전정국 | 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗌 — O1
ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: Barcelona’s streets are full of legends — but none quite like Jungkook, the soccer prodigy who’s taken the city by storm.
You’re the ultimate nepo baby with a sharp tongue and a knack for making everyone question how you got here. He’s the cocky soccer star who’s determined to prove you’re more style than substance. You’re sarcastic, entitled, and completely self-aware; he’s loud, extroverted, and impossible to ignore.
Together, you clash like two unstoppable forces—witty insults flying, chemistry crackling, and a rivalry that no one saw coming.
So go ahead—try to keep your cool. But be warned: in Barcelona, the only thing hotter than the summer sun is the mess you’re about to get tangled in.
brother's best friend, enemies to lovers, sports romance
ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: soccer!player jungkook × nepo!baby y/n
ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢs: alcohol, hangover symptoms, public scandal, gossip, mild sexual innuendo, anxiety mentions, explicit language
ʟɪɴᴇᴠᴇʀsᴇ ɢᴜɪᴅᴇ
ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏꜰ ʟɪɴᴇ (ᴛᴀᴇ'ꜱ sᴛᴏʀʏ) @jungkoode
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next chapter . ` ＃ ․ ˚ ݁⠀⠀․ ✦
ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴏɴᴇ: sᴘɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴀʀʀᴀᴛɪᴠᴇ
＃ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 5,8k ＃ ᴅᴀᴛᴇ: 9th of July 2O25
ᴀɴ: okay hi besties. welcome to the first chap of jungkook’s lineverse story??? i’m losing my mind. kiki and i have been texting like absolute crackheads trying to piece the lineverse together so y’all can catch lil crumbs both in my fic and hers. we’ve been working day and night. i have seen the sun rise way too many times. my neurons are on strike. but i hope y’all are gonna vibe with this cuz i’m currently hyperfixated to the point of no return.
ANYWAY, note goal for this is 500 notes bc i literally never know how to set note goals when i start new fics lmao.
also make sure to check kiki’s fic out on her account @jungkoode (she’s writing tae’s story in the lineverse) cuz it’s pure ✨chaos✨ and we’re in our silly little shared universe era. she'll be posting chap 1 in a few days. love you BYEEEEEE <3
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
God, you hate Saturdays.
See, Friday nights? Those are magic. Friday nights are Belvedere splashing into lemon soda, reggaeton pulsing so loud it rattles your ribcage. They’re sweaty bodies pressed too close, strangers’ faces swirling in neon lights — people you swear you adored, though honestly, it was probably just the vodka talking. Friday nights are you screaming lyrics at the top of your lungs until you forget your own damn name.
But Saturday mornings?
They’re a whole different beast. Saturdays are punishment. Saturdays are for the strong — and you, apparently, are not among them.
Because right now, every twitch of your body sends shockwaves of pain through your skull. Your brain’s wrapped in cotton and static. The room tilts if you dare turn your head. Your mouth feels like sandpaper, your throat raw as if you’ve swallowed broken glass. And you’re so dehydrated, you’d trade your soul for a cold bottle of water.
Saturdays suck.
You somehow peel yourself out of bed, even though every movement feels like stepping onto a minefield primed to blow your skull into tiny confetti.
You stagger toward the kitchen, groggy and half-blind, cursing the universe because each step is pure torture.
Never drinking again? Yeah, sure. Noted. Definitely lying? Also noted.
Right now, your entire existence has narrowed down to one mission: reach the kitchen. Because if you don’t get water into your body as soon as possible, you’re either going to cry, keel over from dehydration, or experience some tragic in-between state.
Saturdays definitely suck — you confirm that fact all over again the moment your bleary eyes land on the sight waiting in your kitchen.
There he is. Jeon Jungkook.
Sitting sprawled on a barstool like he owns the damn place, one tattooed arm draped across the counter, eyes glued to his phone while he casually shovels spoonfuls of ice cream into his mouth with the other.
“Damn, you look like shit.”
Jungkook barely lifts his gaze from his phone, like insulting you is just casual conversation.
Okay, sure. You’re a mess right now. But it’s not your worst look — and he’s got some nerve.
“And you look like you just broke into my house.”
“You mean Dani’s house?”
“Same thing, Jeon.”
