Genre: Historical Romance/Royal Fiction/ Political Drama/ War/ Romantic Drama/ Slow Burn Romance/ Arranged Marriage/ Enemies to Lovers
Ao3: Link
Watpad: Link (Aqui en wattpad la teneis en español tambien :))
Tag: @onyxthornseer @genu7
Previously: Introducction / Prologue / 1 / 2
a/n: I'd like to hear your thoughts on the fanfic; I look forward to reading your comments!!!!! <3
Year 496
Tae-sung was nothing more than a child, one who had grown up in the shadow of a sword.
His father was General Kim, one of the Crown’s most trusted men. He had served on the kingdom’s frontiers for most of his life, and his face bore the marks of years of campaigns, endless winters, and battles that rarely appeared in official records. In the Kim household, the sword held a place of honour. It was neither hidden nor kept under lock and key. It rested on a wooden stand in the main room, clean and polished, as if it were another member of the family.
Tae-sung had grown up watching it.
For as long as he could remember, he had watched his father train at dawn. Every morning, before the sun rose over the mountains, the sound of wood striking wood filled the courtyard. One, two, one hundred, one thousand. Tae-sung watched from the doorway until, one day, his father handed him a training sword.
It was too big for his hands.
“Hold it.”
Tae-sung obeyed. The sword was heavy. His arms began to tremble almost immediately.
“Hold it more firmly.”
The boy tightened his grip around the hilt.
“Not so tightly.”
Tae-sung frowned.
“Then how?”
His father stood behind him and adjusted the position of his hands.
“With control.”
Tae-sung raised the sword. He barely managed to hold it for a few seconds before his arms gave out. The sword fell to the ground, its sharp clang echoing throughout the courtyard. Tae-sung lowered his head. He expected a scolding, but his father simply picked up the sword.
“Again.”
The boy looked at him.
“Aren’t you angry?”
“Why should I be?”
“I failed.”
The general handed him the sword back.
“Falling isn’t failing.”
Tae-sung took the sword again.
“Then what is failing?”
His father watched him for a few seconds.
“Deciding it’s not worth getting back up.”
Tae-sung didn’t quite understand that answer. Tae-sung’s childhood was spent among soldiers. He learned to distinguish the sound of a wooden sword from that of a real one. He learned to saddle a horse before he learned to write properly, to bandage a wound, to light a fire, and to recognize the insignia of the various regiments. He also learned to read the maps his father would spread out on the table at night. But there was something else he understood without anyone having to explain it to him. Men who carried swords didn’t fight just for themselves. They fought for those who couldn’t.
“A soldier doesn’t fight because he wants to,” his father told him one afternoon. “He fights because someone depends on him to stand his ground.”
Tae-sung nodded.
“And who depends on me?”
General Kim looked at him seriously.
“You don’t know that yet.”
When Tae-sung was nine years old, an order arrived from Byeonseong. General Kim was to report to the Crown. Over the past few months, tensions along the borders had escalated, and the Council needed to assess the state of the troops. Tae-sung hoped to stay home, but his father decided otherwise.
“You’ll come with me.”
The boy looked up.
“To the palace?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you need to learn that a kingdom isn’t ruled from a battlefield.”
Tae-sung fell silent. His father continued:
“And because I want you to meet someone.”
“Who?”
The general didn’t answer right away.
“The crown prince.”
The boy’s eyes widened.
“Am I going to meet the prince?”
“Yes.”
“What’s he like?”
“You’ll find out for yourself.”
Tae-sung smiled.
For the first time in a long while, the trip to the palace seemed exciting to him. Byeonseong was unlike any place he had ever known. He had seen fortresses, military camps, and cities, but never so many buildings gathered in one place with such precision. The rooftops seemed to stretch to the horizon. The courtyards were filled with officials; the corridors, with servants; and the guards stood motionless by the gates. Everything had its place. Everything obeyed a rule. Even the silence seemed to submit to protocol.
Tae-sung walked behind his father, trying to imitate his gait, until he tripped over the hem of his own robe. General Kim didn’t even turn around.
“Straighten your back.”
Tae-sung straightened up.
“Yes, Father.”
“And stop looking around.”
Tae-sung tried to obey. It lasted about three steps. Then he looked around again. There were just too many things to see.
The first encounter between Yoon Gi and Tae-sung didn’t take place during a ceremony, nor in the Throne Room, nor in front of a group of ministers. Yoon Gi had slipped away to one of the palace’s most remote gardens.
“I knew I’d find you here.”
Yoon Gi turned around immediately.
Standing at the edge of the path was Kim Tae-sung.He had seen him before.During training. In the palace courtyards.They had once crossed paths during sword practice, though they had never exchanged more than a glance. Tae-sung was the son of General Kim, one of the Crown’s most trusted men, and just a few months younger than him.
Despite his young age, there was already an unusual seriousness in his gaze.
Yoon Gi watched him warily.
“Have you been looking for me?”
Tae-sung shook his head as he approached.
“No.”
Yoon Gi raised an eyebrow slightly.
“Then what are you doing here?”
“I knew where you’d be.”
That answer made Yoon Gi stare at him for a few seconds.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
Tae-sung stopped in front of the pond.
“Neither should you.”
Yoon Gi remained silent.
Tae-sung smiled.
“So I guess we’re even.”
The prince tried to keep a straight face, but a small smile ended up slipping from his lips. Tae-sung saw it. He didn’t say anything. He simply sat down beside him. For a few minutes, neither of them spoke. Yoon Gi turned his gaze toward the water. He didn’t know why the boy’s presence didn’t make him feel uncomfortable. Normally, when someone approached him, he expected something. An order. A question. A bow. An obligation. Tae-sung didn’t seem to expect anything. He didn’t ask why he was there. He didn’t ask what had happened. He didn’t try to fill the silence. He simply stayed by his side. Yoon Gi realized then that there was a different kind of companionship.
At first, Tae-sung simply accompanied his father. Later, he began looking for any excuse to stay at the palace. Yoon Gi, for his part, began looking forward to his visits. With Tae-sung, he didn’t have to weigh every word. He could ask questions, complain, laugh, and even admit that he was bored. Tae-sung didn’t seem impressed by his title. When they were alone, he kept calling him Yoon Gi.
Not “Your Highness.”
Not “Crown Prince.”
Just Yoon Gi.
Perhaps that’s why the prince began to trust him.
One afternoon, after a long lesson on protocol, Yoon Gi went out into the garden. Tae-sung was waiting for him by the veranda.
“Do you have to study again?” he asked.
Yoon Gi sighed.
“Until tonight.”
Tae-sung looked toward the trees and then at the prince.
“Then don’t study.”
Yoon Gi stared at him, horrified.
“What?”
“Come on.”
“I can’t.”
“Of course you can.”
“If they find me…”
“They won’t find you.”
Yoon Gi hesitated.
Tae-sung was already running.
“Tae-sung!”
“Come on!”
Yoon Gi looked back. No one seemed to have seen them. For the first time, he made a decision without wondering if it was allowed. And he ran. They made it to one of the palace’s most remote gardens. There stood an ancient, enormous tree, its branches stretching out over the pond. Tae-sung began to climb. Yoon Gi watched him from below.
“What are you doing?”
“Climbing.”
“I can see that.”
“Then climb up.”
Yoon Gi looked up at the branches.
“I can’t.”
Tae-sung looked down.
“Have you never climbed a tree?”
Yoon Gi shook his head.
“Never?”
“Never.”
Tae-sung smiled.
“Then you’ll learn today.”
Yoon Gi looked back at the tree.
“I’m the crown prince.”
Tae-sung shrugged.
“The tree doesn’t know that.”
Yoon Gi watched him for a few seconds. Then he smiled. And he began to climb. At first, he climbed carefully. Then, with less fear. Finally, with a sense of freedom he hadn’t felt in a long time. When he reached a high branch, he gazed down at the garden from above.
“Tae-sung!”
“What?”
“I can see everything!”
“I told you you could.”
Yoon Gi began to laugh. It was a pure, childlike laugh, without restraint. For a few minutes, the Crown didn’t exist. Neither did the ministers. Nor the laws. Nor the word “heir.” There were only two children high up in a tree. Until Yoon Gi tried to climb down too quickly. His foot slipped.
“Yoon Gi!”
The prince fell. Not from a great height, but high enough to hit the ground. Tae-sung rushed over immediately.
“Are you okay?”
Yoon Gi lay there for a few seconds. Then he started laughing. Tae-sung looked at him, confused.
“Why are you laughing?”
Yoon Gi sat up. He had a small cut on his hand.
“Because nobody saw me.”
Tae-sung realized then that he wasn’t laughing at the fall. He was laughing because, for a few minutes, he’d forgotten who he was. Tae-sung held out his hand. Yoon Gi took it.
“I won’t tell anyone.”
“Why?”
Tae-sung shrugged.
“Because you’re my friend.”
Yoon Gi stood motionless. That word seemed strange in his world.
Friend.
Not a subject, nor a servant, nor a minister, nor a guard.
Just a friend.
The prince smiled.
“Then you’re my friend, too.”
When they returned to the palace, General Kim had already found out what had happened. Tae-sung stood before him with his head bowed.
“Have you been playing with the prince?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know what could have happened?”
Tae-sung didn’t answer.
“He could have been seriously injured.”
“He just fell a little.”
The general looked at him sternly.
“That doesn’t matter.”
Tae-sung looked up.
“But he was happy.”
His father remained silent.
Then he spoke in a deeper voice:
“Don’t put him in danger again.”
“Yes, Father.”
The general turned away. Tae-sung thought the conversation was over, but before leaving, his father added:
“If you’re ever by his side when something dangerous happens, don’t think of yourself first.”
Tae-sung looked at him.
“What should I do?”
“Protect him.”
The boy nodded.
“Yes, Father.”
That night, however, as he slept, Tae-sung didn’t think about his father’s order. He thought about Yoon Gi’s hand holding his. And he realized that he wanted to protect him—not because he was the prince, not because his father had asked him to, but because he was his friend.
From then on, Tae-sung began to spend more and more time with Yoon Gi. They trained together. They ate together whenever they had the chance. They would slip away to the gardens, argue, make up, and grow together. Yoon Gi was learning to hide his emotions. Tae-sung was learning to recognize them.
While the future king of Jeonghwa was learning to become someone everyone could obey, Kim Tae-sung was learning to become someone capable of standing by his side when everyone else had to bow down. They were still children. They still believed that friendship could protect them from anything.
The years passed without asking permission. What had begun as a friendship born among the branches of a tree ended up becoming a loyalty that no ceremony could ever have created. Tae-sung grew up alongside Yoon Gi. He trained by his side. He learned to fight with him. He learned to recognize his silences, his mood swings, and those little signs that no one else seemed to notice. He knew when Yoon Gi was angry, even if his face remained impassive. He knew when he was tired, even if he continued to sit with his back perfectly straight. He knew when he needed to be alone. And, above all, he knew when he needed someone to stay by his side without asking questions.
Yoon Gi changed, too.
The boy who had once run through the gardens began to walk through them with the same composure as the men who had raised him. He learned to control his voice, his gaze, his gestures, and his emotions. The crown did not yet rest upon his head, but he could already feel its weight on his shoulders. Tae-sung became a man in the shadow of that crown. His training grew more rigorous. His sword grew faster. His body grew stronger. But there was one thing that never changed. He always walked half a step behind Yoon Gi. Not out of protocol. By choice.
They had grown up together until childhood lay so far behind them that, at times, it seemed to have belonged to other people. The tree was still there. It was older and larger. Its branches had changed over the years, but Tae-sung could still remember two children sitting among them, convinced that that little corner of the palace would remain forever beyond the world’s reach. Sometimes, when no one was watching, they would return. They no longer climbed. They no longer ran. They simply stayed there. Just like that afternoon.
Year 509
Yoon Gi was now twenty-two. So was Tae-sung.
The prince was dressed in the deep colors reserved for the royal family. His hair was carefully pulled back, and his face had taken on that serenity that so many ministers mistook for coldness. Tae-sung wore his sword at his waist. He was no longer the son of a general who had arrived at the palace without knowing how to conduct himself. Now he was one of the heir’s most trusted men. And, though neither of them said it out loud, they both knew that his position within the Crown was about to change.
“The Festival of the Seven Moons begins tomorrow,” said Tae-sung.
Yoon Gi did not take his eyes off the pond.
“I know.”
“The seven clans will be present.”
“I know that, too.”
Tae-sung watched him.
“You’re worried.”
Yoon Gi finally turned his gaze toward him.
“No.”
Tae-sung smiled.
“You’re still lying just like you did when you were eight years old.”
Yoon Gi let out a small laugh.
“And you still think you can read me.”
"I can."
"That’s dangerous."
"For you, maybe."
Yoon Gi shook his head.
For a few seconds, they both remained silent. The next day, the seven great clans of Jeonghwa would gather in Byeonseong to publicly renew the ancient oath that had held the kingdom together for generations. Ministers. Generals. Nobles. Ambassadors. The most powerful families in the country. Everyone would be there. Yoon Gi knew that every gaze would be fixed on him—he was the heir; he was no longer a child. His father was beginning to entrust him with matters of state. The ministers scrutinized his every decision. The clans were beginning to wonder what kind of king he would be. And among all those faces, there would be some that Yoon Gi already knew. And others he did not yet know.
Tae-sung stood up.
“We should go back.”
Yoon Gi remained seated for a moment longer.
He looked at the tree. Then, at the palace.
“Tae-sung.”
“Yes?”
“Do you remember the first time we climbed up there?”
“I remember you almost killed yourself.”
“It wasn’t that bad.”
“You fell off a branch.”
“And I survived.”
“Because I picked you up.”
Yoon Gi smiled.
“Then I guess you’ll have to keep doing that.”
Tae-sung looked at him for a few seconds.
“Always.”
There were no promises. They weren’t necessary. They both walked away from the tree and headed back toward the palace.
