the tip of his cock nudges your sweet spot over and over.
"Ju—baby, I'm c-cumming—" you gasp, feeling the coil in your gut start to unravel.
When the pleasure finally crests, it comes like a tidal wave—rising rapidly and crashing over you. You let your head fall forward into the crook of his neck, fingers curling into his shirt, your hips stuttering as your pussy clenches and pulses, your orgasm consuming you completely.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck—" Namjoon breathes, wrapping his arms around you in a tight embrace.
You feel him tense beneath you a moment later. He lets out a broken, desperate moan—your name and a curse all wrapped into one—as he bucks up into you with trembling thighs, spilling deep inside you.
You cling to him a little tighter, squeezing your eyes shut as he thrusts up into you to empty himself in your pussy, chasing the last of his high before his limbs slowly fall limp beneath you.
"Shit," Namjoon whispers breathlessly, chuckling. "Feel free to wake me up like that anytime."
You chuckle softly, slowly mustering up the strength to lift your hips and let his cock slide out of you, collapsing onto your back next to him.
"C'mere," he mumbles, turning to wrap his arms around your waist, but you're already getting up to go to the en-suite to clean yourself up.
"Where are you going?"
"To clean up," you mumble, walking away on weak legs. "Your cum's already starting to leak out of me."
He smiles over at you with sleepy eyes, looking far too comfortable to get up. "Run us a bath. I'll come join you in a little bit."
You look back at him, nodding before disappearing into the bathroom.
While you wipe yourself clean, you feel your heart race, your chest growing tight as the realisation hits you that in that last blinding rush—right when your body tensed and your orgasm hit—it wasn't Namjoon's face your mind conjured.
It was damp hair and big brown eyes. A hallway. A white towel hanging too low on narrow hips. It was Jungkook in that moment, Jungkook's body beneath you, Jungkook's cock inside of you.
You squeeze your eyes shut, guilt slamming into you so hard it actually hurts.
You fill the bathtub with hot water and some nearby bath salts. When you get in, the water is too hot—your skin practically on fire—but it's what you feel you deserve. You sit in the hot water and reflect on what just happened, Jungkook's face blurring with Namjoon's in your brain.
He comes to join you a little while later, getting in behind you and pulling you to rest your back against his chest, his arms wrapping around your waist. He trails his fingers along your stomach under the water, completely unaware of the storm in your head.
"I love you," he whispers into your hair, pressing a kiss to your temple. "I can't wait to marry you."
You swallow, your throat feeling tight.
"Love you too," you murmur, your voice quiet and airy, your eyes distant as they stare at nothing in particular.
You can't wait to marry Namjoon. You just…really wish you hadn't cum with someone else's face echoing in the back of your mind.
The house is surprisingly quiet at 8am for how many people are crammed into it.
You can hear faint sounds far off—footsteps on gravel outside, muffled laughter from one of the sitting rooms, a door closing somewhere upstairs—but down here in the kitchen, it's just you, Namjoon, and a rather obscene amount of breakfast.
The kitchen looks like it was pulled out of a magazine spread; big farmhouse table, copper pots hanging from a rack, a huge window over the sink letting in pale English sunlight and a view of the garden.
On the table between you sits a full English breakfast. Eggs, bacon, breakfast sausage, grilled tomatoes, mushrooms, toast, beans in a little dish. Namjoon insisted that you have the full experience but you ended up cooking almost everything because, well, his cooking skills only goes up to opening the tin of beans.
You spear a bit of tomato with your fork, trying to ignore the nagging guilt curled up like a stone in your stomach from last night.
"So," Namjoon says casually as he reaches for the jam to spread across his toast. "My mum heard back from the last of the RSVPs."
You brighten. "Oh, great. Do we finally have a final number?"
"Yeah." He spreads his jam, staring down at the toast. "It's a bit more than we originally thought, but everything's sorted. You don't have to worry."
You pause. "How much more?"
He shrugs, taking a bite of his toast. "Like…eighty? Maybe ninety more."
You stare at him. "More?"
He glances up, a little sheepish but mostly unbothered. "Her friends, some extended family, a couple of business people from the distillery. Sponsors. That sort of thing."
Your fork lowers slowly. "Joon, we planned for…like...one hundred max. Just close family and friends."
"I know," he says quickly. "And we're still covered. My mum's taken care of all of it. Extra tables, extra chairs, catering adjustments. You really don't need to stress about it."
"That's not the point," you mumble, trying to keep your voice even. "I just…didn't know. And I thought we agreed on something small."
He gives you an apologetic look, taking a bite of his eggs. "It's still small. For my parents, this is small. You know how they are. And they're helping with the cost, so..."
You pick at a piece of your bacon, trying not to sulk. "I just wanted it to feel…like us. Not like your mom's event."
"It will feel like us, darling," he insists, reaching for his coffee. "You'll see. There'll just be…more eyes appreciating how gorgeous you look."
You let out a soft exhale, not quite a sigh, and take a bite you don't really taste.
There's a brief lull; just the clink of cutlery, the crackle of the fire in the corner.
"Oh, and," he adds casually, like he's mentioning the weather, "I talked to the caterers yesterday. We swapped the main for the reception dinner."
You look up from your plate, letting out a real sigh this time. "Swapped what?"
"Instead of salmon, it's steak now," he smiles. "Fillet. With some kind of jus. It sounded good."
You blink, your lips parting. "Wait. We…what?"
He frowns slightly, confused by your tone. "We just changed the main. It's not a big deal."
You set your fork down slowly, your eyes trained on him. "I asked for salmon."
"I know," he sighs. "But most people prefer steak. Especially with drinking. It made more sense. They'll probably still have a fish option for people who ask."
"The bride is people," you scoff. "You know I don't like red meat that much."
He smiles, trying to make it light. "Just this once, ___. It's one dinner. You can eat fish every other day of your life. Let the guests have steak."
You feel something in your jaw tick.
"It's not about the steak," you mutter quietly. "I just wish you'd told me before you changed it. That's all."
He reaches across the table and caresses your wrist. "I didn't want to bother you with every little decision. You have enough on your plate."
You nod, but it doesn't quite settle right. Your plate doesn't feel very full right now. It feels…taken over.
The kitchen door swings then, letting in a brief draft of cooler air.
Jungkook steps in, his hair still a little mussed from sleep, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt that clings to his chest in a way you're still trying not to think about. He pauses in the doorway when he sees you two at the table.
"Morning," he murmurs, his voice rough with leftover sleep.
"Hey," you mumble, feeling grateful for the distraction. "There's food. These people eat a feast for breakfast."
"Perfect," he grins, scratching his head, messing up his hair even further. Not that you think it has ever looked bad.
He moves to the counter to pour himself some coffee, but his eyes flick back to you and Namjoon, picking up on the weird stiffness in the air.
"So...your mom invited how many extra people exactly?" you ask Namjoon, unable to stop yourself.
He sighs, rubbing his eyes with his hands. "Sweetheart, we've talked about this. It's all handled."
"We didn't talk about this," you scoff. "We talked about wanting it to feel small and intimate."
Jungkook's shoulders tense almost imperceptibly as he pours his coffee.
"And the steak thing—" you start.
"Can we not do menu planning first thing in the morning?" Namjoon groans, growing a little frustrated. "We have meetings all week. I promise, it's going to be fine."
You open your mouth, then shut it, avoiding the argument you would much rather have.
Jungkook grabs his mug, takes a sip of the coffee, and wanders over to your side of the table. He glances at your plate, then at you.
"Are you gonna eat that?" he asks casually, nodding at one of the sausages.
You sigh, shrugging. "Probably not."
"Fantastic," he smiles, and with the ease of a thousand shared meals, he leans in and picks it up off your plate.
You don't even flinch. Just watch him do it, familiar warmth cutting through the tension for half a second.
Namjoon's hand stills around his coffee cup. He doesn't say anything, doesn't make a scene, but there's the tiniest pause. A blink. A flicker of something in his eyes as he watches your best friend casually steal food from your plate like it's the most natural thing in the world.
He clears his throat. "Help yourself, Jungkook."
"Thanks," Jungkook nods, popping the sausage into his mouth. He chews, then tilts his head. "These are good. If I lived here I'd be three times my current size."
"You'd jog it off," you say automatically. "You'd force me to run with you and then laugh when I almost die."
"You say that like it hasn't improved your stamina," he shoots back.
You snort. "Debatable."
Namjoon watches the back-and-forth, sipping his coffee. He doesn't interrupt, but you feel the difference—where you and Jungkook flow, his edges are cleaner, firmer. He believes in lines. In plates you don't touch. In decisions that stay made once he's made them.
Jungkook settles into the chair beside you, coffee in one hand, fork in the other, and steals a grilled mushroom this time too.
"So," he murmurs, glancing between you and Namjoon, "what did I miss? Just woke up and felt a disturbance in the wedding force."
"Just guest lists and menu tweaks," Namjoon smiles, but it's a bit forced. "Nothing major."
You look down at your plate—the eggs now cold, the bacon no longer crispy.
"Right," you mumble softly. "Nothing major."
Jungkook doesn't call it out.
But he doesn't miss it either.
—
The afternoon rolls in slowly, the sky turning a milky grey.
You're in the garden with Mina and Jeongyeon, bundled in light jackets as you wander the grounds—admiring the rose bushes, peeking into the greenhouse, laughing at Lisa trying to get a good selfie with a very unbothered stone lion.
Namjoon's cousins and a couple of his old school friends arrive in twos and threes, all tall and broad and annoyingly wholesome-looking, with those rich British laughs and muddy trainers. There are back slaps, hugs and loud greetings.
Someone mentions touch-rugby and suddenly everyone starts getting riled up.
"We always play when we're here," one of Namjoon's cousins says, a rugby ball tucked under his arm. "Good way to burn off breakfast."
Another pipes up, "The lawn's perfect today too. Not too wet."
Before long, there's a loose group drifting toward the wide stretch of grass beyond the house—Namjoon, a few of his cousins, two of his university classmates, and, inevitably, Jungkook.
He trails after them, hands in his pockets, eyeing the oval ball suspiciously.
"I don't think I'll be any good," he mutters as you and Mina lag behind the pack, heading toward the edge of the field. "These dudes look like they eat whole cows for dinner."
"You'll be fine," you smile, bumping his shoulder. "You're good at everything. It's annoying."
"Basketball is not rugby," he throws back. "Rugby looks like American football decided to join a gang."
"It's touch-rugby, it's not half as dangerous. And you don't have to play," you offer. "You can sit with us and provide running commentary."
He considers it. He actually does, embarrassingly.
Then one of Namjoon's friends looks back and grins. "You joining, mate?"
There's a challenge in the question. Friendly, sure, but Jungkook hears it loud and clear.
He straightens. "Yeah. Maybe. Just…gonna watch a round first."
"Fair," the guy chuckles. "You'll pick it up quick."
You, Mina, Jeongyeon, and Lisa settle on the sidelines, perching on a low stone wall overlooking the grass. It's a great vantage point; a clear view of the whole improvised pitch.
Namjoon peels off his jumper and tosses it carelessly in your direction. You catch it and put it in your lap, the familiar scent of his cologne wrapping around you.
Jungkook sheds his hoodie too, tugging it over his head and dropping it next to your feet before jogging a few paces onto the grass, far enough to observe without committing.
You resolutely do not look at the way his t-shirt rides up when he pulls the hoodie off, exposing a flash of taut stomach.
One of the cousins does a quick rundown of teams—no tackling, just touch, light contact, nothing too wild. They stretch, shake out their arms, pass the ball around.
The game starts and Jungkook watches intently from the side lines—how they pass backward, how they run in arcs, how they dodge and weave. There's shouting, laughing, a couple of close calls with near-collisions and one very dramatic dive that results in grass stains and loud groaning.
You glance at Jungkook occasionally.
He's tense at first, posture defensive, arms crossed tight over his chest, but slowly, something in him shifts. You can practically see the athletic brain kicking in: eyes tracking movement, gauging speed, reading spacing. The hesitation is still there, but curiosity starts slipping in.
Beside you, Mina whistles when one of Namjoon's cousins sprints down the field, weaving between players and grounding the ball at the far end. "Damn. He's fast."
"Am I allowed to say British men suddenly got hotter?" Jeongyeon grins.
Lisa snorts, shaking her head. "You're married."
"Not blind," Jeongyeon mumbles.
You laugh, but your eyes drift back to Jungkook. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, running his tongue over his teeth, watching the play reset. Someone calls his name.
"Jungkook! You in next game?"
He hesitates.
'You really don't have to' is on the tip of your tongue, but you bite it back. He hates feeling like the odd one out.
He glances at you and you just raise your brows.
"Well?" you call out. "Gonna sit here and look pretty or actually play?"
His mouth curves. "You think I look pretty?"
"That's not the point."
"It is to me," he mutters under his breath, then takes a few steps forward towards the group
"I'll join the next match!" he calls. "Just…don't kill me."
Namjoon grins, a little flushed from running. "We'll go easy on you. Maybe."
"Zero faith," Jungkook mutters, but his eyes are already scanning the field, mapping out where he could fit into this unfamiliar dance.
He cracks his knuckles, rolls his shoulders back, and starts jogging in place to warm up, feeling both wildly out of his element and stubbornly determined not to look like it.
A fish out of water? Definitely. But Jeon Jungkook has never met a game he didn't try to win.
The second match starts with a debate over teams, which somehow turns into shirts vs. skins, which is also how you end up watching your fiancé and your best friend strip in front of you like this is some sexy sports calendar.
Namjoon pulls his t-shirt off, laughing as one of his cousins makes a comment about his muscles. He looks good—solid, lean, familiar. You smile and wolf-whistle just to embarrass him. He shakes his head fondly, his cheeks pink.
Then Jungkook peels his own shirt off.
Your brain does a little Windows error noise.
He yanks the fabric over his head in one smooth motion, the muscles in his arms and back flexing with the movement. The afternoon light hits his chest—broad, defined, a light sheen of sweat already making his skin glow. His stomach is all cut lines and hard planes, abs contracting as he tosses the shirt in your direction. There's a hint of that stupid, distracting happy trail disappearing into his shorts, and his thighs—
Yeah. His thighs should not be allowed in public.
He jogs into position, and you have to physically remind your tongue to stay in your mouth.
You tear your eyes away and clap your hands. "Let's go!" you call out. "No concussions! I don't have time to fill out hospital forms!"
The whistle—or Namjoon's loud cousin yelling "GO"—blows, and the game kicks off.
You start out watching Namjoon. You track the way he runs, the way he calls out to his teammates, the concentration in his face. You cheer when he makes a clean pass, when he evades a tag, when he laughs after nearly colliding with one of his friends.
But gradually—inevitably—your gaze drifts.
To Jungkook, of course.
He looks like he was born to do this, which is annoying because he literally learned the rules thirty minutes ago. His movements are quick and explosive, instincts kicking in even if the tactics are new. He figures out the backward pass like it's nothing, darting in and out of space, reading people's momentum and cutting across angles like he's been doing it for years.
The first time he really opens up into a sprint, you feel your heart race.
His legs power across the grass, thighs flexing under his shorts, calves working, his whole body a smooth line of speed. He tucks the ball in, leans into a turn, and you swear you can feel the wind shift from where you're sitting.
"Holy shit," Jeongyeon mutters, watching him. "Okay, I get why you liked him back in university."
"Shut up," you mumble, but your lips twitch.
There's a lot of shouting and a fair bit of swearing, but it's all friendly. Someone yells that Namjoon's offside. Someone else yells that he doesn't even know what offside is. There's light shoving, a couple of dramatic falls onto the grass, someone getting tagged a little too hard and pretending to be mortally wounded.
Jungkook takes a bump, stumbles, laughs it off, and then five minutes later, he's the one doing the tagging, hand slapping onto a cousin's shoulder as he lunges, muscles flexing.
He scores his first try almost by accident—grabs a pass, sees the gap, goes for it.
You hold your breath as he bolts down the makeshift pitch, someone lunging for his arm and missing by a hair's breadth. For a moment, it's just him and open grass. He drops the ball over the line, breathless and grinning.
You whoop, clapping hard. "Let's gooo!"
The other team groans. Someone yells, "He's never played before, this is rigged!"
Jungkook jogs back, his cheeks flushed, his hair sticking a little to his forehead, chest rising and falling. He looks toward the wall and catches your eye, and you're already looking at him.
A tingle runs through your spine, traitorous and uninvited. You rip your gaze away, pretending to adjust your jacket.
