Your whole world crashes in just a second, the sharp, white-hot agony in your abdomen stealing the breath right out of your lungs.
Your fingers clench instinctively into the wet leather of Jung kook's jacket, your knees giving out as a cold sweat breaks out across your skin.
The muffled sound of the rain outside drowns out by the noise in your ears, a wave of panic crashes over you, and you know exactly what this pain means, and the terror of it makes you feel like you are suffocating.
Jung Kook doesn't hesitate, the moment he feels your body go limp, his survival instincts kick in, stripping away every ounce of his previous hesitation. He catches you before you can hit the hardwood floor, his strong arms scooping you up against his chest with a desperate strength.
He doesn't ask questions, doesn't logistically think about the paparazzi, his reputation, or the fact that he's living out of a rental. In this moment, he only sees you, your pale and trembling form in his arms as you clutch your stomach in agony.
Jung Kook is quick to kick the front four open, carrying you into the stormy night, his boots sprint down the concrete corridor toward the elevator, his voice frantic, a litany of prayers pressed against your now damp hair.
The drive to the hospital is a blurred nightmare.
You are currently curled into a tight ball on the leather passenger seat, your hand pressed tightly against your womb, tears leaking silently from your closed eyes with every heavy bump on the road.
Jung kook drives like a madman through the Seou? traffic, one hand white-knuckled on the steering wheel while his other hand reaches across the console, desperately trying to find yours. Jung kook stands right at the head of your bed, his face completely drained of color, his teeth digging into his lower lip so hard it almost bleeds.
He wants to hold your hand so badly his fingers are twitching at his sides, but he respects the invisible boundary you've drawn between you, keeping his hands flat against the mattress instead.
Then, a sound breaks through the quiet room.
Thump-thump-thump-thump.
It is fast, rapid, and incredibly loud-the frantic, steady rhythm of a tiny heartbeat echoing from the machine's speakers. A heavy, broken sob tears out of Jung kook's throat at the sound. He drops his head onto his forearm against the bed rail, his broad shoulders shaking violently as the sheer, paralyzing relief washes over him.
The baby is alive, the baby is still there.
The doctor gives a quiet, sympathetic sigh, wiping the gel from your stomach before pulling the blanket back over you. "The fetus is stable, and the heartbeat is strong," the doctor explains, her eyes darting between your pale face and Jung kook's ruined expression.
"But you have a subchorionic hematoma-a collection of blood between the uterine wall and the gestational membranes. It was triggered by extreme emotional duress, elevated cortisol levels, and physical exhaustion. Your body is screaming at you to stop. If you continue under this level of stress, this threatened miscarriage will become a real one."
The doctor turns directly to Jung kook, her voice turning stern and authoritative. "She needs absolute, strict bed rest for the next four weeks.
No lifting, no stairs, no emotional triggers. She needs to be taken care of constantly. She cannot be left alone in an empty apartment. Do you understand?"
Jung kook lifts his head, dark eyes wide and dead serious as he looks at the doctor, then slowly turns his gaze to you. "I understand," he whispers, his voice thick with a solemn, unbreakable vow. "I will take care of her. She won't lift a finger."
The ride back to the apartment is completely silent, the storm outside finally dying down into a soft, rhythmic patter against the glass.
When you arrive, Jung kook carries you from the car all the way up to the master bedroom, gently laying you down onto the side of the mattress you've spent the last three weeks freezing on.
He pulls the heavy duvet up over your shoulders, his movements incredibly careful, as if you are made of the thinnest glass and any sudden movement could shatter you.
He stands by the edge of the bed for a long moment, looking down at you. The immediate danger has passed, and with it, the artificial truce of the emergency room begins to evaporate. The cold, heavy reality of his emotional betrayal settles back into the room like a thick fog.
You roll over onto your side, facing away from him, your eyes staring blankly at the dark wall, your body rigid under the covers. You hear him let out a long, shaky breath behind you. "I'm going to bring my things back from the rental tomorrow morning," he says quietly, his voice hollow but steady.
"I'II sleep in the guest room, Y/N. I won't come into your space unless you ask me to. But I am staying in this house. The doctor said you can't be alone, and I am not leaving this building until you are safe."
You don't reply, you keep your back turned to him, your hand sliding under the pillow, your fingers clenching into a tight fist. You are deeply grateful that the baby is okay, and a part of your soul felt a terrifying comfort when his arms were holding you in the ER—but the hurt doesn't just go away because of a medical scare.
The memory of his secret conversations, the year of cold silence, and the wall he built still sits between you like a mountain of broken glass.
"I know you haven't forgiven me," Jungkook whispers into the dark room, his footsteps slowly retreating toward the doorway. "I know you might never forgive me. But I'm going to make your breakfast tomorrow. And I'm going to make sure our baby survives this. Sleep well, Y/N."The bedroom door clicks shut with a soft, definitive sound.
You are trapped in the same house with the man who broke your heart, forced into a proximity that is going to test every single boundary you have left, knowing that for the next four weeks, your baby's life depends on the very truce you aren't sure you are ready to give.
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Three weeks can feel like a lifetime when the days are pure silence in your own home. The master bedroom feels entirely too large now, sleeping strictly on your side of the bed, the mattress flattened and cold on his left side, untouched since the night he packed a single duffel bag and walked out into the rain.
Your routine has shrunk into a survival-based lifestyle. You force yourself to eat, take your prenatal vitamins at exactly 9:00 AM, and try to stray away from the framed wedding photo above the hallway table.
The only time your phone lights up with his name is when you initiate it, a strict, unwritten rule you've set for yourself, you only text him factual, cold medical updates. "The bloodwork came back. Iron is low, starting supplements today." or
"Next ultrasound is June 22nd at 10:30 AM. You can come if your schedule allows."
Every time you send a message, three dots appear almost instantly, Jung Kook is always waiting, replying within seconds, sending long, rambling paragraphs filled with worry, asking if you are sleeping, if you need him to send food to the apartment, if the morning sickness is getting worse. You read his desperate words whilst your throat tightens until it hurts before you reply with a single dry sentence, "I am fine."
You know it's killing him. You know he is living in an unfamiliar rental down in Hannam-dong, a place with empty white walls and a view of a city he no longer cares about. But every time you think about softening, the memory of his confession-the thought of another woman comforting him in a dark London studio while you rotted in Seoul-builds a wall of ice around your heart.
Your mother is the only one who keeps you tethered to reality, she sits next to you in the sterile waiting room of the OBGYN clinic, her warm, wrinkled hand firmly covering yours. When the doctor prints out the new sonogram-the baby is now the size of a raspberry, the heartbeat a steady, frantic rhythm that fills the quiet room-your mother smiles through her tears, leaning over to kiss your temple.
But when the doctor asks, with a polite, hesitant tilt of her head, if the father will be joining for the next milestone scan, the air leaves your lungs.
Your mother catches your hand before it starts to tremble, giving the doctor a sharp look. "His schedule is very demanding right now," she lies smoothly.
On the taxi ride back to the apartment, you stare out the window at the gray Seoul skyline, your fingers pressed against your stomach, feeling a profound loneliness. You love this baby with everything you have left, but every milestone feels like a reminder of the family you were supposed to be building with the boy who once promised to hold your hand through every contraction.
By the time you get back to the empty apartment, a heavy summer storm has rolled in over the city, dark rain slamming against the floor-to-ceiling windows. You don't bother to turn on the lights, just sitting on the living room sofa in the dimmed lamp, listening to the thunder rattle the glass, your mind spinning in circles until you are physically exhausted from your own grief.
Then, at 11:42 PM, the digital lock on the front door chimes and your heart leaps into your throat, o freezing on the sofa, your eyes wide in the darkness as the heavy oak door swings open, letting in the cool, damp draft of the storm. A silhouette stands in the entryway, the hall light from the building illuminating the sheets of water dripping from his clothes.
It's Jung kook.