“Not really. But if it helps you sleep at night…”
“What would actually help me sleep is not seeing your face at—” you check your phone, groaning, “—ten a.m. Get out.”
He smirks, leaning back on the stool. “Why? Afraid you’ll start finding me irresistible this early in the day?”
“You wish. Leave.”
“First of all,” Jungkook says, finally tossing his phone onto the counter. He crosses his arms, rolling his shoulders like he’s prepping for a brawl. “That’s so rude. Second, I’m waiting for Dani, so you can’t just kick me out.”
“Okaaay,” you drawl, sweeping past him to the fridge. You fling it open and start rifling through shelves like a raccoon hunting for snacks.
Ah. Jackpot. Cold water.
“I’m just gonna ignore you,” you say, unscrewing the cap and chugging like your life depends on it.
Jungkook clicks his tongue. “You know, you’d be way more convincing if you didn’t feel the need to announce you’re ignoring me.”
“Can you just shut up for two seconds? You’re killing my brain cells.”
He scoffs. “You’d need to own some brain cells first.”
“Says the one with zero left,” you shoot back, rubbing your temples like it might keep your skull from cracking open.
God. Ouch. You really hate drinking. Or at least… the aftermath.
Jungkook leans into the barstool, smirk tugging at his lips as his eyes lazily travel over you, head to toe and back again.
“Rough night?” he asks, voice dipping just enough to make your pulse stutter.
“More like a rough morning. Incredible night, though.”
“Yeah? That’s usually how it goes after a good one.”
“And you would know how, exactly?” you scoff. “Last time I saw you in a club was when you signed for Barça. Five years ago.”
He raises a brow. “Just because my idea of a good time doesn’t involve puking in Opium’s bathroom doesn’t mean I’m boring.”
“I never said you were boring.”
“Oh, come on. You were totally implying it.”
“You said it, not me.”
He tilts his head, eyes glinting. “Trust me, there’s a lot of things I could show you that’d prove I’m anything but boring.”
You roll your eyes, though your cheeks feel suspiciously warm. “I’ll pass. I value my remaining brain cells.”
“Your loss. I’m offering you the opportunity of a lifetime here,” Jungkook drawls, his fingers drumming a lazy, rhythmic tattoo on the counter, each tap echoing in the quiet kitchen. His dark eyes glimmer with mischief, lingering on you just a second too long.
“Ew. I wouldn’t touch you if you were the last man alive,” you snap back, scrunching your nose as if the mere thought physically repulses you.
Jungkook pauses, tilting his head. A sly grin curls at the corner of his lips.
“Wait—do you hear that?” he says, leaning forward and cupping his hand theatrically around his ear.
You frown, blinking at him. “Hear what?”
“Oh, it’s just the sound of me not giving a shit.”
He drops his hand and leans back, smirk stretching wide, like he’s just delivered the punchline of the century.
You let out a groan so deep it vibrates in your chest, fingers dragging down your face. Of course. You should have expected that. This is Jeon Jungkook you’re dealing with.
He laughs—a low, husky sound that skitters along your nerves. And God, you’d pay good money to wipe that smug grin off his face.
But there’s absolutely no way you’re risking your perfectly manicured French tips on his annoyingly perfect jawline. Even if it’s for a well-deserved punch. You’re too classy for that.
“Real mature, Jungkook. Seriously inspiring. I’m sure your fans are thrilled to call you their hero.”
He shrugs one shoulder, lips quirking as he rakes his gaze over you again, far too amused. “Hey, I’m not trying to be a role model. But, y’know… game recognizes game. So I can’t blame ‘em for loving me.”
“Ugh, whatever,” you mutter, flipping Jungkook off as you shuffle past him and sink into a stool across the counter. The cool metal feels merciful against your overheated skin as you try to keep the pounding in your skull under control.
“Where’s my brother, anyway?” you ask, rubbing your temples. “Wasn’t he with you last night?”
“Oh, shit. Right. I forgot,” Jungkook says, blinking like the realization just smacked him upside the head.
“How do you forget my brother?”
“The same way you apparently forgot how to walk in a straight line. How much did you drink?”
You wave him off with a sigh. “Just… a lil’ something. Had to keep the vibes alive.”
Jungkook arches a brow. “Yeah. You and your vibes.”
“I am vibes,” you shoot back. “You just can’t handle this level of coolness.”