Two guys on the shirts team hurt their ankle and knee, so Namjoon decides to switch teams to balance things out, now playing against Jungkook. The game intensifies after that. More competitiveness, more smack talk.
"Thought you said you'd go easy on the new guy," one cousin chuckles, stretching his shoulder.
"He doesn't need it," Namjoon calls back, a hint of a grin there. "Clearly."
Jungkook scores again late in the game—a beautiful little play where he supports a teammate, takes a backward pass at full speed, and cuts inside two defenders. When he grounds the ball this time, he lets out a loud whoop, fist pumping the air.
You laugh, clapping again, and this time you don't even pretend you're just cheering for everyone.
Mina elbows you lightly. "If you drool any harder, they'll have to hose down the lawn."
You glare at her, your face burning hot. "I am supporting my best friend."
"Sure," she nods. "With full-body enthusiasm."
By the time they call it, Jungkook's team is ahead.
Everyone gathers in a huffing, puffing circle, hands on hips, sprawled on the grass. A cousin declares that his lungs have given out. Someone else complains about being too old for this at thirty-two. Namjoon flops onto his back for a second, staring at the sky, chest heaving.
Jungkook stands there, hands on his knees, grinning like a maniac.
"Alright," Namjoon mutters, pushing himself up and clapping his hands together. "We're officially even."
Jungkook looks over, still catching his breath. "Even?"
"Basketball," Namjoon reminds him. "I won that game. You won today. Balance restored."
Jungkook scoffs. "I can live with that."
He glances instinctively toward the wall where you're sitting.
You're talking to Mina, but he notices the way your eyes flick to him more than once, the quick way you look away when you realise he's looking back. There's something in your expression—pride, amusement, something else he doesn't let himself define.
Namjoon notices too.
He's not blind. He sees the way your gaze lingered during the game, how loudly you cheered when Jungkook scored, the way your whole face lit up. He tells himself you're just impressed. Jungkook's good at basically everything; of course it's…impressive.
Of course it feels weird to watch his fiancée watch someone else like that, but he pushes the thought down.
As everyone starts to drift off the field—laughing, groaning, arguing about rules they definitely made up—Jungkook jogs toward you.
He's still very shirtless, his skin gleaming with sweat, his chest rising and falling, his hair pushed back messily from his forehead. You're mid-laugh at something Mina said when his shadow falls over you.
"Did you see that last try?" he pants, grinning, his eyes bright. "Tell me you saw it."
You open your mouth to tease him, but you barely get a sound out before he hooks his arms around your waist and hauls you off the low wall like you weigh nothing.
"Jungkook—!" you squeal, instinctively looping your arms around his shoulders as he spins you in a quick circle.
The world blurs—grass, sky, house—and for a second it's just you and him and the feeling of his solid, sweaty body pressed against yours, your laughter ringing out across the lawn. You can smell grass and soap and victory. Your fingers curl a little tighter at the back of his neck without thinking.
He slows and sets you back down carefully, his hands lingering at your waist half a beat too long. "MVP, right?" he grins, still breathless, eyes searching yours.
You're still smiling, your cheeks warm. "You did good," you nod, soft but sincere. "Show-off."
He's about to say something back when Namjoon appears at your side, his jumper pulled on, damp hair curling a little at his temples.
"Well, clearly I've been replaced," he says lightly, sliding an arm around your shoulders. "My fiancée's running off with the star player."
"You lost," you remind him, bumping him with your hip. "Consequences."
He hums, exaggeratedly thoughtful. "Hmm. I think I need something to make me feel better then."
Before you can ask what, he tilts your chin up and kisses you. It's playful on the surface—smiling, lingering just long enough to make a point—but there's an undertone there, something a touch sharper. His cousins immediately pick up on it.
"Oii, get a room!" one calls.
"That's a husband right there!" another calls out loudly, laughing.
Namjoon deepens the kiss for half a second, just enough that you feel a little dizzy when he pulls away. He tucks you closer under his arm, looking over your head at Jungkook with a faintly smug little curve to his mouth.
"Better," he declares.
Jungkook's face is carefully neutral. Too neutral.
"Congrats on the win, man," Namjoon adds, his tone light. "You were great out there."
"Yeah," Jungkook mutters, forcing a half-smile. "You too."
He wipes his hands on his shorts, suddenly very aware of the sweat drying on his skin, of the way you're tucked into Namjoon's side now instead of his arms. The moment from thirty seconds ago already feels like it happened on a different planet.
"I'm gonna go, uh…clean up," he murmurs, jerking his chin toward the house.
"Don't use up all the hot water!" one cousin yells after him.
He lifts a hand in acknowledgment without turning around and heads back up toward the house, his jaw tight, the roar of his own heartbeat louder than the lingering laughter behind him.
Namjoon leans in to kiss your temple, watching Jungkook leave. "You cold?" he asks, pressing another kiss to your cheek.
You smile up at him, slightly startled out of your thoughts. "I'm okay."
"Come inside soon," he mutters, pressing one last peck to your lips. "We can take a shower together and I'll make some tea."
The rest of the week passes in a blur of champagne tastings, final dress fittings, family dinners, and last-minute flower arrangements. The countryside air is calm and tranquil, the evenings filled with autumn breeze and the distant sound of laughter drifting through the house. You barely have a moment to breathe, let alone check in with yourself, swept up in a whirlwind of family and friends and 'I can't believe you're getting married's.
Jungkook, for his part, keeps trying to pull you aside—to tell you how he feels, to try and sway you—but each time he gathers the nerve, someone calls your name, or Namjoon appears at your side, or another task whisks you away. With every missed opportunity, Jungkook finds himself spiraling further into frustration, torn between fighting for you and respecting your happiness.
By the end of the week, he's at a loss, clinging to the hope that maybe—just maybe—he'll get one last shot to say what he needs to say before you get married in less than 24 hours.
The air feels heavier the night before the wedding—less laughter drifting through the living room, fewer footsteps in the hallway as everyone rests for the big day.
You're brushing your teeth in the en-suite when Namjoon comes into the room, already half-changed for bed. He pauses in the doorway, rubbing at the back of his neck like he's about to tell you something mildly embarrassing.
"Hey, sweetheart," he murmurs gently.
You spit, rinse, and glance at him through the mirror. "Hmm?"
He hesitates. "Mum asked me to sleep downstairs tonight."
You blink, your eyebrows raising. "What?"
"Yeah," he sighs, giving you a helpless little smile. "She's big on…traditions. The night before the wedding, no sleeping together, all that. It's bad luck, apparently."
You stare at him for a second, then let out a short laugh. "That's the silliest thing I've ever heard."
"I know." He crosses the room, coming up behind you and resting his hands lightly on your hips. "But it's one night. It'll make her happy."
You meet his eyes in the mirror. He looks calm, steady. Like this is all simple. You want to borrow that steadiness.
"Fine," you mumble, because you don't want to start anything tonight. Not with the wedding in the morning. "Go appease your mother."
He kisses your temple, smiling. "I'll see you in the morning, yeah?"
"Yeah," you whisper. "In the morning."
He lingers for a beat, like he wants to say more, then seems to decide against it. He grabs his phone from the nightstand and slips out, quiet as possible, leaving the room smelling like his cologne and the faint sweetness of the candle you lit earlier.
The door clicks shut and suddenly you're alone once again.
You get into bed a little while later and stare up at the ceiling. At first you tell yourself it's just nerves. Anyone would be restless the night before their wedding. Anyone would feel a little floaty, like they're standing on the edge of a cliff and trying not to look down.
You shift onto your side, fluff the pillow and close your eyes. Your brain, however, refuses to shut up. It replays moments from the week like a highlight reel you didn't ask for—Namjoon's mom gently taking over decisions, the guest list ballooning, the steak over the salmon, the way Namjoon waved you off, insisting it would all be fine.
It's not even that any of those things are unforgivable. It's just…small cracks you can't stop noticing once you've seen them.
And then, because your brain is cruel, it shows you other things. Jungkook in the hallway in a towel. Jungkook on the rugby field, shirtless, laughing. Jungkook's voice that day in Seoul, saying he doesn't know how to be him without you.
Your chest tightens. You squeeze your eyes shut and try to breathe. This is ridiculous. You love Namjoon. He is good. He is kind. He has made you feel comfortable the moment you met him and he adores you in a way you've always dreamed about.
So why do you feel like you might throw up?
You sit up abruptly, pushing the covers down. Your heart thuds, not from excitement—something sharper, more panicked. You need to talk to someone. Not your mom or Mina or Jeongyeon. Not even Namjoon.
You need...normal.
You need the one person who knows how to talk you down without trying to make everything perfect. The one person who will let you be messy and unsure and human without smoothing it over.
You need your best friend.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you swing your legs out of bed, tug on a sweater, and pad quietly into the hallway. It's dim and deadly quiet. You can hear the wind outside and the old house settling.
You walk to his door and knock softly. There's a short pause before the door opens a crack.
Jungkook looks like he was half-asleep, his hair messy, his t-shirt rumpled, his tired eyes blinking slowly until they land on you.
He freezes.
"What—" he whispers, his voice rough. "Are you okay?"
You force a smile that doesn't quite stick. "I can't sleep."
His gaze flicks over your face, searching. "Did something happen?"
"No," you say quickly. "Not…like that. I just…I'm restless."
He opens the door wider, stepping back to let you in, then stops like he remembers the house has a thousand ears.
"Namjoon?" he asks quietly.
"Downstairs," you murmur. "His mom doesn't want us sleeping together tonight. Because of 'bad luck' or something."
Jungkook's mouth twitches. "Ah. Ancient superstition. Love that for you."
You let out a breath that almost turns into a laugh but slowly morphs into a sigh.
He catches it—whatever that was—and his expression softens immediately. "Hey."
You swallow, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. "Do you wanna…go out for a bit?"
His brows raise, not expecting that to come out of your mouth. "Out?"
"Just—" you gesture vaguely, like you can't find the right words. "Somewhere. Maybe we could get a drink. Some fresh air. I just…I need to get away from everyone for a few hours. I want it to be…me and you. Like normal. Before everything changes tomorrow."
For a moment he doesn't move, like your words physically hit him, then he nods once, slowly. "Yeah. Okay."
Your shoulders sag with relief.
"I can drive," he adds, already reaching for his jeans. "I'm not drinking much. I need to be sober enough to get back, and—" His eyes flick to yours. "—I want to remember tonight. You know, before..."
Something flutters painfully in your chest.
You look away first, nodding. "Okay."
—
The pub is small and warm, tucked on the edge of a village road. There are fairy lights in the windows and the smell of fried food and ale hits you the second you step inside. It's cozy but loud enough that you wouldn't accidentally be overheard by anyone you know.
Jungkook leads you to a booth in the corner, the two of you sliding into it like second nature. In Seoul it would've been your restaurant, your usual table, your comfortable routine. Here it's different, but it still feels like you.
He orders you something sweet and fruity because he knows you pretend you like bitter beer but you don't. He orders himself one drink and then switches to soda, claiming he's "being responsible," but you catch the way he watches you over the rim of his glass, his gaze looking anything but responsible.
For a while you talk about nothing special; the week that's passed, Lisa being Lisa, the rugby game, the way English people say 'aluminium'. Jungkook makes you laugh—really laugh—and it's like someone loosened a knot in your ribs. Then you go quiet, your fingers tracing the condensation on your glass.
You open your mouth, close it, and then let the truth slip out in a whisper.
"I'm scared."
His eyes soften immediately. "Of what?"
You swallow, leaning your head back against the booth. "Of…getting it wrong."
Jungkook doesn't interrupt. He just leans back, giving you space to say it without being talked out of it.
You stare at the table. "Everyone's acting like this is the most romantic thing in the world. Like it's fate. Like it's perfect. And I want to feel that. I thought I did. But sometimes…I feel like I don't even know if Namjoon really—" You shake your head, looking frustrated. "Like he loves me, obviously. But I don't know if he knows me."
Jungkook's jaw tightens slightly, like he's holding back an "I told you so" that he would never actually say.
You keep going, your voice trembling slightly. "This week…with his mom inviting people and changing things and him just letting it happen. And the steak—God, the stupid steak. It's not about the steak. It's about how easily he decided it didn't matter what I wanted."
Jungkook's eyes don't leave your face.
"I feel like I'm being folded into their life," you mumble softly, "instead of building one with him."
That finally makes something flicker across Jungkook's expression—anger, maybe. Or protectiveness. Or both.
He reaches across the table and covers your hand with his, warm and familiar.
"Hey," he murmurs quietly. "Look at me, ___."
You do, and his gaze is so sincere it catches you off guard.
"You're not crazy," he shakes his head. "And you're not dramatic. If something feels off, you're allowed to feel it."
Tears prick your eyes, and you hate yourself for it.
Jungkook's thumb brushes over your knuckles. "I know I always used to tell you that you're picky for wanting the kind of love that feels…specific. But you're not picky."
His voice drops even lower, so intimate it feels like it belongs to the booth, not the world.
"You're just you," he murmurs. "And no one gets to treat what you want as a suggestion."
Your throat tightens. "I don't know what to do."
Jungkook inhales slowly, like he's choosing each word with care.
"No man," he says softly, his eyes locked on yours, "is ever going to know you and care for you the way I do."
The air between you changes immediately. It's not a confession. Not technically. But it lands like one anyway.
Your breath catches, your heart doing that stupid painful stutter it's been doing all week.
Jungkook seems to realise because his hand flexes around yours and then loosens—like he's afraid he's already said too much. He clears his throat, trying to drag the moment back into safer territory. "I'm not saying that to—"
"I know," you whisper quickly, even though you're not sure you do.
You stare at him, your eyes shining, and for a second you think you might actually ask the question that's been circling your throat for a while now.
Do you love me?
But you don't. Because tomorrow is your wedding and Namjoon is waiting and you're not sure you can survive the answer. So, you pull your hand back gently and take a sip of your drink like you can swallow the feeling down.
Jungkook watches you do it, something crossing his face that looks a lot like pain.
At some point you excuse yourself to the bathroom, mostly because you need a minute to breathe. The pub bathroom is tiny and smells like soap and faint mould. You stare at yourself in the mirror and try to make sense of the girl looking back.
Bride-to-be. Engaged. Heart in two directions.
You splash water on your face, pressing a hand to your sternum and whispering, "Get it together, ___."
When you step back out into the hallway, the pub noise spills over you again—laughter, clinking glasses, a football match playing somewhere in the mix.
And Jungkook is right before you. He's standing just outside the doorway like he's been waiting for you, his shoulders squared, eyes dark, face set with that look he gets when he's decided something and he's terrified of it.
You stop short, glancing up at him. "Jungkook—"
You don't get to say anything else.
He crosses the space in two strides, one hand bracing against the wall beside your head, the other finding your waist. Before you know it, he presses you back into the secluded stretch of brick near the hallway corner where no one can see.
Your breath leaves you in a single startled exhale.
"Jungkook, what are you doing?" you whisper, but it comes out like his name is a plea.
His eyes search yours for a fraction of a second, like he's asking permission without words.
And then he kisses you. It's not soft or careful. It's hunger and restraint fighting each other—years of unsaid things packed into the way he holds you, the way his lips move against yours like he's been dying to do this and hates himself for it at the same time.
Your hands fly up automatically, gripping his arms. For a heartbeat, you kiss him back because it's Jungkook and it feels like home and disaster all at once. Because your body is betraying you and your heart is already too deep in the mess.
You whimper softly as his lips caress yours, his tongue licking the seam of your lips to seek entry into your mouth.
Then reality slams into you like cold water.
Namjoon.
Tomorrow.
The ring on your finger.
You pull back abruptly, your breath shaking. Jungkook's chest rises and falls hard. His forehead rests against yours as if he can't let go yet.
"___," he whispers, his voice wrecked. "I—"
He tries to say more. You can feel it. The words are right there on his tongue, pressing at the seam of his composure.
"I—" he starts again.
You panic, putting your hands on his chest and pushing gently—not away with disgust, but away with desperate necessity.
"Don't," you whisper, your eyes wide, your voice trembling. "Please don't."
Jungkook freezes, looking like you just slapped him.
"I—" he tries one last time, softer. "Just let me—"
"No," you breathe. "We can't. We can't do this right now."
Your heart is pounding so hard it hurts. You shake your head, trying to steady yourself. "We have to go back to the house."
Jungkook stares at you, his jaw tight, his eyes shining with a hundred unsaid words.
"Right," he says finally, his voice hoarse.
He steps back, his hands dropping to his sides, like he's forcing himself to become your best friend again in real time.
You look away, feeling too ashamed to look into his eyes. "I'm sorry."
