01 | ᢉ𐭩
⟣ 𝓢𝓸𝓯𝓽 𝓡𝓾𝓲𝓷 ⟢
𝓑𝓵𝓾𝓻𝓫 after getting hired to work in the Jeon household, you slowly find yourself adjusting to the quiet routines of a life that was never meant to include you.
𝓟𝓪𝓲𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰 Jungkook x reader
𝓖𝓮𝓷𝓻𝓮 rich husband au, nanny au, fluff, angst, smut, slow burn, domestic tension
𝓦𝓪𝓻𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓼 explicit language, married jungkook
𝓦𝓒 4.8k+
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The house was always awake before the people in it.
Not in sound—never sound—but in presence. The kind that lived in polished marble floors and the soft hum of distant appliances, in the faint scent of expensive cleaning products that never quite faded no matter how early the morning came.
You had only been there for a week.
Long enough to learn where things were kept. Not long enough to feel like you were supposed to touch them without permission.The kitchen was already lit when you arrived that morning.
Soft gold lighting. Too warm for a place that big.
The little girl was sitting at the island counter with her feet swinging above the floor, hair slightly messy in a way that suggested she had already refused to be brushed twice. A juice box stood half-finished beside her. She looked up when you entered, as if she had been waiting for you specifically, even though that was impossible.
“Good morning Yuna,” you said gently. She smiled immediately. That was still new.
On your first day, she had only stared at you like you were temporary. Now she followed you with her eyes.
From the hallway, you heard footsteps.
Measured. Calm. Familiar to the house in a way yours wasn’t yet.
He appeared a moment later.
Mr. Jeon.
He was already dressed, as if the day had been waiting for him to step into it properly. A black shirt—perfectly pressed, sleeves loosely folded at his forearms. A silver chain resting at his collarbone, catching the light only when he moved. A watch that looked too simple to be expensive, which usually meant it was the opposite. His hair was slightly longer than you expected it to be at that hour. Not messy. Never messy. Just… unbothered.
He paused at the kitchen entrance.
Not because he didn’t know where he was.
Because he always seemed to take a second before entering rooms where other people were already existing.
“Good morning,” he said.
His voice was low. Even. Polite. It wasn’t directed at you first. It never was.
His attention went to the child on the counter.
“Did you eat anything yet Darling?”
She nodded too quickly. He didn’t look convinced. Then his eyes shifted—briefly, carefully—to you. Not lingering. Not avoiding. Just… acknowledging.
“Morning.”
The familiar voice pulls you out of your thoughts immediately.
You blink once.
Then twice.
For a second, all you can do is stare.
The corner of his mouth lifts slightly. Normal. Completely normal. Which only makes your stomach twist more. Because ever since yesterday evening, looking directly at him has felt strangely difficult.
And the worst part?
You still weren’t sure whether he had actually seen you. Or if you’d simply convinced yourself he had.
The previous evening.
You had already finished for the day.
Your bag rested over one shoulder while your phone sat in your hand, the front door only a few steps away. Then you noticed the light. The office door downstairs was slightly open. Just enough.
You probably would’ve ignored it if not for the voice coming from inside.
“Fuck.”
The curse makes you stop automatically. Not because of the word itself. Because you’d never heard it from him before.
Curiosity gets the better of you.
Only for a second.
At least that’s what you tell yourself. You glance through the narrow opening. Mr. Jeon sits behind his desk. His tie is loose. The top buttons of his shirt undone. Several documents are spread across the desk in front of him while an almost empty glass sits beside his laptop.
He looks exhausted.
Not physically.
Mentally.
The kind of exhaustion that settles somewhere behind the eyes.
His jaw tightens. One hand rubs slowly over his face. Then he exhales sharply. “Unbelievable.”
You should leave. Immediately.
Instead, you stay.
Only for another moment. Just long enough to wonder what could possibly have him looking like that. Then movement catches your attention.
Mrs. Jeon.
You hadn’t even realized she was in the room.
She steps around the desk quietly before stopping behind him. “Still working?”
Her voice is softer than usual.
Mr. Jeon doesn’t answer right away. He closes his eyes instead. Takes a slow breath. Then another.
Mrs. Jeon places both hands on his shoulders. The tension in his neck visibly eases beneath her touch. “Bad day?”
“Long day.”
A small smile touches her lips.
“Same thing.”
For the first time all evening, a quiet laugh leaves him. Brief. Tired. But real.
You know you should leave. You know this has nothing to do with you. And yet something about the scene keeps you frozen where you stand.
Maybe because it feels oddly private. Maybe because people never seem quite as perfect when they think nobody is watching.
Mrs. Jeon continues kneading his shoulders gently.
“Better?”
“Not really.”
“Then what do you need?”
The question sounds teasing.
Light.
Familiar.
Mr. Jeon finally opens his eyes. For a second, he simply looks up at her. Then his gaze lowers. Slowly. The room suddenly feels too quiet. “Come here.”
Mrs. Jeon laughs softly.
“I’m literally standing right here.”
“Closer.”
Before she can say anything else, his hand reaches out. Large fingers wrapping loosely around her forearm. The movement is effortless.
Natural.
Like something they’ve done hundreds of times before. He gently pulls. Mrs. Jeon lets out a surprised sound before ending up half-seated across his lap.
“Jungkook—”
“Give me a kiss.”
The words leave him so casually it almost feels unfair. Like he isn’t asking at all. His arm settles around her waist. Her laughter fades.
And then he kisses her.
Not dramatically. Not for show. Just enough to make it obvious this is a moment that doesn’t belong to anyone else.
Your brows pull together immediately. Heat rushes into your face.
Oh my God.
You should leave.
You should have left thirty seconds ago. Instead, you’re still standing there. Mortified. Unable to move.