And almost immediately you notice that he doesn't look like the polite, distant roommate from last month. He is a total, unmitigated mess, dark hair plastered to his forehead and cheeks from the rain, his oversized black hoodie completely soaked through and clinging to his broad shoulders.
He isn't wearing his glasses, his face is deathly pale, his eyes sunken and surrounded by dark shadows that tell you he hasn't slept in weeks.
Jung Kook stands there on the threshold, chest heaving, breathing shallow and erratic as if he's just run across the entire city to get to your door.
"Jung kook?" your voice cracks, a mix of terror and an old involuntary instinct to protect him rushing to the surface. "What are you doing here?
What's wrong?"
He doesn't answer right away, he steps into the entryway, his boots leaving wet, muddy tracks on the hardwood floor you just scrubbed yesterday.
He looks around the dim apartment, his eyes wide and unfocused, until they finally lock onto you sitting on the sofa. A choked, broken sound escapes his throat—a sob so raw it sounds like a physical wound opening up.
"I can't do it," he gasps out, stumbling forward, his legs looking heavy and unstable. He drops his keys on the floor, ignoring the sharp clatter as they slide across the wood. He walks straight into the living room, stopping a few feet from the sofa, his hands shaking at his sides.
"Y/N, I can't. I tried. I swear to God I tried to give you your space, I stayed in that apartment, I went to practice, I did what the managers told me to do... but I am dying. I am completely dying without you."
"And what about my punishment?!" you scream back, the built-up agony of the past three weeks finally tearing through your chest. You step right up into his space, your face inches from his damp chest. "You think you're dying? I've been dead for a year, Jung kook! You let me rot in this house!"
"You let me believe I was the problem while you were out texted another woman at 4:00 in the morning!" "You left me alone with a baby growing inside me, and now you think you can just show up on a rainy o night, looking messy, and I'm supposed to just open my arms and fix you?!"
"No!" he weeps, dropping to his knees right in front of you, his hands wrapping frantically around the hem of your shorts, his forehead pressing against your bare thighs, his entire body shaking against your legs.
"No, I don't expect you to fix me. I'm trash, Y/N. I know what I did. I know the emotional cheating... I know it broke you. I hate myself more than you could ever hate me, ! swear it. But please... just let me sleep on the floor. Let me be near you. If I can't hear you breathing at night, I feel like I'm going to stop breathing too."
You look down at his soaked form, your own tears finally overflowing, hot and scalding as they run down your face. Your heart is a battlefield. You want to scream at him, you want to kick him out into the storm for what he did to your sanity, but god help you, you still love him.
You look at the sharp curve of his spine, the desperate grip of his tattooed hands on your clothes, and a part of you wants nothing more than to sink to the floor, pull his wet head against your chest, and let the world disappear. "You don't get to do this," you sob, your voice breaking as you reach down, your fingers gripping his wrists, trying to pry his hands off your shorts.
You are pulling with everything you have, but he is solid, anchored to you by pure, unyielding desperation. "Get off me, Jung kook! Stop using your tears to manipulate me! You broke the trust!
You broke the marriage! A baby doesn't change the fact that you handed your soul to someone else when things got hard!"
"I love you," he chokes out into your clothes, his grip tightening until his knuckles turn white, completely unyielding. "I love you, I love you, I love our baby, please, Y/N, don't throw me away. I will spend the rest of my life begging for your forgiveness. Just give me a chance to show you.
Don't push me out into the dark again."
"Jung kook, let go-" you start, your voice rising in a frantic pitch as you tug at his wrists, your heels sliding on the hardwood floor. But mid-sentence, the words die in your throat.
A sudden, sharp, agonising cramp twists deep inside your abdomen—a hot flush of pain so intense it makes your breath hitch instantly. Your vision black for a second and your knees completely losing strength.
You let out a sharp, choked gasp, your hands flying from his wrists to clutch your lower stomach as your body buckles forward.
Jung kook feels the sudden change in your weight immediately. He snaps his head up, his dark eyes widening in pure terror as he watches your face go entirely bloodshot, your lips parting in a silent scream of agony as you begin to slide toward the floor.
"Y/N?!" he screams, his long arms catching you before you hit the hardwood, pulling your collapsing body into his wet chest. "Y/N, what's wrong? What hurts? Talk to me!"
You can't answer. You can only grip the wet fabric of his jacket, your teeth grinding together as another wave of the terrifying, deep pain slices through your womb, a horrific, cold dread freezing the blood in your veins as you realize exactly what might be happening to your baby.
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The gasping sobs vibrating against your thighs should bring some twisted sense of relief. For twelve months, you have begged for a crack in his armor. You have starved for a single shred of raw emotion from the man who swore to protect your heart. He doesn't mutter anything about the woman. Instead, he just sobs.
You're furious, completely fuming. How dare a that woman console him when she should have.
Knowing he is married.
A million little thoughts run through your head.
Why would another woman try to break up your prefect marriage. Why would another woman try to 'be there' for him when you've been doing that so freely. Why would another woman try to kiss a married man.
The thoughts suffocate you, the thought of another woman accepting his vulnerability other than you. But your head spins. Why would he allow another woman in his hotel room? Why would he cry on her shoulder instead of yours?
Why would he text another woman whilst being a call away. Why would he?
Something inside you shattered, like a you've found a missing piece of the puzzle. As Jung kook clings to your waist, his tears soaking through the fabric of your shorts, you feel nothing but a cold, hollow weight settling into your chest.
Slowly, you place your hands against his broad shoulders and give a firm rejection by pushing him away. Jung kook freezes, his breath hitching in his throat as he feels the resistance. He tries to tighten his grip on your waist, a low, panicked whine escaping his lips. "Y/N, please," he whispers into your lap, his voice raw and cracking.
"Don't push me away. Please."
"Get off me, Jung kook." Your voice is quiet. It is a devoid of the frantic tears from ten minutes ago.
He slowly lifts his head, his face a ruined masterpiece of blotchy skin, swollen red eyes, and crooked glasses. He looks up at you, desperate for the mercy you've given him a thousand times before. But when his eyes meet yours, he finds an empty room.
Slowly, his arms loosen, and he falls back onto his heels, giving you space. You stand up immediately, stepping away from him, your hand instinctively rising to cover your stomach. The movement is protective, but this time, it's a barrier between him and the life inside you.
You walk over to the far side of the living room, pressing your knuckles against the cool glass of the window, staring out at the blurred lights of Seoul in the mist. Jung kook stays on the floor, looking small, his hands resting empty on his lap.
"You think because you didn't sleep with her, you didn't cheat," you say, the words cutting through the quiet room like a razor blade. "I didn't," he whispers defensively, his voice trembling. "I pulled away, Y/N. I swear to you-"
"That is the physical part, Jung kook!" You spin around, your eyes blazing with a sudden, sharp fury that makes him flinch. "You think the mouth-to-mouth is what broke me? You think a drunken mistake in a hotel lounge is why I haven't slept in a year?"
You take two sharp steps toward him, pointing a shaking finger at his chest.
"You gave her your mind. You sat in the dark and you handed her the pieces of yourself that belonged to me. I am your wife. When you are drowning, you come to my shore. You don't build a bridge to a stranger because it's easier than being vulnerable with the person who holds your ring."
Jung kook drops his head, a fresh wave of tears spilling over his eyelashes, dripping onto the hardwood floor. "Texting her at 4:00 AM from your bed," you choke out, the reality of it twisting like a knife in your gut.
"Telling her the secrets you wouldn't tell your members. Letting her comfort you while I was six thousand miles away, staring at my phone, wondering what I did wrong to make my husband stop calling me. That is emotional cheating, Jung kook. And it is a thousand times more lethal than a drunken kiss."
"I was scared," he begs, looking up at you through the dark curtain of his hair. "I was losing my mind, Y/N. I didn't know how to tell you that the fame was crushing me."
"So you punished me for it," you say bitterly. "For twelve months, you let me believe I was ugly. You let me believe I was unlovable. I spent nights examining my face in the mirror, wondering if I was aging too fast, wondering if you were tired of my body, wondering what part of me turned you cold. "You let me rot in a prison of self-doubt just so you wouldn't have to face your own shame."