His laugh is barely there. "Yeah."
You don't know what to do with your hands, with your mouth, with the fact that your lips still tingle. So you do the only thing you can; you turn before you can change your mind.
"Come on."
Jungkook follows you out into the night, quiet as a shadow, driving you back to the countryside house with both hands on the wheel and his eyes fixed on the road because if he looks at you for too long, he'll break. And when the house finally comes into view—dark and enormous and waiting—you can practically feel the weight of tomorrow looming throughout the car.
Jungkook parks, kills the engine, and sits there for a few seconds while bracing for impact.
You don't look at him. You can't. You shove your door open and climb out, the cold night air slapping you awake. Gravel crunches under your shoes as you hurry toward the front door like someone running from a crime scene.
"___," Jungkook calls softly behind you.
You keep walking.
"___, wait—"
You reach the door, slip inside, and take the stairs two at a time. Your heart is a drum in your throat. You don't even slow down when you reach the hallway. You reach your room, twist the knob, step inside and close the door a little too hard behind you.
The click of the latch sounds final.
You lean your forehead against the wood for a second, breathing hard. Your lips still burn. Your ring feels too heavy. You slide down the door until you're sitting on the floor, knees pulled to your chest, eyes squeezed shut.
You can still feel him—his hands at your waist, his mouth on yours, the years of almosts and not-quites collapsing into one reckless, perfect, devastating kiss.
Tomorrow you're supposed to walk down an aisle. You're supposed to say vows and become someone's wife. And yet here you are, trembling on the floor because your best friend kissed you like he's been starving for you for years.
You press your fingers to your lips like you can erase it but it doesn't help.
Jungkook stands in the hallway outside your door for a moment, staring at the wood like it might open if he wishes hard enough.
He doesn't knock. He can't get himself to do it. Not after the way you shut him down. Not after the way you looked at him—panicked, guilty, torn in half.
He swallows hard, his jaw clenched so tight it aches, and turns away. He silently walks to his room, closes the door behind him, and leans back against it. For a second he just stands there, breathing. Then he drags both hands down his face and laughs—once—quiet and wrecked.
"Okay," he murmurs to himself. "Okay. Get it together. Be a man. Grow some balls."
He paces the room, his dad's voice echoing in his head telling him to do it before it's too late. He thinks about you against that pub wall. The way you kissed him back for that split second. The way your hands grabbed his arms. The way you pulled away like the world was ending.
Time is slipping through his fingers. Tomorrow happens whether he's ready or not. Tomorrow you marry someone else, and that kiss becomes a ghost he'll carry forever.
"No," he whispers. "No, no, no. I'm not letting you shut me out."
He straightens up, his heart hammering, and starts talking under his breath like he's rehearsing.
"I can't let you do this if you're not sure," he mutters. "I want—"
He shakes his head, scrubbing a hand through his hair.
"Not like that," he tells himself. "Don't make it about you. Make it about her."
He tries again.
"You deserve someone who knows you—"
He stops, swallowing thickly, his hands shaking.
"Someone who chooses you," he whispers. "Someone who—"
He hesitates on the words he really wants to say.
"Someone like me."
His hands tremble harder but he forces them to be still.
"Okay," he breathes again. "When she's calm. When she can listen. I'll—"
A knock cuts clean through his thoughts.
Jungkook freezes.
There's another knock. Louder.
He turns toward the door, his pulse spiking.
"Yeah?" he calls out, his voice unsteady. "Who is it?"
A giggle answers and his stomach drops. The door swings open before he can stop it, and Lisa slips inside like she owns the room.
She's a mess, to say the least. Her hair is loose and wild, her eyes glossy, her cheeks flushed. She smells like wine—strong, sweet, unmistakable. She's wearing a bra and tiny pyjama shorts like she got halfway to bed and then thought better of it.
Jungkook just stares.
"Jesus," he mutters flatly. "What the hell are you doing?"
Lisa grins, swaying slightly. "Looking for you, duh."
His spine goes rigid. "Get out, Lisa."
"Oh, don't be like that," she purrs, stepping further in. "It's only me."
He holds up a hand like a stop sign. "Lisa."
She rolls her eyes and pushes past him to flop onto the edge of his bed like it's the most natural thing in the world. "I found the Kims' wine cellar," she announces proudly, as if she just discovered fire. "Do you know how much wine rich people keep? It's disgusting."
Jungkook doesn't laugh. He stays by the door, arms crossed, his face looking anything but amused.
Lisa's gaze drifts over him—slow and devilish. "You look good," she grins.
"Don't start that shit."
"Why?" she asks, her lips curling. "You're not a monk."
He clenches his jaw. "What do you want?"
She huffs like he's being difficult on purpose. "Okay, fine. I'll just say it." She sits up straighter, her eyes bright and reckless. "Let's just have sex again. For old time's sake."
The words hit the room like a bottle breaking.
Jungkook stares at her as if she's started speaking another language. "Absolutely not."
Lisa blinks, then laughs. "You're turning me down?"
"Yes," he deadpans.
"Why?" she whines, scooting to the edge of the bed. "Don't act like you didn't have fun. You were literally the best I've ever had."
Jungkook's face hardens. "Lisa, enough. Stop it."
Her expression twists into something irritated. "I still hate you," she mutters. "But I'm also…really pent up, and I'm bored, and everyone in this house is in love and it's making me sick."
Back in your room, you've tried everything. You've stared at the ceiling until your eyes hurt. You've fluffed the pillows. Drank water. Checked your phone. Put it down. Picked it up again. You've laid in Namjoon's empty side of the bed and told yourself to be normal about what happened at the pub, but it didn't work.
Your chest feels too tight and there's something unfinished sitting between you and Jungkook like a live wire. You can't stand the idea of carrying that kiss into your wedding day like a secret you're choking on, so you swing your legs out of bed and slip into the hallway.
Jungkook exhales slowly through his nose, forcing patience he doesn't have.
"This is not happening," he grumbles, his voice low. "Go back to your room."
Lisa walks over to him like she's about to comply and walk out the door, but instead, she grabs the front of his shirt with both hands and pushes—harder than she should be able to in her state—and Jungkook hits the edge of the mattress behind him.
The bed dips under his weight, and before he can move, she climbs onto him like she's claiming territory. She straddles his lap, her knees digging into the mattress on either side of his thighs, her hands braced on his shoulders. Her hair falls forward in a curtain, her cheeks are flushed and her mouth curls in a sloppy, triumphant grin.
"Jesus—fuck—" Jungkook sputters, his hands hovering uselessly in the air like he doesn't even want to touch her to move her. "Lisa, what the fuck are you doing?"
"What I should've done three years ago," she pouts, her voice syrupy and loud. Too loud. "I should've made you stay."
"Get off," he mutters through his teeth, trying to keep his voice steady.
She leans down anyway, her eyes half-lidded. "You were so good," she babbles, the words tumbling out like she's been saving them. "Like…annoyingly good. I still hate you, but you're so good in bed..."
Jungkook's stomach turns.
"Lisa," he snaps, sharper now. "I'm not doing this."
She pouts like a child being told no. "Why?" she whines. "You always do this. You pretend you're better than everyone, and then you—"
His hands finally land on her waist—not gentle, not rough, just firm enough to stop her from grinding against him, which she has definitely already started doing.
"Enough," he mutters deadly quiet. "Get. Off."
And that's exactly when you reach the end of the hallway.
You've been walking with your heart in your throat, rehearsing what you're going to say, telling yourself you're not crazy, telling yourself you just need closure, just a conversation, just something before tomorrow swallows you whole.
Jungkook's door is slightly ajar. You can see the sliver of lamplight spilling out into the corridor. You slow without meaning to. Then you hear Lisa's voice—too airy and flirty—and your stomach drops. You can't hear exactly what she's saying but you know you won't like it either way. You inch closer, drawn by horror and curiosity. And then you see them; Jungkook on the bed, Lisa straddling him, her hands on his shoulders, his hands on her waist.
Your brain doesn't process context. It only processes the image. The shape of it.
Something feels sharp inside your chest, as if you can physically feel your heart breaking bit by bit.
You feel so stupid for thinking this could be something deeper. For thinking the kiss meant more than heat and impulse. For thinking you could turn to him tonight and find comfort.
All you find is Jungkook being Jungkook.
Your vision blurs at the edges.
Jungkook's head turns and his eyes meet yours. His entire face changes in an instant—shock, then horror, then a raw, desperation as he realises exactly what this might look like to you.
"___, this isn't what it looks like—"
He shoves Lisa off of him so fast she yelps, landing on the mattress with a confused, drunken huff.
"Hey, what the hell?!"
Jungkook doesn't even look at her. He's already up, already moving, panic flaring in his stomach.
"___, wait—" he calls out, rushing toward the door.
But you're already backing away, your heart hammering, humiliation scorching your skin. You don't give him the dignity of an argument. You don't give him the chance to explain. You just quickly turn and walk back down the hallway, moving so fast the carpet might catch fire under your feet.
"___!" he calls again, louder now. "Stop, please—"
You don't.
You reach your room, your hands shaking as you grab the knob, slipping inside and slamming the door shut behind you.
On the other side, you hear his footsteps skid to a stop, and a soft, wrecked exhale leaves his lips. And then his voice, right outside your door, low and pleading:
"___, just…please talk to me."
Your fingers tremble on the doorknob.
Outside, there's the soft shuffle of movement—Jungkook adjusting his stance, his forehead pressing against the door, close enough that you can practically feel the heat of him through the wood.
Then his voice comes, quiet and trembling.
"Come on, don't shut me out like this..."
You close your eyes, pressing your other hand to the wood.
"Go away," you whisper, but it comes out weak and unconvincing.
"Lisa and I, we didn't...I didn't—" he starts, his voice tight. "You have to let me explain."
"I saw enough," you snap, harsher than you mean to because anger is easier than humiliation. Easier than the way your chest still aches from the pub. "I saw exactly enough."
"You didn't," he insists, the words urgent. "You didn't see—"
You squeeze your eyes shut harder. "Just…drop it."
On the other side of the door, you hear him exhale—slow and shaky.
"Why did you come to my room?" he asks quietly.
You don't answer.
He tries again, gentler, like he's coaxing a skittish animal. "___, why did you come to my room?"
"Does it matter?" you whisper.
"Yes," he says immediately. "Yes, it matters."
You hesitate, your throat feeling dry. "I…I don't wanna talk about it."
"___," he sighs, and something in his voice makes your heart hurt. It's not anger. It's not pressure. It's just…desperation. "Please. Tell me."
You press your forehead against the door, and your voice comes out small. "I came because I couldn't sleep..."
A pause.
"And?" he pushes softly.
You shake your head even though he can't see it. "And I...I don't know. I just…I needed—"
"You needed what?" he asks. "Me?"
You scoff humourlessly because yes, you fucking needed him.
Outside, he's quiet for a second, and then his voice drops even lower. "Was it because of the kiss?"
Your heart races at the mention of the kiss.
You say nothing. The silence is answer enough.
"Answer me, ___," he breathes.
You force your voice out before you can lose the nerve. "Yes."
It feels as if time has stopped moving, giving you the moment you so desperately needed.
"Yes," you repeat, your voice shaking. "I came to talk about that stupid kiss. Because it's been…in my head. And I couldn't...I couldn't just pretend it didn't happen."
On the other side of the door, Jungkook's voice is so quiet it barely makes it through. "Okay."
You wipe at your eyes angrily, even though there are no tears yet. "But it doesn't matter," you add quickly, desperate to slam the lid back on the feelings. "It was a mistake. The pub was a mistake. That kiss was a mistake."
There's silence. Then, softly, he mutters, "Don't."
"Don't what?" you mumble.
"Don't lie," he sighs, his voice cracking on the edge of it.
You laugh—a curt, bitter sound. "I'm not lying."
"___," he murmurs gently, and you can hear the ache in it now. "I felt you kiss me back. You wanted it as much I did."
"That was—"
"A second, I know," he cuts in, gentle but remaining firm. "But it was real."
You shake your head once more, your face twisting. "It doesn't matter, Jungkook. I'm marrying Namjoon tomorrow."
When Jungkook speaks again, his voice is softer, shaking like he's trying to hold himself together.
"Don't."
The single word is a plea.
Your throat closes, your tears threatening to spill. "Jungkook—"
"Please," he whispers. "Please don't marry him."
The words hit you like a punch. Your eyes sting, hot tears brimming your eyes. "You can't say that."
"I can," he says, his voice breaking, losing control despite himself. "I can because I—" He swallows audibly. "Because you're not sure."
You shake your head violently, pressing your palms to your eyes like you can shove the emotion back in. "I am sure."
"No," he whispers, and it sounds like he's crying even if he isn't. "You're scared. You're forcing it because you think you have to. Because everyone's here and the church is ready and the guest list is—"
"Stop," you choke out.
"But you're not sure because he barely knows you," he says, and even in the middle of his heartbreak there's a tiny tremor of disbelief, a tiny, furious tenderness—like he can't stand the idea of anyone waving you off. "Because he's smoothing you down until you're easier to fit into their life."
You squeeze your eyes shut, your tears falling freely, your bottom lip trembling uncontrollably.
Jungkook's voice drops to a soft whisper. "You deserve someone who actually sees you. Who listens when you speak. Who knows you so well he can tell when you're smiling just to keep the peace."
You press your sleeve to your mouth, trying to muffle the sob you let out.
Outside, his voice is wrecked and emotionally exhausted. "You know I'd never…I'd never treat you like you're too much trouble, ___. You know that."
Your chest aches because you do know that.
"You don't have to do this," he whispers. "Not if you're not sure."
You choke on a breath, your voice almost too quiet to hear through the wood. "I am sure."
He goes quiet for a second, the words physically hurting him. Then he says, so small and fragile, "Then why did you come to me tonight?"
You hate that you don't have an answer that won't give away how unsure you are.
You can't risk it. You can't risk hearing him say what you're terrified he'll say. You can't risk the truth cracking your life in half the night before the wedding. You choose to have control over the crumbling situation instead. You swallow hard and force your voice into steadiness, even as tears continue to slip down your face.
"My mind is made up," you murmur, every word feeling like glass in your mouth. "I'm marrying him."
Outside, there's a sharp inhale.
"___, would you just—"
"If you can't support me," you cut in quickly, your voice trembling, "then you should just leave."
That leaves him stunned.
"What?"
"You heard me," you whisper. "I can't…I can't have you doing this. Not now. Not the night before. If you can't be my best friend tomorrow...if you can't stand there and support me...then don't come."
Your throat burns. Your eyes blur.
"I need you to stop," you mutter. "I need you to let me do this."
On the other side of the door, you hear him shift—like he's stumbled back a step. His voice comes out broken, almost childlike. "You're really going to do this?"
"Yes," you whisper, hating yourself for it. "Yes."
Another long beat passes. Then, so softly you almost miss it, Jungkook says, "Okay."
It's an 'okay' that means none of this is okay at all. It's surrender and grief wrapped up in two syllables.
You lift your head and wipe your tears, sniffling softly.
"Goodnight, Jungkook," you whisper.
There's a pause on the other side, like he really wants to say your name again and can't. Then you hear his footsteps—slow and heavy—moving away down the hallway. And even though you told him to leave, even though you told yourself you needed this…
The moment the sound fades, the emptiness feels like punishment.
After five long hours of discussing seating arrangements and bridesmaid dresses, the apartment is finally silent again.
You've just finished walking the girls out, waving goodbye with a warm smile before closing the door behind you.
Jungkook slips his shoes on by the front door, his fingers fumbling slightly at the laces.
You turn toward him, your voice soft. "You heading out too? I thought you'd stay for a bit."
He nods, glancing up at you with a tired smile from where he's crouched down. "Yeah. Don't wanna overstay my welcome."
That's certainly not normal for him, but then again, nothing about this situation is normal for the two of you. Usually he'd stay, you'd talk about his latest fling while pigging out on pizza and wine, but your nights now involve dinner with another man, and his involves listening to sad songs while fantasising about killing said man.
You grin, rolling your eyes. "You've never cared about overstaying your welcome before. In fact, I've had to beg you to leave me alone before. What's so different now?"
He chuckles, shrugging like it's no big deal. "Wedding planning's tiring. You need your rest."
You can't exactly argue with that. You've been losing sleep over flowers and wedding cake flavours and dress designs. And if it's not wedding planning keeping you up at night, it's Namjoon getting you accustomed to his Big Ben—
"Mm, I guess you're right." You lean against the wall near the door, your arms loosely crossed over your chest. "Hey…before you go, there's something I actually wanted to ask you."
