💋ྀིྀི Pairing: Sister boyfriend! Jungkook x Female Reader.
( 개요 ) , ˖ ࣪ ꉂ🗯˙ In which, you return home for a few weeks from college to surprise your parents. But instead your met with your older sister, and her awfully attractive, and toxic boyfriend who she’s always crying to you over on the phone about—what could possibly go wrong?
Now Playing: Lonely Star - The Weeknd.
Taglist: @pung3 @megatroncam07 @baewogo @zanywinneraliennickel @alextgef @myr-sam0 @httpjeonlicious @jkgivinsleeplessnite @cherkookito @mar-lo-pap (if you didn’t get tagged, dw! I can always edit this chapter and add your username or add you in the next chapter).
Author’s Note: Here’s chapter one, im trying my best to stay active—but the urge to disappear again is slowly taking over. Also if you weren’t aware, this entire series is inspired by one of the weeknd’s songs (as you are), in case you didn’t notice.
Chapter one: The Start Of Trouble.
The Parisian sky, a bruised canvas of lavender and smoky orange, wept a slow, melancholic light over the city. From your window, you could see the Eiffel Tower beginning its glittering ascent, a thousand diamonds erupting against the twilight, a spectacle that drew gasps from lovers and tourists below. To you, it was just another reminder. A brilliant, beautiful, and utterly cold reminder that you were a ghost in a city of a million living, breathing stories.
Nothing in this world—well, in your specific, aching case, Paris—could ever make you feel seen or heard. You were a whisper in a cathedral, a single drop of rain in the Seine, lost and unremarkable. You had spent years, the formative and tender years of your life, standing in the suffocating shadow of your sister, Hana. She wasn't just a person; she was a force of nature, a celestial body around which your small planet was doomed to orbit. Hana was the prettiest, her beauty not the quiet, approachable kind, but the striking, almost aggressive sort that made people stop mid-stride.
She was the smartest, her mind a finely tuned instrument that played complex melodies of wit and intellect while you were still fumbling with the sheet music. She couldn't do anything wrong; her mistakes were endearing, her flaws were quirks, her very existence a masterclass in effortless perfection.
Your parents, bless their well-intentioned hearts, never played the favorite child game. They loved you both equally, their affection a balanced, carefully distributed commodity. "You're both our stars," your mother would say, her hand first on Hana's golden head, then on yours. But you knew the truth. It was a lie they told themselves to soothe the cosmic imbalance. Love wasn't a pie to be sliced into equal portions; it was a gravitational pull, and Hana, with her immense mass, had captured all of it. Their equal love felt like a consolation prize, a pat on the head for the runner-up in a race you'd never even known you were running until you had already, irrevocably, lost.
You were the understudy to a star who never, ever missed a performance.
But it wasn't always this way. There was a time, a hazy, golden memory that felt more like a dream than a lived reality, when you and Hana were not just sisters, but two halves of the same whole. You were close, hand to hand, your smaller fingers fitting perfectly into the spaces of hers, a silent, unbreakable connection. You shared all types of wild stories and adventures, your minds weaving intricate tapestries of fantasy in the shared sanctuary of your bedroom.
You played with little Barbie dolls, creating elaborate dramas where Hana, of course, was always the radiant heroine, and you were her loyal confidante, the best friend character who was essential to the plot but never the focus. You sang yourselves to sleep, your voices harmonizing on nonsensical melodies that felt like the most beautiful music in the world, a private concert for an audience of two. The playground was your best friend, its rusty swings and scorching metal slide the stage for your carefree performances.
You would swing side by side, pumping your legs in tandem, trying to kick the clouds, chasing each other around the park with a wild, unburdened laughter that now, when you recall it, physically hurts to remember. It was a peaceful and innocent routine, a fragile bubble of happiness that you thought would last forever.
Then, the shattering. It wasn't a loud explosion, but a quiet, insidious crack that spiderwebbed across the perfect surface of your world. Your older sister, Hana, had gotten her first serious boyfriend. He was a decent guy—not by the face, you thought, with a cruelty that surprised even yourself, but enough that you never really cared about the parade of boys who drifted in and out of her life. They were background characters, fleeting extras in the grand production that was Hana. But this one was different. He didn't just occupy her time; he occupied her every routine, her every thought, her every breath. He became an extension of her, a permanent, unwanted fixture in your life.
Whenever she was tasked with babysitting you, a duty that had once been an excuse for more shared secrets and late-night talks, her boyfriend was right beside her, a sullen, silent presence sucking the air out of the room. Taking you to school? There he was, slouched in the passenger seat of her beat-up Renault, his gaze distant. Hanging out in the living room, watching movies? Oh yeah, he definitely was there, his arm draped possessively over her shoulders, a clear, unspoken barrier between you.
The true fracture, however, came with one of her later boyfriends. A boy named Marc, with slicked-back hair and eyes that never quite seemed to meet yours. He had always had a knack for lying, a talent so subtle and practiced it was almost an art form. You saw it in the way his stories would shift just slightly in the retelling, in the way he'd glance at Hana to gauge her reaction before committing to a detail. You, with your quiet observational skills, saw it all. And, foolishly, you thought you were helping. You thought you were being a good sister. One evening, as you three sat in the living room, the scent of your mother's boeuf bourguignon wafting in from the kitchen, you decided to speak.
"Hana," you'd said, your voice hesitant but firm, your eyes fixed on the fraying edge of the antique rug. "I don't think he's telling you the truth about where he was last night. I saw him near the Cinéma des Cinéastes with Sarah Lefevre. When two days ago he told you that he was sick."