"I hate myself for it," he roars softly, his fist clenching against the floor.
"Do you think I don't know what a monster I've been? I see it every time I look at you! That's why I couldn't touch you! The guilt was eating me alive!"
"And you let it eat us instead," you counter, your small form, voice dropping back into that terrifyingly steady and calm. "You didn't trust me.
You didn't trust the marriage. You chose cowardice over honesty, and I am not going to forgive you just because you finally got caught by a sonogram."
The word sonogram brings the ghost back into the room. Jung kook's eyes automatically dart back to the kitchen table where the small black-and-white photo is resting next to the cold bowl of stew.
Jung kook stops dead in his tracks. The reality of your words hits him like a physical blow, stripping the last of the frantic energy from his posture. He looks at you, and the sheer, devastating weight of his choices finally registers in his eyes. He has lost you. Truly, completely lost the wife who used to worship the ground he walked on.
"You're kicking me out?" he whispers, his lips trembling.
"You said it yourself before you saw the test," you say, your heart breaking into a million smaller pieces with every word, but your mind remains clear. "You said we needed space. You said you were going to move into the company luxury suite near the studio. Carry out your plan, Jung kook."
"No," he weeps openly now, the tears streaming down his jaw, his shoulders heaving. "I said that before I knew. Y/N, please, don't make me leave you alone while you're pregnant. Let me stay in the guest room. Let me just make you breakfast, let me drive you to the appointments. I won't touch you, I won't even speak to you if you don't want me to. Just let me stay in the same house."
He stands up slowly, his legs shaky, his broad frame looking incredibly fragile in the dim light. He takes a careful step toward you, his hands open, palms up, in a silent plea for peace.
"What do we do now?" he asks, his voice barely audible. "The baby... Y/N, we have a baby now.
We have to... we have to fix this. For them." But a bitter, humorless laugh escapes your lips. You look down at your stomach, then back up at his panicked face.
"Do you think a baby is a bandage, Jung kook?
You think this little life is here to fix the structural damage you did to this house?" You shake your head, the tears finally returning, hot and thick. "' will not raise a child in a home where the father looks at the mother with pity. I will not bring a baby into a marriage built on a foundation of emotional debt and forced obligation."
"It won't be like that," he insists frantically, taking another step closer, his eyes wide and desperate.
"I love you. I know I said I was empty, but it was a lie."
"The second I felt your stomach, the second | knew about the baby... it was like the ice broke.
I'm here, Y/N. I'm completely here. I will do whatever it takes. Therapy, counseling, I'll take a hiatus from the group-anything. Just don't take my child away from me. Don't leave me."
"You don't get to make the terms anymore," you say, your voice firm and precise. "You spent a year making choices for both of us in secret. Now, it's my turn."
You step back, increasing the distance between you, setting a boundaries that he cannot cross.
"I am keeping this baby. This is my child, and I will love them with everything I have left. And you will be a father to them, because you owe them that much. But you do not get to be my husband right now. I cannot look at your face without seeing her name. I cannot let you touch me without wondering if you're doing it out of love or out of the suffocating guilt of a man trying to save his reputation."
"Every time I hear your footsteps in the hall, I will be wondering if you're thinking about London. I need to breathe, Jung kook. My body is growing a human being, and I cannot do it while inhaling your shame every single day."
You walk back over to the kitchen island, pick up the sonogram photo, and turn to face him one last time. "Go to the hotel. We will communicate through texts about the doctor's appointments.
You can come to the scans. But when the styling team asks why you're living out of a suitcase, you tell them the truth." She breathes.
"You tell them you broke your marriage." Jung kook stands in the hallway for what feels like an eternity. He looks at the front door, then at you, his eyes lingering on your stomach with a profound, agonized longing. He knows that if he fights you right now, he will destroy the absolute last thread connecting him to your life.
Slowly, with his head bowed and his broad shoulders hunched in complete defeat, he walks over to the entryway. He pulls his leather jacket back on, his movements slow and mechanical.
He picks up his keys from the bowl, opening the front door, the cool, rainy air of the Seoul night rushing into the warm apartment. He pauses on the threshold, turning his head just enough to look at you through his swollen eyes.
"I'm going to fix it," he whispers, his voice thick with a quiet, stubborn resolve that sounds like the old Jung kook. "I don't care if it takes the rest of my life, Y/N. I am going to win you back. I am going to be the father this baby deserves, and I am going to be the man you used to love. I'm sorry."
The door clicks shut behind him.
The apartment falls back into that heavy, metallic silence, but this time, the quiet doesn't feel like concrete anymore. It feels like a clean slate, wet with rain and tears, as you stand alone in the kitchen, holding the tiny heartbeat of your future in your hands.
The air in the kitchen turns to glass, it shatters.
Jung kook's hands are still hovering an inch above the marble island, trembling so violently that his knuckles look white under the pendant lights.
His eyes are locked onto the tiny, grainy circle on the sonogram paper, he doesn't move. For an endless minute, the only sound in the apartment is the heavy silence and the shallow catch of your own breathing.
"Y/N," he chokes out, the word is barely a sound a dry scrape of air from the back of his throat. He finally lifts his head, and the expression on his face makes your stomach drop. He looks terrified, guilty, and entirely exposed.
He takes a step back from the table, his slippers dragging loudly against the floor, hands flying up to grip his own hair, pulling at the dark strands as if the physical pain could force the world to stop spinning.
"No," he whispers, shaking his head frantically. "No, no, no. This can't... you can't be. Not right now. God, please, not right now."
The words cut through you deeper than his confession, The months of loneliness, the sleepless nights, the cold dinners, and the occasional questions from your own friends-Are you sure there isn't someone else?-all of it boils over in a split second. A hot, furious anger flares up through the hollow ache in your chest.
You step around the counter, snatching the sonogram off the table and slamming it flat against his chest. "Not right now?" you scream, your voice cracking, completely losing its composure.
"That is what you have to say to me? You just got done telling me that you're empty, that you don't love me anymore, and when I show you that we are having a child, your first reaction is to say not right now? Who is she, Jung kook?"
Jung kook freezes, his hands still tangled in his hair. His chest is heaving, his dark eyes wide and bloodshot behind his glasses. "What?"
"Who is she?!" you shout, tears finally spilling over your cheeks, hot and blinding. You push against his broad chest, your hands trembling.
"Don't play dumb with me anymore! I'm not a fool, Jung kook! You don't just freeze to death in a matter of months. You don't stop touching your wife, you don't look at me like I'm a stranger unless your eyes are on someone else. What did you do in London? Who were you with?"
"Stop it, Y/N," he begs, his voice cracking into a high, desperate sob. He presses his back against the living room wall, trying to turn away from you.
"It's not like that. Please, just stop."
"Then tell me the truth!" You grip the front of his gray t-shirt, pulling him toward you, forcing him to look at your ruined face. "Look at the sonogram, Jung kook! That is your baby. I am your wife. If you are going to leave me, if you are going to abandon this family, you look me in the eye and you tell me her name. Give me that much respect!"
"There is no one else!" Jung kook roars suddenly, the sound echoing off the high ceilings of the apartment like a thunderclap. He grabs your wrists, his grip tight and desperate, his face twisting into an expression of pure, bleeding agony. "There is no other woman, Y/N! I swear to God, I haven't touched anyone else! I haven't looked at anyone else!"
"Then why?!" you scream back, refusing to back down, your face inches from his. "Why do you look at me like you hate yourself? Why did you stop loving me after London?!"
"Because I crossed the line!" he screams back, the confession ripping out of his throat so violently that he chokes on the words before he releases your wrists as if your skin burns him, stumbling backward until his knees hit the edge of the sofa.
He collapses onto it, his face burying into his hands as a long, agonizing wail tears out of his chest. It is a sound of pure, unadulterated torture-the sound of a man who has been carrying a sickening secret in total isolation, and the structure has finally collapsed.