“Okay, loser.” Jungkook snorts, shaking his head. “Oh, and by the way—Dani slept over at Carla’s.”
Your eyes widen. “Why the hell couldn’t you have said that immediately?”
He shrugs, feigning innocence. “Because where’s the fun in that, duh.”
“Men are dumb, and you’re walking proof,” you say, flashing Jungkook a sarcastic smile.
“Ouch. You wound me.”
“Sorry, let me kiss it better.”
“Just admit you’re in love with me at this point.”
“You wish.”
“Never,” he says, smirking, but you decide not to waste any more of your already fraying patience on him this morning.
Instead, you unlock your phone, determined to distract yourself. You start scrolling through Instagram, praying you didn’t post anything mortifying last night.
No drunk rants. No blurry, tearful selfies. No 3 a.m. cryptic captions. Thank God for that.
But then something makes you freeze.
Your follower count.
It’s gone up by half a million.
You stare at the screen, blinking. Refresh. Still there: 4.5 million.
Sure, your Instagram’s big. But not gain-five-hundred-thousand-followers-overnight big.
Fuck.
Your stomach lurches, panic bubbling up as every worst-case scenario flashes through your mind.
Did you start a fight with paparazzi? Overshare something personal about you or Dani? Did you fall over outside the club? End up in some viral TikTok?
You’re spiraling when Jungkook’s voice cuts in.
“Ohhh, what about you and my boy Blake?” he says, leaning closer, eyes sparkling. “Didn’t know you were into the British accent.”
You whip your head toward him. “I’m into what now?”
He grins wickedly. “Saw some articles this morning—something about you two making out outside Opium?”
You gape at him. “There is literally no way I did that.”
Okay, you admit—you do dumb things when you’re drunk. You’re human, after all. Flawed, impulsive, prone to moments you’d rather forget. It’s part of the chaos of life.
But there’s no way you made out with a Barçelona player.
Your brother’s friend. His teammate.
The idea feels like a punch to your gut. No matter how foggy your memory is, you know you didn’t drag yourself into that kind of scandal—especially not in front of a crowd.
Your fingers tremble slightly as you unlock your phone, the screen’s cold glow harsh against your sweaty palms. With hesitant taps, you type “BarcaBarbie” and “Blake” into the search bar, your heart pounding with equal parts dread and desperate hope.
Then it appears.
A photo.
You and Blake, standing outside Opium, the flashing camera capturing the exact moment that, from this angle, looks damn close to a kiss.
Your breath catches in your throat. The world tilts.
Was it real? Or just a trick of the light?
You stare at the photo on your phone.
Your hands are tangled around his neck, gripping like you’re holding onto something solid in a world that’s spinning too fast. His hands rest somewhere near your waist—or at least that’s what it looks like through the grainy blur of the picture.
You already know how the gossip columns will twist this. “Blake Scott caught grabbing your ass like a starved man.” The words scream in your head before they even hit the headlines.
His neck tilts casually toward you, but your face is hidden beneath a messy curtain of hair, shadows swallowing your features from the unforgiving camera lens.
The image is blurry, but clear enough to punch you in the gut.
Your mind starts to replay the night.
Blake texted earlier, asking if you were out clubbing. Of course you were — it was Friday.
You remember stepping outside just as he arrived. You wrapped your arms around him in a quick hug—just a hug.
Your legs wobble, barely holding you upright, and he steadies you, his hands firm on your hips, anchoring you to the world.
And in that moment, a camera clicks.
God.
Your heart races as the weight of the photo settles in.
That’s all it was.
But will anyone believe you?
“Okay, chill out,” Jungkook says, finally noticing the way your face has gone pale. “I already talked to Blake. He told me what actually happened in the pic. I’m just teasing you.”
“I— but… what about Dani? The press? The rumors?” You groan, dropping your forehead onto the cool surface of the kitchen counter with a dull thud, hating every single one of your life choices.
Jungkook lets out a low laugh. “Blake literally sent a whole novel in our group chat explaining it. Dani’s chill about it. And you know how dating rumors work — they come fast, but they die even faster.”
“Ugh, Jungkook, I’m literally gonna kill myself,” you deadpan, searching his face like you’re hoping he’ll tell you this is all a bad dream.