The reaction was instantaneous and catastrophic. Hana's face, usually so open and beautiful, hardened into a mask of cold fury. Marc just smirked, a slight, infuriating curve of his lips. She didn't ask for details. She didn't consider your perspective. She shut you out, completely and utterly. "What are you talking about?" she'd hissed, her voice laced with a venom you'd never heard directed at you before. It was a low, dangerous sound that made the fine hairs on your arms stand up. "You're just jealous. You've always been jealous. You can't stand seeing me happy, can you?"
"That's not true," you whispered, your heart starting a frantic, painful beat against your ribs. "I just don't want you to get hurt."
"Don't pretend you care about me," she shot back, standing up so abruptly that her glass cup of orange juice wobbled, spilling a light orange stain onto the cream-colored rug. "All you've ever done is try to undermine me. You're pathetic. Just stay out of my life."
From that moment on, the downward spiral was swift and brutal. Arguments started over the smallest things—a misplaced hairbrush, a forgotten chore, the way you chewed your food. Disagreements increased in frequency and intensity, each one a fresh wound on the already fragile bond between you. The shared language of your childhood was replaced by the sharp, cutting words of resentment. Eventually, you both began to hate each other, a quiet, simmering hatred that was more painful than any shouting match could ever be. It was the hatred of disappointment, of a shared history that had curdled into poison.
As Hana gotten older, she saw her escape. Paris, with its promise of art and independence, called to her. She moved out, packing her life into cardboard boxes with a ruthless efficiency that mirrored the way she had packed you away into a corner of her heart. The day she left, the Parisian sky was a flat, mournful grey. She bid your parents goodbye with tears and dramatic promises to visit every weekend. But when she turned to leave, she didn't look at you.
You stood by the door, your hands clasped so tightly your knuckles were white, a silent plea on your lips. She didn't offer a word, a glance, nothing. She didn't look back, not even a flicker of an eyelash to suggest she cared if you did, standing there in the doorway of the home you once shared, silently bidding her a soft, aching farewell. "Goodbye, Hana," you mouthed to her retreating back, the words swallowed by the sound of her rolling suitcase on the cobblestones.
And you, the hopelessly—and pathetically lonely person you were, had believed she just didn't hear you. The city noise, the bustle of the moving day, it must have drowned you out. It was a fragile shield against a devastating truth, but you clung to it for months. But you knew. In the deepest, most honest part of yourself, you knew the truth. She didn't care about you.
Your existence had become an inconvenience to her, a reminder of a past she was desperate to outrun. You would forever be in her shadow, a forgotten footnote in the epic story of her life. It didn't matter how bright you tried to shine, how hard you worked to carve out your own small piece of the world. Her light was always brighter, a supernova that blinded everyone to the gentle, steady glow of your own star. And everyone, everyone, would flock to her, drawn by her gravity, her charm, her effortless perfection.
And you'd forever be a lonely Star, burning silently in the vast, empty darkness of her wake, a light that no one, not even the one person who should have, ever bothered to look up and see.
The years, like the slow, inexorable drift of clouds across a Parisian sky, had passed, leaving behind a changed landscape within you. You were no longer the little girl who desperately chased after fairytales, nor the one who chased after the phantom of her older sister. Now, you were found in the kitchen of your shared apartment, a space filled with the morning light that slanted through the large windows, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air like tiny, chaotic stars. The scent of coffee and warm, buttery croissants hung in the atmosphere, a comforting, domestic perfume that was entirely your own.
You were hunched over a heavy tome of English literature, its pages filled with the tragic, beautiful words of long-dead poets, your own life a stark, quiet contrast to the epic dramas you studied. Your roommate, Zoey, a whirlwind of chaotic energy and sharp, witty observations, flitted around you. She attended the same college, though her path strayed towards the law firm, or was it art? You could never quite keep track, her ambitions as fluid and ever-changing as the Parisian fashion that drifted past your windows.
Your phone, a sleek, black rectangle on the polished marble of the kitchen island, would sometimes buzz with a familiar, dreaded name: Hana. Your sister. The calls were always the same, a symphony of her own suffering. She would call to complain or cry about her latest boyfriend, a toxic, asshole (from what she’s been telling you) who was invariably the love of her life one week and the source of all her misery the next.
Though you didn't bother to listen, not really. You would offer a few hums in agreement here and there, your mind a million miles away, distracted with your own life routine to even try to encourage her toxic tongue of behavior. You knew the script by heart; the boyfriend always became her ex not even two days later, only to be back again by a new, equally disastrous character in the ongoing saga of Hana's love life.
You remembered how she always demanded to see your face on the video call, her voice a strained, high-pitched command. "Let me see you! I want to see how much you've grown—mature, or if you're finally living a little." But you were quick to shut her down, your own voice cool and detached. "The camera's broken, Hana.” Or “I'm busy." It was a small, petty victory, the same way she'd shut you down when you tried to warn her about all the toxic boyfriends she had during her high school years, or when she finally left for college without so much of a ‘goodbye’.
Now, you leaned onto the cool marble of the kitchen island, the surface a welcome relief against your skin. A bowl of glistening, ruby-red strawberries sat beside a plate of croissants, their golden, flaky layers parted to reveal a decadent, dark chocolate filling that promised a moment of pure, indulgent bliss.
Your phone was in your hand, your thumb scrolling mindlessly through social media feeds that were just another highlight reel of lives you didn't care about. Your long dark hair was tied up in a messy ponytail, a few stray strands escaping to frame your face, and you wore a pair of pajama shorts that were perhaps a little too comfortable, showing half of your ass cheeks with a casual indifference that was a testament to your solitude. A black tanktop, worn soft from a thousand washes, clung to your frame, its thin fabric showing the outline of your perky nipples, a fact you were blissfully unaware of, or perhaps, just didn't care about. In this apartment, you were free, unobserved, a creature of pure, unselfconscious comfort.