The silence that follows is heavy, thick with the smell of the savory stew that now feels like an insult to the room. You stand completely still in the center of the living room, your wrists tingling where his fingers had just been. Your heart is hammering against your ribs, a cold, dread-filled realization sinking into your gut.
He crossed the line.
You slowly walk over to the sofa, your legs feeling like lead, not sitting next to him. You stand over him, your voice dropping into a terrifyingly quiet, jagged register. "What did you do, Jung kook?"
Jung kook slowly lowers his hands from his face. His glasses are crooked, his eyes completely bloodshot and swimming with tears. He looks up at you with an expression of such profound, crushing self-hatred that it makes him look unrecognizable.
"The second week of the London tour last year," he starts, his voice trembling so badly his teeth click together. He stares at the floor between his feet, unable to meet your gaze. "I was drowning, Y/N. The schedule, the pressure..." Jung Kook pauses before continuing.
“I felt like I was completely losing my mind. I was having panic attacks in the dressing room before every show, and when I called you... you were so happy. You were talking about the apartment, about our future, and I felt so guilty for being so broken that I started lying to you. I told you I was fine. I stopped telling you how bad it was."
He takes a sharp, shuddering breath, his fingers digging into his own knees, "There was a producer. A girl the UK label brought in to work on the English tracks. She was always in the studio late at night with me. She saw me have a breakdown one night. She didn't judge me. She didn't see me as 'BTS' Jung kook' ." He takes a deep breath.
"She just... sat with me in the dark. And because I felt like I couldn't burden you with how miserable I was, I started talking to her instead." You feel a cold sweat break out across your forehead. The room seems to tilt. "You talked to her."
"At first, it was just about the music," he chokes out, a fresh wave of tears spilling over. "But then it became about everything. I stayed up until 4:00 AM texting her from my hotel bed while you were asleep in Seoul. I told her things I hadn't even told my members. I let her into the dark parts of my head that I was too terrified to show you because I wanted to keep you safe from them."
He looks up, his dark eyes wide and pleading, begging for a mercy he knows he doesn't deserve.
"The night after the final London show, we were celebrating at the hotel lounge. I drank too much. I was numb, exhausted, and completely disconnected from reality. She walked me back to my suite. She came inside. We sat on the floor against the bed, drinking more, and... she leaned in, Y/N. She leaned in to kiss me."
Your breath catches in your throat. You feel a physical sickness rise in your chest, your hands gripping your stomach instinctively. "Did you kiss her?"
"No!" Jung kook cries out, the word a frantic, desperate plea before reaching out his hand out toward you, his fingers trembling, but stops himself before he touches your clothes.
"I swear to you, on my life, on everything | am—l pulled away. The second her lips brushed mine, it was like a bucket of ice water woke me up. I saw your face. I saw our wedding. I threw up in the bathroom from how disgusted I was with myself. I kicked her out of the room. I blocked her number, I told the managers the next morning that I would never work with her again, and she was gone."
He lets out a ragged, broken sob, his head dropping back against the sofa cushions. "But the damage was already done," he whispers, his voice devoid of any life. "I didn't sleep with her, Y/N. But in my heart, I knew I had betrayed you." His voice cracks.
"I had given another woman the emotional intimacy that belonged entirely to my wife. I had let a stranger comfort me because I was too cowardly to be vulnerable with you. I came home from that tour feeling like a fraud. Every time I looked at your beautiful, smiling face, every time you told me you loved me, a voice in my head screamed that I was a liar. That I didn't deserve you."
You take his large, trembling hand, the one still wearing the silver band and you force it flat against your stomach, right over the soft fabric of your shirt.
"There is a baby inside me, Jung kook. A real, living piece of both of us. A baby that was made from the very last piece of love we had left before you locked yourself away. You don't get to just be 'hollow' anymore. You don't get to run away to a hotel and leave me with the wreckage of your guilt."
The moment his bare palm makes contact with your stomach, feeling the subtle, warm rise of your breath, something inside Jung kook completely tractures.
A horrific, gasping sob tears out of his chest-the sound of the wall he spent a year building finally being demolished by the reality of his child's existence. He completely collapses forward, burying his face directly into your lap, his long arms wrapping around your waist, holding onto you with a terrifying, desperate strength.
He grips you so tightly it almost hurts, his tears soaking right through your clothes against your skin. He isn't the polite, distant roommate anymore.
He turns his head to look at you, his eyes hollow.
"That's why I stopped touching you. Every time I reached out to hold your hand, the memory of that night in London-the memory of how close I came to destroying everything-made me physically sick. I felt too dirty to be near you. I thought..." Jung Kook mutters.
"I thought if I kept my distance, if I punished myself by staying away from your warmth, I could live with the guilt. But the guilt just turned into a wall. I spent twelve months staring at that wall, telling myself | didn't deserve to love you... until my brain actually believed it. I starved my own heart to protect you from the piece of trash I became in London. And now I'm just... I'm completely empty."
The truth lays out between you on the living room floor, ugly, complicated, and devastatingly real. He hadn't fallen out of love with you because he was tired of you. He had systematically destroyed his own feelings out of a suffocating, twisted sense of shame and self-hatred.
He had chosen to let you think he was cold and unloving rather than admit he had been weak for a fraction of a second in a hotel room thousands of miles away.
"You idiot," you whisper, the anger draining out of you, leaving only a profound, bleeding sorrow.
Jung kook blinks through his tears, startled by the softness in your voice. "You absolute idiot," you choke out, your own knees finally buckling.
You drop to the floor right in front of the sofa, looking at him. "You thought you were saving me?
You thought you were protecting our marriage by letting it rot from the inside out? You didn't trust me enough to tell me you were drowning? You didn't trust me enough to forgive you?"
"How could you forgive me?" he asks, his voice a child-like whimper, his broad shoulders shaking violently. "I almost ruined us, Y/N. I let someone else in."
"And instead of fixing it, you let us die anyway," you sob, reaching out and grabbing the fabric of his sweatpants, pulling him down until he has no choice but to slide off the sofa and onto the floor with you.
"You spent a year treating me like a stranger because you were too proud and too ashamed to tell me you made a mistake. And now look at where we are."
You take his large, trembling hand, the one still wearing the silver band and you force it flat against your stomach, right over the soft fabric of your shirt.
"There is a baby inside me, Jung kook. A real, living piece of both of us. A baby that was made from the very last piece of love we had left before you locked yourself away. You don't get to just be 'hollow' anymore. You don't get to run away to a hotel and leave me with the wreckage of your guilt."
The moment his bare palm makes contact with your stomach, feeling the subtle, warm rise of your breath, something inside Jung kook completely tractures.
A horrific, gasping sob tears out of his chest-the sound of the wall he spent a year building finally being demolished by the reality of his child's existence. He completely collapses forward, burying his face directly into your lap, his long arms wrapping around your waist, holding onto you with a terrifying, desperate strength.
He grips you so tightly it almost hurts, his tears soaking right through your clothes against your skin. He isn't the polite, distant roommate anymore.
He is a man drowning, finally breaking through the surface of the icy water he trapped himself in, screaming for air as the love and the agonizing regret he tried so hard to bury come rushing back into his veins all at once, violent, painful, and completely overwhelming.
He stops when he sees you, his eyes dropping to the running water before turning to your face. Even through the blur of your unshed tears, you can see the faint shift in his expression. The corners of his eyes twitch, a shadow of concern passing over his features before his face settles back into that careful, guarded mask.
"Are you okay?" he asks, voice low with a raspy rumble, rough around the edges from a long day of singing. "Yeah," you choke out, quickly leaning down to splash cold water onto your face before you reach for a towel, wiping your skin roughly to hide the fact that your cheeks are flushed from crying.
"Just... a little headache. The light in the kitchen was bothering me."
Jung kook doesn't move from the doorway yet, he leans his forearm against the jamb as he continues watching you with a heavy, unreadable gaze. He used to be able to read you like an open book.