Genre: Historical Romance/Royal Fiction/ Political Drama/ War/ Romantic Drama/ Slow Burn Romance/ Arranged Marriage/ Enemies to Lovers
Ao3: Link
Watpad: Link (Aqui en wattpad la teneis en español tambien :))
Tag: @onyxthornseer @genu7
Previously: Introducction / Prologue / 1
a/n: Hope that u like it bc it´s something I had been working these past months :), l wolud love to read what do u think about this fanfic <3
Year 489,
During the crown prince’s second winter, not far from the Celestial Palace, winter had covered the gardens with a thin layer of frost, and the wind made the branches of the ancient plum trees tremble. However, inside the Seo Clan’s main residence, the fire remained lit, and the maids moved silently among the rooms. They had been preparing for this birth for the past two months to ensure that everything went smoothly. And when the newborn’s cry was finally heard, the entire household celebrated.
“It’s a girl.” Those were the first words, spoken softly, by the woman who had assisted with the delivery to the little one’s parents.
For a few seconds, no one answered. The baby’s mother lay exhausted, her face pale and her hair plastered to her forehead.
“Is she healthy?” she asked in the little voice she had left after giving birth.
“Perfectly healthy,” the woman smiled at her before wrapping the newborn in a white blanket and bringing her over to the bed.
When Hee Jin held her daughter, something changed in her expression. She gazed at her as if the world around them had ceased to exist. She was so tiny, her eyes still closed and her tiny fingers clenched against the blanket. Her mother gently brushed one of her cheeks.
“Seo Yeon…”
She spoke her name as if it were a promise.
Across the room, her father stood. He hadn’t yet approached his wife and their newborn daughter. The head of the Seo clan was a man accustomed to weighing every word, every gesture, and every decision. But that night, he seemed different. Finally, he stepped forward and looked at his daughter.
“Seo Seo Yeon,” he said in a low voice so as not to startle the baby, who was now in her mother’s arms.
“Our daughter,” Hee Jin smiled.
“Our daughter,” he nodded in agreement.
His eyes lingered on the girl for a few more seconds; there, he saw not just a newborn—he was envisioning and looking toward that little one’s future. He imagined the surname she might one day bear, the alliances she might help forge, and the bonds she might establish between families. He contemplated a future that did not yet exist.
“She will be raised properly,” he said seriously.
“It’s too early to think about that,” she said, laughing with what little energy she had left.
“It’s never too early.”
“She’s only been alive for a few minutes,” Hee Jin said, looking down at the baby.
The man was silent for a few moments; shortly afterward, he stepped closer and reached out his hand toward the little girl. Seo Yeon wiggled her fingers until she weakly grasped one of his—it was such a small gesture that it almost seemed insignificant.
“I want her to have a good life.”
His wife looked up at him.
“Then let her be happy.”
The man remained silent; those words seemed to strike a chord he didn’t know how to respond to. He turned his gaze back to the little girl and said nothing.
He didn’t yet know that, over the years, he would come to confuse the two, because he would love his daughter deeply—and precisely because he loved her, he would try to decide for her what kind of life she should lead. He didn’t understand that some of the deepest wounds don’t stem from a lack of love, but from a love that doesn’t know when to make room for freedom.
Year 495
The Seo clan’s main residence stretched east of Byeonseong, protected by high stone walls and a row of ancient pine trees that seemed to guard each of its entrances. From the outside, few places in Jeonghwa could compare to it. The dark roofs curved beneath the golden tips of their eaves. The wooden pavilions were connected by covered walkways that wound through carefully designed gardens. There were ponds where goldfish swam, moss-covered stone bridges, and plum trees that bloomed in defiance of the cold during winter. To any visitor, the place seemed like a dream, but to six-year-old Seo Yeon, it was simply her home—or at least, that was what she had always believed.
That morning, she ran barefoot along the stone path, lifting the hem of her dress slightly so as not to trip.
“Seo Yeon!” A maid’s voice called out from the far end of the garden.
The girl stopped and looked back, worried that she’d been found, then turned her gaze forward again. The maid was still looking for her, so she ran faster.
She hid behind one of the large pine trees, stifling a laugh as she listened to the footsteps approaching.
“Where could she have gone?”
Seo Yeon covered her mouth with both hands as she laughed. A white butterfly landed on one of the branches and she stared at it, completely captivated, completely forgetting that she was hiding.
“There you are.”
Seo Yeon gave a little jump of surprise as she snapped out of the trance she’d fallen into while watching the butterfly. Now she saw that Lady Min Hwa-young was standing in front of her, but she didn’t seem angry. She had never gotten angry with her. The woman simply nodded slightly.
“Your mother is waiting for you,” she said, still trying to catch her breath after running to find her.
“Again?” Seo Yeon grimaced.
“Again.”
“But I already practiced yesterday.”
“And you’ll have to practice again tomorrow. You know your schedule, young lady.”
“I don’t want to,” she said with a sigh.
“I know.” Lady Min watched her for a few seconds.
“Then why do I have to do it?” Seo Yeon asked, looking up at her.
“Someday you’ll learn that in this house, we don’t always do what we want.”
That answer didn’t satisfy the girl—not yet, anyway. Resigned, Seo Yeon took Lady Min’s hand and began walking toward the main pavilion. She didn’t know that this would be one of the first lessons the Seo clan would teach her.
Her mother was waiting for her in a room that looked out onto the inner garden. The morning sun streamed in through the paper screens, casting soft shadows on the wooden floor. In the center of the room lay an instrument that Seo Yeon already knew well.
The gayageum.
The girl looked at it with a mixture of curiosity and resignation.
“Sit down.”
Seo Yeon obeyed.
Her mother settled in behind her and carefully placed the instrument in front of her legs.
“Do you remember what I taught you yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“Then play it.”
Seo Yeon placed her fingers on the strings, played the first note—louder than she should have—but her mother said nothing. The second note came out too softly, and the third didn’t even sound right. Seo Yeon pulled her hands away in frustration.
“I can’t,” she said, huffing.
“Of course you can.”
“I just can’t do it.”
Her mother sat down beside her.
“You don’t have to do it perfectly.”
Seo Yeon frowned.
“Father says everything must be done right.”
Her mother was silent for a moment, then gently took one of her daughter’s hands.
“Your father will teach you many things.”
“And you?”
“Me, too.”
“What are you going to teach me?”
Her mother smiled.
“To listen.”
She placed her fingers back on the strings.
“Music isn’t always played with your hands, Seo Yeon.”
The girl looked at her, puzzled.
“Then with what?”
“With what you can’t say.”
Those words hung between them; her mother began to play, and a gentle melody filled the room. Seo Yeon listened; for the first time, she didn’t try to imitate her—she simply closed her eyes. The sound of the gayageum blended with the wind rustling through the trees in the garden. For a few minutes, there were no lessons, no protocol, no bows, no dresses that kept her from running, and no words she had to learn to choose carefully.
That music was all there was.
When the melody ended, Seo Yeon opened her eyes.
“Again.”
Her mother smiled.
“Aren’t you tired anymore?”
The girl shook her head.
“I want to learn.”
And so it began.
Every morning, before her etiquette lessons, Seo Yeon practiced playing. At first, they were simple melodies; later, they became more complex songs. She learned that each string could express something different.
Joy.
Sadness.
Nostalgia.
Loneliness.
Hope.
And, little by little, she discovered something no one had had to teach her: Music could say what she still didn’t know how to put into words. When she was sad, she played. When she got angry, she played. When her father scolded her, she reached for the gayageum. And when she couldn’t find the words to explain how she felt, she sat down at the instrument and let the strings speak for her.
Without realizing it, she had found her first refuge.
But the refuge couldn’t last all day; after the music came the other lessons. How to walk. How to sit. How to hold a cup. How to bow her head. How to welcome a guest. How to remain silent. How to smile—especially how to smile.
“Not too much.”
Seo Yeon stopped smiling.
“Not enough.”
The girl tried again, but her etiquette teacher shook her head.
“A lady must show kindness without appearing obsequious.”
Seo Yeon looked at her, confused.
“How do you do that?”
The woman remained serious.
“With practice.”
Seo Yeon sighed. From across the room, Jun Ho burst out laughing. He was just a few years older than her and had spent the whole morning trying to hide behind a column.
“Jun-ho!” Seo Yeon exclaimed.
Her brother ran off, laughing at her.
“You’re not going to catch me!”
Seo Yeon immediately forgot the lesson, stood up, and began chasing him. The two of them ran down the hallway, laughing. Until a man’s voice stopped them in their tracks.
“Seo Yeon.”
The girl froze, and so did Jun-ho. Their father was at the end of the hallway. Seo Yeon slowly lowered her hands.
“Father.”
He looked at her and noticed her slightly rumpled dress.
“What are you doing?”
“Playing.”
“I see.”
His tone wasn’t raised; it didn’t need to be.
“Didn’t you have a lesson?”
Seo Yeon looked down.
“Yes.”
“Then why aren’t you in it?”
The girl didn’t answer.
Her father walked toward her.
“Look at me.”
Seo Yeon obeyed.
“You are a daughter of the Seo clan.”
She nodded.
“And someday you will have responsibilities that you can’t understand right now.”
“But I’m only five years old.”
For the first time, her father seemed at a loss for words.
The girl continued:
“And Jun Ho gets to play.”
“Jun Ho has already finished his lessons.”
Seo Yeon frowned.
“And I’m a little girl, too.”
The silence that followed was long. Her father looked at her as if he had just discovered something he hadn’t expected to find in her. It wasn’t defiance.
Finally, he said:
“That’s precisely why you must learn now.”
“Learn what?”
“To behave as what you are.”
Seo Yeon didn’t understand.
“What am I?”
Her father took a deep breath.
“A daughter of the Seo clan.”
The girl waited, but he didn’t add anything else. He didn’t say she was his daughter, he didn’t say she was a girl, he didn’t say she was free. He only spoke of the clan. Seo Yeon felt something strange in her chest—a sensation she still couldn’t name.
Finally, her father left, and Jun-ho walked slowly over to her.
“Are you sad?”
“No.” Seo Yeon shook her head.
“You’re sad.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
She looked at him.
“You can be sad with me.” Jun-ho smiled.
Seo Yeon couldn’t help but laugh, and for a few seconds she was just a little girl again.
That afternoon, her mother found her in the garden; Seo Yeon was sitting by the pond, holding a small stone in her hands.
“What’s wrong?” her mother asked in the calm tone of voice she always used.
“Nothing.”
Her mother sat down next to her.
“Your father told me what happened.”
“I didn’t want to bother him.” Seo Yeon lowered her head.
“I know.”
“I just wanted to play.”
“Someday you’ll understand why your father is the way he is.” Her mother stroked her hair.
“Why?”
Her mother looked toward the pavilions.
“Because he’s afraid.”
“My father is afraid?” Seo Yeon lifted her head.
“We’re all afraid of something.”
“Of what?”
“Of losing what we love.” She smiled sadly.
Seo Yeon remained silent.
“So what does my father love?”
It took her mother a few seconds to answer.
“His family.”
“Then why does he seem angry with me?” she said as she gazed at the calm water.
“Sometimes, people who love too much also have a way of being overly protective.”
Seo Yeon didn’t quite understand.
But that night, while they were having dinner, she looked at her father in a different light. He barely spoke; he just listened as the older family members discussed the harvests, trade routes, and relations with other clans. Seo Yeon remained silent—until one of the men brought up the future.
“When Seo Yeon is older, we’ll need to carefully consider a marriage alliance.”
The girl’s spoon stopped moving. Her father didn’t respond right away.
“She’s still too young.”
“That’s precisely why we need to start thinking about it.”
Seo Yeon looked at her mother—she remained motionless—then looked at her father.
“What’s a marriage alliance?”
Everyone fell silent. Her father slowly set down his cup.
“It’s something you’ll understand when you’re older.”
“Am I going to get married?”
“Someday.”
“To whom?”
“We don’t know.”
Seo Yeon looked down.
“And can I choose?”
No one answered.
“Father.”
He looked at her.
“Can I choose?”
Her father remained silent for several seconds, then finally said:
“Someday you’ll learn to want what’s best for your family.”
Seo Yeon didn’t understand what he meant. But she felt something inside her tighten; she didn’t know who her husband would be, she didn’t know what it meant to belong to another clan, and she didn’t know what future they were envisioning for her. She only knew that no one had asked what she wanted.
That night, after everyone had retired for the evening, Seo Yeon returned alone to the gayageum room. She sat down in front of the instrument, placed her fingers on the strings, but didn’t play.
For a few seconds she remained completely still, then she began to play. The melody was different that night—slower, sadder. Lady Min Hwa-young stood in the doorway without entering; she didn’t need to ask. She had learned to recognize the meaning of that girl’s silences long before Seo Yeon had learned to recognize them herself.
When the melody ended, Seo Yeon spoke without turning around.
“Lady Min.”
“Yes, young lady.”
“My father says I must learn to want what’s best for the clan.”
Lady Min remained silent.
“What if what’s best for the clan isn’t best for me?”
The woman watched her for a long time. Then she sat down beside her.
“Then you’ll have to learn one of the hardest things there is.”
“What is it?”
“Deciding which part of yourself you’re willing to sacrifice.”
Seo Yeon didn’t answer; she didn’t yet know that that question would stay with her for much of her life.
The following years passed amid lessons, ceremonies, and the changing seasons. Seo Yeon learned to play the gayageum; she learned to write with meticulous care; she learned to identify the emblems of the great clans; she learned the names of the families with whom her father maintained alliances; she learned when to speak and when to remain silent, when to smile, and, above all, she learned to hide the questions that no one wanted to hear.
But there was one thing her family could not take away from her.
Her heart.
She still paused when she saw a maid crying; she still shared some of her treats with the employees’ children. She still listened for hours to her mother as she played. She still slipped away to the garden when she needed a moment of solitude. And she still wondered why a person’s destiny could be determined before that person was old enough to decide for themselves.
Seo Yeon was unaware that what her father saw as a weakness would, over time, become one of her greatest strengths. Nor did she know that her sensitivity would allow her to perceive things others could not notice. Nor that, in a kingdom where everyone had learned to hide their true intentions, having a heart that was too big could be more dangerous than wielding a sword.