The sound of footsteps, a soft, shuffling thud- thud- thud, echoed throughout the apartment before Zoey came into view. She was a vision of morning-after chaos, her hair sticking out in all different directions like she'd been wrestling with a ghost, a thick, green face mask hugging her features and making her look like a friendly alien. She yawned, a wide, jaw-cracking sound that seemed to suck all the energy out of the room, before she reached over and deftly stole a fat, juicy strawberry from your bowl, popping it into her mouth with a satisfied moan.
You lightly scoffed at the action, a familiar, fond sound of exasperation. "Help yourself," you murmured, your voice laced with a sarcasm that Zoey knew and loved. You turned your full attention towards her, your eyes taking in her disheveled state. "So, tell me. How did you sleep? After attending a house party full of horn dogs and rich pretty girls on twenty different pills? And was the champagne you'd been talking about all week to die for?"
Zoey chuckled, a low, throaty sound, before shaking her head, her green mask crinkling around her mouth. "Oh, mon cherie," she said, her voice a dramatic, theatrical whisper.
"It was divine. It was a disaster. It was everything Paris promises and more. I had a blast last night." She leaned against the island, her eyes gleaming with the memory. "You wouldn't believe it. A lot of girls were french kissing each other, just for the fun of it, you know? And some people were practically fucking against walls or even on couches in public. But everyone was either high off weed or on multiple pills stuffed down their bodies, so no one really gave a fuck."
You nodded, your expression unreadable. You've heard lots of stories about those type of parties, the ones that last until the morning, the ones where people have sex out in the open, smoking weed or drinking until their wasted, or doing every drug in the book—or having threesomes with random people. You never went to one, had no desire to get a first row seat to the hedonistic circus, but you heard lots about it from Zoey, who of course, always goes to one no matter what hour or day—or even the weekend. She was your designated source for the underworld of Parisian youth.
You shook your head slowly, a flicker of genuine concern crossing your face. "You shouldn't keep attending those parties, Zoey," you said, your voice softer now. "Not without at least a taser or pepper spray on you at all times. You're not invincible."
Zoey chuckled again, but this time it was a more thoughtful sound. She nodded at your suggestion, her gaze serious for a moment. "You're right," she conceded, her voice losing its theatrical edge. "I know you're right. I'll have my annoying brother to buy me one. He owes me a favor anyway." She then steered the conversation towards you, her eyes sharp and perceptive. "Speaking of leaving, you're heading out in a few hours, right? Back to the 'family’ house for a few weeks?"
You nodded hesitantly, a knot of anxiety tightening in your stomach. "Four to five weeks, maybe," you confirmed. There was nothing wrong with your parents, not really. They were kind, loving, and wonderfully oblivious. It was just that your childhood home felt suffocating, a beautiful, ornate cage where the painful memories still haunted you. It was the constant, unspoken reminder that you would forever stay in your sister’s shadow, nothing more. A ghost in your own family home.
You leaned your head back, your eyes closing for a moment as you soaked in the warmth of the sunlight. It streamed through the window, reflecting off of you in all the right places, catching the high points of your cheekbones and the delicate curve of your neck, making you look like an idol with unmatched beauty, a masterpiece of quiet, understated perfection. At least that’s what Zoey thinks whenever she glances at you, seeing the stunning, ethereal creature you are, even when you're just leaning against a kitchen counter in your pajamas.
"It's just for a while," you finally responded, your voice a little distant. "I'll spend some time with my parents, read some books, and hope Hana doesn't decide to visit. The last time she left Paris, it was for college in Seoul, so hopefully she's still there."
Zoey nods, her expression sympathetic. She knew the stories from what you told her, the history. She watched as you pushed yourself away from the island, your movements graceful and fluid. "I'm gonna go get dressed," you murmured, before disappearing into your bedroom to get dressed to leave. The door clicked shut behind you, and Zoey was left alone in the kitchen. The comfortable silence was loud in your wake, a stark contrast to the chaotic energy you had just been describing.
She sighed, stealing another strawberry, a worried frown creasing her green-masked brow. She knew that for you, going home wasn't a vacation. It was a return to the battlefield.
“Good luck, you’ll need lots of it.” Zoey whispered into the air.
It had been years since Paris had looked at you this closely.
The city had changed in the smallest ways imaginable—new flower boxes beneath apartment windows, cafés dressed in fresh coats of paint, bicycles replacing old parked cars—but somehow it still wore the same soul you remembered. The same heartbeat lingered beneath its skin, hidden between cobblestone streets and iron balconies wrapped in vines. It was beautiful in the sort of way that hurt. Beautiful because it never stopped existing while you had spent years pretending it no longer did.
A single black suitcase rolled faithfully behind you, its tiny wheels clicking softly against uneven stone like a metronome counting down to something inevitable.
Autumn had dressed Paris in shades of honey and amber.
Your pastel-brown coat hugged your body against the crisp afternoon breeze, its fabric swaying gently around your legs with every step. Beneath it rested a cream-colored button-up embroidered with delicate little hearts, each stitch almost resembling pressed blossoms sewn into memory itself. Only the first few buttons remained undone, allowing the cool air to brush gently against your collarbone before disappearing beneath warm cotton. Your faded blue jeans carried tiny embroidered vines climbing along the seams, while your boots echoed softly over the pavement.