His fingers pause on his shoelaces, his attention flicking back to you.
"My mom and grandma want to have a girls' day with me tomorrow," you murmur. "You know, catching up, reminiscing, probably crying over old photo albums."
He smiles softly, straightening up. "Sounds nice."
"Yeah. But, uhm, Namjoon doesn't really know anyone here in Seoul except me, so I was wondering if maybe…" You trail off, your hopeful eyes locking with his. "Would you mind keeping him company? Just for the day?"
Jungkook's face doesn't immediately betray his internal panic, but there's a flicker of hesitation, so brief you almost miss it. He doesn't want to be difficult, but the idea of playing buddy-buddy with your fiancé feels like swallowing a whole lemon with the rind still on.
"You want me to hang out with your fiancé?" he asks slowly.
"I know it's a weird ask but he's away from home and I don't want him to feel left out or lonely while I'm busy. Maybe go to the gym together, let him meet the guys or something. Just let him feel included. You're my best friend, and he's…well, you know." You shrug sheepishly. "It would mean a lot to me if you two could get along. And he's going back to England in a couple of days anyway for wedding prep, so I want him to enjoy Seoul while he's here..."
Jungkook would ship the guy back to London if it was up to him, but he knows this would make you happy, and that's all he ever wants. So, he exhales slowly, nodding. "Alright."
Your face lights up. "Really?"
He nods once, his face remaining stoic. "Yeah. I got it. I'll take care of him."
You don't hesitate to wrap your arms around him in a warm, grateful hug. He stiffens only for a second before relaxing into it, his arms circling your waist, pulling you closer.
He closes his eyes, letting himself breathe you in. He lets himself hold you like this, knowing that in a few weeks, someone else will be calling you his wife. But right now, you're in his arms. And that's enough. Or at least, he tells himself it is.
You pull back just slightly, smiling up at him. "Thank you, Jungkook. It means a lot to me."
He swallows, smiling. "Yeah. Anytime."
And before he can do something stupid—like kiss you or beg you not to marry Namjoon—he steps out the door, hands shoved in his pockets, pushing his feelings deep down into his chest to deal with another day.
—
Namjoon comes home just after seven, shoulders relaxed, jacket draped over one arm and his camera slung around his neck. You hear the door unlock and turn to see him standing in the entryway with that sweet dimpled smile, and a bouquet in his hands.
Roses.
Still wrapped in the thin plastic from the supermarket down the street, a barcode sticker on the side and baby's breath tucked in like an afterthought.
"For you," he says, stepping into the kitchen to kiss your cheek. "Saw them on my way home and thought of you."
Your heart softens immediately because the gesture itself is sweet. Because he thought of you and there's something undeniably tender about a man who buys you flowers just because he wants to.
"They're beautiful," you murmur, taking them from him. They're a deep red, the petals velvety and full. Romantic in the way movies insist romance should look like.
But still.
Roses.
You're not upset or ungrateful. The thought means a lot and the roses are pretty. They're fine, a classic. Roses are what people buy when they're in love.
But as you look down at the bouquet, your mind betrays you. It pulls you backward—uninvited and vivid.
That night at the restaurant; Jungkook walking in, hands slightly unsteady as he held a bouquet wrapped in brown paper.
Peonies.
Soft blush petals. Full and a little imperfect and fleeting—their season short, like they're meant to be cherished quickly.
You remember blinking at them in surprise before he collided with an unsuspecting waiter. He shrugged the flowers off like they weren't his but you know they were. You know he knows you've never been a rose girl.
You shake the memory away before it can settle too deeply and turn toward Namjoon, who's watching you with fond eyes.
"What?" he asks.
"Nothing," you smile, shaking your head. "Thank you. They're lovely."
You lean in to kiss his lips, letting yourself appreciate the sweet sentiment, letting his hands skim your sides, his lips moving against yours like a practiced routine. He's attentive, and affectionate, and intentional. Everything he does is good. And yet, somewhere deep inside, you wonder why the flowers matter at all. Why a detail this small manages to echo so loudly. Why you wish so badly that they were peonies instead.
You pull away to set the roses in a vase on the counter, letting them rest while you finish rolling kimbap at the kitchen island. Namjoon's jacket is already hanging on the back of a chair, sleeves rolled up, collar undone, the stiffness of the workday slowly melting off him. Working on a Saturday is especially draining for him, but he loves his job more than anything.
"Sit," you insist, nodding towards the couch while you plate everything up. "I'll bring it over."
"Yes, chef," he smiles, obediently wandering over to the living room.
You join him a moment later, balancing a tray with a large heap of neatly sliced kimbap, some kimchi, a small dish of dipping sauce, and two shot glasses with a cold green bottle of soju.
His eyes widen. "You look like you're feeding a whole village."
You drop down beside him, tucking one leg under you. "Consider it re-training your stomach for life in Korea."
He laughs. "I'll never complain about that."
You pour the first round of soju, handing him a glass and holding yours up. "To…adjusting."
He clinks his glass against yours. "To adjusting," he echoes, and then you both wince and hiss through your teeth as the first burn of the night goes down.
He grabs a pair of chopsticks from the tray and digs in, dipping the kimbap in the spicy sauce, nodding at the taste of tuna-mayo, seaweed and fresh vegetables.
"Look at that," you tease. "Your stomach can handle something that isn't fish and chips."
"I'll have you know," he mumbles between chews, "I have eaten kimbap before. My mum just stopped making Korean food when I was little. But there are Korean restaurants in London."
"British-Korean food does not count."
"It counts in my heart," he chuckles.
You snort and pop some more kimbap in your mouth. The tv plays in the background, some loud Korean variety show full of canned laughter and silly sound effects. He doesn't fully understand everything because his parents raised him on mostly english, but you pause here and there to translate the best jokes, and he laughs in all the right places.
It feels domestic—your body pressed against his, his arm resting along the back of the couch behind you, both of you reaching for the kimchi at the same time. It feels like the actual start of your life together.
"Careful," you warn, refilling your glasses. "Soju with Korean tv is a dangerous combination. Next thing you know, you'll be yelling at the screen like my parents."
"Looking forward to it," he grins, downing his shot.
Later, after you've eaten too much and drank enough soju to make your brain a bit fuzzy, you sleepily shuffle into the bathroom together to get ready for bed, crammed side by side at the sink.
You tie your hair back and he squeezes toothpaste onto both of your brushes without asking.
"Thanks," you mumble, brushing your molars.
He bumps your shoulder with his, smiling at you in the mirror.
You brush, spit, rinse, and turn to lean back against the counter for a moment, watching him. The overhead light is harsh, but he still looks soft around the edges—sleepy eyes, mussed hair, the faintest flush on his cheeks from the soju.
"So…" you start casually, crossing your arms over your chest. "About tomorrow."
He glances over, toothbrush still in his mouth. "Mm?"
You smile. "I asked Jungkook if you could tag along on his boy's day. Him and three of his friends always go to the gym to play basketball on Sundays, so I figured you could hang out with them while I spend time with my mom and grandma."
He spits, rinses, then raises an eyebrow. "Yeah? I can't imagine he was wildly enthusiastic about me joining them."
You sigh, looking down at the ground. "He's just shy."
Namjoon snorts, rubbing moisturiser onto his face. "I met him once and I'm pretty sure 'shy' is the last word I'd use."
You grin despite yourself. "Okay, fair. But it matters to me that you two spend time together. He's been in my life for ten years. You're going to be my husband. I just…want my worlds to fit together, you know?"
He studies you for a moment, then turns fully, resting his hands on your hips. "Yeah," he murmurs softly. "I get it, love."
You look up at him, chewing your bottom lip. "It's silly, but I worry that this is all weird for you. That he's too much. Or that you'll feel like an outsider. He's just so…woven into my life."
Namjoon hums thoughtfully, shrugging. "It's not weird. Unexpected, sure, but not weird." His thumbs rub gentle circles into your sides, lightly brushing under the hem of your top. "He clearly cares about you. Anyone with eyes can see that. And if he's that important to you, then he matters to me too."
That definitely calms some of your anxiety.
"You're really okay with it?" you ask.
"I won't lie," he mutters with a faint chuckle. "I'm a tiny bit intimidated. He's…a lot. Not in a bad way. Just...a lot to take in."
You laugh softly, rolling your eyes. "He's practically an overgrown golden retriever with tattoos."
"Exactly," Namjoon scoffs. "But the dog still has teeth that could bite, so I'd prefer to be on his good side."
You tilt your head, grinning teasingly. "Did you just call my best friend a dog? Only I can do that."
"An affectionate dog," he clarifies. "A loyal dog. I want to see the version of him you see."
That eases you.
You lean into him, resting your forehead against his chest. "Thank you," you murmur, wrapping your arms around his waist. "For trying."
His arms fold around your shoulders, his chin dropping to the top of your head. "I'm not just trying," he smiles. "I'm investing, sweetheart. In your life. Our life."
He presses a kiss to your hair, squeezing you tightly. "Let me handle the chaos tomorrow. You have your day with your mum and granny. I'll survive the guys."
You pull back enough to look up at him. "I hope so."
"I've survived British pubs during football season," he grins. "I can handle four Korean men and a basketball."
You laugh, and he leans down to catch your mouth in a slow, steady kiss that tastes faintly of mint and soju.
You crawl into bed together, the apartment finally dim and peaceful, the only light a soft glow from the streetlights outside slipping in through the curtains. Namjoon lies on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, the other open for you like always.
You fit yourself into his side, head on his chest, your fingers tracing little shapes across his shirt. His heart is steady beneath your ear—solid and dependable.
You close your eyes but your brain doesn't seem to cooperate.
Instead of fading out, your thoughts start stacking like dishes in the sink. The guest list. The seating chart. Your mom's expectations. His parents' opinions of you. Plane tickets. Dresses. Flowers. The church. London. Seoul. All of it swirling together until your chest tightens instead of loosens.
It's a while before Namjoon eventually notices.
"You're so stiff," he murmurs, his fingers sliding up and down your arm. "What's going on in there?"
"Nothing," you lie.
He snorts softly. "You're a terrible liar."
You sigh, staring at the ceiling. "I just…keep thinking about everything that could go wrong."
He turns his head to look at you properly. "Like what?"
You shrug, feeling a bit silly. "I don't know. Flights being delayed. Dresses not fitting. The cake falling over. People judging how fast we're moving. All the little things that could ruin it."
Namjoon is quiet for a moment, then murmurs gently, "There's no real reason to worry, ___. We've planned everything. We'll double-check what we need to. It'll all be perfect."
You chew the inside of your cheek. "You don't ever...get nervous?"
"Of course I get nervous," he chuckles. "But not about us. Not about the wedding itself. We're doing this right. We're prepared. There's nothing to be anxious about. Don't be silly."
You know he means well. You know he's trying to reassure you. His logic is neat; his perspective is level. He wants to airbrush your doubt away with reason. But somehow, it doesn't undo the knot in your stomach.
Usually when you're like this—mind spinning, body wound tight—Jungkook would notice instantly. He'd turn to you and say something utterly unserious like, "Okay, that's enough existential crisis for today, let's have a thumb-war," and hold up his hand until you lace your thumb with his.
He'd play stupid little games with you: I-spy, rock-paper-scissors with bizarre stakes, 'guess the song from three seconds of humming', and he'd either cheat very obviously or let you win then whine dramatically about it.
He never tries to convince you that there's no reason to worry. He doesn't necessarily believe in perfection. He just makes room for the imperfections to simply be.
Namjoon, on the other hand, is steady. He smooths things down. He likes long-term plans and sensible solutions. When you spiral, he tries to organise your brain into folders.
"Close your eyes," he mumbles sleepily. "Take a deep breath. You're overthinking something that doesn't need overthinking. Everything's under control."
You inhale, then exhale, nodding slowly.
You're grateful, truly. There's comfort in his stability, in his certainty that things will be perfect. He's sturdy, like concrete.
Jungkook has always been water.
He flows. Around problems, through them, sometimes sloshing messily over the edges. He'd probably say something like, "So what if the cake falls? We'll eat it off the floor. Floor-cake is still cake." And you'd laugh, and it wouldn't actually fix anything, but it would make everything feel easier to bear.
You hate that your mind keeps holding them up like two sides of a scale.
Namjoon, firm and straight-lined and focused on making things right.
Jungkook, crooked-smiled and chaotic and focused on making things enjoyable.
It feels wrong to compare them, like some cruel internal test they never signed up for. Namjoon hasn't done anything wrong by getting you roses from the supermarket or by telling you not to worry. He's trying. He's here. He loves you enough to put his grandmother's ring on your finger.
And yet, your brain flickers back to peonies lying on the restaurant floor. To Jungkook in a suit, falling to his doom when he saw Namjoon beside you. Or the silly smile and total trust he hands you when asking you to choose something off the bakery menu for him. Or the way he'd drop whatever he's doing—no matter the time or situation—if you asked him to.
You don't know why you're thinking of him so much tonight.
Maybe it's because he's taking your fiancé out tomorrow and you want it to go well. Maybe it's because the wedding is barreling toward you at full speed and your heart is trying to cling to every familiar thing it knows before everything changes.
Or maybe it's because of those stupid roses on the kitchen counter, all red and perfect and not what you really love.
Namjoon kisses the top of your head, obnoxiously oblivious to your internal battle. "Get some sleep, darling," he murmurs. "Everything's going to be fine."
You nod against his chest, closing your eyes and forcing yourself to focus on the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
You don't want to let yourself think about how you'd normally be texting Jungkook right now: "Can't sleep. Panic-brain is back. Help." And how, without fail, he'd reply: "On my way." Or, "Okay, first question: do I have to kick someone's ass? Second question: if you could have any superpower, what would it be and why?"
You press your face into Namjoon's shirt and force your thoughts to quiet to allow yourself to sleep.
No matter how hard your brain tries to change things, the roses will still be there in the morning, and you'll still be wishing they were peonies.
The gym's basketball court smells like rubber, sweat, and faintly of cheap body spray. Jungkook bounces the basketball lazily as he waits near centre court, Seokjin stretching half-heartedly, Mingyu doing too much for a casual run, and Wonwoo absently shooting free throws as a warm-up.
The double doors creak open and Namjoon steps in, a little out of place but trying his best not to look it. He's dressed simply—black shorts, white t-shirt, hair pushed back with a plain headband. No showy accessories, no theatrics.
Jungkook begrudgingly notes that even in gym clothes, Namjoon looks like he's about to shoot an editorial for 'Thoughtful Men Who Read Books and Respect Women Weekly'.
"Yo," Jungkook calls, lifting a hand. "Over here."
Namjoon gives a short bow and a warm smile, walking over to drop his gym bag near the stands. "Hey, guys. Thanks for inviting me."
Behind Jungkook, Seokjin leans over to the others, whispering as Namjoon starts tying his shoes.
"He seems…polite," he murmurs.
"And hot," Mingyu nods. "I'm straight as an arrow but I'd hit if I were into butt stuff."
Wonwoo tilts his head. "He seems nice. I like his shirt."
Jungkook doesn't turn around to look at them, scoffing. "Yeah? Go be his best friends then."
There's a beat of silence and then muffled snickering as they gather at centre court.
"Okay," Jungkook says, spinning the ball in his hands. "So, we usually just play 2v2, nothing serious. You cool with that?"
Namjoon nods. "Totally. Full disclosure, though…I've never really played. Not properly, anyway."
Jungkook's lips twitch. He doesn't want to show how happy that makes him, but he can't help himself. "Like…at all?"
"I know the rules," Namjoon chuckles. "But don't expect anything impressive."
"Oh, I won't," Jungkook mutters, grinning smugly. "We'll go easy on you."
Mingyu mutters, "He says that now," under his breath, nudging Seokjin, who simply laughs.
They divide into teams—Jungkook and Mingyu versus Namjoon and Wonwoo, with Seokjin playing lazy ref. Jungkook is vibrating with excitement. He's going to destroy this man. Outplay him. Outshine him. He's going to be the alpha in this situation even if it kills him.
"First to 21," Jungkook calls. "Let's go."
They start off casual—Mingyu checks the ball to Namjoon. Namjoon bounces it once, twice, like he's testing the feel of it. He looks cautious, a little stiff, and Jungkook knows he has this in the bag.
Namjoon passes to Wonwoo. They move slowly, kinda awkwardly. Jungkook steals easily, breaks into a sprint, and goes up for a layup just to warm up.
The ball sinks through clean.
"1-0," Seokjin announces. "Our Lord and Savior Jungkook opens the score."