While in the palace a young boy was discovering that a king must not show his feelings, at the Seo clan’s residence a young girl was beginning to understand that a woman of her status could not always speak her mind.
Yoon Gi was learning to hide his emotions, and Seo Yeon was learning to suppress her desires.He was preparing to assume the crown. She was preparing to become a pawn in the clans’ game.
Both were being shaped by people who believed they knew what was best for them. Both were learning to obey.
Because of you - Jungkook scenario (Angst, fluff, slight smut) - Part 5
A/N: I have this urgee to write about Jungkook, and yes this will a few part story! Lemme know what you think!
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Part 1 -> here / Part 2 -> here / Part 3 -> here / Part 4 -> here /
Part 6 -> here
Summary: Jeon Jungkook is your big brother’s best friend. One reckless push breaks months of careful restraint, dragging him right back into the chaotic, magnetic pull between you.
Members: Jungkook x Reader
Genre: Fluff, angst, slight smut
Warnings: alcohol, mature, mature scenes
Word count: 11929
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The winter break had settled over Seoul like a heavy, suffocating blanket. The snow had been falling continuously for three days, painting the entire city in blinding shades of white and turning the concrete streets slick and icy cold.
It had been nearly two weeks since that devastating night outside his apartment—the night that broke whatever delicate, beautiful thing you and Jungkook had been building. You had taken a step back, locking yourself in a quiet, protective bubble. You filled every single hour of your day with distractions, throwing yourself into practice, school, and anything else that could keep your mind from drifting back to him. You didn't allow yourself to check his social media, you didn't look at his contact in your phone, and you actively fought off the suffocating urge to call him when the nights grew too quiet.
Everyone in your circle had fallen silent over the break. The boys had gone their separate ways to rest, each trapped in their own quiet routines, leaving the city feeling bigger and lonelier than usual.
You stepped out of the dance studio, pulling the collar of your thick, oversized winter coat tightly around your throat as the freezing air slapped your face. Your muscles were sore and aching from three hours of intense choreo—a good, clean kind of exhaustion that kept the dark thoughts at bay.
You were stomping the snow off your boots as you started walking toward the bus stop when your phone buzzed in your pocket. You pulled off your glove with your teeth and retrieved the phone, seeing Taehyung flashing across the screen.
"Hey, Tae," you answered, your voice a little breathless from the wind.
"Where are you?" Tae’s familiar, warm voice came through the speaker, accompanied by the muffled sound of wind. "I’m standing outside your apartment door, knocking, but you're not opening up."
"Oh! I just finished practice," you said, quickening your pace toward the street. "I’m catching the bus right now. Give me like five minutes, okay?”
"Hurry up, it’s freezing," he whined playfully, though you could hear the gentle smile in his tone.
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True to your word, you sprinted off the bus five minutes later, finding Taehyung leaning against your front door with his hands shoved deep into his long coat pockets, his breath turning into white clouds in the dim hallway light. When he saw you coming up the stairs, his signature boxy smile broke out across his face, instantly cutting through the bitter cold.
"Look who finally showed up," he teased.
"Shut up, I ran," you panted, quickly unlocking the door and pushing it open.
Both of you practically burst inside, kicking off your snow-covered boots in the entryway and shuddering as the apartment's heating washed over your numb skin. You took Tae’s heavy coat and hung it up next to yours before heading straight for the kitchen.
"I'm making coffee," you called out over your shoulder. "And I'm starving, so I'm cooking something fast. Have you eaten?"
"Not yet," Taehyung replied, following you into the warm kitchen. He pulled out a stool and sat down at the kitchen island, resting his elbows on the cool counter as he watched you move around.
The atmosphere was comfortable, filled with the soft clinking of mugs and the hum of the stove. Snow crackled quietly against the windowpanes. You handed Taehyung a steaming mug of black coffee. He took it with a quiet thank you, wrapping both his long fingers around the porcelain for warmth.
You started chopping onions and vegetables on a wooden cutting board. The rhythmic thump-thump-thump of your knife filled the space as you chatted about family, your dance class, and how quiet the city felt.
Taehyung took a slow sip of his coffee. His eyes wandered around your clean, quiet apartment, taking in the small details, before settling back on you. He watched the careful, measured way you held the knife, chopping the vegetables far more slowly than necessary.
He took a long, steadying breath, his expression shifting from lighthearted to heavy in a matter of seconds.
"I had a situation with Jungkook last week," Tae said softly.
Your entire posture stiffened.
The warm, relaxed energy in your shoulders vanished, replaced by a sudden, rigid tension that made the air in the kitchen feel impossibly thick. You didn't look up at him. You kept your gaze glued to the cutting board, your fingers tightening around the knife handle until your knuckles turned white.
You didn't say a word.
Taehyung stared at the side of your face, watching the silence stretch between you.
"Y/N..." Tae said, his voice dropping into a low, gentle register. "I know that Jungkook and you were a thing. For a few months."
That was when you finally looked up.
Your eyes met his, wide and shadowed with a mix of shock, lingering pain, and defensive guardedness. Neither of you spoke for a long, heavy moment. The only sound was the faint hum of the refrigerator and the wind howling outside. Taehyung took another slow breath, rubbing the back of his neck as he carefully chose his words.
"When I found out... I had complete mixed feelings. I was shocked. I was confused. But I felt like I needed to tell you this... because I saw how much he cares about you. I've never seen him like that."
You let out a sharp, breathless exhale, frowning deeply as you shook your head. You couldn't look at him anymore. You turned your back to the island entirely, grabbing a wooden spoon and aggressively stirring the pot on the stove, using the sizzling food to drown out the sound of his voice.
"Y/N, listen to me," Tae pressed quietly, leaning slightly forward against the island. "He cried. He completely broke down, crying his eyes out. He feels so bad about everything he did to you—"
"And I cried too!"
The words burst out of your chest before you could stop them—sharp, cracked, and dripping with raw, unhealed emotion.
You whipped your head around to face him. Your eyes glistened with sudden, hot tears you desperately tried to blink away.
"I was hurt, Tae. I am still hurt," you breathed, your chest heaving under your sweater. "He treated me like shit. He pushed me out into the cold and let me think I was crazy for caring about him."
Taehyung snapped his mouth shut. The quiet fury and pain in your voice cut him right to the chest. He lowered his gaze to the wooden counter, the room falling into a heavy, mournful silence as he nodded.
"I know," Tae whispered softly. "I'm sorry."
He stopped talking, keeping the rest of the words trapped behind his teeth. He had wanted to tell you everything. He had wanted to explain to you why Jungkook did it—that the idiot was trying to protect a ghost, that Jungkook had dragged himself through hell because he was terrified of hurting him. He wanted to tell you how Jungkook had looked that night, completely unraveled and ruined on his living room floor.
In Taehyung's mind, the flash of that night was still painfully vivid.
He remembered pulling a slurred, heavily intoxicated Jungkook into his apartment, watching his best friend collapse onto the couch. He remembered the raw, agonizing sound of Jungkook’s sobs, his eyes bloodshot, swollen, and dripping with tears as he buried his face in his hands. He remembered the complete, gut-wrenching vulnerability in Jungkook's voice as he choked out, 'I broke her, Tae... I broke her so no one would fight.'
Tae remembered the feeling of Jungkook’s shoulders shaking uncontrollably under his hands, the raw, ugly weight of a boy who had ripped his own heart out to protect a ghost that wasn't even there. Later, after the confessions were poured out and the truth about Taehyung’s blessing was laid bare, Taehyung had dragged Jungkook into his bedroom.
Jungkook hadn't stopped weeping. He had curled into a tight, defensive ball, clutching a pillow to his chest as quiet, jagged sobs continued to wrack his frame long into the night. Taehyung had stood in the doorway for almost an hour in the pitch black, watching his best friend suffer in absolute ruin, completely helpless to stop the fire Jungkook had set to his own life.
Taehyung blinked, the vivid, agonizing images fading back into the warm light of your kitchen. He looked at you. You wiped a stray tear from your cheek with the back of your hand. Took a deep, shaky breath to regain your composure.
You turned off the burner on the stove, refusing to let the heavy cloud of Jungkook's name ruin the only safe space you had left.
"Please stop talking about him, Tae," you said, your voice quiet, firm, but completely exhausted. You looked at him with pleading eyes. "I just... I want to hang out with my brother. I haven't seen you in forever, and I really need a normal night."
Taehyung looked at you for a long moment, seeing the deep exhaustion etched into your face. The protective urge in him won out over his desire to fix things for his best friend.
He offered you a small, gentle, reassuring smile, nodding his head once.
"Okay," Taehyung said softly, reaching across the counter to give your hand a quick, warm squeeze. "No more Jungkook. Just us."
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The aftermath of that night didn't bring immediate peace—only a quiet, ringing emptiness that settled deep in Jungkook's bones.
When he finally opened his eyes late the following afternoon, the sunlight filtering through the blinds felt like a physical strike to his face. Every single part of him ached. His head throbbed with a relentless, dull pulse, his throat was raw from crying, and his eyes were so swollen it hurt to blink. He dragged himself out of bed, heading straight for the bathroom to stand under a freezing shower until the icy water numbed the lingering heat of the alcohol and tears.
He pulled on a simple black hoodie and a pair of worn sweatpants, stepping out into the quiet living room. Taehyung was sprawled out on the couch, asleep in his clothes. Jungkook didn't wake him immediately; he just sat in the dim light, staring at his own hands, feeling hollowed out.
An hour or so later, the two of them found their way to a quiet, local spot down the road. They sat in a corner booth, the table filled with hot soup and simple food to help heal Jungkook's wrecked body. They didn't talk much. The heavy, dramatic air from the night before had cleared, replaced by a quiet, grounded comfort as they ate in silence.
When Taehyung finally parked his car in front of Jungkook’s building, the engine idling warmly in the cold air, Jungkook took a deep, heavy breath. He turned to face his friend, his voice raspy and low.
"Thanks, man," Jungkook said sincerely. "For yesterday. And today."
Taehyung offered a small, reassuring smile, reaching over to pat Jungkook’s shoulder firmly. "Get your shit together," Taehyung told him softly, but with a clear edge of honesty. "Take some time for yourself. And... don't expect to see her for a while now. I know she probably won't be around when you are. Just give it time, man."
Jungkook slowly nodded his head, accepting the hard truth. "Yeah. Bye, Taehyung."
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Day by day passed, and surely enough, Taehyung was right.
Whenever the group gathered, or the boys met up, you weren't there. The space you used to occupy felt massive and painfully cold. There were endless nights where Jungkook wanted nothing more than to drive to your apartment, knock on your door, and beg you to listen, but he forced his feet to stay put. For now, distance was the only thing he could give you. Even if your paths happened to cross, it had to be distance.
So, Jungkook buried himself in the only things he knew how to control. He poured his frustration into writing, composing late into the night until his eyes burned. He danced until his clothes were soaked with sweat, and he pushed his body to its absolute limits in the gym.
But peace was hard to come by. Whenever he was alone in his car, driving through the dimly lit streets of Seoul, the memories would flood back without warning. He would hear your voice echoing in the quiet—the way you had told him you loved him, the soft, desperate look in your eyes during your last meeting. The crushing regret hit him every single time: he had never said it back. He couldn't say it back then, trapped in his own foolish cage of fear and misplaced guilt.
Every now and then, after posting a photo or an update, he would open his phone and scroll through the list of views, searching for one specific name.
It was never there. You never checked.
He understood it. He really, truly did. He knew he had lost the right to expect anything from you.
In the beginning, hiding his feelings had been suffocating. Pushing you away had been painful. But this new phase—this ghost town of his own making—was even more suffocating. Yet, as he watched the winter snow fall outside his window, he knew he would manage. More importantly, he knew you would manage. You were strong, you were resilient, and you weren't weak.
He had broken your heart, and now, all he could do was endure the quiet sentence he had served himself.
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The quiet days of Christmas came and went, offering a brief reprieve as everyone retreated to their respective families. But as New Year’s Eve approached, Taehyung all but begged you to come to Jimin’s party. He texted, called, and even showed up at your door, pleading for you to go. You resisted, but after his relentless pleading and his solemn promise that you didn’t have to stay long, you finally gave in.
The evening of December 31st arrived, cold and electric with anticipation. You were standing in your bedroom finishing up your makeup when the front door clicked open. Taehyung strutted in like he owned the place, wearing an effortlessly sharp suit that practically radiated confidence. He waltzed right past you, stood in front of your full-length bedroom mirror, adjusted his lapels, and gave his reflection a slow, devastatingly handsome smirk.
You rolled your eyes, a genuine laugh bubbling out of your chest. "Can you be any more full of yourself?"
"Hey, perfection takes effort," he quipped, turning around with a wink before his eyes landed on your outfit.
You had decided long before tonight that if you were going to step back into that circle, you were going to do it looking completely invincible. You wore a sleek, form-fitting black mini dress, paired with sheer black tights and sharp black stiletto boots that added an extra boost of attitude to your stride. Your hair fell over your shoulders in soft, glossy waves, and your makeup was subtle yet striking.
Taehyung slowly nodded his head, his playful smirk softening into a look of genuine approval. "Okay... wow, Y/N. You look incredible. Like, stop-the-room incredible."
A satisfied smile touched your lips. You picked up your phone, unlocked it, and handed it over to him. "Since you look so good, put those photo skills to work. Take a picture of me."
Taehyung took the phone without a word, posing you by the soft lighting near your vanity. He snapped a few shots, handed the phone back, and revealed pictures that captured you looking effortlessly beautiful, calm, and completely in control.
Without hesitating, you opened Instagram and uploaded the best photo directly to your story—no caption, no song, just you looking completely unbothered. You knew exactly who would see it, and for the first time in weeks, you didn't care.
"Ready, Shorty?" Taehyung asked, holding out his arm.
You took a deep breath, smoothing down the front of your dress, and looped your arm through his. "Ready."