The wind toyed with strands of your hair, lifting them carelessly across your face before letting them fall again, almost as though Paris itself couldn’t decide whether it wanted to welcome you…or hide you from everything waiting ahead.
Somewhere nearby, church bells rang. A bicycle whizzed past with a cheerful ding. Someone laughed. Someone argued. Someone kissed their lover beneath a striped café awning.
Life continued. As though yours had never paused.
The fragrance of butter and freshly baked croissants drifted lazily through the streets, intertwining with roasted coffee beans and the earthy scent of damp leaves scattered beneath towering chestnut trees. Every inhale tasted warm. Familiar. Painfully nostalgic.
Far beyond the rooftops, the Eiffel Tower pierced the cloudy sky. Its silhouette stood proudly against the pale afternoon sun like an old guardian refusing to grow old.
You found yourself staring at it for longer than necessary. “…Still standing, huh…”
Your voice escaped in nothing more than a whisper. No one heard it. Not even yourself.
Tourists crowded nearby intersections with cameras hanging around their necks, pointing excitedly toward every building that carried even the slightest hint of history. Couples wandered hand in hand beneath rows of golden trees, speaking quietly between shared smiles. Elderly women carried bouquets wrapped in newspaper while businessmen hurried past with phones pressed against their ears.
Everyone seemed to know exactly where they belonged. Everyone…Except you. The headphones resting comfortably around your ears remained silent.
No music. No distractions. Only your own breathing. Only your own thoughts. That was perhaps the cruelest decision you’d made today. Silence always invited memories.
And memories were merciless. Your fingers instinctively tightened around the handle of your suitcase.
The leather creaked beneath your grip. You weren’t nervous because of Paris. You were nervous because of what existed inside it.
Home. What a deceptive word. People always described home as warm. Comfortable. Safe. Some even called it heaven. But heaven had never looked like yours. Your childhood house had beautiful windows.
Fresh flowers bloomed every spring. The walls had always been painted warm ivory. The garden had always smelled of roses after rain.
From the outside, it looked like happiness had built itself there.
You learned how loneliness could exist in rooms full of people.
A slow breath escaped your lips. You had promised yourself this trip wouldn’t affect you. You had repeated those words as you left your shared apartment with Zoey who’s probably passed out somewhere despite just waking up. Repeated them while packing your suitcase.
Repeated them while booking your ticket. “It’s only a few weeks with them.”
The heavier your chest became. Your parents weren’t monsters. You knew that. You had never once questioned whether they loved you. They did. In their own imperfect way. That somehow made everything worse. Because monsters were easier to hate. Parents who loved you unevenly…those were impossible to understand.
Your mother had tucked you into bed. Your father had carried you on his shoulders. They celebrated birthdays.
They cooked your favorite meals.
They kissed scraped knees. Yet somehow…when it came to Hana…the rules bent like branches in the wind.
Hana could slam doors. “It was just stress.” Hana could raise her voice.
“She’s having a difficult day.” Hana could break promises. “She’s still learning.” Hana could hurt people.
“She didn’t mean it.” Everyone rushed to understand her. Everyone searched for reasons. Excuses. Comfort. Grace. But when it came to you…
Grace became a language no one bothered translating. You stayed out a little too late. You were irresponsible. You forgot one small chore.
You were careless. You cried too much. You were dramatic. You spoke too softly. You needed confidence. You stayed quiet. You needed to participate. Sometimes…
It genuinely felt as though breathing too loudly had become another mistake waiting to be corrected.
A quiet laugh escaped your lips before you could stop it. Not because anything was funny. Because sometimes laughter was the only thing keeping tears from winning.
“…You’re a twenty-two year old college girl. Get it together Y/n,” you murmured to yourself, eyes fixed on the pavement. The words sounded strangely foreign.
“You built your own life.”
“You can survive a few weeks with them.” The reassurance dissolved almost immediately.
No answer came. Only the wind. By the time you reached the pedestrian crossing, the traffic light glowed an unwavering crimson. Cars lined neatly before the intersection, engines humming softly beneath the city noise.
You shifted your suitcase beside you, exhaling through your nose. “The bus…”
Your gaze drifted toward the nearby stop. Empty. The schedule displayed another twenty-eight minutes until arrival.
You sighed. “…Of course.” The thought of standing still for half an hour felt unbearable. Standing still meant thinking.
Thinking meant remembering. Remembering meant spiraling.
A cream-colored taxi eased to a stop directly before the crossing, its driver absentmindedly tapping fingers against the steering wheel while waiting for the light to change.
Almost instinctively, your hand slipped into your coat pocket.
Your fingers brushed folded euro bills. Enough.“…You know what,” you muttered quietly. “I’ll spoil myself.”
The decision felt oddly comforting. Within moments, the taxi driver noticed you approaching. He quickly stepped out, offering a warm smile as he opened the trunk.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle. Besoin d’un coup de main ?” he asked kindly.
(Good afternoon, miss. Need a hand?)
“Oh…merci.” You offered a small smile in return. “Oui, s’il vous plaît.”
He carefully lifted your suitcase into the trunk before closing it with practiced ease. Opening the back door, he gestured politely. “Après vous.” (After you.)
“Merci.” Sliding into the back seat, you were immediately greeted by warmth. The heater hummed quietly. The seats smelled faintly of leather mixed with vanilla air freshener.
Outside, the city blurred gently behind rain-speckled windows despite there being no rain today—only the soft haze autumn often painted across Paris.
The driver settled into his seat before glancing at you through the rearview mirror. “Où allons-nous ?”