Jungkook grins, jogging back. "You good, Kim?" he calls to Namjoon, who just chuckles, his breath puffing.
"Yeah, yeah, just getting used to it."
The next few plays go similarly; Jungkook and Mingyu dominate at first. Jungkook gets cocky, tossing look-away passes, talking shit like the arrogant player he is.
"Yo, you weren't kidding about not playing," he teases after Namjoon fumbles a pass.
Namjoon grins good-naturedly, wiping sweat from his brow. "I said I'd try my best, not that I'd be good."
He's almost too humble, too nice. It grates on Jungkook's nerves more than it should.
It's like the universe is just not on Jungkook's side because something shifts drastically around the 6-2 mark.
Wonwoo passes Namjoon the ball again near the three-point line. Jungkook's guarding him, loose and relaxed, not even bothering to get too low on his stance.
Namjoon bounces once. Twice. Then without warning, he steps back and shoots. It's clean. Smooth. The ball arcs up in a near-perfect curve and snaps through the net with a satisfying swish.
Seokjin lets out a long, dramatic, "Ooooooh!"
Even Wonwoo raises his eyebrows.
Jungkook blinks, nodding like he's impressed, which he isn't. "Okay…nice shot."
"Beginner's luck," Namjoon shrugs, his cheeks slightly flushed.
But then he does it again.
And again.
He's not wild or flashy—just quietly efficient—in that annoying way that makes it clear he knows exactly what he's doing now that he's warmed up.
"Namjoon, I thought you said you don't play," Mingyu calls, half-laughing, half-offended.
Namjoon's smile is sheepish. "I really don't. I just…learn fast, I guess."
"Of course you do," Jungkook mutters, rolling his eyes so far back they almost stay there.
Things really fall apart for Jungkook when it happens—the dreaded dunk.
Namjoon gets the ball off a quick steal from Wonwoo. He dribbles down the court, long strides eating up space faster than they expect.
Jungkook recovers and leaps up to block him near the rim.
For a split second, Jungkook thinks he's got him.
Then Namjoon jumps.
It's controlled, intentional. He rises just that little bit higher, a big hand palming the ball like it's nothing, and slams it through the hoop with a clean, resounding thunk.
He doesn't yell or celebrate. Just lands, a little startled at himself, laughing as his feet hit the floor.
The whole gym echoes, the guys screaming like it's an actual NBA game.
Seokjin is especially hyped up, looking excited enough for Jungkook to feel betrayed. "AND HE DUNKS! THE BRITISH CAMERA MAN DUNKS, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!"
Jungkook just stands there under the hoop, chest heaving, staring at him with silent venom.
Namjoon scratches the back of his neck, looking a bit embarrassed despite impressing everyone. "Sorry. That was…kinda a fluke."
"Yeah," Jungkook grumbles faintly. "Total fluke."
It's most certainly not a fluke.
By the end of the match, the score is close—too close—but Namjoon and Wonwoo snag the last few points, Namjoon landing another dunk for the win.
"21–18," Seokjin announces. "Victory goes to Team Big Ben and Silent Assassin."
Wonwoo lifts a hand and Namjoon slaps it while laughing, bending over with his hands on his knees.
"Man, I thought I was going to be useless," Namjoon smiles, completely breathless. "This was fun."
Jungkook bounces the ball against the ground a little too aggressively, smiling bitterly. "Yeah. Super fun."
They all head to the locker room after drinking some water, sweat-damp and exhausted. The air is thick with steam from the nearby showers, dumb jokes bouncing off the tiled walls as they peel off their shirts and toss towels around.
Mingyu is still talking about that dunk, sitting on a bench with a towel around the back of his neck. "I mean, I'm just saying…no one casually dunks like that. That was a violation of the unspoken 'I don't really play' code."
Namjoon laughs, untying his shoes. "Okay, maybe I used to mess around as a kid. I really haven't played in years, though."
"Guess you're just naturally perfect," Jungkook grumbles under his breath, tossing his sweaty shirt into his gym bag.
"Hmm?" Namjoon asks, pulling his own shirt off as well.
"Nothing," Jungkook says quickly, smiling over at him.
He turns to his locker, yanking open the door a little too hard. He tries to breathe through his frustration. It's totally fine. So the guy can play ball. Whatever. He's still just a guy.
He exhales, grabs a towel, and turns—and that's when he sees it.
Namjoon pulls down his shorts and boxers and steps into a shower stall, gracing them with all eight inches of him. His dick is just…there. Long and thick. Hangs like a threat. It practically has its own personality.
It's brief and completely accidental, but it's enough to make Jungkook hate him even more than he thought possible.
He snaps his gaze away, his jaw clenched, a fresh wave of jealousy washing over him.
Seokjin, changing on the bench next to him, catches the whole thing. He bites his lip, fighting a grin. "You good?"
Mingyu is humming to himself at the lockers across the aisle, speaking soft enough so that Namjoon doesn't hear him over the stream of water. "Man, this guy's tall, nice, good at ball…I bet he's great in be—"
"Do not finish that sentence," Jungkook warns, heading to the showers as well.
The air is comfortable while they change, the others chatting about the week ahead, food, and schedules. Namjoon makes a point of thanking them for letting him join. He's absurdly gracious about it all, like he didn't just rock Jungkook's shit in one afternoon.
As they're heading out, Seokjin lingers by Jungkook's side, keeping a bit of a distance from the rest of the guys to allow them to talk more freely.
"Hey," he mumbles quietly. "What's up?"
Jungkook runs a hand through his damp hair and laughs humourlessly. "He's good-looking, he's polite, he's rich...he can dunk. And now the universe has informed me that he has a huge cock."
Seokjin presses his lips together, clearly trying not to burst out laughing. "Right. Unfortunate."
"He has everything," Jungkook mutters, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Everything. And he's marrying her."
Jin exhales, shaking his head. "Still doesn't mean he's her person."
"Feels like it today," Jungkook mumbles pitifully, feeling increasingly sorry for himself.
As they walk out into the daylight—Namjoon laughing with Mingyu up ahead, his phone already out to send you a text about how fun it was—Jungkook feels that bitter cocktail of jealousy, insecurity, and something too close to heartbreak burning in his chest.
It's one thing to lose a basketball game, but it's another to feel like he's losing the girl he loves to a guy who just keeps accidentally winning at everything.
—
Incheon Airport drop-off is quite busy a few days later—cars honking, luggage rattling, people rushing past with neck pillows and overstuffed backpacks. You're in the back seat with Namjoon, his hand resting over yours on your lap, while Jungkook grips the steering wheel like an underpaid Uber driver.
Namjoon's flight is in a couple of hours. He's heading back to England to help his parents prepare the house, finalise some things at the church, talk to caterers, things like that. You're staying behind for a while, enjoying your last days in Seoul as an unmarried woman.
Jungkook pulls up to the curb and puts the car in park, glancing at Namjoon in the rear view mirror.
"Here we are," he mutters, his voice overly neutral. "Departures."
Namjoon squeezes your hand, smiling. "Guess this is me."
You unbuckle your seatbelt and follow him out. Jungkook stays in the driver's seat, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and watching through the windshield.
Namjoon opens the trunk, grabs his suitcase, and sets it down with a soft thud. The two of you stand face to face in front of the drop-off entrance, saying your goodbyes until eventually meeting again in England.
"Text me when you get home," you murmur quietly.
"I'll call you before boarding," he promises. "And when I land. And whenever you need me in between."
You smile, fixing his shirt's collar for him. "I'll miss you."
He brushes a thumb over your cheek, leaning in. "I'll miss you more, darling."
And then he kisses you. It starts soft, gentle. But then he tilts his head and you angle closer, his hand sliding to the back of your neck and your fingers curling into his shirt. The surrounding noise fades as his mouth moves against yours, deeper, slower, like he's trying to stretch this moment out as far as he can.
In the car, Jungkook stares begrudgingly.
"Damn," he mutters to himself. "Are you trying to eat her face?"
He looks away, then looks back, then looks away again, his jaw ticking, trying not to really watch but also unable to fully tear his eyes away.
Finally, you pull back, breathless and flushed. Namjoon presses one last kiss to your forehead before turning and dragging his suitcase toward the entrance. He glances back only once, mouths a quick 'I love you', then disappears into the crowd.
You stand there for a moment, exhaling, before heading back to the car and sliding into the passenger seat. Jungkook doesn't look at you right away, just pulls away from the curb and merges back into traffic.
The city gradually thins out as Jungkook drives toward the quieter part of town, where Grace Church sits tucked between tall sycamores and stone walls.
You scroll absently through your phone, then glance over at him. "Thanks again, by the way. For today. And for…you know...looking after him."
He keeps his eyes on the road, nodding. "Yeah. No problem. Just doing my maid of honor duties."
"Did you guys have fun at basketball?" you ask. "He said he had a good time."
Jungkook's grip tightens just a little on the steering wheel. "Oh, he did, huh?"
"Yeah. He said your friends were really nice."
"They liked him too," Jungkook mutters. "Apparently."
You smile, relaxing against your seat. "That makes me happy."
He doesn't answer, just keeps driving.
You shift the topic, sensing he doesn't have anything to say. "So…Reverend Choi. He's the sweetest man. He married my parents thirty-five years ago and insisted on flying to England to do our ceremony."
Jungkook nods slowly, smiling faintly. "That's nice of him."
"Yeah, you'll love him."
As you pull into the church parking lot, the mood softens. Grace Church is beautiful—cream-coloured brick, large green hedges, tall arched windows catching the afternoon light. You've spent holidays here; weddings, funerals, everything in between.
"Ready?" Jungkook asks, parking the car.
"As I'll ever be," you nod, unbuckling your seatbelt.
Inside, Reverend Choi's office smells like old paper and lemon polish. The walls are lined with books—bibles in multiple languages, commentaries, worn novels, a few random history texts thrown in.
He stands up when you and Jungkook walk in, his face breaking into a wide, wrinkled smile.
"Ah, ___," he murmurs warmly, his arms open. "My goodness, look at you. All grown up and getting married. When did that happen?"
You smile brightly as you step into his hug. "Hello, Reverend. It's good to see you."
He pulls back to look at you, his eyes shimmering with pride. "Your mother showed me pictures of your bakery. You've done well. Your father would be so proud of you if he were here."
You bow your head, clutching your head in gratitude. "Thank you."
Reverend Choi then turns to Jungkook, smiling even wider. "And this must be the lucky groom," he says, holding out his hand. "Handsome too. Good. You'll make beautiful babies."
Jungkook chokes on his own breath, his heart stuttering.
You blink, your brows shooting up. "Oh! No, no—this is Jungkook. He's my…maid of honor."
Reverend Choi pauses, then chuckles. "Ah, I see. Wonderful. We actually have many gay and lesbian members of the congregation. Love is love, yes?"
Jungkook's eyes nearly pop out of his skull. "I...uhm, no, I'm not—"
You pat his arm, smiling. "He's not gay, Reverend. Just my best friend."
"Ahh," Reverend Choi chuckles, nodding in understanding. "Well, please, sit."
He gestures for you both to take a seat on the worn arm chairs across from his desk. He pulls out a notepad and pen, sliding on his reading glasses.
"Well then," he sighs. "Let's get to know this love story, shall we? I'll need some details to work into the vows, the sermon, the blessing. Something that reflects who you are—not just as individuals, but together."
You nod, smoothing your hands over your knees. "Sure."
"Let's start simple," he smiles. "Tell me about your relationship with your groom."
You smile, the memories of London rising like a gentle tide. "We met at a museum in London and we were instantly drawn to one another. It was a whirlwind romance, it all happened super fast."
Reverend Choi smiles, his pen poised. "Mm, love at first sight?"
You flush. "I guess you could say that..."
He chuckles. "Good. So...what is it that you love about him? The little things. The things that are…'so him'."
You open your mouth, but it's like your brain just empties on the spot. Not because there's nothing there—of course there is. You love him. You know he's kind and thoughtful and everything nice, but the words feel vague. Hard to pin down under the pressure of a blank page and an expectant smile.
"He's…" you start, then stall. "uhm…he's very…calm?"
Reverend Choi nods. "Calm. Good. In what way?"
You scramble. "He's...patient. He takes his time on things...well, despite proposing so soon."
Reverend Choi writes that down, humming. "And what else?"
"He loves his work," you add. "He's passionate about photography. And...he treats people well. Waiters, staff, my mom. He's very respectful."
"Excellent," Reverend Choi nods. "And what is something only you would know about him? A small habit or story that feels unique to your relationship. Something that shows your bond."
You blink, and for a split second, your mind flicks to the man sitting beside you instead of your fiancé.
To him always ordering your favourite flavour of cake so that you can sneak bites from each other's plate. To his ridiculous laugh when you make a dumb joke. To him never letting you walk on the outer part of the sidewalk, even if it's subconsciously. To the way he can tell you're spiraling just from one choked word over the phone.
You quickly drag yourself back.
"Uhm," you murmur slowly. "I...uhh...sorry, I'm kinda blanking...uhm..."
Jungkook sits silently beside you, his hands clasped, watching you closely.
Reverend Choi smiles, nodding slowly. "No worries, ___, we can go over that some over time. What about your shared history? Inside jokes, perhaps?"
You open your mouth again, feeling your face heat up. "Shared history…well…we haven't known each other very long. Just a few months. We just…clicked quickly."
Jungkook shifts slightly, then leans in, his voice casual and easy.
"Reverend," he murmurs, "maybe you should ask Namjoon some of these questions too. Get his side. Stuff only he would say about her. Their little things, you know?"
Reverend Choi brightens. "Oh, absolutely. I'll be meeting with him separately over in England."
"And you'll want to ask very specific stuff," Jungkook continues, his tone light but edged with something sharper. "Stuff like…does he know what she's truly afraid of? What she does when she's really stressed out. What cheers her up after she's had a bad day. The weird little habits only someone who's really been around her would catch."
You look at him.
His eyes flick to you, then back to Reverend Choi.
"Those details make the best vows, right?" he adds. "Not just 'she's kind and pretty', but…things like 'she learned how to ride a bike when she was in high school and always sobs at dog commercials'. The real stuff. The history."
Reverend Choi chuckles, resting his chin in his palm. "You speak like a man who's been paying attention, Jungkook."
He shrugs, smiling. "Someone should."
You swallow thickly, looking down at your lap.
Reverend Choi turns back to you. "So then," he murmurs gently. "___, why don't you tell me what your idea of true love is—"
"You could include Modigliani in the vows," Jungkook blurts out.
Both you and Reverend Choi turn to look at him.
"Modi…what?" Reverend Choi frowns.
"Modigliani," Jungkook repeats, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "The painter."
Reverend Choi tilts his head, growing intrigued. "Go on."
Jungkook glances at you, then looks back at the reverend as he speaks.
"The summer after graduation," he murmurs, "she dated this investment banker. You remember, right?" He flicks his eyes to you again. "The guy with the Porsche and mommy issues."
You let out a startled little laugh. "Oh, don't remind me."
"He asked you to move in with him," Jungkook continues, his voice taking on a softer tone, "but you were having doubts. That was around the time you discovered Modigliani."
Reverend Choi nods along, getting his pen ready.
"You became obsessed with one of his paintings," Jungkook says. "It was of a woman wearing a blue scarf, holding a baby. You said that painting captured the essence of that woman better than any photograph could."
You scoff in disbelief, your eyes narrowing slightly.
"I can't believe you remember that."
Jungkook looks at you for a breath, and there's something in his eyes that tells you he remembers everything you've ever shared with him, ever.
Then he turns back to the reverend.
"I also remember," he says quietly, "that she freaked out afterwards because she realised she felt more passionate about that painting than she did about Mr. Investment Banker...and she wondered if she'd ever meet somebody who could make her feel as passionate as that work of art."
The room goes completely still.
Reverend Choi's face shows how impressed he is. His pen scratches across the page as he repeats under his breath, "Yes…good…Modigliani…perfect..."
You continue to silently stare at Jungkook, your heart doing something strange in your chest. He feels it, but doesn't look back this time, his gaze remaining firmly on the reverend.
Reverend Choi finishes writing and sets the pen down for a moment, his eyes moving between the two of you thoughtfully.
"Well," he scoffs eventually, a small, knowing smile forming on his face. "Now I understand why you picked Jungkook as your maid of honor."
Jungkook just smiles politely, mentally patting himself on the back.
The bridal shower is exactly one week later.
You're standing outside Jungkook's apartment door draped in a pretty dress and mild anxiety. You can already hear laughter and the clinking of glasses inside as your nearest and dearest friends and family mingle and gush over your fiancé.