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The heavy penthouse door swung open, washing the icy hallway in warm light, booming bass, and the rich hum of laughter. As you and Taehyung stepped inside, the nervous flutter in your chest tightened into a hard knot, but you kept your chin high, shoulders squared, and posture completely composed.
Jimin was the first to notice you. His face lit up in a wide, brilliant smile the moment his eyes landed on you, instantly cutting through the room.
"You made it!" Jimin cheered, striding over with open arms. He pulled you into a warm, gentle hug, pulling back just enough to take in your outfit. "Look at you! You look absolutely incredible, Y/N. I’m so, so happy you came."
"Thanks, Jimin.” You smiled, the genuine warmth in his voice instantly easing a fraction of your anxiety.
Staying glued to Taehyung’s side, the three of you navigated through the crowd toward the kitchen. Tae kept a grounding hand near the small of your back, acting as both a protective buffer and a familiar comfort. You poured yourself a drink, taking a slow, steady sip of the cool alcohol to calm the subtle tremor in your fingers.
When you walked back out into the open living space, the electric atmosphere of the party seemed to warp around you.
And then, across the crowded room, you saw him.
Jungkook was standing near the floor-to-ceiling windows, holding a beer bottle loosely in one hand while talking with a few friends. He looked dangerously, impossibly sharp—dressed in a heavy black leather jacket with a plush fur collar, a fitted black shirt that clung to his frame, slim black trousers, and a few silver chains layered over his chest. His dark hair was styled in a soft, medium-length center part, framing features that were refined, striking, and painfully familiar.
Weeks of buried memories, quiet nights, and raw heartache flooded your brain all at once. Panic flared, but you forced your expression to stay completely neutral, tearing your eyes away and instantly turning your head toward Taehyung, diving into a hasty conversation to give your hands something to focus on.
Across the room, Jungkook’s eyes caught Taehyung. A genuine, relaxed smile broke across his face as he excused himself and began walking over.
"Hey, Tae," Jungkook said as he approached, his deep voice easily cutting through the music.
The two of you greeted each other with a brief, heavy-handed hug and a quiet laugh, the deep brotherhood between them unchanged despite the mess beneath the surface. But as Jungkook stepped back from Taehyung, his movement brought him directly in front of you.
The room fell away. The bass ceased to matter.
Jungkook’s gaze shifted to you, and for the first time in weeks, the distance vanished. His dark, intense eyes slowly traced you from the tips of your black stiletto boots, sliding up your sheer tights, taking in your black mini dress, and up to the waves of your hair before finally settling on your eyes.
There was no nod or hello. No words were spoken.
The air between you turned instantly thick, heavy, and searing hot. In that single, frozen second, the unspoken pull was so overwhelming it felt physical—like a gravitational pull begging you to strip away the pride, forget the weeks of silence, and drop into him. You could see the raw, suffocating longing reflected in his eyes, mirrored perfectly in your own guarded ache. He felt it. You felt it. It was a terrifying, beautiful spark in the middle of a cold room. Before the tension could burn through the floor, Taehyung stepped into the breach. He threw a heavy, casual arm over Jungkook’s shoulders, breaking the spell with practiced ease.
"Alright, enough standing around—let's go get some shots going before midnight," Taehyung announced, steering Jungkook toward the kitchen bar.
As Taehyung pulled him away, Jungkook turned his head back over his shoulder, holding your gaze for one last, agonizing second.
You held your breath, your heart pounding loudly in your ears, until he finally disappeared into the crowd. Exhaling a shaky breath you didn't realize you were holding, you smoothed down your dress, turned on your heel, and headed straight for your girlfriends on the dance floor.
You let the music take over, singing along to the lyrics, laughing, and throwing yourself into the night—completely aware that even across a packed room, his eyes never truly left you.
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The music bounced off the high ceilings, a heavy, hypnotic bassline throbbing beneath your stiletto boots as your friends pulled you into the center of the dance floor. You let yourself get lost in the rhythm, tossing your head back, singing along, and genuinely enjoying the room's energy. But beneath the music and the laughter, a subtle magnetic pull kept your focus tethered.
Every so often, you’d casually look around the room—glancing over the shoulders of your friends, tracking the flashing strobe lights across the penthouse. And it wasn't just you.
Across the room, Jungkook was doing the same thing. Whether he was laughing at something Jimin said near the bar, talking with a few guys by the kitchen, or standing alone for a brief moment against a concrete pillar with a beer in his hand, his dark head would turn, slowly scanning the crowd. He was searching for you just as much as you were looking for him. And every single time your eyes managed to find him through the sea of people, he was already looking at you. You’d instantly look away, laughing at a joke one of your girls made and tossing your hair, but you could feel his eyes lingering on you for a few seconds longer before Taehyung would pull him back into a conversation.
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As 11:58 PM bled into 11:59 PM, the music dipped. Jimin’s voice boomed over the speakers, calling everyone toward the center of the living room as a massive digital clock flashed red numbers against the floor-to-ceiling glass windows.
Your friends pulled you into a tight circle, raising their glasses as the whole room joined in the deafening chorus.
"Ten! Nine! Eight!"
Your heart hammered against your ribs—a sudden wave of emotion washing over you as the last seconds of a painful, beautiful year ticked away.
"Three! Two! One! HAPPY NEW YEAR!"
The room exploded into a wild frenzy. Confetti rained down from above, sparkling like falling stars under the lights. Music roared back to life, popping champagne corks echoed, and cheers filled the air. You laughed out loud, pulling your girlfriends into tight, warm hugs and clinking your glass against theirs, fully letting go in the chaotic joy of the moment.
Across the room, Jungkook was caught up in the celebration too. A bright, genuine smile broke across his face as Taehyung threw a heavy arm around his neck, pulling him into a rough, happy midnight hug. Jimin jumped in right after, clapping Jungkook’s shoulder as the three of them laughed and toasted their drinks together.
Jungkook’s dark eyes began to wander across the crowded room. He didn't rush—his gaze drifted past couples kissing under the confetti, past friends cheering, searching carefully through the moving bodies.
Until he found you.
His eyes locked onto yours, stopping his search instantly. The bright, open smile on his face softened into something far quieter, heavier, and raw. Across the sea of celebrating people, through the falling glitter and flashing lights, he anchored his eyes on yours. Neither of you looked away. In the very first minute of the new year, surrounded by noise and celebration, the silent, electric thread between you pulled tighter than ever before.
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As the hours bled past midnight, the party blurred into a warm, hazy loop of loud music, endless refills, and uninhibited laughter.
Jungkook and you kept your distance. It was an unspoken pact—a silent promise you had each made to yourselves in the quiet corners of your own minds. Do not step across the line. So you stayed on opposite sides of the apartment.
Around 2:00 AM, Taehyung strolled over to where you were leaning against the back of the plush sofa. He had his hands shoved in his pockets, his hair slightly messy from dancing, looking down at you with a soft, protective warmth in his eyes.
"How are you doing?" Taehyung asked, his voice low beneath the music. "Having fun?"
You looked up at him, a wide, radiant smile breaking across your face—a smile that reached your eyes and genuinely meant every bit of it. "I'm great, Tae. Seriously. I'm really glad I came."
Taehyung searched your face for a moment, squeezed your shoulder affectionately, and smiled back. "Good. That's all I wanted."
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As time dragged on, the heavy energy of the party began to wind down.
Jimin eyed the tall glass of ice water in Jungkook's hand, a playful, lopsided smirk tugging at his lips as he leaned his elbows on the marble counter.
"Water?" Jimin teased, nudging Jungkook's elbow. "Since when do you start sobering up before 4 AM on New Year's Eve?"
Jungkook let out a raspy, quiet laugh, swirling the ice cubes around in his glass with a soft clink. "It's for the best. I need to be clean enough to drive myself home later instead of crashing here."
"You don't have to drive," Jimin offered, waving a hand toward the oversized sectional. "Just crash on the sofa, man. Save yourself the freezing walk to the car."
Jungkook gave him a knowing, sideways look, a genuine grin breaking through his exhaustion. "Yeah, right. So I can wake up at eight in the morning and have you order me to help clean up this entire disaster area? No thanks. I know your tricks."
Jimin burst out laughing, shaking his head. "Exposed. Okay, fine, fair point."
On the other side of the room, tucked into the corner of the couch, a sudden, heavy sadness settled deep in your chest.
You stared down at your boots, feeling the slow panic of time slipping away. You didn't want it to end.
A tragic, suffocating thought kept running through your mind: What if this is the last time? What if after tonight, the doors slam shut again, the quiet resumes, and you go back to being strangers who pretend the other doesn't exist?
So you stayed. You sat there, savoring every stray laugh that drifted from his throat, stealing every subtle look, and drinking in his energy while you still could. You hated how helpless it felt. On one hand, you knew you had to protect your heart, that what happened between you two was a mess you were still healing from. But on the other hand... it was right there. He was right there.
Across the room, Jungkook shifted in his seat. His eyes slowly drifted away from Jimin, landing directly on you as you sat on the couch. He thought about if you truly hated him—if you had dragged his name out of your heart and slammed the door shut forever—you would have grabbed your heavy coat, hugged Jimin, and asked Tae to drive you home hours ago. You wouldn't be lingering in the quiet space of a party that was already over. And above all else, you wouldn't have spent the entire night meeting his gaze across the room with that same, raw, devastating yearning that matched his own.
Jungkook felt the overwhelming weight of his own attachment crushing him. He knew he didn't deserve to hold you yet. He knew he had built this wall himself, stone by stone.
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The clock on the wall stretched past 4:30 AM, and the quiet lingering after the party finally signaled it was time to go.
Taehyung pushed himself up from the sofa with a slow exhale, blinking like the room had shifted a few degrees to the left. He wasn’t gone, just wrapped in that warm, floaty haze that made everything a little softer around the edges. His steps weren’t straight so much as gently curved, like he kept forgetting where his center of gravity lived.
He reached for his coat draped over the armrest, fingers brushing the fabric twice before he actually managed to grab it. When he turned, his foot caught on nothing at all, and he swayed—just a small, loose wobble—before you instinctively reached out and steadied him with a hand on his arm.
“Ah—sorry,” he murmured, cheeks flushed, giving you a sheepish smile. “I’m fine… the floor keeps moving.”
“It’s not the floor,” you said, guiding his arm into his coat sleeve. “It’s you.”
Taehyung laughed under his breath, leaning into your support without meaning to, his shoulder brushing yours as you helped him straighten the collar. He wasn’t heavy, just pliant, like he trusted you to keep him upright.
When he tried walking toward the door, he drifted slightly off-course, and you gently redirected him with a hand at his back.
“Okay, okay,” he chuckled, letting you steer him. “Maybe I’m a little drunk.”
“Just a little,” you teased.
He grinned, eyes half-lidded but warm. “Thanks for not letting me walk into the wall.”
“You were absolutely about to walk into the wall.”
Taehyung let out a laugh, leaning his weight into you again as you reached the entryway. “Good thing you’re here then.”
"Time to get you home." You smiled at him.
Jimin met you at the door, offering a warm, tired smile as he helped adjust Taehyung’s heavy coat over his shoulders. "Are you sure you can get him down, Y/N?”
"I've got him," you said with a reassuring smile, giving Jimin a brief, one-armed hug. "Thank you for tonight, Jimin. It was amazing. Happy New Year."
"Happy New Year, beautiful. Text me when you get home safely," Jimin replied, squeezing your hand.
You took a deep breath, braced your legs, and tried to maneuver Taehyung toward the front door.
"Let me help you."
The deep, raspy voice came from right behind you, stopping you in your tracks.
You turned your head slightly to find Jungkook standing at the end of the hallway. He had pulled his black leather jacket back on, his hands resting casually at his sides, his dark eyes locked onto you with an intense, unblinking focus.
Your chest tightened, but you kept your voice cool and steady. "No, it's fine. I can handle him."
"Y/N," Jungkook insisted gently, stepping closer. His voice was low, devoid of any anger or pride, filled only with quiet concern. "He’s way too heavy for you to carry down the stairs in those heels. Just let me get him into the car."
Swallowing your pride, you gave a quiet, simple nod, stepping back to give him space.
"Thanks," you whispered.
Jungkook didn't say a word. He stepped into your space, his familiar warmth and scent washing over you for a fraction of a second as he effortlessly took Taehyung’s weight off your shoulders. He hoisted Taehyung’s arm over his broad shoulders, hooking a hand securely around Taehyung's waist to keep him completely steady. You walked silently behind them, holding your purse and your keys, watching the broad frame of Jungkook’s back as he carefully guided his best friend out into the cold night air toward your parked car.
The sharp, biting wind slapped your face the moment you stepped outside into the swirling snow. You pressed your key fob, the car lights flashing through the white haze as you pulled open the front passenger door for Jungkook, before walking around to stand by your driver’s side door.
Jungkook handled Taehyung with practiced, gentle care, maneuvering his heavy frame into the passenger seat. Leaning in deep, he pulled the seatbelt across Tae’s chest until it clicked securely into place, adjusting his head back against the headrest before softly shutting the door.
He slowly straightened up, his broad shoulders rising as he lifted his head to look at you across the roof of the car. The snow swirled softly in the freezing air between you, white flakes falling over. You stood resting your hand on your open driver's door.
Slowly, Jungkook dipped his head, giving you a quiet, meaningful nod across the roof of the car.
You held your breath, the icy air burning in your throat, and offered a soft, matching nod in return—a silent exchange of gratitude, unspoken history, and quiet boundaries hanging in the space between you.
Without another word, you climbed into the warm driver's seat and pulled the door shut.
The engine hummed to life beneath you. You shifted into drive, easing away from the curb, tires crunching softly over the thin layer of snow. The street was empty, washed in the muted glow of streetlamps, everything slowed by the cold.
As the car glided forward, your gaze lifted to the rearview mirror almost on instinct.
And there he was.
Jungkook stood exactly where you’d left him, a solitary figure framed by drifting snowflakes and the soft red wash of your taillights. His shoulders were slightly hunched against the cold, hands buried deep in the pockets of his black leather jacket. But his eyes—dark, steady, unguarded—never left your car.