Used to know the exact difference between a cry of frustration and a cry of sadness. Tonight, he just looks confused, like he's trying to decipher a language he hasn't spoken in years.
"Your eyes are really red," he says softly. He takes one step into the bathroom, his hand lifting slightly as if to reach for your face, but he catches himself.
His fingers curl into a loose fist, dropping back to his side. The hesitation is louder than any words he could say. "Did you throw up? I thought I heard..."
"No," you lie, your voice trembling. "I'm just tired, Jung kook. Really tired." He swallows, his throat bobbing. He looks down at his own slippers, then back at you, a profound, exhausting sadness pulling at the corners of his mouth.
"Okay," he murmurs. "There's some medicine in the kitchen cabinet if you need it. I'm... I'm going to go finish up in the studio. Don't wait up for me." He mumbles before turning to walk away. He doesn't close the door behind him, but leaves you standing alone in the bright, clinical light of the bathroom, the echo of his footsteps fading down the hall.
The next morning arrives in shades of gray. A soft, persistent Seoul rain is tapping against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the living room, casting a dim, melancholic light over the apartment. By the time you wake up, Jung kook's side of the bed is already cold. It's a Friday, which means he has an early production meeting at the label.
There is no note on the nightstand. No text on your phone. Just an empty glass in the sink and the faint scent of his cologne lingering in the hallway.
You spend the morning in a daze, only managing to keep down a piece of buttered toast, something you always had whilst feeling unwell. Your hands rest protectively over your stomach, the reality of the situation is settling into your bones like ice, adding up the weeks in your head, you are five weeks along, maybe six.
A tiny, miraculous life is beginning to form inside you, completely oblivious to the fact that the home it's being born into is structurally compromised.
At 11:00 AM, you can't take the confinement of the apartment anymore. You put on a long trench coat before pulling a cap low over your eyes, and call a taxi to a small, private OBGYN clinic on the outskirts of Hanman-dong, a place known for its discretion with high-profile clients.
The waiting room is a sort of torture, you sit in a plush leather chair, your eyes burning as you watch the other couples. A young husband, dressed in a sharp business suit, is sitting close to his wife, his hand resting gently on her swollen stomach while they whisper and laugh over something on his phone.
Across from them, another man is carefully opening a bottle of water for his pregnant partner, his eyes full of a fierce, protective devotion. You look down at your own lap. Your fingers are bare-you stopped wearing your diamond wedding band a month ago because it felt too heavy, replacing it with just the simple silver band that matched his.
When the nurse finally calls your name, you walk into the examination room alone. The doctor is a kind, middle-aged woman with gentle hands. She doesn't ask why your husband isn't there, though she recognizes your name on the chart. She applies the cold gel to your abdomen, the monitor humming to life in the darkened room.
"There," the doctor whispers, pointing to the screen.
You look up through a sudden blur of hot tears. On the black-and-white monitor, there is a tiny, flickering pixel. A heartbeat. A rhythmic, rapid little flutter that sounds like a galloping horse through the machine's speakers.
"The placement looks perfect," the doctor says, her voice a comforting balm. "The heartbeat is strong.
Around six weeks. You're doing great, Mom." The word Mom hits you like a physical blow. You nod, a choked-back sob caught in your throat, unable to look away from that tiny, beautiful spark of life.
You ask for a printout of the sonogram. She hands it to you-a small, glossy black square-and you fold it carefully, slipping it into the inner pocket of your coat, right against your chest.
When you get back to the apartment, the rain has stopped, leaving the city trapped in a humid, oppressive fog. You spend the afternoon cleaning, scrubbing the kitchen counters until your knuckles are raw, desperate for something to control.
At 7:00 PM, the front door lock clicks. Jung kook walks in looking completely spent. His hair is pushed back with a black headband, his black leather jacket fogged from the mist outside. He drops his keys into the bowl, and for the first time in months, he looks directly at you as he walks into the kitchen.
"Hey," he says quietly. "Hey," you reply, keeping your hands hidden behind the kitchen island. "Are you hungry? I actually made dinner. Genuine dinner."
You try to joke. He pauses, looking at the small table you've set for two. You spent two hours making doeniang jiggę and a spread of small side dishes-the comfort food his mother used to make him when he was a trainee.
The rich, savory aroma fills the kitchen, Jung kook's expression softens, a flicker of profound guilt washing over his face. He rubs the back of his neck, a nervous habit he's had since he was fifteen. "Y/ N... you didn't have to do that."
“I wanted to," you say, your voice steadier than you feel. "We need to eat, Jungkook. Together. Just for one night." He looks at you for a long moment, his dark eyes searching your face. There is a deep, exhaustion-born vulnerability in him tonight that makes him look younger, less like the global pop star and more like the boy you fell in love with five years ago.
"Okay," he says softly. "Let me just wash my hands." The dinner is an exercise in heartbreaking formality.
Jung kook eats quietly, praising the food with polite, careful words. "The broth is really good." and "The radish is perfectly cooked." Every compliment feels like a knife turning in your ribs. You don't want a food critic, you want your husband.
You watch him chew, watching the way the light catches the silver ring on his finger-the ring that matches yours. "Jung kook," you say softly, setting your chopsticks down. He stops, his eyes lifting to yours. "Yeah?" He voices.
"Look at me."
He blinks, a sudden, defensive tension tightening his jaw. He sets his spoon down, his hands resting on either side of his bowl. He doesn't look away, but his gaze is incredibly heavy, full of a quiet, dreadful anticipation. "I'm looking at you, Y/N."
"Where did you go?" your voice is barely a whisper, but it cuts through the quiet room like a blade.
Jung kook doesn't flinch. He just sighs, a long, deflating sound that seems to empty the air from his lungs. He leans back in his chair, his eyes dropping to the wooden grain of the table. "I'm right here. I've just been working so hard on this upcoming release, the stress is-"
"Don't lie to me," you interrupt, your voice cracking.
"Please. Don't use the company or the album as an excuse anymore. You've had comebacks before, Jung kook. You've done stadium tours where you didn't sleep for days, and you still looked at me like you loved me. You still held my hand. You still came home to me."
A heavy, suffocating silence falls over the kitchen, the steam from the stew between you slowly dissipates into the cool air.
Jung kook closes his eyes.
When he opens them, the polite mask is completely gone, replaced by a raw, bleeding honesty that makes your breath catch in your throat. He looks so incredibly tired—not physically, but emotionally bankrupt. "What do you want me to say, Y/N?" he asks, his voice dropping into a flat, agonizingly quiet register.
"I want the truth," you weep, the first tear spilling over your cheek. "I want you to tell me why you treat me like a stranger. I want you to tell me why you shrink away when I touch you."
Jung kook looks at his hands, his fingers tracing the edge of the table. He stays silent for so long that you think he's going to get up and walk away. But then, he lets out a shuddering, broken breath.
"Because I feel like a liar every time I touch you," he confesses softly. The words hang in the air, lethal and absolute. "What?" you choke out.
Jung kook finally looks up, and his eyes are bright with unshed, frustrated tears. He looks miserable.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, his voice trembling. "I'm so sorry, Y/N. I've been trying." He pauses before continuing.
"For the last six months, I swear to God, I've been trying so hard to find it again. I stay up at night staring at you while you're sleeping, forcing myself to remember how I used to feel, praying that when I wake up in the morning, it'll be back."
He hits his fist weakly against his own thigh, a gesture of pure, helpless frustration. "But it's not there," he chokes out, a single tear escaping his eye and tracing down his cheek. "I look at you, and I know you're perfect. I know you're the best thing that ever happened to me. You haven't done a single thing wrong. But I feel... nothing. I'm just numb. And the harder I try to force myself to feel it, the emptier I get."
"I hate myself for it," he whispers, his voice cracking completely as he covers his face with both hands, his broad shoulders shaking. "I hate myself so much because you deserve someone who worships you.
And I'm just... I'm just hollow."