You knock once and the door swings open almost immediately.
"Look at the bride-to-be," Jungkook sings, leaning against the doorframe with a grin. He's wearing a cream-coloured button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms and matching slacks, his hair styled just enough that it looks like he didn't try that hard, which means he tried very hard. "You look beautiful as always. C'mon in, everyone's here."
Your eyes widen as you step inside.
"Oh my goodness, Jungkook."
His place is unrecognisable. Soft pink and white streamers drape elegantly from the ceiling, tied off in neat little bunches. Paper lanterns and balloons hang over the living room, there's a "BRIDE TO BE" banner draped across a large empty wall, and a big white armchair in the corner that's clearly meant to be your 'throne' for present-opening later. The kitchen counter is covered in dainty finger foods on tiered stands: tea sandwiches, mini quiches and artfully arranged cheese platters. Mina even made some of your bakery's signature cupcakes and pastel macarons.
On another counter are pitchers of pink lemonade, sparkling water, and a dangerously pretty mimosa bar with cut fruit and champagne flutes. Someone even tied little white ribbons around the stems.
"You did all this?" you ask, turning slowly as you take it all in.
Jungkook shrugs, trying to play it cool. "Had a little help from the guys. I owe Jin for making him fold fifty napkins and making his fingers cramp up."
You laugh, your heart swelling. "This is…so beautiful. I can't believe you did this for me, Jungkook."
His grin widens even further. "What? You thought I was gonna serve you stale chips and beer in front of the tv?"
"Honestly? Yes," you tease. "At best, I expected white plastic cups."
He clutches his chest. "Wow. The disrespect."
You grin and step closer, lowering your voice so it's just for him. "I mean it, though. You did really well. This is…perfect."
His smugness shifts into something softer for a second. "Yeah?" he smiles. "You like it?"
You nod, your eyes bright. "I love it."
He soaks in the look on your face like sunlight, saving this moment for him to fantasise about later.
"Come here," he says, nudging you gently toward the hors d'oeuvres table. "I ordered a whole bunch of food. You need to try this one."
The table is a Pinterest board brought to life. Tiny crackers with artful dollops of mousse, cucumber cups filled with whipped feta, mini tartlets, all arranged like a magazine spread. You look over the options, giving him an impressed nod.
"Since when are you this fancy?" you chuckle.
"Since I became a maid of honor," he shrugs. "Now watch, let me elevate your palate."
He picks up a small round cracker topped with a dark, velvety-looking mousse and a little herb on top. He holds it out to you, opening his own mouth for you to mimic. "Try this one."
You don't even hesitate. You lean forward and pop it into your mouth, chewing slowly.
"Mmm" you hum, your eyebrows furrowing at the taste. "That's…what...what is that?"
He pops a cracker into his mouth too, chewing thoughtfully.
"Oh, it's black pudding mousse," he mutters casually. "Made of pig's blood. It's a British delicacy."
You freeze.
The flavour that was, seconds ago, rich and savoury suddenly coats your tongue in horror. Your eyes go wide, your jaw moving in slow-motion as your brain fully processes his words.
You grab the nearest napkin and spit it out so fast you almost choke.
"Jesus Christ," you cough, your face contorting in disgust. "Why would you feed me that, you psycho?!"
He looks the picture of innocence, as if he was simply trying to introduce you to your future husband's culture, but you know damn well all he wants is to freak you out.
You grab another napkin and wipe your tongue, dramatically shuddering. "I don't care if King Charles himself made it. I'm never eating that again."
"It's the thought that counts, right?" he grins, popping another cracker into his mouth. "Namjoon's British. You have to embrace his ways, ___. Gotta start incorporating things like this into your life."
"I'm gonna incorporate my foot into your ass," you mutter, grabbing a glass of pink lemonade nearby and chugging it, trying to erase all trace of metallic aftertaste from your mouth.
Just like that, your appetite has officially left the apartment.
Your family is all present; your mom and grandma, your cousins, your mom's sisters and cousins, even women you haven't seen since your childhood.
Your aunts take turns pulling you aside, hands clasping yours, kissing your cheeks, talking a mile a minute. You smile, nod, chuckle when they expect you to, riding the wave of their excitement even when it feels like too much.
Jungkook is restocking the hors d'oeuvres table, rearranging sandwiches like they're soldiers in a neat row, when Lisa appears at his elbow.
She looks far too pleased with herself, but he can't be bothered to ask why.
"Hey, Maid of Honor," she mutters. "Where do you want Sharon to set up?"
Jungkook wipes his hands on a napkin, glancing at her. "Sharon? Who's that?"
Lisa gives him a look as if to ask if he's dumb. "The entertainment? The tarot lady? I told you about her at ___'s place two weeks ago, remember?"
He frowns for half a second, then snaps his fingers like he remembers—well, he sorta does. Lisa pulled him aside that day at your apartment to tell him about Sharon, who apparently reads palms and tarot cards at bridal showers. She insisted on hiring her because she was at Jeongyeon's bridal shower as well and you loved her.
"Right, yeah. Sharon. Of course."
"She brought her stuff," Lisa continues. "She just needs a table where everyone can gather for the demo."
"Demo?" Jungkook repeats, but she's already turning and strutting away.
"It'll be perfect," she tosses over her shoulder.
He nods slowly. "Okay…yeah. We can use the table near the sliding doors that lead out to the balcony."
A few minutes later, Sharon arrives. She's wearing a deep red dress and a smile that's…a bit too seductive for a bridal shower. Her voice is low and smoky when she greets everyone.
"Hello, ladies," she purrs. "Congratulations, bride-to-be."
You smile politely. "Thank you."
Jungkook helps her carry in a large box. It's heavy enough that he has to brace it on his hip. He sets it down on the table near the balcony, where a small crowd of guests begins to gather.
You frown, feeling both confused and very curious, making your way over.
"What is this?" you whisper, tugging Jungkook's arm as Sharon fusses with the lid.
He grins, looking rather proud of himself. "You know, Sharon. I know how much you loved her at Jeongyeon's bridal shower."
Your eyes narrow, your head quirking sideways. "What are you talking about? She wasn't at Jeongyeon's shower."
He freezes. That's not what he was told.
"But...Lisa said—"
Sharon claps her hands lightly, drawing everyone's attention.
"Alright, everyone, gather around," she calls out, her voice rich with theatrics. "I'm so excited to be here to help celebrate this beautiful bride."
The women crowd closer. Your mother and aunts linger at the edge, curious but cautious. Mina stands behind you, Jeongyeon at her side, Lisa leaning against the wall with her arms crossed and a wicked little smile already forming as she steals glances at Jungkook.
You have a bad feeling about this.
Sharon lays one palm dramatically on the top of the box. "Now, I do readings," she says, "but for bridal showers…I like to offer something a little more…"
Her eyes narrow dramatically, her voice dipping low.
"...pleasurable."
She lifts the lid and instead of tarot cards or palmistry charts, the box is filled with…silicone.
Brightly coloured silicone.
Vibrators. Dildos. Harnesses. Things with straps. Things with buttons. Things with remote controls. Things that look like props from a sci-fi movie. The entire table is a neon sea of sex toys.
For a moment, the room is silent. Then your youngest cousin gasps. One of your aunts almost chokes on her mimosa. Someone whispers, "What the hell?" in a half-horrified, half-fascinated way.
You feel heat crawl up your neck so fast it makes you dizzy.
Sharon beams. "We're going to have so much fun today," she says, lifting a sleek pink toy from the box. "I brought a variety of options to talk about—different speeds, shapes, textures—everything a modern bride might need. Then we can discuss prices."
You stare at the toy, then at Sharon, and then at Jungkook. His eyes are huge, lips slightly parted, complete horror dawning across his face in slow, painful clarity.
On the other side of the room, Lisa is watching him with a satisfied, viciously amused grin.
She set him up. She absolutely set him up and he can't believe he trusted her to actually help him with this.
"You hired a sex toy saleswoman for my bridal shower?" you whisper to Jungkook, your voice strangled.
"I...I thought—Lisa said—tarot—" he stammers.
"Oh, we'll get to the big stuff later," Sharon says cheerfully to the room, entirely unaware of the meltdown taking place in your soul right now. "But first, this model is excellent for both clitoral and internal stimulation—"
Your mother's eyes widen, two of your cousins pull out their phones like they're about to take notes, and you can't even look in your grandmother's direction to see her reaction.
Of all the people in the world to accidentally hire a sex toy hostess in front of your entire family, it had to be Jungkook. Your maid of honor. The man currently turning a shade of red that could be named 'Crimson Shame'.
You can't breathe, feeling like the floor has dropped out beneath you.
"I need air," you mutter as you turn on your heel and march to the balcony, yanking the door open and stepping outside, closing it firmly behind you. The muffled sound of Sharon's sultry sales pitch follows you out, but you're far too upset to pay her any attention.
The second the balcony door shuts behind you, Jungkook's moving. He mutters something to Sharon about "taking five," ignores Lisa's smug little smirk, and slips outside, closing the door softly behind him. The muffled buzz of laughter and vibrator-talk is cut off, leaving just the quiet hum of traffic below and your harsh, uneven breaths.
You're gripping the railing, staring out over the buildings in the distance, your cheeks burning and your eyes brimming with tears.
"Hey," he murmurs softly. "You okay?"
You whip your head around to glare at him. "What do you think?"
He flinches a little at your tone. "Okay. Fair."
You shake your head incredulously. "I cannot believe you did that, Jungkook. My mom is in there. My aunts. My grandmother. And you...you hired a woman to sell vibrators to them in my honor?"
"I swear I didn't know," he says quickly, his hands raised. "Lisa hired her. She told me—"
"Oh, save it," you snap. "Lisa did this? Why was Lisa hiring people in the first place? Why was she doing your job as my maid of honor?"
He frowns, stepping closer. "Can you just let me—"
"No," you cut in. "I don't want to hear excuses. This is my bridal shower, Jungkook. You're my maid of honor. You were supposed to make this special and meaningful and…and all about me, not…whatever that circus is in there."
He visibly deflates a little. "I was trying."
"Well, you failed," you shoot back, your voice cracking slightly. "Spectacularly. So...well done."
He swallows, his jaw tensing. "I was trying to give you something fun. Different. Lisa said she did tarot, palm readings, energy stuff. She said you loved her at Jeongyeon's shower, so I thought—"
"She lied," you scoff sharply. "And you let her do this. You didn't think to check with me? To confirm?"
He opens his mouth then closes it, because no, he didn't think.
You run a hand through your hair, pacing a short distance across the balcony. "I'm so embarrassed, Jungkook. They're in there right now, talking about...dual stimulation and remote control...things! And they probably all think I'm some kind of freak. And Namjoon's mom is probably gonna hear about this eventually, you know that, right? She'll be disgusted!"
He winces at that. "Okay, yeah, that part is…not great."
You glare, shaking your head in disbelief. "That's it? Not great?"
He exhales, feeling frustrated with himself. "I messed up, ___. I get it."
"It was stupid of me to ask you to be my maid of honor," you scoff. "You don't even believe in love."
"I—" Jungkook stutters, running his hand through his hair. "Maybe I do, ___. I—"
"I'm going home," you mutter firmly.
His head snaps up, his eyes wide. "What? No, come on, you don't have to leave. We can pivot. I'll tell her to pack up. We can—"
"I can't walk back in there and act like everything's fine," you cut him off. "Not right now. I can't look my mom in the eye after sitting through a demo on vibrating butt plugs."
He flushes, smiling meekly. "I don't think she got to that part yet—"
"Jungkook."
He shuts up.
You take a deep breath, adjusting your purse strap on your shoulder. "Please just…tell them I wasn't feeling well. Or that there was an emergency at the bakery. I don't care. I just need to leave."
He looks at you like you've just kicked him in the chest, his eyes pleading you to stay.
"___, please..."
"I trusted you," you murmur softly, and that lands harder than the yelling. "And you made this whole thing about something that has nothing to do with me. Or us. Or what I wanted."
His throat works around the words he wishes he could say to you.
You turn toward the door, then pause, a hand on the handle. You don't look back when you say, softer but no less hurt, "You're supposed to be my best friend. I thought you knew me better than this."
He watches through the glass as you move across the living room, avoiding eyes as best you can. Mina calls after you, looking deeply concerned. Jeongyeon shakes her head in disappointment, and Lisa, from her corner, just takes a sip of her lemonade, her eyes glittering.
He's never felt more like the villain in his own story.
—
Twenty minutes later, after he's helped Sharon pack up early, lied through his teeth about you "not feeling well," and watched your family filter out with awkward smiles and forced jokes, Jungkook finally sinks onto the couch and pulls out his phone.
He scrolls past your name in his contacts—not ready to face the read receipt he might never get—and taps Seokjin's instead.
The line barely rings once before he picks up.
"Hyung..."
"What did you do?" Seokjin answers immediately.
"How do you know I did something?" Jungkook scoffs.
"Your tone," Seokjin deadpans. "You sound like my daughter after she knocks something off the counter."
Jungkook drags a hand over his face. "I ruined her bridal shower."
There's a pause on the other end of the line. "Okay. Sounds dramatic. Start from the beginning."
He stares at the lonely vibrator that's been tossed aside on his coffee table; a gift left by Sharon for the 'gracious maid of honor'.
"I got the wrong...entertainment."
"You what?"
"She was supposed to be a tarot reader," Jungkook mumbles miserably. "___'s cousin recommended her. Said ___ loved her work."
"And…?"
"And she was not a tarot reader."
"Oh shit," Seokjin sighs. "What did she do?"
"She sold sex toys to her entire family," Jungkook mutters. "Like, an actual live demo."
On the other end of the call, Seokjin bursts out laughing, his voice ringing in Jungkook's ear.
He groans, throwing his head back. "It's not funny, hyunggg!"
"It's extremely funny," Seokjin gets out, still laughing. "Okay, no, you're right, it's a disaster, but from a storytelling perspective—"
"She left," Jungkook cuts in. "She walked out. She was so pissed. Said she can't even look her mom in the eye out of embarrassment."
Seokjin quiets down, feeling bad for laughing when you're so obviously distraught.
"I really screwed up," Jungkook sighs, staring at the balloons he hung for you. "Like...super screwed up. I think I'm just not cut out for this maid of honor thing."
There's a rustle on the other end, like Seokjin's moving to another room.
"Alright," he mutters. "We're gonna fix this."
"How?" Jungkook scoffs exasperatedly. "She doesn't even want to hear me explain. She thinks I just...booked a dildo show for fun."
"Give her space, let her cool off tonight," Seokjin murmurs. "Then tomorrow, go over to her place and apologise properly, no jokes. Tell her the truth and tell her you messed up trusting the wrong person instead of just doing it yourself."
Jungkook chews on his bottom lip, staring off into the distance of his living room.
"And then?"
"And then," Seokjin pauses, "we turn you into the best damn maid of honor she's ever seen."
Jungkook exhales slowly, sounding resigned. "I'm in love with her, Jin. And I really screwed up. What's the point of still continuing on as her maid of honor if she's anyway just gonna marry some other guy? It's hopeless at this point."
"Hey," Seokjin mutters firmly. "I don't know you to just give up. If you want something, you fight for it. ___ is your best friend and you're not gonna abandon her right now. If you love her...you'll stick beside her and show her the lengths you're willing to go for her."
That shuts Jungkook right up.
"Maid of honor boot camp starts tomorrow night. Got it?"
Jungkook wants to argue and insist that it's too late, but then he imagines your face—how hurt you were when you left—and he reminds himself why he even agreed to go through with this in the first place. He wants to be with you, and he'll stop at nothing to redeem himself.
"Yeah," he sighs, nodding. "Okay."
—
The apology comes first.
Jungkook shows up at your apartment the next morning with your favourite order from the bagel shop you love, and a sincere sorry. There's no deflection or excuses. No charm. Just red ears, pleading eyes, and a stomach full of guilt.
He stumbles through it—actually saying the words, "I'm sorry, I was wrong, I should've asked you first," and "I trusted the wrong person instead of trusting my gut." You're still a little hurt, still flushed with humiliation, but the sincerity in his voice is like nothing you've ever heard from him before. You don't fully shake it off, but you can see he's made a lot of development, so you let him back in. A little.
He leaves your apartment knowing one thing for sure: If he's really going to fight for you, he can't half-ass this anymore.
That brings him to Seokjin's house later that evening.
Empty pizza boxes litter the coffee table. Three laptops are open. There's a whiteboard propped against the wall with the title, "OPERATION: BEST MAID OF HONOR!!!" and the subheading, "Steal the bride."