Jungkook’s eyes soften for half a second. “There, there. Blake’s PR team is probably already working on a statement. It’s not the end of the world.”
You let out a shaky breath, rolling your shoulders like you’re trying to shake off a heavy coat. “Right, right. Shit. My PR agent is gonna murder me,” you mumble.
Jungkook snorts. “Please. Hugo? He’s basically your ride or die.”
“Yeah, well… Hugo’s even scarier as a PR agent precisely because he’s my ride or die.”
For a while, neither of you says anything.
The kitchen is quiet, filled only with the low hum of the fridge and the occasional buzz of Jungkook’s phone. You rest your elbows on the counter, your head in your hands, eyes heavy with exhaustion. The screen of your own phone lies dim beside you, notifications piling up — texts, mentions, headlines you can’t bring yourself to read.
You don’t have it in you. Not yet.
Your temples throb. The weight of everything — the photo, the rumors, the pressure — presses down on your shoulders like wet cement. You’re already rehearsing what you’ll say to Hugo, how you’ll soften the blow before he blows a fuse.
And then you hear it — the gentle scrape of cardboard against the counter.
You lift your head, and there it is. A half-melted tub of ice cream now sits in front of you, pushed your way without a word.
Jungkook doesn’t look up. He just scrolls through his phone like it’s no big deal. “Eat some,” he says softly. “It’ll make you feel better.”
The gesture hits you harder than it should.
You glance at the spoon sticking out of it, raising a brow. “With your spoon? Gross.”
That earns the tiniest smile from him — lazy and crooked. “Damn. Can’t even share a spoon now? What happened to friendship?”
“Not you being delusional and calling us friends,” you mumble, eyes fixed on the tub of ice cream in front of you.
It’s tempting — way too tempting. The soft, slightly melting surface, the way the cold air curls up from the rim. But taking a bite now would mean giving Jungkook the satisfaction of a win, and honestly? That’s a low you refuse to sink to. Even in this state.
Instead, you slide off the stool, your bare feet landing softly against the cool kitchen tiles. You feel his gaze trail after you as you move, heavy and unreadable, but you don’t look back.
Your fingers wrap around the silver handle of the spoon drawer, pulling it open with a soft click. You reach in, grab a small spoon — dainty, perfect — and close the drawer without a word.
Behind you, Jungkook lets out a dramatic sigh. “Okay, spoiled queen supreme, sorry for being nice.” His voice is laced with mock offense, but the smile tugging at his lips gives him away.
You turn just slightly, spoon in hand. “Deal with it.”
You settle back onto your stool, spoon in hand, and finally give in. You scoop up a bite of ice cream, letting the cold, creamy sweetness curl around your tongue. For a moment, you let yourself simply exist — hangover, scandal, and all — savoring the tiny bliss.
Then you hear footsteps approaching the kitchen, each step a dull thud against the floor.
“Yo, guys,” Dani calls as he enters, a little out of breath, hair tousled like he just rolled out of bed. He heads straight for you first, bumping your shoulder with his elbow.
“Knew I’d find you here,” he murmurs.
He moves toward Jungkook next, and they dive into one of those elaborate bro handshakes that make you roll your eyes. Why do men even bother?
“Wassup, loser,” Jungkook says, smirking.
“Nothing much, to be honest. Oh—Carla says hi to you both,” Dani replies, dropping onto the stool across from you.
“Tell her hi back when you text her,” you mumble, spooning more ice cream into your mouth.
Dani’s eyes glint mischievously as he leans forward a little. “Saw the pics of you and Blake. Not looking good for you, lil sis.”
“Shut the fuck up, please. You already know what happened.”
“Gee, I do,” Dani says, holding up his hands in surrender. “Can’t even make fun of you anymore?”
“Not when I’m hungover.”
“Okay, sorry for existing.”
“I forgive you. Because I love you,” you say, giving him a wry look over the rim of your spoon before digging back into the ice cream.
“Do you guys have training today?” you ask, still nursing your ice cream.
“No, thank fuck,” Dani groans, leaning back in his seat like the thought alone relaxes him. “We’ve got the weekend off.”
“I swear we never get weekends off anymore,” Jungkook adds, glancing over at Dani. “I seriously needed this.”