Your world doesn't crash down with a bang. It ends with the quiet, agonizing sound of his muffled sobs.
You sit there, completely frozen, your heart shattering into a thousand jagged pieces.
He has just simply, tragically, run out of love for you.
He has chosen his words with a devastating, mature wisdom—he isn't blaming you, he isn't making excuses. He is just admitting his own emotional death.
"So..." you start, your voice sounding like dry paper.
"What are we doing, Jung kook? Why are we still here?" Jung kook lowers his hands, his face pale and stained with tears. He looks at you with a profound, aching pity that hurts worse than hatred.
"I don't know. I didn't want to hurt you. I thought... I thought if I stayed quiet, if I just kept working, it would pass. But it's not passing. It's only getting worse. I think... I think maybe we need some space. I can move into the luxury suite the company keeps near the studio for a few weeks. We can... figure things out."
He's letting go. He's putting his coat on, stepping across the threshold, and preparing to leave you behind. Your hand automatically moves to your coat pocket, where the small, glossy sonogram photo is sitting against your chest.
Your mind is a whirlwind of conflicting, terrifying thoughts. Don't tell him, a voice screams inside you.
Don't trap a man who just told you he feels empty.
Don't make him stay out of guilt.
But then you think of the tiny, galloping heartbeat on the monitor. You think of the three years of promises, the gold foundation you built together.
You owe him the truth, no matter how much it ruins the both of you. Slowly, your fingers slide into the inner pocket of your coat.
"Jung kook," you say, your voice entirely devoid of tears now, replaced by a strange, hollow calm. He stops, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, looking at you with that dreadful anticipation.
"Yeah?"
You pull your hand out of your pocket. Your fingers are shaking so badly the paper makes a loud, crinkling sound in the quiet kitchen. You reach across the table, sliding the small, black-and-white sonogram photo across the wood, past the bowl of soup, until it stops right in front of his hands.
Jung kook looks down at the paper before frowning slightly as he leans forward to look at the grainy, circular image. His eyes trace the medical text at the top-your name, the date from this morning, the stamp of the clinic. Then, his gaze drops to the center of the image, where the tiny, white pixel is circled in red.
The silence in the room stretches, turning thick and heavy as lead.
You watch his face. You watch the exact second his brain connects the dots. The color completely drains from his cheeks, leaving him a ghostly, stark white. His mouth parts slightly, his chest freezing mid-breath. He looks like a man who has just been struck by lightning, his entire system locking up as the reality of the situation crashes into him.
"Y/N..." he whispers. His voice doesn't even sound like his own anymore. It's completely breathless, terrified, and utterly shattered. He looks up from the paper, his dark eyes wide and trembling as they fix onto yours. "What... what is this?"
'I went to the doctor this morning," you say softly, a fresh tear sliding down your nose. "The heartbeat is strong, Jung kook. It's six weeks."
Jung kook just stares at you, his hands hovering over the table, completely paralyzed, as the ghost of the family he wanted meets the reality of the marriage he was trying to leave behind.
to be continued…
40+ comments for part three (omg thanks for the support! love u all!!!!!!!)
The digital lock on the front door beeps-a sharp, chime that always cracks the air at night. You don't move from the kitchen island, just keeping your eyes fixed on the small chipped spot on the marble counter as you wait.
You hear the heavy thud of his gym bag hitting the entryway floor, the rustle of his oversized jacket being pulled off, with the sound of sliding his slippers against the hardwood.
Currently, it's 1:40 AM. Jung-kook rounds the corner into the kitchen, hair is messy and still a little wet from the quick shower he must have taken at rehearsals. He looks up, catching you sitting there in the dim light of the stove hood, and pauses.
For a split second, his shoulders tense a fraction before they drop back into that familiar, heavy slump. "Oh," he says softly, with no smile. "You're still up."
"Yeah," you say, your voice sounding small, even to your own ears. "I was just... reading." You add. Jung kook nods, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He doesn't come over to the island but stays by the refrigerator, keeping the wide expanse of the kitchen floor between you like a physical barrier.
"You shouldn't wait up. I told you the practice was going to run late tonight." He mutters without a thought. "I know. I just wanted to make sure you got home okay." Your eyes flutter. "I'm fine," he murmurs, reaching into the fridge and pulling out a bottle of water before cracking it open.
He drinks it while looking at the cabinets above the sink, his eyes deliberately tracking anything that isn't you. "I'm probably just going to head straight to the studio room. I have some mixes to check before tomorrow."
But there was a time, eighteen months ago, when you would have stood up and walked over to slide your arms around his waist. You would have pressed your face into his back, complained about how much you missed him, and he would have dropped the water bottle to turn around and pull you against his chest, laughing that quiet, breathy laugh of his.
He used to sit on the floor between your knees while you watched TV, letting you untangle the knots in his hair, occasionally reaching up to pull your hand down to his lips just to kiss your knuckles as he whispered a small, "I'm never letting you go."
His face buried in your lap, voice thick with love, "If I ever get stupid and lose my mind, just remind me of tonight, okay? Remind me how much I love you." You remember that promise like a physical ache, the want to go knock on his studio door right now and scream it at him, "You're losing your mind. You're forgetting me."
But the shift didn't happen because he got stupid, but because he just stopped trying. The second year brought the stadium tour, the endless flights, the crushing exhaustion. At first, you blamed the distance on his schedule. You told yourself that anyone would be quiet and detached if they were dancing until their joints bled.
Then the tour ended and he came home, and the quiet stayed. And when he started saying "thank you" too much, it became the worst part. When you made his breakfast, he'd say, "Thank you, I appreciate it," with this heartbreaking, formal courtesy.
You didn't want his appreciation, you wanted him to lean over the counter to steal a fry from your plate, and kiss the side of your neck while his hands gripped your hips.
Instead, you got a roommate who was incredibly polite, clean, and completely unreachable. But your thoughts are cut off with a sudden, sharp wave of nausea hits you, so violent that you actually gasp, clutching the edge of the kitchen counter.
You press the palm of your hand against your sternum, breathing through your nose until the room stops spinning. It's been happening all week, very morning, the smell of the coffee maker makes your throat close up. You've been dragging yourself through the days like your body is made of lead whilst your breasts aching under the fabric of your pajama shirt.
At first, you thought your body was just physically breaking down from the grief of a dying marriage, your mom always told you that heartbreak is a physical thing, that it messes with your physical health too.
But then you remembered the calendar, the skipped periods... And then you remembered six weeks ago, it was the only night you'd touched each other in months. Jung kook had come home late from a company dinner, smelling heavily of whiskey and charcoal smoke.
He hadn't said a word when he walked into the bedroom, he had just stood at the foot of the bed, staring at you in the dark with this look of profound, agonizing guilt in his eyes.
When he climbed into bed, he didn't look at you, he just pulled you into his chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his fingers digging into your waist so hard it left faint red marks the next morning.
The lovemaking was almost desperate, but there was no warmth in it. He held you like a man trying to remember a language he used to speak fluently, pulling a low, ragged groan from his throat that sounded more like a sob than pleasure.
When it was over, he immediately rolled to his side of the mattress, leaving you cold in the dark.
Slowly, you stand up from the barstool. Your legs feel hollow as you walk down the hallway, bare feet making no sound on the floor. You pass the studio door—you can hear the muffled thumping of a bassline through the wood—and slip into the master bathroom, shutting the door behind you.
The plastic stick is sitting on a white paper towel next to the sink. You took it ten minutes ago as soon
after as you then fled the room because you couldn't stand the sight of watching and waiting. Your heart is pounding so hard against your ribs that it actually hurts.
You step up to the counter, closing your eyes for a count of three before inhaling the scent of your own hand soap, and then you look down. Two dark, solid pink lines.
And the air in the bathroom goes completely still, the thumping bass from down the hall seems to vanish as you just stare at the two lines, your brain refusing to process the image, refusing to understand what this means. A baby with his dark, round eyes, a baby with his distinctive nose.