Jungkook sits on the couch, hunched forward, his hands clasped between his knees. Seokjin stands like a professor at the front of the 'class', a marker in hand. Mingyu's sprawled on the floor with his phone, and Wonwoo's got a notebook open like he's really about to take minutes.
"This is stupid," Jungkook mutters.
Seokjin taps the board, raising a brow. "This is us helping you get your girl."
Mingyu looks up, nodding. "This is your training arc, dude. Every protagonist needs one."
Wonwoo laughs, writing that down.
"You guys are not normal," Jungkook chuckles, shaking his head.
"Alright," Seokjin announces, clapping his hands together. "First; duties. You signed up as maid of honor. That is not just a silly title and a sash. That is a job."
He gestures to the laptop on the coffee table. "Mingyu, show him."
Mingyu turns the screen toward Jungkook. A quiz is open, titled, "Are You Ready To Be The Perfect Maid of Honor? (Take This 25-Question Quiz To Find Out!)"
Jungkook squints, leaning forward to get a better look. "You're kidding."
"Question one," Wonwoo reads, ignoring his friend's protest. "Who is responsible for coordinating the bridesmaids' hair and makeup schedule on the wedding day?"
Jungkook frowns. "Uh…the hair...people?"
Seokjin whacks him lightly with a rolled-up magazine. "You are. ___'s job is to stay calm and look pretty. Your job is to make sure no one shows up half-curled and crying."
Mingyu scrolls down. "Question two; What goes in the maid of honor's emergency kit?"
"Condoms," Jungkook blurts out.
They all stare at him.
He throws his hands up. "What? I panicked."
Wonwoo writes slowly in his notebook, "Do not put condoms in ___'s wedding emergency kit."
Seokjin sighs. "Think more along the lines of stain remover, safety pins, painkillers, tissues, band-aids, breath mints, pads, backup lipstick, sewing kit—"
"Snacks," Mingyu adds.
"Snacks," Seokjin agrees. "She could get low blood sugar if she's too nervous."
Jungkook's brows pinch. "She could?"
All three of them look at him.
"Bro," Mingyu scoffs. "Do you know nothing about women? Keep up, playboy."
Jungkook rolls his eyes, reluctantly nodding. "Yeah, okay. Snacks."
"Preferably non-bloody snacks," Wonwoo snorts.
Jungkook throws him with pizza crust. "I said I was sorry about the black pudding."
Seokjin scoffs. "It's gonna be a long week, boys."
Over the next week, boot camp is in full swing. On day one, they run him through every online maid of honor article they can find, quizzing him for hours on end.
"Who organises the rehearsal dinner timeline?"
"Who makes sure the bride eats on the wedding day?"
"Who gives the emotional speech?"
Each time, the answer is the same: You, Jungkook.
He groans, but he writes it down anyway.
Day two is scenario practice. Seokjin sits on a chair, pretending to be you in a veil made out of a dish towel. "I hate my hair," he whines in a shocking falsetto. "Should I call off the wedding?"
Mingyu, playing the bridesmaid, goes, "The cake is the wrong shade of white, and no one can find Namjoon's shoes!"
Wonwoo, from the corner, closes his book. "The florist is stuck in traffic. Half the flowers are missing. What do you do?"
Jungkook rubs his face, groaning. "Throw myself off a cliff?"
"Wrong," Seokjin deadpans. "You fix it and you support her."
"I already do that," Jungkook shrugs.
"Not just as her friend," Seokjin sighs. "As the person who's standing closest to her in the most important moment of her life. You need to show her that even if everything falls apart, you won't."
Jungkook takes that one home with him and keeps repeating it to himself as he lies in bed.
Day three is emotional preparation, which Jungkook finds the hardest of them all.
Wonwoo pours everyone soju at his kitchen table. "Time for the real problem," he says. "You love her."
"Well...yeah," Jungkook mutters.
"So what's the plan?" Mingyu asks. "When are you planning to confess? It can't be at the actual wedding. It'll just cause a scene."
Wonwoo sighs. "Please do not ruin a church ceremony."
Jungkook stares at his glass. "I...I don't know. I didn't really think that far ahead."
Seokjin drinks his shot of soju and pours himself another. "Do it before the wedding."
"So…" Jungkook starts, his eyebrows furrowing. "If I'm gonna confess my feelings for her before the wedding, why the hell have you people been training me so vigorously for maid of honor duties?"
"Honestly, it was just really fun for us," Mingyu shrugs.
"Look, Jungkook, just tell her how you feel when you're sure you're doing it for her, not for your ego," Seokjin says softly. "You don't confess because you want to 'win'. She's not a prize to be won. You confess because she deserves to know what's real. And you're ready to accept whatever answer she gives."
That lands heavy.
Wonwoo exhales. "Damn. That was deep, hyung. Why did I never know you were this romantic?"
"I'm married," he shrugs. "I had to be romantic to bag my lady. She's vicious, man."
—
The mall on a Saturday afternoon is like a battlefield. It's stuffy and loud and too overstimulating, but with Jungkook beside you and a barcode scanner in your hand like a gun in battle, it feels weirdly fun.
"Okay," he says, looking down at the wedding registry checklist on your iPad. "We've got plates, glassware, cutlery, pots, pans, and miscellaneous kitchen gadgets you'll never use but absolutely need. Perfect."
You snort. "Like what, an avocado slicer?"
He points dramatically. "We are absolutely scanning that."
You roll your eyes, but when you pass the display, he grabs the ridiculous multi-function slicer/masher/spiralizer combo and holds it out. "___, it's twelve-in-one. It's a Swiss Army knife for vegetables. Scan it."
"You're going to be the reason my cupboards are full," you mumble, but you dutifully beep it with the scanner, watching it appear on the little registry list.
The bed and bath section is next. Towering stacks of towels, pillows, and duvet covers surround you like fabric mountains. Jungkook runs his hand over a ridiculously soft blanket and whistles.
"Okay, you definitely have to register for this," he nods. "This is the type of blanket people have spiritual experiences under."
You laugh. "You just want something cozy to steal when you come over to bother me."
"Correction," he says. "When I come over to keep my best friend company...and her British butler too, I guess."
You scan the blanket, laughing. "Don't call him that. He's my soon-to-husband, not butler."
He grins, checking out a nice wooden nightstand. "You call him what you want to and I'll call him what I want to."
You roll your eyes, but your smiles stays on your face.
He takes the scanner from you at some point and starts "helping."
"You need this," he mumbles, scanning a set of measuring cups.
"Okay, practical."
"You need this too," he adds, scanning an unnecessarily large popcorn bowl.
"Less practical."
"I wonder if we can scan this too," he scoffs as he leans over toward a nearby mannequin and tries to scan the barcode printed faintly on its stand.
You snort. "I don't think that's for sale."
"I'm just checking," he grins, pretending to study the display card. "What if you want a life-size fake friend to take with you to London for when Namjoon's away? An emotionally supportive mannequin. We'll name her Sharon."
You burst out laughing, swatting his arm. "Too soon."
He chuckles, thinking back to the dildo saleswoman. "Yeah, you're right. Too soon."
He points the scanner at your forehead suddenly and beeps you.
You smack his arm, giggling like you did when you were eighteen in the university's library while Jungkook got shushed by nearby students.
"You're such an idiot, you know that?"
He looks stupidly pleased with himself.
You go through bedding, towels, bathmats, even a rather expensive set of knives that he insists on scanning "for the aesthetic, or if you want to murder your husband someday." He takes his role seriously, leaning into the bit of being an over-involved maid of honor, and it really does help with the stress and the looming reality of forever. With him there, it feels less like a grown-up obligation and more like a silly little game.
By the time you're heading back toward the escalators, your arms are a bit tired and your brain is full of thread counts and brand names.
And that's when you pass it—the lingerie boutique. The soft lighting, blush-pink window displays, mannequins wearing satin slips and lace sets.
You slow down. Jungkook follows your gaze and immediately feels his soul leave his body. Not today. He can't do this. He can't shop for lingerie with the woman he's in love with, who is ultimately going to wear that lingerie for someone else!
"Oh no," he mutters.
"Ohhh, Jungkook, this is perfect," you gasp, stopping in front of the window. "Let's get this out the way while we're here."
He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. "Right now?"
You look at him like it's obvious. "Why not?"
He groans, realising he appears more disgusted than deeply conflicted about seeing you pick out skimpy little panties. "I just—shouldn't Namjoon be with you for that? Or…your mom? Or, I don't know, literally anyone who isn't me?"
"You're my maid of honor," you remind him. "This is literally on your list of responsibilities."
"I'm pretty sure 'help her pick out lingerie' is not in the official handbook," he mutters weakly.
You grin, already walking ahead of him. "You're the perfect person for this. You've seen hundreds of women in lingerie. Let's put your whoring to good use."
He actually sputters. "Wh—excuse me?!"
You shrug. "You've dated half the city, Jungkook. You know what looks good. Might as well use your expertise for something useful."
He wants to argue, but...you're not wrong. And the way you say it—teasing and lighthearted—makes his chest twist with the familiar mix of annoyance and fondness he always gets when you call him out on his shit.
He sighs, throwing his head back in defeat. "You're gonna be the death of me."
"That's the spirit," you smile, already tugging his sleeve toward the entrance.
The store is all gentle pop music and whispers and delicate lace that looks like it would disintegrate in a washing machine. You're greeted by a cheerful saleswoman who spots your ring instantly.
"Bridal?" she asks, smiling.
You nod. "Yes. I'm looking for something…special for the wedding night."
She beams. "We have a bridal collection in the back. White, ivory, blush, some bright colours if you want to break tradition. Feel free to browse, and I can help with sizes when you're ready."
Jungkook shoves his hands in his pockets, doing everything in his power to keep his eyes above shoulder level, trailing after you like a very nervous shadow. You look through racks of lace and silk, humming thoughtfully.
"What do you think?" you ask, holding up a pretty white set with thin straps and tiny embroidered flowers.
"I think I might get a stroke in the middle of a mall," he mumbles.
You roll your eyes. "Just answer the question."
He swallows, nodding. "It's...nice."
"Nice," you repeat flatly. "Wow. Useful insight there, Casanova."
He makes a face, pouting. "What do you want me to say? 'Yes, that will definitely turn your fiancé into a puddle'?"
You sigh. "You're useless."
You end up grabbing a few things to try: a white lacy set, a blush pink one that looks deceptively innocent, and a darker, skimpier piece that makes Jungkook briefly forget how to breathe when you hold it up.
"I'll just try these on quickly," you murmur, heading toward the fitting rooms. Then you pause, turning back. "Don't run away."
"I might," he mutters. "To church to repent for the thoughts I'm currently having in this store."
The saleswoman giggles. "You can take a seat over there while you wait. We'll call you if she wants your opinion."
He sits on the round upholstered seat outside the fitting rooms, bouncing his knee and staring at the floor like it's the most interesting thing in the world. Muffled music plays overhead. Hangers clink. Somewhere in the back, there are women discussing the difference between a thong and a g-string.
This is fine. Completely, totally normal. Friends do this. Best friends. Best friends who are maids of honor. It's not weird. It's simply helping. You asked him and he's just…being supportive.
He thinks of Namjoon, of the ring on your finger and the impending trip to England.
His face grows hot as he thinks of you in pretty underwear and immediately stops thinking at all. He can't. Not in the mall. He still has to walk out of here afterwards and pretend his dick didn't just jump at the mental imagine of you in lingerie.
That imagine comes to life faster than he has time to emotionally prepare.
"Jungkook?" your voice calls from behind the curtain.
He jerks, standing straight up. "Yeah?"
"Can you come here a second?"
His heart drops into his shoes. "Why?"
You sigh, exasperated and muffled. "Because I'm asking you for your opinion and I'm not walking out there in front of the whole store."
The saleswoman gives him an encouraging smile. "You can stand right by the curtain. I'll make sure no one else comes over."
This feels like a legal grey area.
He walks over, his hands sweaty, stopping just in front of your fitting room. The curtain is drawn, but he can see the faint outline of your body shifting in the light.
"You ready?" you ask.
"Not at all," he mumbles.
The curtain draws open a fraction and then all the way, and for a moment, all the air leaves his lungs. It's like an angel straight from heaven above standing before him. Your body looks incredible, accentuated by soft white lace. The bra lifts just enough, the panties sit high on your hips, elongating your legs, and there's a tiny bow right at the centre that makes his vision blur.
He actually has to stop himself from falling to his knees for you.
Your skin glows under the fitting room lights. You look…unreal. Soft and sharp all at once. Beautiful enough to make his fists clench at his sides.
You glance down at yourself, then up at him, feeling a little shy beneath the bravado. "Well?"
His mouth falls open but no sound comes out. His brain is a mess of words that are deeply inappropriate for this public space.
You shift your weight from your right foot to your left. "Say something, please," you murmur quietly. "Do you think he'll like it?"
"No. Absolutely not."
You blink, your face falling. "What?"
His jaw clenches, shaking his head quickly. "No. He can't see you in that."
You roll your eyes, resting your hands on your hips. "What are you talking about? I'm literally buying it for him."
"Yeah, and I am respectfully voting against it," Jungkook mutters, his voice a little too tight, his eyes resolutely fixed somewhere above your forehead now. "That's…no. Next."
You huff. "You're supposed to tell me if Namjoon will like it, not if you approve."
"Well, I don't," he shrugs. "He doesn't get to—" He cuts himself off, shaking his head. "It's…too much."
A slow, teasing smile spreads over your face, sensing his inability to look anywhere lower than your collarbones. You never thought you'd see Jeon Jungkook get flustered, but alas.
"Too much for him?"
"Too much for anyone," he snaps before he can stop himself.
You tilt your head, watching him, something unreadable flickering in your eyes.
"Interesting," you murmur.
He clears his throat, taking a careful half-step back. "Try…the pink one," he mumbles. "That's more…PG. Less likely to cause…cardiac arrest."
You bite back a smile. "You look like you're about to pass out, Jungkook."
"I am," he mutters dryly. "Thanks."
You close the curtain again, and he presses his palm to his chest, as if that'll slow down his heartbeat.
You end up buying both the white set that made Jungkook's soul try to exit his body, and the softer blush-pink one he insisted was safer and more 'Namjoon appropriate'.
The saleswoman wraps them in tissue paper and slides the little branded bag across the counter with a wink, glancing at Jungkook. "Your husband-to-be is a lucky man."
You and Jungkook both say, "Oh, we're not—" at the same time, then stop, exchange a look, and give up.
You escape back into the mall, your cheeks warm and pink, and Jungkook immediately suggests ice cream because frankly, he needs to cool his entire bloodstream.
"We have to get some," he says, pointing to a place near the exit. "Mandatory shopping treat."
You roll your eyes but you can't deny how good that sounds right now.
Ten minutes later, you're outside, walking down a busy Seoul sidewalk, each of you with a cone in hand. The sunset bleeds soft golden rays into the glass buildings, the air just cool enough to not need a jacket. You're carrying your little lingerie bag, your purse slung over your shoulder and your skirt fluttering around your calves, the day's chaos distilled into cold sugary cream and city noise.
You walk in comfortable silence for a moment—dodging other pedestrians, the sound of traffic and distant street music filling the spaces between you.
"Just two more days," you murmur quietly, mostly to yourself.
"Until what?" Jungkook asks, licking a bit of melted ice cream off his thumb.
"Until we leave," you remind him. "England. Wedding week. After that, it's all gonna be a blur."
He nods. "Yeah. Big week."
You're quiet for a beat, your feet moving a bit slower than before.
"I've been thinking about what happens after," you mumble, looking at the concrete sidewalk. "After the wedding."
He glances over, licking his ice cream. "Yeah?"
"I'm…thinking of moving to London...for good," you say, the words feeling heavier than you expected once they're out. "It just makes sense. Namjoon's life is there. The house in the countryside is there, and his parents are thinking of giving it to us as a wedding gift. And I…" You shrug weakly. "I could make it work. Find a bakery, or open a new one. We'd be able to live together comfortably instead of hopping between continents."
He stops walking.
It's not dramatic—he just…stops. Stands there on the sidewalk, ice cream in hand, looking at you like someone just told him gravity might not work tomorrow.
"You're…moving?" he repeats slowly. "Like, permanently? Not just trying it out for a month or two?"
"Yeah," you murmur, pushing a strand of hair behind your ear and turning to face him. "I mean, I haven't decided for sure, but…I'm leaning toward it. I can't expect him to uproot everything. It wouldn't be fair."