He wasn’t just watching. He was waiting, like part of him hoped you’d stop, reverse, come back.
The snow caught in his hair, melting slowly down the side of his face. He blinked once, slow, almost dazed, as if the sight of you pulling away tugged at something he couldn’t hide anymore. His breath fogged in the air, rising and dissolving in the red glow behind him.
You kept your eyes on the mirror longer than you should have, the road ahead forgotten. Every few seconds, the distance stretched, his figure shrinking, but the ache in your chest only sharpened.
He didn’t move.
He didn’t turn away.
He just stood there, watching you leave like it physically hurt him to let you go.
It wasn’t until the turn at the end of the block forced the mirror to cut him out of view that you finally looked forward again. The moment snapped cleanly, leaving you alone with the open road, the hum of the engine, and the quiet, heavy ache of knowing he was still standing there in the snow, staring after you.
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Jungkook stood exactly where you’d left him, a dark silhouette against the falling snow, the red glow of your taillights painting his jacket in warm, fading color. He just watched you — watched the car, watched the distance grow — like every inch you drifted away tugged something loose inside him.
His eyes blinked once, slow, heavy.
Then again.
A tear slipped down his cheek, catching the faint streetlight before disappearing into the collar of his jacket. He swallowed hard, jaw tightening. He stayed rooted to the spot, hands buried deep in his pockets, shoulders tense, breath fogging in the cold air. He watched until your taillights blurred, until the mirror could barely catch the shape of him, until the turn at the end of the block swallowed the last glimpse of his figure.
Only then did he finally exhale — a shaky, uneven breath that clouded in front of him.
He lowered his gaze to the snow-covered ground. He slowly turned around. He walked back toward his car, shoulders slightly hunched, wiping at his cheek only once before dropping his hand again.
As he sat down in his car, his chest rose with a shaky inhale, and he let it out slowly, eyes closing for a heartbeat. Jungkook stayed there, in the driver’s seat, letting the engine stay off, letting the snow tap softly against the windshield, letting himself feel everything he’d been trying so hard not to for a while now.
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Slice of January
January moved in quiet, frozen breaths. The winter break began to bleed into its final days. The campus was suddenly alive again, buzzing with thousands of students in heavy puffer jackets navigating the icy, salt-dusted pathways.
Winter break had given you the room to breathe and rebuild your footing. You felt good.
The late afternoon cold whipped through the university quad, carrying the sharp scent of wet stone and winter rain. You pulled your scarf a little higher around your neck, shifting your heavy tote bag onto your shoulder as you navigated the crowded pathway.
"Y/N! Hey! Over here!"
You looked up to see Jimin standing near the library steps, waving both arms over his head like a human beacon, a huge, radiant smile lighting up his cold-flushed face. Beside him, Taehyung was leaning lazily against a stone pillar, a steaming paper cup held between his gloved hands, while Jungkook stood right next to them, his dark hair falling messy into his eyes, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his oversized black jacket.
“Hey guys.” You smiled.
"Look who finally decided to grace us with her presence," Jimin beamed as you stepped right up into their circle, pulling you into a quick, warm side-hug.
"I was trapped in the longest lecture of my life; cut me some slack," you laughed easily, pulling back.
“I can’t believe it’s the 17th of January already,” Taehyung spoke up.
“Time’s flying. Are you heading toward the Arts building, Y/N?" Jimin asked, pulling his coat collar up against a sudden gust of wind.
"Yeah." you replied
"Perfect, we'll walk with you," Taehyung chimed in, taking a sip of his coffee and slinging a casual arm around Jimin’s shoulders as the four of you began moving down the wide, stone pathway.
The walk was short, but every single step felt amplified. Jimin and Tae took the lead, bickering playfully about a missed group study session, leaving you and Jungkook walking side by side just a half-step behind them.
Suddenly, a pair of loud students on skateboards came flying around the corner of the brick walkway, carving sharply across the concrete right toward you.
Before you could react, Jungkook’s reflex kicked in. His hand shot out from his pocket, his warm palm briefly pressing against the curve of your upper waist—a light, protective press that gently guided you two inches to the left, tucking you safely behind his shoulder as the skateboards rattled past.
The touch lasted less than two seconds. Where his hand met your coat felt like a live wire.
The second the danger passed, Jungkook snapped his hand back, shoving it straight into his pocket as if he were trying to prove he hadn't meant to break the boundary.
"Sorry," he muttered under his breath, his voice low and tight. His dark eyes darted to yours, checking if he had made you uncomfortable.
"It's fine," you whispered back, your heart hammering against your ribs. "Thanks."
Ahead of you, Taehyung slowed his pace just enough to look back over his shoulder. His dark eyes caught the quick exchange, resting on you with a quiet, knowing look—a silent echo of what he had told you in the cafe days ago.
Taehyung watched you over the rim of his porcelain mug as you absentmindedly stirred your latte, your mind clearly miles away.
"You know," Taehyung began quietly, setting his cup down with a soft click. "It's written all over you guys."
You paused, your spoon freezing against the foam.
Taehyung sighed gently, leaning forward over the wooden table, his dark eyes filled with a heavy, protective warmth.
"You and Jungkook. You both pretend you're fine, you both put on this whole brave show, but... you still linger for each other. Anyone with eyes can see it, Y/N."
You didn't defend yourself. You didn't shake your head, and you didn't offer a witty lie to brush it off—the words lodged in your throat, thick and suffocating. You slowly turned your head away, staring out the fogged glass window at the cold Seoul street outside. You watched the blurred figures of pedestrians trudging through the light snowfall, your chest tightening under the heavy, tangled mess of feelings you had tried so hard to bury. You wanted to be cured; you wanted to be over it, but the truth sat there between you and Tae like an undeniable weight.
When you reached the stone steps, you stopped, turning around to face the three of them.
"This is me," you said, offering Jimin and Taehyung a warm, polite smile. "Thanks for walking with me."
"Text us later, Shorty! We're grabbing dinner after six," Jimin said, giving your arm a quick, affectionate squeeze before turning to head toward the main lobby.
Taehyung gave you a warm nod, his boxy smile appearing for a second. "See you later, Y/N."
You turned your head to look at Jungkook last. He looked like he wanted to say a hundred things, like he wanted to pull you down those steps and beg you to hear him out.
Instead, he tightened his jaw, swallowing hard, and gave you one slow, gentle nod—respecting your distance, holding his ground, and letting you go.
"Bye, Jungkook," you murmured softly.
"Bye, Y/N," he rasped, his deep voice carrying a quiet softness that lingered in your mind long after you pushed open the heavy glass doors, stepping inside and leaving him out in the cold.
The heavy, static air that used to hover between you and Jungkook didn't break all at once—it dissolved in quiet, careful baby steps.
The suffocating tension slowly gave way to a normal, easy cadence. Small talk replaced the weighted silence. No one was happier about this shift than Jimin and Taehyung.
Taehyung, who had spent weeks watching both of you with a quiet, worried shadow in his eyes, visibly relaxed. Seeing you standing right in the middle of their group—laughing, joining in on conversations, and no longer looking for the nearest exit the second Jungkook walked in—brought a genuine, tangible relief to the group. The circle finally felt whole again.
A mid-week cram session had Jimin fast asleep with his head buried in his arms, while Tae was hunched over his laptop on the far end of the long wooden table. You were searching through your canvas bag for a pen, letting out a small, quiet sigh when you realized you’d left your pouch back at the apartment.
Across the table, Jungkook didn't make a big deal out of it. He reached into his jacket pocket, clicked a sleek black gel pen open, and slid it across the polished wood until it tapped gently against your hand.
"Keep it," he murmured, not even looking up from his tablet, playing the cool, helpful friend to perfection.
"Thanks, Jeon," you whispered, using the old nickname entirely by accident—a natural, instinctual slip of the tongue.
Jungkook’s fingers froze against his screen for one microsecond. The familiar name sent a quiet jolt straight to his chest, but he forced his expression to stay completely composed. He just gave a tiny, two-fingered salute from his temple, keeping his cool while his heart beat a little faster behind his ribs.
It was nearly 9:00 PM, and the basement hallway of the Performing Arts building was quiet. You pulled open the heavy studio door, wiping sweat from your forehead with a hand towel, only to find Jungkook leaning against the mirrored wall outside, waiting for Tae to finish changing in the locker room.
Instead of the old, guarded retreat, you offered him a warm, tired smile as you zipped up your duffel bag. "Still here?"
Jungkook pushed off the wall, shoving his hands casually into the pockets of his track pants. "Waiting on Tae. He takes longer to get dressed for a walk home than a runway show."
You let out a genuine, bubbling laugh that echoed off the concrete walls. Hearing the bright sound made Jungkook’s shoulders drop instantly, a soft, genuine smile breaking across his own face.
"Tell him I said he’s slow," you said, stepping past him toward the exit doors. "Night, Jungkook."
"Night, Y/N. Get home safe," he called out softly, his voice smooth and steady, watching you walk out into the cool night air with a quiet sense of peace he hadn't felt in a long time.
The final afternoon of January brought a sudden, gentle dusting of light snow across the campus quad.
You were walking on the outer edge of the pavement, taking in the snow, when your boot caught slightly on an icy curb.
Jungkook’s hand shot out with lightning reflexes, his fingers catching your upper arm just enough to steady your balance before you could slip.
"Careful," he said softly, right beside you.
You didn't panic or pull away awkwardly. You just regained your footing, looked up into his dark eyes, and gave his forearm a light, friendly tap. "Good catch. Thanks."
As the four of you continued down the snow-dusted street, walking side-by-side in the fading evening light, the last days of January closed gently behind you. The raw panic was gone, replaced by an easy, comfortable truce.
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February arrived fast and relentless, sweeping the university up in the chaotic, high-energy rhythm of a full-swing semester.
Friday night meant only one thing. Bass-heavy pulse of a packed Seoul nightclub. Around you, the night out with the girls had been a dream. The music was loud, neon violet and crimson lights washed over the crowd in hypnotic waves. On the outside, you looked like you were thriving—drinking, dancing, letting the beat vibrate straight through your chest. But the alcohol had a quiet, dangerous way of stripping off your armor.
With every drink, the cool, effortless composure you had worked so agonizingly hard to construct throughout these past few months began to melt away. The walls you thought were indestructible turned out to be made of glass. Standing in the middle of a crowded, glowing club, surrounded by music and laughing faces, the suffocating truth finally broke through the noise.
No matter how much time had passed, no matter how hard you had tried to build a life around his absence, you weren't over him. You were still hopelessly, painfully attached to Jungkook.
Even though you had sworn to yourself that you would never cross this line—that you would never be the one to reach out when you felt needy, lonely, or desperate—you couldn't fight it anymore.
You excused yourself from the group, stepping away from the chaotic dance floor toward the slightly quieter, dimly lit hallway near the back lounge. Leaning your back against the cool, dark wall, your hands were slightly unsteady as you pulled your phone from your bag. The alcohol buzzed warmly through your veins, making your heart hammer against your ribs like a trapped bird.
Your fingers moved on pure muscle memory, opening your messaging app and tapping on his name.
Jungkook.
You stared at the dark screen, his name glowing back at you in cold blue light. Your mind began to spiral into the dark, dizzying questions that had haunted your late nights for months.
Does he ever feel like this? You wondered, a lump forming in your throat as your thumb hovered over his profile picture. Do I ever cross his mind when he’s alone in his apartment? When he’s in a room full of people, does he look around and wish I was standing there? Is he hurting right now, or is his cool composure real?
You were drunk, you were hopelessly needy, and you missed him so much it felt like a physical ache under your ribs. You wanted his voice. You wanted his arms around you. You wanted to rip away the entire month of fake, polite distance and hear him say your name the way he used to.
Your thumb tapped the text box. The little blue cursor began to blink, rhythmic and expectant, waiting for you to type.
Are you awake?
You typed it out, staring at the three words for four agonizing seconds before your thumb furiously hit the backspace button, erasing them into nothing.
I miss you so much it hurts.
Your breath caught in your throat as you read it. It was too raw, too desperate, too much. You deleted it again, your vision blurring slightly with hot, quiet tears that you refused to let fall.
You closed your eyes, resting the back of your head against the wall while the bass thudded through the floorboards. You opened your eyes again, staring down at the blinking cursor, your trembling fingers hovering over the keyboard once more, caught in the agonizing limbo between your bleeding pride and your desperate, unbreakable heart.
With shaking, alcohol-warm fingers, you gave up the fight against yourself. You typed out three simple words before your logical brain could stop you, and hit send.
You: are you awake?
The blue message bubble sat at the bottom of the dark screen, cold and final. Ten seconds passed. Then thirty. The agonizing silence stretched out for a full, agonizing minute until the screen finally lit up.
Jungkook: Yeah. I'm awake.
Your throat locked up. Seeing his name appear on your screen, responding directly to you for the first time in months, sent a dizzying wave of heat through your blood.
Your thumbs flew across the keyboard, typing out everything that was spilling over inside you. I miss you. I want to see you. Please. But as the three little grey typing dots danced on his end of the screen, panic seized you, and you frantically deleted every word. You typed again. Deleted again.
Across town in the quiet darkness of his bedroom, Jungkook sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his phone with a breathless intensity. He watched the tiny typing bubble on his screen pop up, disappear, appear again, and vanish. His heart was pounding, his chest tight as he held his breath, watching you struggle on the other end of the line.
He couldn't take the quiet agony of watching those dots vanish. His fingers moved across his screen, typing out a gentle prompt.
Jungkook: Is everything alright?
Jungkook: Saw your stories on Instagram with the girls. Are you having fun?
You stared down at his messages, the neon lights of the club hallway bleeding blue and pink across the glass. The alcohol stripped away every layer of defense you had spent all these months building. The cool attitude, the relaxed smile, the walls—it all dissolved into nothing beneath the crushing weight of how much you wanted him.
You didn't hesitate this time. You didn't delete the words. You typed with raw, reckless honesty and pressed send.
You: No. I'm not having fun because you're not here.