“Same. I think it’s because the new physio’s coming on Monday, so they’re giving us a little breather.” Dani stretches his arms above his head with a sigh. “Which reminds me—have you heard from Mini Doc? How are her and Jesus settling in Madrid?”
Your ears perk up at the name. Curiosity sparks instantly.
“Mini Doc?” you repeat. “You mean that girl who followed you around like a lost puppy? Your old physio’s daughter?”
“It wasn’t like that,” Dani says with an exaggerated eye roll. “She was just a friend.”
“Uh-huh,” Jungkook chimes in, grinning. “I talked to her a bit. She hates Madrid, bro. Says the players there are spoiled and annoying.”
“She probably just misses home,” Dani says, a small smile tugging at his lips. “She grew up here — I’m sure they’re not that bad.”
“Whatever,” Jungkook shrugs, “she doesn’t vibe with it.”
“Well, I don’t know if they’re cool,” you interject, “but some of them are super hot.” You sing-song the words, spoon in hand. “Marco is so my type.”
Dani scrunches his nose immediately. “Ew. I really didn’t need to hear that.”
“You just gave me the worst ick,” Jungkook says, shooting you a look of pure betrayal.
“Men can’t get the ick,” you declare, smug. “It’s for girlies only.”
You stand outside Hugo’s apartment, clutching your phone like it might shield you from the storm brewing on the other side of the door.
You’re already bracing for the headache waiting for you as soon as you step inside. Hugo must be livid. Hell, you’re certain of it.
If there’s one thing Hugo despises, it’s a scandal—especially one he didn’t orchestrate himself.
You inhale deeply, lift your chin as high as your pounding head will allow, and finally press the doorbell.
The door swings open almost instantly, like he’s been standing right there, waiting for you. Which, honestly, wouldn’t surprise you. You and Hugo have always had this weird, borderline telepathic connection. Like that time you desperately wanted the exact pair of Manolo Blahnik's Carrie Bradshaw wore in Sex and the City—the ones she got stolen at a party—and when you’d finally worked up the courage to tell Hugo… he’d already bought them for you.
Twin behavior, indeed.
Before you can even say hello, Hugo grabs your arm and pulls you inside, slamming the door shut behind you as though paparazzi might be lurking in the hallway.
“Girl, have you gone absolutely insane?” he hisses, glaring at you like you’ve personally offended every fiber of his being.
“No,” you mutter as you kick off your shoes, striding straight into Hugo’s living room like you pay rent here.
Hugo trails behind you, his steps growing louder — faster — matching your energy.
“God forbid a girl has some fun,” you mumble under your breath, throwing yourself onto his velvet couch with a dramatic sigh.
You finally pull off your sunglasses and set them gently on the coffee table, as if that might buy you grace points.
“You weren’t having fun,” Hugo snaps, his hands flying in the air like he’s about to conduct an orchestra of chaos. “It looked like you were all over Blake fucking Scott.”
“I wasn’t!” you shoot back, folding your arms tightly across your chest. “I was just saying hi. The press twisted it.”
“I know,” Hugo says, exasperated. “His PR team already reached out to clear things up. I’m just telling you how it looks.”
“Well who cares how it looks if we know the truth?”
“I do,” he says, deadpan. “And so should you. Especially since half of Barça’s fanbase now ships you and Blake. There are already fan pages. Edits, babe.” He throws up his hands again, pacing. “TikTok edits.”
You groan, burying your face in a throw pillow. “This is ridiculous.”
“What did Dani say?” Hugo asks, crossing his arms now, brows raised in challenge.
“He was chill,” you say, sitting up. “He knows me. He trusts me. He knows I’d never do anything with his teammate.”
“Well clearly he knows you wrong,” Hugo deadpans. “Do I need to bring up Thiago?”
“Shut up,” you groan again. “Don’t remind me. That was ages ago.”
“Yeah,” Hugo mutters. “Thank fuck it never hit the press.”
“No—thank fuck Dani never found out,” you correct, eyes wide. “He’d kill me.”
“Well I want to kill you right now,” Hugo says, pointing at you like a disappointed sitcom dad.
“You’re being way too dramatic,” you say, stretching your arms over your head until your shoulders pop.
Hugo lets out a sharp scoff. “Yeah? Tell that to your sponsors, your social media team, and basically everyone who works for you. I’m sure they’ll all be so understanding.”