You swallowed. For a brief second the address refused to leave your mouth. Saying it aloud somehow made this trip real. “…Rue de…” You quietly recited your childhood street in flawless French.
The driver nodded immediately. “Très bien. Nous y serons dans une vingtaine de minutes.”
(Very well. We should be there in about twenty minutes.)
“Merci.” The traffic light shifted from red…to green.
Cars began flowing once more, carrying strangers toward lives that had nothing to do with yours. As the taxi glided through Paris, buildings slowly drifted past the window like old photographs submerged beneath water.
You rested your forehead gently against the cool glass. Then, almost instinctively…
You reached into your pocket. Your phone lit your face with a familiar glow. Your thumb hovered above your playlist. Rows upon rows of songs. Memories disguised as melodies.
Heartbreak hidden inside album covers. Comfort wrapped in lyrics. Your eyes landed on one title. As You Are.
A tiny smile ghosted across your lips. “…Figures.” You tapped it. The opening notes filled your headphones. Soft. Gentle. Almost intimate.
The city outside continued moving. Cars. People. Leaves. Lights. Everything drifted forward together. And somewhere between the first verse and the passing streets of Paris…
You quietly closed your eyes. Because if there was one voice capable of drowning out the one inside your own head…
It was him. The man who was soon about to change your life, for either the better or for the worse.
Not a few hours later, the taxi cab pulls to the side of the curb with a gentle hiss of brakes, the sound cutting through the hum of Parisian afternoon traffic like a knife through silk. The driver—a man with silver threading through his dark hair and kind, tired eyes—looks at you through the rearview mirror, his gaze locking with yours for a brief, suspended moment before he averts them with the practiced politeness of someone who has learned not to linger. He unbuckles his seatbelt with a soft click that seems too loud in the sudden quiet, turning slightly in his seat as he addresses you in fluid French, his accent thick and warm like honey poured over gravel. "Nous sommes arrivés, mademoiselle. Vous êtes arrivé à destination.”
(We have arrived miss, you have arrived at your destination.)
You look out the window, and there it stands—the apartment building where you grew up, where you learned to walk and talk and dream and eventually, to run. It rises before you like a monument to everything you've tried to leave behind, unyielding in its familiarity, welcoming in the way that only places that have witnessed your worst moments can be. The cream-colored facade is the same, weathered by years of rain and sun, the black iron balconies still elegant despite their age, flower boxes overflowing with geraniums that your mother must have planted. It looks exactly as it did the day you left, as though time itself had held its breath, waiting for your return.
The driver is already out of the cab by the time you gather yourself, your fingers trembling slightly as you reach for the door handle. The Parisian air hits you first—cool despite the season, carrying with it the scent of fresh bread from the boulangerie two streets over, the faint sweetness of blooming jasmine from someone's window garden, and underneath it all, that particular smell that belongs only to Paris. Stone and rain and history and romance, all mixed together into something that makes your chest ache with a homesickness you didn't know you'd been carrying.
The driver has already opened the trunk with careful efficiency, lifting your luggage—a large suitcase that has seen better days, covered in stickers from places you've been trying to become someone else—and placing it onto the ground on its four rolling wheels with the kind of gentle care that makes you want to cry for reasons you can't quite name. He straightens, brushing his hands against his slacks, and gives you a small yet polite smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes. It's the smile of someone who has dropped off countless passengers at countless destinations, who has learned not to ask questions about the shadows that live behind young women's eyes.
"Merci," you manage, your voice smaller than you'd like it to be, returning his smile with one that feels like it might crack your face open. "Merci beaucoup."
"De rien, mademoiselle. Bonne chance." Good luck. As if he knows you'll need it.
(You’re welcome miss, Good Luck.)
You step onto the sidewalk as the taxi pulls away from the curb, its engine fading into the symphony of the city—car horns and distant laughter and the rhythmic click of heels against cobblestone. The sound of it driving off makes your heart beat faster, a staccato rhythm against your ribs that feels like panic, like finality. The chance of changing your mind, of running after the cab and begging the driver to take you anywhere else—to the shared apartment with you and your roommate Zoey, to the train station, to the edge of the world—has become zero. You are here. You are home. And there is no escape from what comes next.
The building's entrance is a heavy wooden door painted deep green, the paint chipping slightly at the edges in a way that feels almost romantic, like everything in Paris manages to be. You wrap your fingers around the brass handle—cool and solid beneath your palm—and pull. The door opens with a low creak that echoes through the small foyer, and immediately you're hit with the scent of home. Bread, yes, but also aged cheddar, the faint mustiness of old carpet, the ghost of your mother's perfume that seems to have seeped into the very walls. It's overwhelming, this rush of memory, and for a moment you just stand there, one hand still on the door, the other gripping the handle of your suitcase like it's the only thing keeping you tethered to the present.
The stairs to the second floor stretch before you like a challenge. You've climbed these stairs thousands of times—running up them as a child, stomping up them as a teenager, creeping up them late at night when you'd snuck out to meet friends your parents wouldn't have approved of. Each step holds a memory, and as you begin to climb, pulling your luggage behind you with a rhythmic thump-thump-thump against each riser, the nervousness in your system begins to work overtime. Your palms are sweating. Your throat feels tight. There's a voice in the back of your head—the same voice that has kept you away for so long—whispering that this was a mistake, that you should have stayed away, that coming back here will only remind you of everything you've been trying to forget.
But you don't have time to deal with it, to unpack the anxiety that's wrapping around your lungs like ivy, because here you are. Right before the door of your childhood apartment. The welcome mat—faded and slightly frayed at the edges, with "Bienvenue" printed in cheerful yellow letters—stares back at you like an old friend. Or an old enemy. You're not sure which.