Miles away, sitting in the dark, Jungkook read the line on his screen, and his entire world stopped.
He closed his eyes, throwing his head back. A heavy, quiet breath parted his lips as he lifted a hand, dragging his fingers slowly, tightly through his dark hair, gripping the roots at the back of his head.
He knew you were drunk. The raw, unfiltered honesty spilling through the screen was proof enough—alcohol was the only thing that could have stripped away the thick, impenetrable armor you had worn so carefully for months. This was the first time your name had popped up as a text notification on his phone since the night everything shattered between you.
January had felt like a miracle to him. The small, quiet steps you’d taken together—the brief conversations, the shared jokes in the group—had made him genuinely, deeply happy. He had accepted that easy, casual pace. He had been content to exist in your orbit, sharing the same air and watching you smile again without being the cause of your distress. He had settled into that truce, fully prepared to play the cool, unbothered friend for as long as you needed him to.
He had never, in his wildest dreams, expected you to reach out to him.
He hadn't expected you to break the distance yourself, let alone send a message so fiercely vulnerable it made his chest ache with a violent, sudden intensity. Sitting there in the dark, feeling his heart hammering wildly against his ribs, he realized the quiet truce hadn't meant you were over him. You were still hurting, still missing him just as deeply, frantically, and painfully as he missed you.
You didn't stop there. With alcohol warming your blood and your heart pounding against your ribs, you typed out the raw, unfiltered truth right behind it before your pride could step in to save you.
You: Get me out of this club. Take me home, Jeon.
Taking you home when you were like this felt like stepping on a land mine. It was wrong. It was dangerous. If he drove down there right now, swept you out of that club, and took you home in your vulnerable state, it would destroy every single boundary you had set.
He gripped his phone until the glass creaked, forcing himself to be the rational one—forcing himself to say no, even if it tore his own chest wide open.
Jungkook: I can't do that, Y/N. You've been drinking. You know as well as I do that this is wrong. Go back to the girls, please.
Back in the dimly lit hallway of the club, you stared down at his reply. A hot, frustrated scoff escaped your lips. The rejection stung, but the alcohol in your blood turned that hurt into pure, defiant fire. You were sick of his nobility. You were so tired of the safe, polite distance and the righteous mask he was hiding behind.
You: Stop acting like the bigger person.
You: I don't want to be with the girls right now, I want you. Are you really going to sit there and pretend you don't want to come get me?
A dark, tortured groan tore from his chest as he stood up from his bed, pacing the small length of his room. His heart was hammering against his ribs so hard it felt deafening in the quiet apartment. You were driving him absolutely insane.
It was the exact way you used to push his buttons when you were together—that stubborn, reckless, dangerously direct way you would challenge him, cornering him until his control snapped and he gave you whatever you wanted.
You were intentionally crossing every line you had spent weeks building. You were stripping away his noble facade, calling him out, and testing his willpower until it cracked right down the middle.
His fingers trembled with pure, volatile energy as he typed back, his cool composure completely disintegrating into something dark, intense, and heavily unstrung.
Jungkook: You are pushing it, Y/N. You are crossing lines you swore you’d never touch again.
Jungkook: Do you have any idea what you're doing to me right now?
Your thumb didn't hesitate for a single second. You typed out the words with a slow, deliberate smirk spreading across your face, completely unbothered by his warning.
You: I never swore anything, Jungkook.
You pressed send, watching the blue bubble land on the screen, before adding one more right beneath it.
You: You're the one who made up all those rules. I never signed a contract saying I wouldn't want you again.
Jungkook stared at the two lines, and a low, breathless, utterly frustrated laugh broke from his lips.
Back in the dim, pulsing hallway of the club, you looked down at the screen, a soft, giddy smile stretching across your lips.
The alcohol buzzed warm and heavy in your veins, but the real high wasn't coming from the drinks—it was coming from the chaotic, electric energy humming through the phone in your hand. You loved this. You loved the thrill of it, the absolute absurdity of breaking every single boundary you had built, and the intoxicating power of knowing you held his entire world in your hands with a few keystrokes.
Standing there, biting your lip to hide your grin as you waited for his response, you felt a rush of warmth fill your chest. For the first time in months, the cold, heavy weight that had rested on your shoulders since the fight vanished. It felt just like it used to—before the fights, before the bitter tears, before the painful distance of December, January. It was the same reckless, magnetic push-and-pull that had always drawn the two of you together like static electricity.
Jungkook: Go and be with your girls, Y/N.
Jungkook: You’re drunk. You don’t know what you’re saying.
The harder he tried to play the "better person," the more obvious it became how agonizingly difficult it was for him to hold that line. Your thumbs moved over the glass, typing with a slow, wicked confidence that the alcohol only amplified.
You: Jeon, we both know you want to see me anyway.
As those eight words settled into his mind, a slow, helpless smile broke across his face—a genuine, breathless smirk that tugged at the corners of his lips in the dark. Hearing you flip those exact words back on him now—using his own old line as a weapon against his weak self-control—completely undid him.
You weren't just drunk-texting him; you were reaching straight back into your shared past, dragging up the effortless, undeniable intimacy you used to have, and throwing it right in his face.
A low, quiet laugh escaped his throat, a heavy hand coming up to cover his mouth as he shook his head in complete, utter defeat. He was thoroughly cornered, and you both knew it. He dropped his hand from his face, his dark eyes burning into the screen as his thumbs flew across the keyboard.
Jungkook: You are exhausting.
Jungkook: Send me your location right now.
Back in the dim hallway of the club, seeing his surrender flash across the glass made your heart do a violent, giddy flip. A breathy, triumphant laugh bubbled up from your chest. You tapped the location button, dropped your exact pin into the chat, and followed it up with five simple words.
You: Back door exit. Hurry up.
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In his bedroom, Jungkook pulled a pair of black sweatpants over his legs, yanked a soft black hoodie over his head, and grabbed his heavy jacket, throwing it on as he hurried out the door. The keys jingled in his tight grip as he practically ran down the stairs to his car.
He slid into the driver’s seat, hit the ignition, and slammed the gear shift into drive.
As he pulled out of the garage, his hands gripped the leather steering wheel until his knuckles were stark white. His mind was a frantic blur of noise. What was he even doing? What was happening right now? He was driving across the city in the middle of the night to pick you up from a club because you had pushed his buttons until his self-restraint snapped like dry wood.
It had taken mere minutes. Just a handful of texts, a few bold, teasing words, and every single brick of the tall, protective wall he had spent months building collapsed into dust.
Outside the back exit of the venue, the February air was chilly, sweeping down the narrow brick street in soft, cold gusts. You pulled your jacket tighter around your shoulders, your breath curling in faint white wisps as you leaned against the wall. The dull, muffled thumping of the club’s bass vibrated through the metal doors behind you, but out here, the night felt suspended in time.
You watched the distant yellow headlights of passing cars sweep across the damp pavement, your heart hammering against your ribs. The alcohol still hummed warmly in your veins, but the giddy, intoxicating excitement inside you was purely because of him. You knew he was coming.
A pair of headlights cut through the dark alley, glowing bright as a black sedan slowed down and pulled up smoothly against the curb right in front of you.
The door opened, and Jungkook stepped out into the chill.
He was wearing comfortable black sweatpants, an oversized black hoodie, and a jacket pulled open over his chest. Standing there in the streetlights, he looked utterly breathtaking—and completely undone.
Looking at him, you could read every single conflicting emotion crashing across his face. He was visibly thrilled to see you, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. But right beneath that happiness was a stormy, frustrated edge. He was irritated—he hated how easily you had broken him, hated that you knew exactly which strings to pull to shatter his resolve, and hated how helplessly devoted to you he still was.
"Are you completely out of your mind?" he rasped. He stopped a couple of feet away from you, taking in your flushed cheeks and the bold, knowing look in your eyes.
“You came. I knew you would," you breathed out.
A raspy, disbelieving breath escaped his lips. He shook his head slightly, a small, exasperated smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth despite himself.
"Because you left me zero choice," he muttered, his low voice thick with residual tension.
Your smile only widened, bright and completely unabashed. You didn't argue. Instead, you took a step closer, reaching out a hand and giving his chest a soft, playful tap right over his heartbeat.
"I know," you murmured softly.
Leaving him standing there with his chest still humming from the light touch of your hand, you brushed past him, walking over to the passenger side of the car. He let out a low, quiet breath. You gave him a lingering look as you slid into the warm, scented interior of the car. He shut the door, rounded the hood in long, deliberate strides, and got into the driver’s seat.
Without another word, he put the car in drive and pulled smoothly out onto the main road, heading in the direction of your apartment.
The moment the car began to move, a deep, profound sense of peace settled over your chest. All the chaotic noise from the club, the months of heavy silence, the aching distance—it all melted away into nothing. The air inside the car was warm, smelling faintly of his familiar cologne, cedar, and the crisp winter night.
You turned slightly in your seat, resting your shoulder against the soft leather, and just watched him drive.
You missed him so fiercely that it felt surreal to have him sitting inches away from you again, finally. You let your eyes slowly trace every inch of him—the sharp, handsome line of his jaw, the subtle swell of his broad shoulders beneath the black hoodie, his strong hands resting heavy on the steering wheel, and the dark, focused intensity in his eyes as he stared at the road ahead.
He was trying so hard to look stern, to maintain a shred of his lingering irritation, but the tension in his shoulders was already beginning to ease just by having you in his passenger seat.
Sitting there beside him in the quiet, warm bubble of the moving car, you couldn't help yourself. A wide, helpless smile stretched across your face as you kept your eyes fixed on him, completely content to let the night take you wherever he drove.
Jungkook kept his eyes glued to the dark asphalt ahead, his hands shifting slightly on the steering wheel, but he was painfully aware of your gaze burning into the side of his face.
The red light at a quiet intersection brought the SUV to a smooth stop. The silence inside the cabin was thick, broken only by the soft, steady rush of the heater blowing warm air around your ankles.
Without turning his head, the muscle in his jaw twitched. "If you keep staring at me like that, Y/N," he growled low, his voice gravelly in the dark, "I'm going to pull over."
Your smile only deepened, completely unbothered by the warning. "Then pull over."
Jungkook let out a low, disbelieving scoff, his dark eyes snapping to yours for two electric seconds before the light turned green. He hit the gas a little harder than necessary, the engine whining softly as the car surged forward through the empty streets.
"You really have zero self-preservation tonight, do you?" he muttered, though there was no real bite left in his tone—just the raw, exhausted voice of a man who had completely given up fighting himself.
"None when it comes to you," you murmured softly, the confession slipping out so effortlessly, cushioned by the sweet haze of the alcohol and the overwhelming relief of being back in his space. Jungkook let out a small laugh. He couldn’t believe the words coming out of your mouth and all of this happening right now.
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When Jungkook pulled up at your apartment building, he shifted the gear into park and killed the engine. The dashboard lights dimmed, plunging the interior into a quiet, shadowy darkness. He unbuckled his seatbelt and turned slightly in his seat, looking over at you. You weren't making a single move toward your door. You just sat there, still and relaxed against the leather seat, staring at him.
Jungkook raised an eyebrow, his jaw twitching softly. "We're here," he said, his voice low in the quiet car. "You're home. I drove you all the way here... why aren't you going?"
You didn't flinch. You tilted your head, resting it against the headrest, and looked him straight in the eye. "Come upstairs with me."
Jungkook didn't even hesitate. "No." He shook his head, leaning back against his seat. "I got you out of the club and brought you here like you wanted. Go inside."
"I'm tipsy, Kook," you murmured, keeping your voice soft, trailing your eyes down to his dark hoodie before meeting his gaze again. "I need help just getting to my apartment... maybe even to my room."
Jungkook froze.
His eyes widened in absolute, pure shock. He buried his face in his hand, his shoulders shaking as he laughed into his palm. He was completely incredulous.
"Are you serious right now?" he laughed, dropping his hand to look at you, his dark eyes sparkling with disbelief. "You are utterly ridiculous."
He shook his head, letting out one last amused sigh, though a soft, lingering smile remained stuck on his lips. He unlatched his door. "Fine. I'm coming with you."
He stepped out into the chilly night, rounding the hood of the car to open your door. When you slid out, your feet were a little uneven on the pavement, the alcohol making your balance sway.
Before you could stumble, Jungkook’s large, warm arm wrapped securely around your waist, pulling you flush against his side. The sheer heat of his body burned through your jacket, his grip firm and steady. He held you tight, keeping you anchored directly to him so you wouldn't fall as he guided you through the lobby and up the stairs toward your floor.
When you finally reached your apartment door, you stopped in front of the lock. You unzipped your bag, blindly rummaging around inside for your keys, but your fingers were clumsy, and the bag felt like a bottomless pit.
Jungkook stood right behind you, watching you struggle for a few seconds before letting out a quiet, exasperated puff of air. "Move," he murmured gently.
He reached into your bag himself, his long fingers instantly brushing against the metal ring. He pulled the keys out, slid the smooth silver key into the deadbolt, and turned it with a soft click. Pushing the door open, he guided you over the threshold and into the quiet warmth of your entry hall.
He stood near the doorframe, his hands resting lightly on his hips as he looked down at you. "Are you okay?"
You gave him a sleepy, content smile, letting out a soft, hummed "mhm" as you nodded your head.
"Great. Bye."
Jungkook turned on his heel, ready to walk right back out into the hallway.
You froze in pure shock. Your eyes went wide, and before your brain could even process his sudden retreat, your hand shot out and gripped his wrist tightly, stopping him dead in his tracks.
"Wait!" you protested, holding onto his arm with everything you had. "I... I need help getting to the bedroom."
Jungkook stopped. He looked down at your hand wrapped around his wrist, then looked back up at your face. He took a long, deep breath, blowing it out slowly through his lips as he shook his head in utter defeat.
Without another word, he wrapped his hand around yours, pulling you gently down the short hallway and ushering you straight into your bedroom.