“Okay, fuck,” you groan, slumping back into the couch. “I didn’t think about it. I made a mistake, okay? I forgot how unhinged the press can be.”
Hugo softens just a fraction, but his voice stays firm. “I get it. But you need to hammer it into that thick skull of yours. There’s no room for mistakes right now. Especially with us about to launch ‘BB’s Luxe.’”
You exhale, pressing your palms to your eyes. “Okay… you’re right. I’m sorry. So… what do we do now?”
“You?” Hugo points a dramatic finger at you. “Nothing. You act normal. Post some fit checks on your story. Maybe a random storytime on TikTok. Something totally unrelated to FC Barçelona — especially Blake.”
“Shouldn’t I just, like… go silent on social media for a while?” you ask hesitantly.
“No,” Hugo says, with the exasperation of a man dealing with a wayward toddler. “That’s exactly what we’re trying to avoid. You always post. If you suddenly go quiet, everyone’s gonna think you’ve got something to hide. Blake’s team already sent me a draft statement. Let me handle it. Let us handle it.”
“Okay…” you sigh. “I’m sorry again, bestie.”
“Stop apologizing,” Hugo snaps, though the corners of his mouth twitch. “It’s making me even angrier.”
“On the plus side,” Hugo says, tapping his finger thoughtfully against his chin, “your socials blew up overnight. That spike could actually work in our favor — especially with the skincare launch around the corner. I’m willing to bet half of Blake’s fangirls are now following you, waiting for the tea.”
“What do you have in mind?” you ask, tilting your head, curiosity peeking through your exhaustion.
“I’m thinking we flip the narrative,” Hugo says, leaning back against the arm of the couch, casual but sharp. “You went clubbing with Blake — so let’s frame it as two friends hanging out. We lean into that angle publicly. Maybe even get Blake to post a Story with you. A cute caption like ‘my little sister’ — anything that screams platonic vibes and nothing else.”
You narrow your eyes. “And why, exactly, would his PR team agree to that?”
Hugo smirks. “Because they kinda have to. If they want this to die quickly, they’ll play ball. Otherwise, we just… say nothing. And your silence would be way louder than any rumor. People would eat it up and assume something shady’s going on.”
“So… we’re blackmailing Blake’s team? Cool, cool.”
“It’s not blackmail,” Hugo says, waving his hand as though swatting a fly. “It’s strategic silence. There’s nuance, babe.”
“You’re horrible.”
“I’m practical. And brilliant. You’re welcome.”
“Okay… agreed,” you sigh, finally cracking a tiny smile.
Hugo pauses, giving you a long, assessing look. “Is Blake gonna be mad at you for this? I’d prefer not to spark World War III with your friend."
“No, trust me, Blake’s chill,” you assure him, waving a dismissive hand. “I called him earlier, and he was like, ‘Let’s feed into the delulu. Let them think we’re dating.’ ”
Hugo blinks, then bursts out laughing. “Straight men are genuinely my favorite science project.”
“You and me both, twin.”
Turns out Hugo’s plan is indeed brilliant.
You’ve only been gone from his apartment for two hours when your phone buzzes with a triumphant text from him.
Hugo (not the Boss): Blake’s PR team folded like a piece of paper. Check his Story.
You’re already opening Instagram before you’ve even finished reading. And there it is — Blake’s Story.
It’s a selfie of you and him laughing outside the club, your hair falling into your face, Blake mid-smirk. Scrawled across the picture in elegant cursive are the words:
— barça’s baby sis
Bingo.
Almost instantly, your phone lights up with notifications. Likes, comments, DMs — your Instagram turns into a frenzy of usernames, emojis, and rapid-fire speculation. People are eating it up, fan pages gushing about the “adorable sibling vibes” between you and Blake.
It’s dizzying. But for the first time all day, you feel like you can actually breathe.
You share Blake’s Story to your own account, adding a neat row of blue and red hearts underneath. Whew.
Taking Hugo’s advice to heart, you follow up with an outfit check on your Instagram feed — a carousel of mirror selfies, carefully curated angles, a playful caption. You pointedly ignore the flood of Blake-related comments piling up under the post.
Instead, you try to stay calm and patient, counting the seconds until Hugo sends over the official statement you can share publicly.