You squat down, your knees protesting slightly from the long flight, and lift the edge of the mat. There, exactly where it's always been, is the spare key—slightly rusted, attached to a small keychain in the shape of the Eiffel Tower that you'd bought at a tourist shop when you were seven. Your parents had created this spare key system after you and Hana had both managed to lose your keys in the same week, locked out and sitting on these stairs for hours until your father came home from work. The memory makes something twist in your chest, something that feels dangerously close to nostalgia.
As you stand back up, key in hand, you whisper to yourself—a habit you've developed over the years, this practice of giving yourself pep talks that never quite work. "You'll do perfectly fine. Just don't die of spiraling." The words feel hollow even as they leave your lips, but you say them anyway, because what else is there to do?
The key slides into the lock with a soft scrape of metal against metal. You turn it. The lock clicks open with a sound that feels like a door closing on your old life, or maybe opening onto something you're not ready for. You're not sure which would be worse.
The door creaks open—a long, drawn-out sound that seems to announce your arrival to the empty apartment—and you're met with pure silence. Not the comfortable silence of a space waiting to be filled, but the heavy silence of a place holding its breath. The apartment stretches before you, and it looks exactly the same as it did years ago when you left. Exactly. The same. As if you'd never gone at all, as if the years you spent away were just a dream, a brief intermission in a play that was always going to continue without you.
The space is big—too big for a Paris apartment, really, more like a house somehow compressed into the second floor of this building. Your parents had been lucky to find it, had held onto it through decades of rising rent and gentrification. The kitchen is immediately to your left, and it's still the same—the same cooking pots hanging from hooks above the stove, copper-bottomed and well-used. The counters are cluttered in that comfortable way that speaks of a home actually lived in: a fruit bowl overflowing with apples and pears, a bread box with a half-eaten baguette peeking out, jars of spices and herbs lined up like soldiers. Everything is stacked and full, from the dessert plates visible through the glass-front cabinets to the collection of coffee mugs hanging from a wooden rack. It's the kitchen of your childhood, where your mother taught you to make crêpes, where your father would sit at the small table reading the newspaper while drinking his morning coffee, where Hana would lean against the counter talking on the phone for hours, twirling the cord around her finger.
The living room opens up beyond the kitchen—big and comfy, with the same overstuffed sofa in deep burgundy, the same armchair that your father claimed as his own, the same coffee table with the water ring stain from where you'd once left a glass sitting too long. The walls are still covered in family photos—you and Hana as children, gap-toothed and grinning; your parents on their wedding day, young and impossibly in love; vacation photos from trips to the countryside, to the beach, to all the places you'd been before everything got complicated.
Down the hall—you can see it from where you're standing, frozen in the doorway—lie the bedrooms. Your parents' room at the end, door closed. Hana's room to the right. And your room, to the left, with that large and obnoxious sign still hanging on the door that says something along the lines of "Only Hot Men Are Allowed" in glittery pink letters. You'd made it when you were sixteen, thinking you were hilarious. Now it just makes you cringe. You make a mental note: you're definitely taking that down later.
You move through the apartment like a ghost haunting her own past, pulling your luggage behind you, the wheels catching slightly on the transition from hardwood to the hallway runner. Your bedroom door opens with a soft click, and you're immediately transported back in time. Pink and brown pastel walls—a color scheme you'd insisted on when you were fourteen, thinking it was the height of sophistication. The walls are covered in pictures, a collage of your life before you left: you and Hana at the Eiffel Tower, both of you squinting into the sun, her arm around your shoulders in a gesture that might have been affectionate once; your parents posing in front of the same landmark, your mother's head on your father's shoulder; you and your old friends from school, faces you haven't thought about in years.
And then there are the magazine cutouts—pages torn from Vogue and Elle and Marie Claire, images of beautiful women in fancy underwear and expensive jewelry, draped in brand-name clothes that cost more than most people's rent. Chanel. Dior. Versace. You'd plastered them on your walls like prayers to gods you didn't quite believe in, hoping that somehow, if you surrounded yourself with enough beauty, enough luxury, enough aspiration, you might become something more than the girl who lived in her sister's shadow.
Starlights hang over your bed—the kind with tiny LED bulbs that you'd strung up yourself, spending an entire afternoon on a ladder while Hana watched and offered unhelpful commentary. They're still there, still plugged in, and you wonder if your mother has been turning them on sometimes, keeping your room alive in your absence. The thought makes your throat tight.
Your window is open just enough to let in the breeze, and through it, you have a perfect view of the Eiffel Tower in the distance, rising above the rooftops like a promise or a threat. You'd spent so many nights sitting on your bed, staring out at that view, dreaming of all the ways you'd escape this life, this city, this version of yourself that never felt quite right.
You throw your luggage onto your bed with more force than necessary, and it bounces slightly against the mattress—still the same mattress, still covered in the same duvet with its faded floral pattern. The sound of it landing seems too loud in the quiet of the apartment, and that's when you hear it.
The sound freezes you in place, one hand still on your suitcase. Your heart, which had finally started to slow to something approaching normal, kicks back into overdrive. Footsteps—more than one set. The click of heels against hardwood, the heavier thud of boots or dress shoes. A small smile threatens to take over your face despite your nerves, because you're thinking of your parents, imagining the shock on their faces when they see you standing here. Your mother will probably cry. Your father will probably pretend he's not about to cry. It will be awkward and emotional and exactly the kind of reunion you've been both dreading and craving.