You practically sank into the soft mattress the second your legs hit the frame, kicking off your shoes and collapsing onto the bed. The cool sheets felt incredible, but as you laid your head on the pillow, you looked up at Jungkook, who was standing beside the bed with his hands shoved into his sweatpant pockets, watching you.
A slow, wide smile spread across your face. You reached your hand out and gently tapped the space on the mattress right next to you, keeping your eyes fixed on his.
Jungkook looked at your hand tapping the bed, and a fond, helpless smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
"No," he said smoothly.
He reached down, grabbing the heavy comforter folded at the foot of the bed, and pulled it up over your shoulders, tucking you in gently until you were warm and covered.
"Jungkook, stay..." you began to protest, pouting as you reached for his sleeve again. "Just stay here with me..."
Jungkook stood up straight, towering over the side of the bed, looking down at you with a sharp, amused smirk that told you he wasn't budging an inch.
"Goodnight, Y/N," he said, his voice rich and steady. "I told you I ain't staying."
He lingered for just two seconds longer, his dark eyes softening as he took in your cozy, blanket-wrapped frame, before turning around and walking quietly out of the room, leaving you wrapped in his warmth and the faint, lingering scent of his cologne.
──── ✧ ✧ ✧ ────────✧ ✧ ✧ ───────
The front door clicked shut behind him, sealing the warm, familiar scent of your apartment inside. Standing alone in the quiet, carpeted hallway, Jungkook let out a long, heavy exhale he felt like he had been holding since your very first text lit up his phone.
Of course he had wanted to stay.
God, he wanted nothing more in the entire world than to kick off his boots, pull back that comforter, and slide into the warmth right beside you. He wanted to pull your sleeping frame flush against his chest, breathe in the scent of your hair, and anchor you to him where you belonged. Every single starved, desperate instinct in his body had screamed at him to drop his keys on your nightstand and surrender to the pull he had been fighting for months.
He had missed you so much it felt like a physical ache in his ribs. He knew better. Staying tonight, when the alcohol was still humming in your veins and his own self-control was hanging by a thread, would have blurred every boundary they needed to navigate.
If you were going to cross those lines again—if you were really going to tear down the wall between you for good—he wanted it to happen with clear eyes, sober thoughts, and no lingering regret waiting in the morning light.
Walking away tonight wasn't a rejection; it was a promise. Deep down, he knew it was the best thing he could do for both of you.
Genre: Historical Romance/Royal Fiction/ Political Drama/ War/ Romantic Drama/ Slow Burn Romance/ Arranged Marriage/ Enemies to Lovers
Ao3: Link
Watpad: Link (Aqui en wattpad la teneis en español tambien :))
Tag: @onyxthornseer @genu7
Previously: Introducction / Prologue
a/n: Hope that u like it bc it´s something I had been working these past months :), l wolud love to read what do u think about this fanfic <3
Year 487 since the Oath of the Seven Seals
Byeonseong
On the night Min Yoon Gi was born, the entire city of Byeonseong stayed awake.
A light rain had begun to fall on the palace rooftops shortly after nightfall, covering the stone courtyards with silvery glints and muffling the sound of the servants’ footsteps as they hurried from one pavilion to another. Inside the royal family’s chambers, the lamps remained lit, but no one could sleep—for on that night, it was not merely a child who would be born, but the future heir to the most important country of recent years.
When his first cry was finally heard through the paper-thin walls adorned with vivid golden designs reminiscent of ancient prophecies, the servants waiting on the other side of the door bowed their heads. The royal physicians exchanged looks of relief, realizing that after several years of struggling to produce a healthy heir, they had finally succeeded. The ladies-in-waiting began preparing the announcements to be sent before dawn to the king and all his subjects. And, somewhere in the capital, the palace bells rang out to mark the arrival of a new life.
Lady Park, his mother, was only able to hold him in her arms for a few seconds before the ladies-in-waiting snatched him away to take him to be presented to the Queen Mother. He was small. Too small to bear the weight of his birth. His fists were clenched, and his face was still flushed from the effort of coming into the world. His eyes remained closed, oblivious to the voices talking about him, to the names of his ancestors, and to the future that others had already begun to write on his behalf.
The Queen Mother watched him in silence; for a few long seconds she said nothing, and all the servants held their breath in that room. After a few minutes, she decided to reach out one of her hands toward the tiny baby, who had been alive in this new world for only a few minutes, and gently brushed the child’s small hand. Yoon Gi’s tiny fingers closed around one of his grandmother’s fingers.
“He has a strong grip,” murmured the queen’s first lady, trying to lighten the tense atmosphere in the room.
The Queen Mother’s lips remained sealed; she did not utter a single word. She stood there watching the newborn for a long time, noting the baby’s strong grip. Perhaps, for a moment, she did not see the heir. She saw only a child. A child who did not yet know that one day thousands of people would bow their heads before him. A child who did not yet know that every decision he made would have consequences far beyond the walls of that palace. A child who could still cry without anyone considering him weak.
The Queen Mother gently pried open the little grip and slowly withdrew her hand.
“May the heavens have mercy on him,” she said at last.
No one knew if she was speaking as a sovereign… or as a woman.
That very night, as the bells announced his birth, the scribes began to record his name in the imperial documents.
Min Yoon Gi.
Son of the Crown. The heir to Jeong-Hwa. A life that, from his very first breath, belonged to something far greater than himself.
The next morning, imperial banners fluttered over the entire city. The news spread through the capital and then throughout the kingdom. Lamps were lit in the temples. Rumors were shared in the markets. Toasts were made in the homes of the great clans. And in the halls where men discussed politics, some began to wonder what kind of king that child would become.
But Yoon Gi knew nothing of any of this. He slept oblivious to the alliances that would one day depend on him, oblivious to the enemies he had not yet met, oblivious to the crown that had already begun to claim him.
During his early years, the palace tried to shield him from reality. But the Celestial Palace was not a place where innocence could last very long.
Year 492
Min Yoon Gi opened his eyes beneath the palace’s gilded ceilings. From the moment he took his first breath, he no longer belonged to himself. Before he had even learned to write his own name, he was already expected to bear the weight of his ancestors’ names. Before he understood what it meant to be king, he had learned that every pair of eyes could become a judge.
The palace was his first home but also his first school. At the age of five, Yoon Gi was already spending the early hours of every morning seated at a low cypress wood table, his legs carefully crossed and his back straight. Before him lay an inkwell, a bamboo brush, and a sheet of rice paper.
“Again,” the teacher repeated for the fifth time.
The young heir looked at the character he had just written. Too much ink had pooled in one of the strokes again, so the teacher, his tone growing increasingly serious, seemed to lose a little more patience with each repetition.
“I made a mistake,” Yoon Gi replied, embarrassed.
His calligraphy teacher didn't answer him. He simply slid another fresh sheet of paper in front of him. Yoon Gi took a deep breath. He dipped the brush in the ink again. This time, he held his hand more firmly. The brush descended. One small stroke, then another. The room remained silent except for the soft rustling of the bristles against the paper and the sound of birds in the trees surrounding the garden.
“What are you learning?” asked the teacher.
Yoon Gi looked at the character.
“To write.”
“No.”
The boy looked up at the teacher with a puzzled expression.
“To be patient.”
“Not that either.”
The teacher pointed to the brush.
“To control your hand.”
Then he pointed to his chest.
“And, someday, to control everything behind it.”
Yoon Gi didn’t understand the meaning of those words at the time, but he would years later. In that palace, many corners of which he still didn’t know, even the smallest lessons held a warning. He learned to walk without running. To sit without moving. To listen without interrupting. To bow his head before those of higher rank and to accept the bow of those below him. He learned which cup a minister should use. What distance he should maintain from an ambassador. How long he should remain kneeling during a ceremony. Which words a prince could speak and which should remain unsaid.
Yoon Gi learned at a young age that silence could be an answer. That a glance could become a threat. And that a smile, in the palace, did not always mean happiness. At age six, he began studying the records of his ancestors. At seven, he memorized the names of the ancient kings. At eight, he could recite the fundamental laws of Jeong-Hwa from memory. But it was also at age eight that he discovered a rule that no book bothered to mention.
An heir did not cry—and certainly not in public.
It had happened during a winter ceremony. Yoon Gi had been standing for far too long. His shoes were too tight. His hands had gone numb beneath the sleeves of his ceremonial robe, and the cold had seeped into his bones. But it wasn’t the cold that brought on the tears. He had overheard two ministers arguing just a few steps away. One of them had mentioned his father. The other had said that a weak king could doom an entire kingdom.
Yoon Gi didn’t understand why those words hurt him so much. He only knew that they did. When the ceremony ended, he quickly withdrew to one of the palace’s side corridors. There, far from the ministers’ eyes, he allowed himself to cry. He thought no one had seen him, but he was wrong.
The Queen Mother was waiting for him. She had no escort. She wore no jewelry. Just a dark hanbok and that serene expression that Yoon Gi had learned to fear more than any scream.
“Why are you crying?” she asked in her characteristic serious voice.
Yoon Gi lowered his head.
“I’m cold,” he lied, not daring to look her in the eye.
The Queen Mother watched him for a few seconds.
“Don’t lie to me,” she continued in a slightly colder tone.
The boy pressed his lips together, stifling a small sob.
“They’ve been talking about my father.”
“I know.”
“They said that…” His voice broke, and he tried to hold it back, though tears continued to fall silently from his eyes. “They said he might be a weak king.”
The Queen Mother remained motionless. For a moment, something resembling sadness flashed across her eyes. But it vanished so quickly that the boy thought he had imagined it.
“And that’s why you’re crying,” she replied thoughtfully.
Yoon Gi nodded without saying another word, his eyes fixed on the floor. She stepped closer. She knelt in front of him and carefully smoothed the collar of his tunic.
“Listen carefully to what I’m about to tell you, Yoon Gi.”
The boy finally looked up at her.
“One day, everyone will want to know how you feel.”
She paused.
“Your ministers. Your enemies. Your allies. Even those who swear to love you.”
Yoon Gi didn’t understand what the Queen Mother meant by those words; he didn’t grasp how they related to what he’d just heard about his father, and he felt frustrated.
“So what should I do?” he replied after several long minutes during which he’d been lost in his thoughts.
The Queen Mother held his gaze.
“Don’t let them.”
“Why?”
“Because the day they know exactly what can hurt you, they’ll know exactly where to strike.”
Yoon Gi stopped crying. Not because he had stopped feeling pain, but because he had just learned that showing it could turn it into a weapon for others. Finally, the Queen Mother straightened up again, resuming her role.
“Remember who you are.”
“I am the crown prince.”
“No.”
Yoon Gi frowned slightly. She looked at him sternly.
“You are the future king of Jeong-Hwa.”
The boy remained silent.
“And a future king cannot afford to be just a child.”
That phrase left a much deeper impression on him than any calligraphy lesson ever could. From that day on, Yoon Gi began to hide his tears.
Then he learned to hide his anger. Later, his fear. And finally, even his joy. Every emotion that appeared on his face was corrected before it could become a weakness. Every day, everyone told him that this was how he was supposed to act.
“Keep your back straight.”
“Hold your head high.”
“Don’t look away.”
“Don’t answer too quickly.”
“Don’t answer too slowly.”
“Think before you speak.”
“And above all, never let them know what you’re thinking.”
And Yoon Gi obeyed without complaint; in the end, he always obeyed.
At the age of ten, he began his sword training. The training courtyard was covered with a thin layer of snow when he received his first wooden sword. It was too big for him. He held it with both hands. Standing before him was the royal instructor, a man who had served three generations of the imperial family.
“A sword isn’t just for killing,” said the man, whose hair was quite gray.
Yoon Gi nodded.
“It’s for protection,” he replied in the monotone he had learned to use with everyone.
The instructor shook his head.
“It’s for making decisions.”
Without a second thought, the instructor struck him; that first blow sent him tumbling to the ground. Yoon Gi got back up without saying a word. The second blow split the skin on his palm, but he didn’t cry out. The third knocked him off balance, and he got back up again.
From a nearby gallery, the Queen Mother watched in silence alongside her ladies-in-waiting. She didn’t intervene. She didn’t comfort him. Yoon Gi realized then that no one would come to help him up. He would have to do it himself.
That was how he learned another lesson. Pain could be endured. Fear could be hidden. Loneliness could be turned into discipline. And if one day he were to sit on the throne, he would have to master all three.
But there was something the Queen Mother could not teach him. Something no teacher could correct. Something Yoon Gi did not yet know would one day become his greatest weakness.
His heart.
Because, despite everything he had been taught, Yoon Gi was still just a child. He still found refuge in the gardens when no one was looking for him. He still gazed at the golden carp in the ponds. He still looked up at the palace rooftops and wondered what it would be like to live in a place where no one knew his name.
And on some nights, when the corridors were empty and the lamps began to go out one by one, he would slip away to the garden near Lady Park’s palace to gaze at the sky. There, he could breathe. There, he wasn’t the heir. He wasn’t the king’s son. He wasn’t the future ruler.
He was simply Yoon Gi.
Until one night, as he watched the moon reflected on the pond, he heard footsteps behind him.
“I knew I’d find you here.”
Yoon Gi turned around, a little frightened that someone had discovered him during the little free time he allowed himself.
Kim Tae Sung was standing at the edge of the path. He was the son of the first officer of the royal guard; they had crossed paths before during training, though they had never exchanged a word. Tae Sung was only a few months younger than him, though his gaze already held a seriousness uncharacteristic of his age.
“Have you been looking for me?”
“No. But I knew where you’d be.” Tae Sung stepped closer to him.
Yoon Gi turned his gaze back to the pond.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he replied seriously.
“Neither should you,” Tae Sung replied quickly, letting out a small chuckle.
The prince smiled. It was a small, genuine smile. One of the few he still had left. Tae Sung finally sat down beside him; for a few minutes, neither of them said a word. Yoon Gi felt he didn’t need to explain why he had run away. Tae Sung didn’t ask either. That was perhaps the first time Yoon Gi realized there was a different kind of companionship—one that didn’t require words, didn’t demand perfection.