For now, you focus on controlling what you can — your aesthetic, your posts, your narrative.
Sure enough, as soon as Blake’s official statement goes live — polished, PR-approved, toeing the line between warmth and formality — Hugo sends you yours.
You smile the second you read it. Of course he nailed it. Hugo knows you like the back of his perfectly moisturized hand — well enough to write something that sounds exactly like you:
Rumors are wild, huh? Blake Scott and I… are officially in a relationship called friendship. Nothing romantic happening, I promise. Thank you for caring though — you’re all sweet. Back to the regularly scheduled program of outfits and coffee runs. 💙❤️
You post it to your Story without a second thought, watching the hearts and DMs begin to pour in — but you don’t stick around to read them.
You turn your phone off. Literally off.
Because what you need right now is some very serious, very intentional recollection with nature. Or, more realistically — sitting by the pool with sunglasses on and your SPF maxed out.
That counts too.
But to your absolute, utter disdain, sitting by your pool is none other than Jeon Jungkook — sprawled out, shirtless, muscles on shameless display, tattoos glinting under the sun, wearing a lazy grin like it’s a crown.
“Don’t you have your own house?” you whine, dropping onto your sun lounger with a dramatic sigh.
“I do,” Jungkook says, running a hand through his damp hair, sending tiny droplets flying. It almost distracts you for half a second. Almost. “But I don’t have Dani in my house.”
“Can’t you two hang out at your place sometimes? I need, like, peace and quiet. Please.”
“Nope,” he huffs, settling deeper into his chair. “Because we thoroughly enjoy making you suffer.”
Rolling your eyes, you pull out your SPF spray, misting it over your legs and working it in with careful, slow circles. The citrus scent fills the warm air.
“I’ve had a tough day, Jungkook. I really don’t have time for your shit.”
“Yeah?” He chuckles, leaning his elbow on the back of his chair, eyes glinting. “Saw your little Instagram Stories. You and Hugo were clearly doing some serious PR shit to rack up those follower numbers.”
You scoff, flicking imaginary dust off your leg. “It’s called spinning the narrative, genius. You should Google it sometime.”
“I would… if I was ever in a scandal to begin with,” he says, winking. “But I’m an unproblematic king.”
Dani appears from behind you, casting a shadow across your lounger. He’s holding two tall glasses, sunlight catching on the fizzing liquid and slices of orange perched on the rims. Mimosas. Perfect.
“One’s for me, right?” you ask sweetly, batting your lashes at your brother like a starving puppy.
“Nope. One for me, one for Kook,” Dani says, pulling the glasses out of reach before you can even try grabbing one. He hands Jungkook his drink, and Jungkook shoots you a small triumphal smile.
“Pleaaase,” you whine, stretching out the word, reaching half-heartedly towards Dani's drink.
“If you want one, go make one yourself. Stop being so lazy,” Dani shoots back, settling onto the sun lounger beside Jungkook.
“Weren’t you like, hungover as fuck a few hours ago?” Jungkook asks, eyebrows raised as he casually snatches the SPF spray right out of your hand.
“Hey! Give it back, asshole,” you snap, lunging forward, but he’s already spritzing it onto his arms, rubbing it in like he owns the bottle.
Ugh. Why does he have to be like this?
“I’m not hungover anymore,” you hiss, glaring at Jungkook as you flop back into your seat. “I need to relax.”
“Daniiieeel,” you sing out sweetly, dragging his name like honey as you tilt your head toward your brother. “Can you please fetch me a mimosa?”
Dani rolls his eyes so hard you’re surprised they don’t get stuck. “Again, why would I do that?”
“Because you love me, and I’ve been a tragic victim of gossip blogs today.” You press a hand to your chest dramatically, as though your heart might shatter.
“You’re so annoying,” he groans.
“Please? Pretty, pretty please?” You widen your eyes, batting your lashes like your life depends on it.
Dani huffs, shaking his head. “Fine.”
You throw your arms up in victory as Dani gets up, his silhouette soon disappearing into the house. Fuck yeah.
Behind you, Jungkook lets out an exaggerated scoff. “You’re on a fast track to becoming an alcoholic, you know that?”
“You are literally drinking right now,” you huff, getting to your feet and stalking toward the pool.