The baby you used to whisper about when you were newlyweds, building a future out of late-night promises in your old apartment.
A heavy, broken sob rips out of your chest before you can stop it. You slam both hands over your mouth, your shoulders shaking violently as the tears finally spill over, hot and blinding, dripping down your wrists. You sink to your knees right there on the cold bathroom tile, pressing your forehead against the side of the bathtub.
How do you tell a man who is already halfway out the door that he's a father? How do you hand a baby to someone who can barely bring himself to look at your face?
Through the thick wood of the bathroom door, you hear it. The studio door down the hall opens. The heavy, slow thud of Jung kook's slippers begins to move down the corridor, heading straight toward the bedroom.
Black boots hit the pavement first, heavy and deliberate, followed by long legs wrapped in faded denim and a leather jacket worn soft at the edges from years of road and trouble. He smells like gasoline, cold air, and something dangerously addictive.
Your biker boyfriend is the kind of man people move out of the way for without realizing they’ve done it. Broad shoulders, rough hands, a jaw shadowed with stubble, and eyes that always look like he knows more than he says.
There’s a scar near his brow he never explains, tattoos slipping beneath his sleeves like secrets half-hidden. He doesn’t smile often—but when he does, it’s crooked, lazy, and enough to make your pulse trip over itself.
He’s quiet in public, watching everything, speaking only when it matters. But with you? He’s different. Softer in ways nobody else gets to see. A hand resting on the small of your back.
His thumb brushing your knuckles under the table. The rare murmur of “You good?” in that gravel-deep voice after noticing you went quiet for half a second. He rides too fast, fights too hard, and loves like it could ruin him, and everyone else knows him as trouble on two wheels.
But you know him as the man who tucks your legs over his lap when you’re tired, kisses your forehead when he thinks you’re asleep, and would burn the whole damn world down if it meant keeping you safe.
As he walks closer, you catch a whiff of leather, sweat, and a faint hint of grease. The air around him still holds the scent of the night sky, where he'd just been leaning against his bike, smoking a cigarette.
He doesn't say anything for a moment, just looks at you with those black eyes, the small silver ring in his eyebrow glinting in the streetlight. His gaze is intense, but there's a softness in it that only you get to see. Your heart flutters in response.
Finally, a slow smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. It's a smirk that says he knows he affects you. He crosses the distance between you in long strides, the gravel beneath his boots crunching slightly.
When he's close enough to touch you, he stops, hooking a finger into the waistband of your jeans and tugging you firmly against him. He leans down, lips near your ear. You almost gasp before letting out a giggle, “hello to you too, handsome.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you, that smirk still playing on his lips. His free hand comes up to brush a stray strand of hair behind your ear—rough fingers surprisingly gentle against your skin. "Handsome, huh?" he murmurs in that low voice of his, tilting his head slightly as if considering the word. "Guess I'm feelin' extra pretty tonight."
There's a teasing lilt in his tone now—the kind that means trouble for someone else later but sweetness for you. He leans back in just enough to press a slow kiss below your earlobe before muttering, "You keep talkin' like that and we ain't makin' it home till sunrise."
You’re wearing a leather jacket—his leather jacket that you stole—with a black tank-top beneath it and pear of black jeans along black boots, your hair hangs loose on your shoulders, “you really think I care about going home right now?”
Oh, and he knows you're wearing that jacket, and the sight of you in it, mixed with that little tank top, has him shifting his hips a fraction closer. His gaze roams over you, slowly, a smirk tugging a little wider.
He lets out a soft scoff that borders on a laugh. "Course you don't, you always want to cause trouble." One eyebrow quirks almost accusingly. His other hand slips beneath the jacket, sliding along the slope of your hip. "That why you stole my jacket?"
“Maybe” you tilt your head, eyeing him. He smirks, that hand on your hip squeezing lightly, drawing your body even closer to his. He's got you pinned there against the side of his bike, the warmth of him pressing in around you.
"Maybe, huh?" he murmurs, tone dropping an octave. His gaze roams your face, lingering on your lips for a breath.
Then, without warning, he dips his head to brush his lips over that sensitive spot at the crook of your neck. That smirk against your skin now definitely borders on teasing. Your voice vibrates in his neck, your arms around his large form, “Not gonna take me for a drive tonight?”
He lets out a low, appreciative hum, his hand on your hip shifting to grasp the back of your thigh, long fingers slipping beneath the fabric of your jeans for a moment just to feel the warmth of your skin. "You're awfully eager for that ride," he murmurs in that low voice of his, his breath tickling your ear. "You gonna be a good girl for me tonight?"
The words are as much a challenge as a promise. He knows exactly what effect his possessive hold on your body is having on you. “That ride can mean many things.” You smirk.
A rough, startled laugh escapes him—deep and rich—before he nips at your earlobe in retaliation. "Oh, you really? wanna play that game with me?"
His grip tightens just enough to make his point as the other hand drags up your spine beneath the stolen jacket. The bike’s seat digs into your back when he crowds closer, voice dropping to a growl,
"Careful what you wish for."
You giggle at his undoing. His jaw clenches for half a second before he exhales hard through his nose, the grip on your thigh turning borderline punishing. "Giggle all you want," he mutters against your throat, teeth grazing where your pulse jumps. "Still got keys to my bike and zero patience left."
“Okay, okay, but seriously… I want a ride, on the bike and you—but first the bike. Let’s go somewhere?”
If any more blood suddenly rushed south, there would be serious consequences. His grip on you is almost fierce for a moment, that gruff composure he was trying to keep slipping. When he finally replies, the words are a little strained, betraying how much just hearing you put it that way affected him.
"...Alright," he growls. "But I'm choosing the place." He moves away just enough to let you climb on behind him, the bike purring between you, waiting. “Sure.” You smile, you always get your way with him anyways.
He waits until you're settled behind him, your hands around his waist, before revving the engine once more. The bike lurches forward with that familiar surge of power as he navigates the road with an effortless, practiced grace.
It's an entirely different kind of rush, being tucked against his back as the world whips by at blurring speeds, the wind catching your hair and clothes. Every bump in the road sends a jolt through both of you, the heat between your bodies undeniable.
And yet, despite the adrenaline, he's completely in control. Soon, the bike slows, pulling off a gravel road and onto a familiar dirt path. The dense trees close in around you, creating an intimate sort of seclusion.
He parks near a wide clearing, cutting the engine. It's dark here, save for the occasional slice of moonlight cutting through the leaves and the sound of distant nocturnal birds along with the crickets.
When he turns to look back at you, that earlier restraint is slowly fading into something darker, more intense. He says nothing, just waits for you to get off the bike first.
You climb off the bike, the soil beneath your boots soft and slightly damp. The cool night air wraps around you, carrying the scent of wildflowers and pine.
When you look back at him, he's watching you, those dark eyes roaming over you in the moonlight. Despite the earlier playfulness, his expression is serious now, the usual teasing glint replaced with something more primal.
He gets off the bike, the gravel beneath his boots echoing in the quiet. "Come here." His jaw tenses, the muscle flickering under stubble as he drags a rough hand down his face.
"Fuck—" The word is more breath than sound, but the way his fingers curl into your hip betrays how close to snapping he is. For a second, he just stares at you, eyes black and hungry in the dark, before growling, "You got no idea what that does to me." Then suddenly you're lifted clean off your feet, hauled against him as if weightless.
“Jeon, we’re in public you fucker.” A sharp, incredulous laugh bursts out of him—his name in your voice like a match to gasoline.
"Public?" he repeats, voice dropping to something dangerous as he adjusts his grip on you. "Sweetheart, the only thing 'public' about this is the damn sky." He walks you both backward until your spine meets rough bark, then leans in close enough for you to feel his heartbeat where it hammers against yours. "And right now? I don't give a single fuck who sees."
“Mhm…” That tone, like you're testing him, like you know exactly where his patience ends. His grip on your thigh tightens hard enough to bruise as he leans in, lips grazing the shell of your ear. "Mhm?" he mocks lowly. "That all I get? After stealing my jacket and asking for a ride?"