He swallows, scoffing humourlessly. "Right. Yeah. Makes sense."
You search his face. "Do you think it's insane? Uprooting my whole life for someone I've only known for...four months?"
He chuckles faintly, but it's clear he's anything but amused. "I think...love makes people do insane things all the time."
"That's not an answer," you murmur softly.
He looks away, watching as the sea of pedestrians stroll past, completely ignoring the life-altering conversation being had.
"You really want the answer?" he asks.
"Yes. Please."
He breathes out slowly, nodding. "Okay. Then…yeah. I think it's insane."
You smile curtly, looking away. "Wow. Brutal."
He shakes his head. "Not because of him. Not because you shouldn't chase something that makes you happy. But because…" His jaw tightens, feeling as if his chest is being ripped open to bare his soul to you. "Because I don't know what the hell I'm supposed to do with my life if you're suddenly a million miles away."
Your heart squeezes, your eyebrows furrowing as you step closer. "Jungkook..." you whisper, feeling a knot tighten in your throat.
"I'm serious," he mutters, forcing himself to meet your eyes. There's no playful glint there this time—just raw honesty. "I know it's your relationship, your choice, your future. And I'll support you, because of course I will—I'd sooner cut off my own arm than be the reason you don't go after what you want."
He wipes the dripping ice cream from the side of his cone with the spare napkin just to have something to do with his hands.
"But I don't…" His voice dips and wavers ever so gently. "I don't know how to picture my life without you in it the way you're in it now. I don't know how to adjust to you being a plane ride and a time zone away instead of…this." He gestures vaguely between you. "Casual mall trips and emergency cake tastings and you showing up at my place in the middle of the night because your oven broke or your brain won't shut up."
Your throat feels tight, your vision suddenly a lot blurrier than it was a minute ago. "We'd still talk...and visit. It's not like I'd...disappear."
He gives you a small, pained smile. "You wouldn't. But it won't be the same, and you know it."
You look down at your cone, the flavour suddenly no longer appealing to you anymore. "You make it sound like I'm abandoning you."
"I'm not trying to guilt you," he says quickly. "You don't owe me anything. I'm just…" He exhales, frustrated with his own words. "I'm just saying, I don't…have a version of my future in my head where you're not…right there. In the same city. At the other end of a car ride. I never…planned for that."
Your eyes sting a little, your lip trembling. You hate that you picked a public sidewalk to have this conversation, but you made your bed, so you have to lie in it. That's something you've been reminding yourself of a lot lately.
"So what?" you ask, your voice small. "You want me to stay?"
"I want you to be happy," he says immediately, letting out a soft exhale through his nose. "I want you to have this big, epic, stupid love story you've always dreamed about. I want you to wake up one day and think, 'Yeah, this was worth the risk'."
He looks at you like it hurts.
"And at the same time," he continues, quieter now, "I cannot, for the life of me, figure out how I'm supposed to walk around in a world where I can't just...see you. Where I don't go to your bakery and see you at the register, serving old ladies. Where I don't hear your dorky laugh in person, not over a phone. Where you're just...not here, ___."
You swallow, stepping closer. "You'd visit all the time," you whisper. "You'd fly to London for me, wouldn't you?"
"I would," he nods, no hesitation at all. "I'd fly anywhere for you. That's not the point. The point is…I don't know how to be me without you being here. Next to me. Close enough to poke or annoy or cling to."
He laughs weakly, shaking his head. "I know how pathetic that sounds. I'm aware."
"It doesn't sound pathetic," you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.
"It feels pathetic," he scoffs. “Realising that somehow, somewhere over ten years, I built my whole sense of…home around a person who might actually move across the world."
You don't know what to say to that. You stand there on the sidewalk with melting ice creams and your little pink lingerie bag, caught between the future you think you want and the present you never want to leave behind.
Finally, you manage to get out in the softest, shakiest murmur, "I don't want to hurt you, Jungkook."
Your tear rolls down your cheek before you can stop it, feeling silly and embarrassed and just plain childish for crying in the middle of a sidewalk.
He smiles, soft and unbearably sad as he steps closer to catch your tear with his thumb. "It might be too late for that."
Your breath catches.
He sighs, looking away into the distance before glancing back at you. "Look, I'm sorry. Just...forget it. I'm not trying to make this about me. This is your life. Your marriage. If moving to London is what feels right...then go. I'll figure the rest out. I always do." He smiles, forcing a lighter tone. "I'm a big boy."
"Jungkook…"
He glances at your ring, then back up at your eyes. "Just promise me one thing."
"What?"
"That you won't stay or go because of me and my feelings on the situation," he says. "If you stay, it's because you're sure this is where you're meant to be. If you go, it's because you're sure he is. Don't let my—" He scoffs, rolling his eyes at himself. "—emotional instability interfere with your epic whirlwind romance."
Despite everything, you huff out a tiny, watery chuckle. "You're ruining my mascara by making me cry."
"Yeah, I'm an idiot, I'm sorry," he smiles faintly. "But I'm yours, right? At least for a little while longer."
Your Uber pulls up on the side of the road, headlights washing the pavement in pale yellow.
You look at the car, then back at him, smiling sadly as the moment comes to an end. You slowly open the car door, lingering in your spot just to drag it out a little bit longer.
"Two days," you mutter again, quieter this time.
He nods. "Two days."
"And then London," you whisper.
He holds your gaze, something raw and unguarded sitting there between you.
"Yeah," he smiles. "And then London."
You don't dare ask if he'll be okay. You already know the answer.
You give him a small, wobbly smile instead, then turn and slide into the car. As the door shuts and the driver pulls away, you watch him through the window for as long as you can—standing there on the curb with his half-eaten ice cream, a hand in his pocket, staring after you like he has to cherish the sight before it leaves him for good.
Jungkook stays there until your Uber turns the corner and disappears. He tosses his cone into a nearby trash can and murmurs, to no one at all:
"I don't know who I'm supposed to be without you."
—
Jungkook stands on the front porch of his father's home for a second, a bottle of whiskey in his hand, and wonders if this is a bad idea. Then he hears his dad shout from inside, "Door's open, kid!" and, well, it's too late to run now.
He toes off his shoes in the hall and wanders through the familiar space—passing a bizarre art piece one of the wives picked and no one ever took down—until he finds Jaehyun exactly where he expects him to be.
In the study.
Jaehyun looks up over his reading glasses and breaks into a grin. "There he is. My favourite son."
"I'm your only son," Jungkook sighs, holding up the bottle by way of greeting. "Brought you something."
"Then you're automatically my favourite." Jaehyun whistles when he sees the label. "Oh, you brought the good stuff. Come in, come in. What did I do to deserve this?"
Jungkook steps inside, closing the door behind him. "Guilt offering for not visiting enough."
"Always acceptable," Jaehyun grins, pushing himself out of the chair. He takes the bottle, examining it. "Damn. This looks like some good whiskey."
"Yeah?" Jungkook sighs, dropping into the chair opposite the desk.
His dad nods appreciatively. "Very good. Not cheap either. Where'd you get it?"
"It was a gift from Namjoon," Jungkook scoffs. "His dad made it."
Jaehyun pauses then he snorts. "The British one?"
"He's Korean too."
"The British sounding one," Jaehyun corrects, already reaching for two crystal tumblers. "He seems like the type to gift good whiskey. From what you've told me before, he sounds boujee."
Jungkook rolls his eyes. "Can we not make him sound like a limited edition collector's item, please?"
Jaehyun uncorks the bottle and pours them each a generous amount. "I mean, kid, you're the one who walked in here with a literal symbol of his generational wealth."
That grinds Jungkook's gears because he—who also has a disgustingly wealthy father—never got anything handed to him. He had to work hard for the things he has. Hell, he worked multiple part-time jobs throughout high school because Jaehyun insisted he learn the value of money. Unlike some people who can waste their time taking silly photos all day and not have to worry about anything because their parents are paying for their grand wedding and giving them a countryside mansion as a wedding gift.
Jaehyun hands Jungkook a glass and settles back into his chair, studying his son over the rim as he takes the first sip.
"So," he starts, after the burn warms both their throats. "You heading off to England soon, yeah? For the big show."
"Two days," Jungkook sighs, staring into his glass. "Wedding week."
Jaehyun hums. "You excited?"
Jungkook's lips tug in something that isn't quite a smile. "That's one word for it."
His father's eyes narrow just slightly. "Huh."
He sets his glass down with a soft clink and leans forward, folding his hands. "Alright. Tell me why you actually came over. And don't say it's just to share whiskey. You're sentimental, kid, but you're not that sentimental."
Jungkook huffs out a breath. "Can't a guy bring his dad fancy alcohol without an interrogation?"
"No," Jaehyun laughs. "Why are you really here?"
Jungkook stares at the bookshelves for a second. At the framed photo of his father in a tux at one of his many weddings, smiling like he believes in love every single time.
"It's about ___," he says finally.
"Obviously," Jaehyun scoffs. "I assumed that the second you stepped in the door looking all depressed and haggard."
Jungkook glares half-heartedly.
His dad just lifts a brow. "You want to try talking or should I start guessing?"
"You know I agreed to be her maid of honor, right?"
"The world's most committed best friend?" Jaehyun scoffs. “Yeah, I heard. I was very proud and mildly confused. I know you kids are progressive these days but isn't that usually a woman's job?"
Jungkook groans. "That's not the point right now."
Jaehyun tilts his head. "Why did you say yes?"
"What?"
"Why?" his father repeats. "Why did you agree to that? You could've said no. You could've been a regular guest and avoided all the drama. Why'd you say yes?"
Jungkook swirls the whiskey in his glass, watching the amber cling to the sides.
"Because," he says slowly, “I wanted to be close to her. Make her happy. I thought that if I was the one standing beside her, it would…hurt less than watching from the back row."
Jaehyun nods, listening.
"I wanted to give her everything I could," Jungkook continues his fingers tightening around the glass.
"And now she's marrying this guy who is…" He grimaces. "Practically perfect."
Jaehyun snorts. "No one's perfect."
He takes another sip, savouring it.
"Although," he adds thoughtfully, raising the glass, "I must say, this whiskey does come pretty damn close."
Despite himself, Jungkook smiles.
Then it fades.
"She's thinking about moving there," he murmurs quietly. "To London after the wedding. She told me earlier today."
Jaehyun's brows lift. "Really?"
"Yeah." Jungkook nods. "I don't know why but I always just assumed they'd live here in Seoul but apparently I was wrong. And I was planning on confessing to her before she goes through with the wedding, but..."
He tips his head back against the chair, staring at the ceiling.
"I've lost her already," he sighs. "In my head, it's already done. She'll go and build her life there, and I'll just be the idiot back home sending her memes at 3am and pretending it's enough."
"That's a bunch of crap," Jaehyun mutters flatly.
Jungkook looks bewildered. "Thanks, dad. Super helpful."
"I'm serious," Jaehyun says. "You haven't lost anyone. She's not a set of car keys. She's not gone. She made a choice that might be right for her. Might be wrong. But you sitting here acting like someone cut off your balls is bullshit."
Jungkook bristles. "What am I supposed to do? Chain her to Seoul? She's getting married to someone she loves, who loves her. I can't keep being selfish—"
"'Maybe I should set her free'," his father cuts in, mimicking him in a whiny voice. "'Maybe it's better if I let her go'. You hear how that sounds?"
Jungkook scowls. "Like someone trying to be a decent human being?"
"It sounds," Jaehyun mutters, jabbing a finger at him, "like something said by a pussy and used by pussies everywhere."
Jungkook chokes on his whiskey. "Jesus, dad."
"I'm old, not dead," Jaehyun scoffs. "I can say it. Don't sit there and dress up cowardice as nobility. 'Setting someone free' doesn't mean disappearing or giving up without ever telling them what they actually mean to you."
Jungkook's jaw clenches. "What, so you think I should just ruin her wedding? Make it harder for her?"
"I didn't say ruin anything," Jaehyun replies calmly. "I said don't lie to yourself."
He leans back again, studying his son's face.
"For what it's worth," he murmurs quietly, "I get it."
Jungkook frowns. "Yeah, right. You've been married how many times now?"
Jaehyun waves him off. "You're looking at a man with an impressive track record of commitment problems. But…" He swirls his drink, his eyes going distant for a moment. "Out of all the women I've married, I've only ever truly been in love once."
That catches Jungkook off guard.
Jaehyun's voice softens, the edges smoothing out. "She was the most amazing woman in the world, my best friend. I met her when I was young and stupid and thought love would always…wait for me to grow up."
Jungkook's heart starts to thud harder.
"So...I messed it up," Jaehyun says plainly. "I ran. I flirted and cheated and drank too much. I told myself there would be time to fix it later. Among my very long list of mistakes," he lifts his glass in a mock-toast, "that was the greatest."
Jungkook swallows. "Who…was she?"
"Your mother," Jaehyun smiles.
The words feel like a punch to the chest.
Jungkook grips the arm of the chair, his throat tightening. He doesn't talk about her often. Neither of them do. It's always been easier not to. You're probably the only person he's ever opened up to about his late mother.
Jaehyun hums, staring into his glass. "When I finally realised how stupid I'd been and decided to fight for it, it was already too late. She wouldn't take me back. She was right not to. And then it really was too late."
He doesn't say when she got sick. He doesn't have to.
"I loved her," he murmurs. "And I didn't show it the way she deserved until the clock had run out. That's on me. I live with that."
He looks up again, his eyes sharper now. "Don't turn into me, Jungkook. Don't wait until you're standing in a doorway watching the love of your life walk out—holding someone else's hand—and only then decide you're ready to be brave."
Too late, Jungkook thinks, images flooding his mind—your grin across a restaurant table, your hand in Namjoon's, your ring glinting in the light. It was already too late then and it's too late now.
"I think I already did that," he mumbles hoarsely.
"Then don't do it twice," Jaehyun quips. "You still have time. She's not married yet. She's alive. She's here. You're flying to another continent to stand next to her. If you're going to be a pussy and let her go...do it with the truth between you, not some vague noble silence you'll end up resenting for the rest of your life."
Silence settles between them, heavy but not suffocating.
Jungkook stares at the whiskey in his hand.
"You know...she always says I don't tell you that I love you enough," he murmurs suddenly, smiling to himself.
Jaehyun snorts. "Oh I know. Girl throws 'I love you's around like confetti."
A real laugh slips out of Jungkook. "Yeah. She really does."
"She told me once," Jaehyun smiles, "that you feel it but you just refuse to say it. That you get stuck somewhere between your heart and your mouth. But I told her not to worry, that I know you love me without you having to say it. That's just us."
Jungkook shrugs, looking a little embarrassed. "It's...hard sometimes."
Jaehyun nods. "I know."
He taps his glass. "Practice on me."
Jungkook wrinkles his nose. "What?"
"If you can tell your washed-up father you love him," Jaehyun grins, amused, "telling ___ you're in love with her shouldn't be that hard."
Jungkook rolls his eyes. "That's not how that works."
"Try it," Jaehyun insists.
Jungkook hesitates, his face heating up. "This is stupid."
"Absolutely," his dad agrees, grinning. "Do it anyway."
He sighs, staring into his drink. "...You know I do."
Jaehyun lifts a brow. "You mumbling into your whiskey is not the emotional breakthrough we're aiming for, son."
Jungkook groans. "God, I hate this."
"Be a man and say it properly," his father mutters. "You might not get another chance. Take it from someone who knows."
Jungkook stares at him. At the man who gave him tough love for most of his life but would rather walk through hell itself than abandon his son.
"I really do love you, dad," he murmurs quietly, the words feeling strange and heavy but right on his tongue. "Ten marriages and all."
Jaehyun's mouth twitches.
"Well...make that ten divorces too."
Jungkook blinks. "Wait, seriously? Already?"
"Paperwork went through yesterday," Jaehyun sighs. "I was going to tell you over dinner, but I'll accept this version too."
That's...not shocking in the slightest.
"I love you too, kid," he says simply, raising his glass.
Jungkook's chest aches, but in a good way this time.
Jaehyun downs the last of his whiskey and sets the glass down with a decisive clink. "Now, go steal ___ from that British crumpet."
Jungkook huffs. "Right now? My flight's in two days."
"You know what I mean," his dad waves a hand. "Go to England and when the moment comes…" He points at him. "Don't be a coward."
He leans back, his eyes warm, his voice rough but fond.
Not sure who needs to hear this, but there's a man out there who meets all your standards and will love you freely, without making you prove you're worthy of his love.
tangentwithtanner
yousharknotpass
jbbartram-illu
dededos
annaxmalina