Description: Waking up broken in the ICU, you are met with a desperate Yoongi begging to explain the cruel lies he told to protect you. But what if explanations cannot erase the trauma of the attack.
Part I
Part II
Part III
Warning: Very angsty!
Note: Sorry if this part was shorter, but I wanted to focus on their feelings and the situation after Y/N waking up.
Also I'm sorry that it took me so long to post it.
Three days passed in a tense, heavily guarded silence at Central Hospital.
Yoongi never left the secure wing, but even tho he promised to never leave your room, he had to. Because it was against the ICU rules and he understood that completely.
But still he haven't left the hospital, not once.
He sat on the uncomfortable chair in the hallway, his black suit replaced by a simple dark sweater, his eyes permanently fixed on the glass partition. He felt too filthy, too covered in the blood of his sins, he couldn't bring himself to step into your sterile, fragile space. And that was the hardest part.ć
What he will do when you wake up?! Will he be able to enter inside, and look you in the eyes?! After all you have all the rights to hate him.
He watched the nurses change your bandages, watched the steady blinking of the machines, and survived entirely on coffee and guilt.
On the fourth morning, the heavy fog of sedation finally began to clear from your brain.You blinked against the harsh, white neon lights of the ICU. Everything hurt. A dull, throbbing ache radiated from your ribs, and your head felt heavy, wrapped in thick layers of sterile gauze. The rhythmic sound of the heart monitor was loud in your ears.
As your vision slowly focused, you looked around and through the glass door of your room. There he was. Yoongi was slumped slightly in his chair, looking entirely exhausted, dark circles shadowing his eyes. The moment your hand moved on the bedsheet, his head snapped up.
Your eyes met through the glass.
For a moment, the memory of that awful, freezing night came rushing back to you, the sound of his voice calling you a burden, the coldness in his eyes when he told you to pack your things you remembered everything. But as you looked at him now, you didn't see that icy mafia boss who hurt you and broke your heart. You saw the man who had ordered four food trucks because you skipped breakfast.The man that kept you safe before all of this has happened. You saw the clear, unfiltered terror and profound relief stretching across his face at the same time. He looked like he was staring at a miracle.
Yoongi stood up slowly, his hand trembling as he reached out and pressed his palm against the glass, waiting, terrified that if he came inside, you would look at him with hatred.
The heavy glass door of the ICU room slides open and closed quietly.
Yoongi steps inside the room so carefully as if he believes a heavy footstep might shatter the fragile peace of the room. The lethal, terrifying aura of Agust D is entirely gone, replaced by a profound, trembling hesitation. He looks at you as if he is looking at a ghost or a miracle at the same time, his dark eyes tracking the white bandages wrapped around your head and the slow, steady rise and fall of your chest.
He approaches the bed, his shoes making no sound against the sterile floor. Slowly, he sinks into the plastic chair beside you. For a long moment, he just looks at you, his breathing ragged, a million unsaid apologies mirroring in his tired eyes.
Slowly, his trembling hand reaches out. His fingers are pale, his knuckles still faintly bruised from hitting the walls. He extends his hand toward yours, intending to take your hand in his, to feel the warmth of your pulse and anchor himself to the reality that this is real and that you are still breathing.
But the moment his fingertips brush against your skin, that same sharp and cold memory cuts through. Before his fingers can close around yours, you pull your hand away, sliding it back under the heavy hospital blanket.
Yoongi freezes, his hand left hovering in the empty air, completely paralyzed by the sudden movement.
You turn your head away from him, staring hard at the blank white wall on the opposite side of the bed. Your throat tightens, your anxiety flaring up in full swing as you squeeze your eyes shut, trying with everything you have to stop the hot tears from spilling down your cheeks.
Your heart monitor begins to beep faster, its quickening rhythm betraying the storm of emotions inside your chest. Deep down, a part of you is immensely, profoundly grateful. You know he has been sitting outside that glass for days. You know he is the reason you are safe right now, and you know he would have set the entire city on fire just to bring you back.
But gratitude cannot instantly erase the agony of his betrayal. The physical pain in your ribs and head is nothing compared to the heart ache of the words he used to break you. You are alive, and he is by your side, but you still aren't ready to forgive him.
The frantic, accelerated beep of the heart monitor fills the tense silence of the ICU room, exposing every ounce of your panic. Yoongi sits in the plastic chair, his hands clamped tight in his lap to stop them from shaking. The sight of your turned shoulder, the deliberate, painful way you slid your hand under the blanket to escape his touch cuts him deeper than any blade ever could.
"Y/N, please," Yoongi whispers, his voice cracking, entirely stripped of the terrifying weight it carried at the warehouse. He leans forward slightly, desperate, his dark eyes pleading with the back of your head. "Just look at me. For a second. I know you hate me. I know you have every right to never want to see my face again."
You squeeze your eyes shut, pressing your face harder into the stiff hospital pillow. A hot tear slips down your cheek, soaking into the fabric. You don't want to look at him. You can't. If you look at him, you might soften, and the memory of him calling you a burden will hurt all over again.
"They sent a photo," he confesses, the words spilling out of him in a rushed, breathless torrent as he tries to explain the nightmare that broke him. "The Oryong gang. They took a picture of you through the library window. There was a red cross over your face. I couldn't protect you from an all-out war, Y/N. I thought… God, I thought if I made you hate me, if I drove you out of my world completely, they wouldn't have a reason to touch you. I thought I was saving you."
A bitter, broken sob escapes your throat, cutting him off. Hearing his excuse doesn't heal the bruises on your ribs. It doesn't fix the trauma of being dragged into that black van. His mafia world still bled into your quiet life, no matter how many lies he told to prevent it.
"Stop," you choke out. Your voice is raw, trembling, and weak from the ventilator tubes, but the absolute finality in it makes him freeze. "Just... stop talking, Yoongi."
"Y/N—"
"I don't care!" You turn your head back toward him, your eyes flashing through a heavy blur of tears. The monitor spikes violently, warning lights flashing on the screen as your chest heaves with agonizing breaths. "I don't care why you did it! You broke me. You pushed me out into the dark and left me completely alone, you choose lie over truth. You told me I was a burden!"
Yoongi looks like he has been struck. His jaw drops slightly, his eyes wide and glassy as he takes the full force of your agony. He opens his mouth to speak, to beg, to explain that every cruel word tore his own throat apart to say, but you don't give him the chance.
"I don't want to listen to your excuses," you whisper, the anger draining out of you, leaving only a hollow, exhausted despair. You look at him, at his rumpled clothes and his bruised knuckles, and you feel a crushing weight in your chest. "I'm grateful that you're here. I'm grateful I'm alive. But I need you to leave."
The room goes dead silent, only frantic electronic beeping can be heard.
"What?" he breathes.
"I need time away from you. Away from all of this," you say, your voice dropping to a harsh, trembling whisper as you look away from him again, unable to handle the devastation on his face. "I want you to leave this room. I want you to leave me alone, Yoongi. Don't come near me. Just... go."
Yoongi doesn't move for a long, agonizing moment. The silence between your two separate worlds stretches until it feels completely unbreakable. He wants to stay. He wants to sit by your bed and guard you until his last breath. But as he watches your chest rising heavily, realizing his very presence is causing your heart rate to skyrocket into dangerous territory, he knows he has to give you what you want. He is the danger.
Slowly, heavily, Yoongi stands up from the chair. He looks down at your fragile, bandaged form, his chest aching with a pain worse than death.
"Okay," he whispers, his voice barely audible. "I'll leave."
He steps backward, his shoes clicking softly against the floor. He doesn't try to touch you again. He walks to the heavy glass door, his hand resting on the frame as he takes one final, heartbreaking look at the girl he ruined his own empire to avenge.
"I'm sorry, Y/N," he murmurs into the quiet room. "I'm so sorry."
The ICU door slides shut behind him with a soft, final thud. Through the clear glass partition, you can see him slump against the opposite wall of the corridor, burying his face in his bruised, scarred hands, completely shattered.
Genre: Historical Romance/Royal Fiction/ Political Drama/ War/ Romantic Drama/ Slow Burn Romance/ Arranged Marriage/ Enemies to Lovers
Ao3: Link
Watpad: Link
(Aqui en wattpad la teneis en español tambien :))
Introduction
Tag: @onyxthornseer @genu7
"A kingdom is not born when a king ascends the throne. It is born when a people decide that tomorrow is worth protecting."
The words were written in bold calligraphy across a yellowed parchment, hidden among the oldest shelves of the Imperial Archives. No scholar could remember who had penned them. Some believed they were the work of the First King; others claimed they had been written by a nameless monk who had never descended from the mountains. Their true author had long since been lost to time.
But their truth had not.
For a kingdom is never sustained by armies, walls, or crowns alone. It endures through the memory of those willing to sacrifice part of their own lives so that others may live in peace.
That was what Jeonghwa had become. Not merely a land bounded by mountains, rivers, and seas. Not merely a dynasty. Not merely a succession of kings whose names would one day be carved into stone before fading from memory. Jeonghwa was a promise. The promise that order could triumph over chaos. The promise that justice would endure even when men failed. The promise that duty would always outweigh desire. Generation after generation inherited that promise—not only as a treasure, but also as a burden.
Two centuries before the birth of Min Yoon Gi and Seo Yeon, when the scars of civil war still marred the land and rival clans fought over every valley and fortress, one man altered the fate of the Kingdom of Jeonghwa. His name was Bon Hwa. He never sought to conquer the world. He sought only to stop his own from tearing itself apart. After decades of bloodshed, he united the seven great clans beneath a single banner and forged the agreement that would forever reshape history: The Oath of the Seven Seals.
By its terms, the Crown would govern the kingdom. The Council would uphold its laws. The leaders of the great clans would retain their influence, provided they never threatened the unity of the realm—for together, they had become one nation.
For generations, that covenant was celebrated as the dawn of an age of peace. Yet every balance is a rope stretched over an abyss. And the longer it remains unbroken, the more devastating its collapse becomes. In Jeonghwa, there were truths no one ever questioned. That a person's word was worth more than gold. That family endured beyond death. That dishonor could be inherited as surely as a surname. That duty always came before happiness. No one was forced to believe these principles. They were simply born into them. From emperor to peasant, everyone paid the same invisible price: surrendering a part of themselves to preserve something greater than their own existence.
At the heart of Jeonghwa stood Byeonseong, a city that seemed built to defy the passage of time. Sheltered by ancient mountains and embraced by the gentle waters of the Cheong River, the capital was far more than the kingdom's political center. It was a reflection of its greatness, its pride... and its contradictions. At first light, the deep tolling of temple bells announced the city's awakening. The great stone gates slowly opened, and life poured into the streets. The scent of freshly steamed rice mingled with hot tea and the damp timber of craftsmen's workshops, while merchants, artisans, and travelers filled the marketplaces long before the sun had climbed above the city walls. Inside the administrative halls, scribes sharpened their brushes and prepared their ink to record every decree, every birth, every harvest, and every sentence passed.
In Byeonseong, the history of the kingdom began to be written before dawn had fully broken.
As evening descended, the city revealed another face. Thousands of lanterns illuminated its streets, bridges, and courtyards, transforming the dark rooftops into a sea of golden light. From the surrounding hills, Byeonseong looked like a sky that had fallen to earth. It was breathtaking. Yet those who lived within its walls understood a timeless truth: the most carefully tended gardens often concealed the deadliest secrets. Cities, like people, learn to smile while hiding their deepest wounds. At the center of that carefully crafted perfection stood the Imperial Palace—a place where silence could carry greater weight than words, and every stone bore witness to centuries of history. Nothing existed by chance. Every courtyard marked a transition. Every doorway separated one social rank from another. Every step brought a person closer to—or farther from—power. Even the depth of a bow was governed by traditions passed down through countless generations.
Within the Throne Hall, the king received ambassadors, heard petitions, and signed decrees capable of changing the fate of thousands. The Council Chamber hosted the kingdom's most delicate deliberations, where ministers and advisors debated the cost of preserving a peace as fragile as it was necessary. The Imperial Library safeguarded centuries of knowledge. Treatises on philosophy, medicine, astronomy, military strategy, and poetry rested side by side upon shelves scented by age. Beyond it lay the Imperial Archives—the place where Jeonghwa's true memory endured. There were preserved genealogies, maps, diaries, letters, and sealed decrees. Documents capable of changing the destiny of a single family... or an entire kingdom.
Hidden among wooden pavilions, winding stone paths, and ponds carpeted with lilies lay a place scarcely mentioned in the official chronicles: The Garden of Silence.
It was neither the largest garden within the palace nor the most beautiful.Yet it was the most sacred. No alliances were forged there. No wars were decided. There, kings wept where no one could see. Queens left behind the words they could never speak aloud. Princes came to understand, for the first time, the true weight of the crown. And some discovered—far too late—who they truly were.
For there are truths that can only be heard once the rest of the world has fallen silent.
Jeonghwa spoke through its symbols.
There was no corner of the kingdom that failed to remind its people of who they were... and of everything they stood to lose. The White Tiger watched over the borders, silent guardian of both the land and those who called it home. The Crane taught that even hope requires patience before it can take flight. The Plum Blossom bloomed when winter seemed endless, reminding all that beauty, too, is born from suffering. The Red Pine, steadfast through every season, embodied the resilience of a people who had learned not merely to survive, but to endure. White Jade symbolized the purity of a promise faithfully kept. Deep Blue, reserved solely for the Imperial Family, served as a constant reminder that a crown was never a privilege—it was a responsibility.
They were never mere symbols.
They were promises. Promises carved into the stone of temples. Embroidered upon battle standards. Whispered within the oaths each generation inherited from the last. Promises capable of sustaining a kingdom... or bringing about its ruin. Within those very walls, two souls destined to alter the course of history were born.
For the greatest lie Jeonghwa ever taught its children was that the heart could be governed by the same laws as the Crown.
It never could.
History remembers kings.
But it is the stories of those who dared to defy their fate that truly change the world.
I know I wasn't been active a little longer, but I promise new stories are coming soon..And Also Perserving Your Peace:Part IV is coming very soon also. ❤