You can practically feel Jungkook’s gaze drilling into the back of your neck, but you refuse to turn around. Can’t he just leave you alone for five minutes?
“At least I’m not drinking every day,” he calls after you, voice edged with exasperation.
“Neither am I, duh. It’s a weekend sport,” you shoot back over your shoulder as you lower yourself onto the edge of the pool. Cool water closes around your ankles, and you let out a blissful sigh as the sun warms your skin.
For a moment, there’s blessed silence — no snarky retort, no teasing quip from behind you. It’s so suspicious that you slowly tilt your head to look back at Jungkook.
“What? Cat got your tongue?” you say, one eyebrow arched.
But instead of firing back, Jungkook just slumps his shoulders, eyes dropping as he shifts in his seat.
Jungkook shifts again on his lounger. He clears his throat once. Then again, a little louder. He subtly pulls a towel from beside him and drapes it across his lap, smoothing it out as casually as he can manage.
He tries to focus on the glimmering surface of the pool, or the pattern of sunlight flickering across the tiles. But his jaw is clenched tight, a faint flush creeping up his neck and coloring the tips of his ears.
He crosses one leg over the other, adjusting the towel for the third time, his fingers curling around the edges like it’s his last lifeline.
“Hot out today, huh?” he mutters under his breath, voice a little strained.
You laugh, splashing a bit of water with your heel. “The fuck? What’s up with you?”
“Me? Nothing. What’s up with you?” Jungkook shoots back quickly, his brows pulling together a little too tightly.
“You’re being weird,” you accuse, narrowing your eyes at him.
“No I’m not.” His voice comes out just a shade too high.
“Since when do you talk about the weather, dumbass?” you say, flicking droplets of water in his general direction.
“Umm…” Jungkook clears his throat, shifting yet again on his lounger. His fingers grip the edges of the towel across his lap like it’s a security blanket. “Since it’s… hot outside.”
“You’re scaring the crap out of me right now,” you say, squinting at Jungkook.
He sits stiffly on the lounger. “You’re just imagining things,” he snaps, a little too quickly.
“Uh-huh.” You narrow your eyes. With an exaggerated huff, you slip into the pool, shivering as the cool water closes over your warm skin.
“Careful, don’t drown,” Jungkook calls after you.
“Wow, thanks for the concern, Captain Safety,” you shout back, smoothing your hair back as you paddle toward the deeper end.
“I’m just saying, you’re dramatic enough as it is. You’d probably turn a noseful of water into a near-death experience.”
“Excuse me? I’m elegance and grace personified,” you shoot back, glaring at him from mid-pool.
He snorts. “Sure. Says the girl who fell off a bar stool last month completely sober.”
“That stool was wobbly, okay? Don’t make me come over there.”
“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” he retorts, eyes glinting.
You roll your eyes, diving under the surface. The water muffles the world into a hush, bubbles swirling around your face as the sunlight fractures into golden shards overhead. For a few seconds, it’s blissfully quiet.
When you pop back up, hair slicked back, Jungkook’s still watching you with a look somewhere between annoyance and... something else.
“Why are you staring at me like I’m a circus act?”
“Because you are a circus act.”
“Jealousy’s not a good look, Jeon,” you snap, sending another splash toward his lounger.
“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles, adjusting the towel in his lap like it might save his dignity. “Just don’t come crying when your little scandal makes headlines again.”
Floating on your back, you grin at the blue sky. The water is cool and perfect, sunlight warming your face.
“Not worried, loser,” you call, voice echoing off the pool tiles. “Because at the end of the day, I’m me. And you’re just Jeon Jungkook.”
“And you’re a pain in my ass,” he fires back.
“And you love it.”
He groans, rubbing his face. “God, why do I even hang out here?”
“Because I’m fabulous. And Dani’s here,” you remind him.
You let yourself sink beneath the surface again, the cool water closing over your ears and swallowing the noise of the world. For a few precious seconds, there’s nothing but soft blue light and the gentle sway of currents around you.
Yeah… today actually turned out fine. You had a blast last night. The scandal, against all odds, ended up working in your favor. BB’s Luxe is about to launch soon. Life is good. Life is actually fucking amazing.
So, fuck Jungkook and his random weirdness. Whatever. It’s just how he is.
Because he’s Jeon Jungkook.
And he’s simply the biggest loser ever.
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