Jung Kook’s teeth drag over the spot below your jaw that always makes you shiver before muttering, "Or do I gotta remind you how this works out here?" He leans back just enough for his eyes to meet yours, the moonlight illuminating the hard gleam within. His chest is rising and falling a little faster now, betraying how much he's restraining himself.
"I asked you a question, baby," he murmurs, that rough touch now skimming up your side to grip your chin, tilting your head just enough to expose more of your throat. "You gonna ignore me now that you got what you wanted?" You giggle before wrapping your arms around him, teasing him with a peck.
God damn it, that giggle is his undoing, the sound driving straight to his marrow. He lets out a growl, half protest, half arousal, that hand on your chin shifting to your hip instead. Your kiss against his lips is light—too light for his taste and far too brief for his liking. He's got a point to prove. With one swift move, he spins you both so your back's against the tree, pinning you in place.
His face is still maddeningly close to yours as his gaze roams over your face, that dark hunger visible in the shadows. He's pressed flush against you now, one leg hooked between yours as if to keep you from escaping.
"Don't go playing games with me, sweetheart," he mutters, voice dropping to that rough, rumbling register that never fails to make your pulse skip. "You know damn well this isn't what I got you out here for."
“Then take me right here and right now.” You mutter into his skin. Jung Kook’s breath hitches, just once before his control shatters. A rough sound tears from his throat as he hauls you up against the tree, one hand fisting in your hair to tilt your head back.
"Fuck," he growls, lips crashing into yours with zero restraint now, teeth and tongue claiming what's been teased for too damn long. His other hand is already working at the button of those black jeans like a man possessed. "Right here," he agrees darkly between kisses that taste like sin and smoke, "exactly where I want you."
He kisses you like he can't get enough as deep and possessive, a silent demand that you give as good as you get. It's a fierce, impatient battle of teeth and tongue that makes the world spin beneath you. His fingers, calloused and still cold from the ride-slide under the hem of your t-shirt like a brand as he hooks your legs around his waist, hitching you up higher against the tree.
That little gasp you let out when he rolls his hips into yours only fuels the inferno inside him. Every sound you make, every move you make, only feeds into the fierce, possessive need driving his actions. He kisses down your neck, teeth sinking into the sensitive skin of your shoulder, as his lips murmur against your ear, "All you had to do was say please, sweetheart."
“Please.” You whine and you for knowing exactly what to say when you speak like that desperate, pleading edge in your voice that makes his blood turn to flame. It's all it takes for the last of his restraint to snap completely. His fingers dig into your thigh in response.
"Oh you're asking for it," he growls, voice a ragged rasp against your skin as he bites down again. "Say it. Louder."
“Please, baby.” You tease, without a warning, he hikes you up higher against the tree, pressing your bodies so close there's not an inch of space between you. His knee jerks up between your legs, grinding into you in a way that has you letting out another gasp, "Like that, sweetheart?" he husks against your throat. "Yeah. Just like that."
Your gasp turns into a moan when he nips at a particularly sensitive spot on your neck, his words vibrating against your skin in a way that sends heat pooling straight through you.
His hands are everywhere, rough and impatient as they slide under your shirt, roaming the expanse of your back, your chest, leaving trails of fire in their wake. He has no intention of letting you touch the ground again any time soon.
His hips keep rolling into yours in a slow, teasing rhythm that has your heart slamming against your ribcage. He's lost in the feel of you, in the taste, the scent, the way you cry out when he presses just right. Eventually, he leans back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes a storm of raw desire that makes your breath catch. He's barely recognizable like this, all rough edges and dark hunger, yet he has never been sexier.
“Fuck me.” You gasp. In one brutal motion, he yanks your jeans down just enough and lifts you back against the tree, his free hand already working open his belt buckle with rough impatience. "You want it?" His voice is gravel and fire as he palms himself through denim once hard before shoving fabric out of the way entirely. "Then take it." You don’t have to tell him twice.
His groan is pure filth as you sink onto him, the stretch burning in the best way possible—his grip on your hips near bruising as he holds you there for a second, letting you feel every inch. His jaw clenches so tight it’s a miracle his teeth don’t crack under the pressure of holding back even one thrust right then and there.
"Fuck," he rasps against your throat when he finally moves, slow rolls of his hips that make stars burst behind your eyelids with each drag deeper inside than before, "this is what my good girl needed?"
“Omg, Jung Kook…” You cry out and the second he feels you clench around him, his self-control evaporates. A ragged "Fuck,” is torn from his throat as he slams up into you to the hilt, one hand flying to your hair and yanking just hard enough to arch your back against the tree.
His other arm bands like steel across your waist, keeping you impaled on him as he starts a punishing rhythm that has no business being this rough in public—no business making either of you feel this good so fast.
"You wanna come?" He bites out between thrusts that leave no room for thought beyond sensation "Then fucking earn it."
He's a man possessed with one thing on his mind. He's always been protective, possessive, intense, but like this he's almost feral. He growls when you clutch at his back, nails digging into his shoulders and leaving marks that burn in the best way.
He uses his strength against you, holding you up like you weigh nothing as he forces sounds out of you that would make lesser men fall to their knees.
Your body ripples beneath him, shivers crawl down your back as his voice vibrates in your chest, a moN rips from his chest as he watches you unravel beneath him, your body tightening around his, your back arching like a bowstring.
"That's it," he snarls, slamming into you harder with each desperate roll of your hips against his. His free hand snakes between you to press two rough fingers right where you need them most, circling in time with the brutal snap of his pelvis against yours. "You wanna come on my c*ck? Then fucking take it."
His eyes darken at your command, his body responding like a well-trained dog. He growls and pulls you further into the room, kicking the door shut behind you with enough force to make it rattle in its frame.
The second the lock slides into place he pounces, lips crushed against yours in a hungry, brutal kiss. Teeth bite down on your bottom lip, a sharp sting that makes your skin sing. "Yeah? Gonna make a mess all over me, angel?"
He doesn't even wait for an answer, his grip tightens on your hips, lifting you with almost feral ease. A low noise rumbles deep in his throat as he pins you against the wall with no effort at all, just raw strength and sheer desire. The hard, solid muscle of him pressed against every inch of you makes your head spin.
You moan at each time he speaks. His lips ghost across your collarbone in a trail of hot, lingering kisses, each one leaving goosebumps in its wake.
"That feel good?" he murmurs against your skin, his voice rough and gravelly. His mouth wanders to the sensitive spot below your ear, his warm breath sending shivers down your spine. Each nip against the delicate skin there is a silent claim, a reminder of who you belong to, both of you on edge.
The second he hears his name, his real name, not the teasing nicknames you usually use—his entire body locks up. A ragged, punched-out groan tears from his throat as he spills into you, hips jerking erratically.
His forehead drops against your shoulder hard enough to bruise; teeth sinking into flesh just above your collarbone in a sharp mark of ownership. "Fuck," he rasps against sweat-slick skin when the aftershocks finally ease, "fuck, baby." The rough edge of awe in that gravel-deep voice says everything, you wrecked him.
When the world finally stops spinning and your head somewhat clears, you find yourself still pinned against the wall. He's still gripping your hips, breathing ragged and uneven as he slowly lifts his head to look at you.
Those dark eyes are still molten, his face flushed with exertion and a fierce hunger that hasn't faded a bit. "You good, angel?" he murmurs, one hand coming up to brush a strand of hair out of your face—a tender gesture that belies the possessive grip still pinning you in place.
“Yeah, of course.” You mutter out of breath. A rough, strained laugh leaves him at the confidence in your voice. It's sexy, that cocky attitude you get after he's had you this wrecked—and he knows. it, if the way his lips curve up in a slow, crooked smirk is any clue. "Yeah? Think you'd be able to walk right now if I let you down?" He asks in a voice that's pure temptation, one eyebrow quirked in challenge.
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