But you don't hear talking. Not at first. Just the footsteps growing louder, moving through the apartment with the confidence of people who belong here. And when you do finally hear voices, they're not the ones you were expecting.
It's your older sister, Hana. Her voice carries down the hall—bright and breathless and tinged with laughter, the way it always sounds when she's happy, when she's getting what she wants. She's talking to someone, and whoever she's talking to is making small hums of agreement, deep sounds that rumble like distant thunder.
The voice is rich and deep, catching you off guard in a way that makes your skin prickle with awareness. It's not your father's voice. It's younger, rougher around the edges, with a quality to it that feels almost dangerous, like the purr of a predator right before it strikes.
You move without thinking, drawn by curiosity or masochism or maybe just the need to know. Your feet carry you out of your bedroom, down the hall, each step careful and quiet. You're not trying to sneak, exactly, but something about the atmosphere—the breathless quality of Hana's laughter, the low rumble of that male voice—makes you cautious.
And then you appear in sight of the kitchen, and the world tilts on its axis.
Hana is there, pressed up against the kitchen sink, and she's not alone. There's a man with her—a guy pushed up against her, or maybe she's pushed up against him, it's hard to tell where one ends and the other begins. They're caught in a deep makeout, the kind that's all tongues and teeth and desperation, the kind that should probably be happening behind closed doors. Her hands are cupping his face, fingers threading through his dark hair, and his hands—large, you notice immediately, impossibly large—are gripping her waist with a possessiveness that makes something uncomfortable twist in your stomach.
One of his hands is tattooed. You can see the ink disappearing beneath the sleeve of his coat, intricate patterns that snake up his arm like vines or chains or something equally symbolic. The other hand, bare and tan and strong, is splayed across the small of Hana's back, pulling her closer, eliminating any space that might have existed between them.
He's taller than her—significantly taller, broad-shouldered in a way that makes him seem like he takes up more space than he actually does. He's dressed neatly, almost too neatly for someone who radiates the kind of energy that screams fuckboy or stoner or trouble. Black coat, expensive-looking, fitted perfectly to his frame. Dark jeans. Boots that probably cost more than your taxi cab back to your shared apartment with Zoey. There's a contradiction in him, in the careful way he's dressed versus the careless way he's devouring your sister against the kitchen sink, and it makes you want to look away and keep staring in equal measure.
The sound cuts through the apartment like a gunshot. Hana jerks back from him so fast she nearly loses her balance, her hands flying from his face to grip the counter behind her for support. Her flower dress—pale yellow with tiny white daisies, the kind of dress that makes her look innocent and sweet and nothing like the girl who calls you crying about her boyfriend's infidelities—flutters slightly in the process, the skirt swishing around her thighs. Her brown hair, which had been perfectly styled when she left the house this morning, is now thoroughly mussed, tangled from his fingers, and her lips are swollen and red.
She stares at you like you're a ghost. Like you're something impossible that shouldn't exist. A deer caught in headlights, frozen and terrified and completely unprepared for this moment.
You watch as her eyes widen, as recognition and shock and something that might be fear flicker across her face in rapid succession. And then she's drinking you in, really looking at you for the first time in years, and you can see the exact moment when she realizes how much you've changed.
Your long dark hair—which had been frizzy and unmanageable when you left, which you'd always worn in a ponytail because you didn't know what else to do with it—now falls in soft waves against your shoulders, slightly messy in that effortless way that actually takes effort. Your face, which had been covered in acne scars and the remnants of teenage awkwardness, is clear now, your skin glowing with the kind of health that comes from finally learning how to take care of yourself. You'd learned about skincare, about makeup that enhances rather than hides, about the power of a good night's sleep and drinking enough water.
You look like an office siren, like the kind of woman who commands attention without asking for it, who walks into rooms and makes people stop and stare. It's not arrogance—you're not sure you're capable of arrogance, not after spending so many years feeling invisible—but it's something close to confidence, or at least the appearance of it.
Hana's eyes rake down your figure, and you can see her trying to reconcile the girl who left with the woman standing before her. You must have been hitting the gym, she's probably thinking, to obtain the body of a model. (News flash: you weren't. You'd just finally grown into yourself, had finally stopped slouching, had finally learned how to dress for your body type instead of trying to hide it.) Even the clothes you're wearing—a simple a cream-colored button-up embroidered with delicate little hearts, tucked into high-waisted jeans, a long camel coat, ankle boots with a modest heel—aren't extravagant, but they're enough. Enough to show that you've learned something about style, about presentation, about the armor that good clothing can provide.
You can see it in her eyes—the awareness of the strained relationship between you, the sisterhood that died somewhere along the way, buried under years of comparison and competition and the exhausting work of living in someone else's light. Hana is aware of it, you know she is. She has to be. But she's never bothered to fix it, has never even tried to apologize. Instead, she just calls you when she needs something, when her boyfriend—this boyfriend, you're assuming—breaks her heart again, and she needs someone to cry to. Someone who will listen to her talk about her latest party dress that made her look like a two-dollar prostitute, about the way he looked at other girls, about how she knows he's cheating but she loves him anyway.
And you listen. Because that's what you do. That's what you've always done.
"Y/n…uh hi," Hana says, and her voice comes out awkward, strangled, like the word is fighting its way out of her throat. She attempts a laugh, but it sounds hollow. "It's...it's nice to see you again, in person."
You can tell from her voice that she wasn't expecting you to be here. You can't blame her, really. You did leave, after all. You did swear to yourself that you'd never come back, that you'd build a life somewhere else, anywhere else, as long as it was far away from this apartment and this city and the shadow of the girl who burns like the sun.
Your eyes trail away from Hana, pulled by some magnetic force you don't understand, and land on the man. The boyfriend. The one who keeps breaking her heart, who she keeps taking back, who she cries over while wearing smudged makeup and desperation like perfume.
He's still leaned up against the kitchen sink, but he's shifted slightly, putting a few inches of space between himself and Hana. His head is tilted down, gaze fixed on the floor, and there's something about his posture that suggests he's trying to stay out of this conversation, trying to make himself smaller despite the fact that he's anything but small. He's staying quiet, letting the two sisters navigate this minefield without him, and there's a wisdom in that, or maybe just cowardice.
When Hana notices you eyeing him with heavy suspicion—and how could you not, when he's standing there looking like every bad decision you've ever been tempted to make—she immediately moves to put her hand on his broad shoulder. The gesture is possessive, territorial, a claim being staked. She's trying to ease the awkward tension and silence, trying to smooth over this moment with words that feel rehearsed, like she's been preparing for this introduction even though she clearly wasn't expecting it to happen today.
"Y/n," she says, and your name sounds strange coming from her mouth after so long. "This is my boyfriend, Jeon Jungkook. The one I was telling you about over our calls? Yeah. Here he is, in the flesh."
Her words come out slightly rushed, tumbling over each other, and you know why. She's afraid. Afraid that you'll mention the other things she's told you about him over those late-night calls—the toxic behavior, the cheating habits, the way he makes her feel like she's losing her mind. Afraid that you'll say something about all the times she's claimed she was done with him, that she was finally going to leave, that she deserved better. Afraid that you'll expose the gap between the perfect boyfriend she's trying to present and the reality of what he actually is.
But you don't say any of that. Instead, you drink up Jungkook's appearance like you're dying of thirst and he's water.
His hair is messy—dark and somehow still neat, like he's the kind of person who can roll out of bed looking like he stepped out of a magazine. It falls across his forehead in a way that's probably calculated to look careless, and you hate that it works. There's a piercing on his lip—a small silver ring that catches the light when he moves, that draws your attention to his mouth in a way that feels dangerous.
His right arm is covered in tattoos, intricate designs that disappear beneath the coat he's wearing, and you find yourself wondering what they are, what they mean, whether they tell a story or if they're just pretty pictures on pretty skin. There's something about tattoos that has always fascinated you—the permanence of them, the commitment, the way they turn a body into a canvas.
He has an attractive face. No—attractive is too mild a word. He has the kind of face that looks like it was sculpted by the gods before they turned him into a dark angel and cast him out of heaven and onto earth. Sharp jawline, high cheekbones, a nose that's just slightly imperfect in a way that makes him more beautiful rather than less. His lips are full, the bottom one slightly pouty, and that piercing just makes them more tempting, more forbidden.
And he's big. Not just tall, though he's definitely that, but big in the way that suggests he spends a lot of time in the gym, that he knows exactly what his body is capable of. Broad shoulders that strain against his coat, chest that looks solid enough to be a wall, arms that could probably pin someone down without much effort. The evidence is right in front of you, undeniable, and it makes something low in your stomach twist with an awareness you don't want to name.
Jungkook finally glances toward you, and the world stops.
His eyes—which you now realize are intense in a way that should be illegal—lock onto yours, and it's like being struck by lightning. The eye contact alone could undo you, not sexually—or not just sexually—but in a way where you feel like you're being peeled open, raw and unyielding, with pure force and no room for negotiation. He's looking at you like he can see through you, like he's reading every thought you've ever had, every secret you've ever kept, every fear you've ever harbored.
It's invasive. It's intimate. It's terrifying. And you can't look away.
Jungkook lifts up his large hand—and you catch a glimpse of his watch, dark and shiny and expensive, the kind of watch that costs more than most people's monthly rent—in a simple gesture of greeting. "Hello—it’s nice to finally meet you," he says, and his voice is deeper than you realized, deeper than it sounded when he was making those humming noises of agreement with Hana. It's the kind of voice that feels physical, like a hand sliding between your legs, like fingers spreading open a book to read the most intimate passages.
The comparison makes heat flood your face, and you hate yourself for it.
"Y/n L/n," you manage to say, introducing yourself even though Hana already did. Your voice sounds steadier than you feel, and you're grateful for that small mercy.
"Y/n," Jungkook repeats, and the way he says your name makes it sound like something else entirely. Like a prayer. Like a curse. Like a promise. He says it again, testing it on his tongue, rolling it around in his mouth like he's tasting it. "Y/n. Y/n L/n."
It's not a friendly smirk. It's not even a particularly nice smirk. It's the kind of smirk that says he knows exactly what kind of trouble he is, exactly what kind of damage he can do, and he doesn't care. It's the smirk of someone who has never been told no, or if he has, he's never listened. It's the smirk of a man who takes what he wants and deals with the consequences later.
It's the smirk of someone who's already taken notice of what could possibly ruin you.
And that's when you know—with a certainty that settles into your bones like ice, like fire, like something you'll never be able to shake—that he is trouble. That this is the start of something you can't escape from. That everything beautiful is about to go up in flames, and you weren’t going to let it happen.
He could ruin your sister all he wanted, but he wasn’t going to set his sights on you.
Because some people can fall helplessly into a trap, while others can blindly walk into them. Not caring about the consequences that comes with them.
Author’s Note: Not sure how i feel about this chapter, my apologies for adding the Reader and Jungkook’s encounter at the very end and for making it short but i just wanted to dive into Reader and their sister’s strained relationship. Hopefully you guys enjoyed this chapter, stay tuned for more.