Mr. Jeon’s hand slides along her waist. His other resting against her jaw.The stress you’d seen on his face minutes ago slowly disappearing. And suddenly the entire scene feels far too intimate to witness.
You finally force yourself to move.
Only—
At that exact moment.
Mr. Jeon pulls back slightly. A slow breath leaving him.
His eyes lifting.
And for a split second—
His gaze drifts toward the partially opened door. Toward you. Your heart immediately drops.
No.
No no no.
Had he—
Did he—
You don’t wait to find out.
Turning on your heel so quickly you nearly trip over your own feet, you head straight for the front door without looking back once.
The entire drive home is spent thinking the same thing over and over again.
Please tell me he didn’t see me.
“Good morning, sir,” you replied automatically, then immediately wished you hadn’t used the word sir so early in the week. It still felt like the safest option. Like a habit you hadn’t unlearned yet.
A pause.
Small. Almost unnoticeable.
“You don’t have to do that,” he said quietly.
Not harsh. Just factual.
You weren’t sure what he meant at first. The word. The distance. Or the fact that he had noticed it at all. Before you could answer, he had already moved past you. Not leaving the room—just entering it fully now.
He reached for a glass, poured water, drank it slowly while standing near the counter. One hand resting lightly on the edge of the marble like it belonged there more than anything else in the room.
The girl leaned toward him immediately.
“Daddy, you’re going to work?”
“Yes Darling,” he answered.
“Come back early.”
A faint pause again. Smaller this time.
“I’ll try,” he said.
He leaned down and kissed her forehead without hesitation. Then, as if it were part of the same motion he had done a hundred times before, he turned toward the hallway.
His wife’s voice came from somewhere deeper in the house. Not loud. Just present.
“Don’t forget your meeting at ten.”
“I won’t,” he replied.
She appeared at the edge of the kitchen a second later.
There was a calmness between them. Familiar. Functional. She adjusted the cuff of his sleeve briefly, as if correcting something that didn’t need correcting. He allowed it without looking down.
When she leaned in, he kissed her cheek.
Simple. Natural. Not performed.
So he really didn’t care.
Not about staff being around.
Not about you standing right there.
Apparently, showing affection to his wife wasn’t something Mr. Jeon thought twice about.
Which, logically, made perfect sense.
She was his wife.
Still, after yesterday evening, you found yourself looking away a little faster than usual.
When he finally left, the house shifted again. Not physically. Just… slightly quieter.
The girl went back to her juice box. His wife started speaking about the day ahead. And you stood there, hands still slightly damp from washing the counter that didn’t really need washing. You told yourself the same thing you had told yourself every morning since arriving:
It was just a job.
Nothing more than that.
⟣*⟢
The afternoon had settled into something familiar. Not comfortable. Not unfamiliar either. Just… repeated. You had already learned the house’s rhythm by the third day. When the rooms became quieter. When the child got tired and more clingy. When silence started to feel less like emptiness and more like structure.
⟣*⟢
And…another task.
It started as something simple.
Something that was supposed to take only a few minutes.
A folded pile of clothes placed carefully on the edge of the bed, still carrying the faint trace of fabric softener that didn’t belong to you, and a request that had been spoken earlier in the day in passing, as if it was nothing more than a routine detail in a house where everything already had someone assigned to it.
You told yourself it was just part of the job.
Just putting clothes away.
Nothing more than that.
The wardrobe was already open when you stepped into the room.
Large. Immaculate. Structured in a way that suggested everything inside it had its own place and had never once been questioned about where it belonged.
You started with the dresses first.
Soft fabrics between your fingers, carefully lifted from the pile, each one hanging differently in your hand as if even clothing in this house carried a certain kind of intention.
Her clothes.
Mrs. Jeon’s.
You tried not to think of her as anything more than that. But it was difficult in a space like this, where even absence felt curated.
A silk dress slipped through your fingers slightly as you lifted it, catching on the light from the window just enough to make you pause without meaning to. It was elegant in a quiet way, the kind of elegance that didn’t ask for attention but seemed to receive it anyway, as if it was built for rooms larger than the people standing inside them.
You held it up for a moment longer than necessary.
It wasn’t jealousy.
It was just observation.
Just noticing things.
The way the fabric moved when you shifted your hand. The way the color looked softer in daylight than it probably did under evening lights. The way it didn’t feel like something that belonged to a life that was messy or uncertain.
It belonged here. In this house. In this silence.
You hung it carefully, smoothing it down once, then again, even though it didn’t need it, because your hands had already started doing things automatically in spaces that didn’t belong to you yet but were beginning to feel slightly less foreign than they should.
Then another piece.
A blouse this time.
Light fabric. Soft structure. Something that looked expensive without needing to announce it.
You wondered briefly, and immediately regretted wondering, what it felt like to choose clothes like this without thinking about price, or practicality, or whether something would last long enough to justify buying it in the first place.
You stopped that thought before it could fully form. But it still lingered at the edges.
You placed it inside the wardrobe carefully, aligning it with the others as if precision could erase the fact that you were noticing too much. And then, for a moment, your gaze drifted across the rest of the space.
His side.
Mr. Jeon’s side.
Suits. Shirts. Dark tones. Clean lines. Everything folded or hung with the same controlled simplicity, as if even his clothes had learned not to take up unnecessary space. You didn’t look for long. But you still noticed the black shirts. More than one.
Always the same kind of structure. The same absence of unnecessary detail. The same quiet severity that somehow still didn’t feel harsh when you imagined him wearing it.
You closed the wardrobe slightly too quickly after that. As if shutting it could interrupt whatever thought process had begun forming without your permission.
The room felt quieter after.
Or maybe it had always been that quiet.
You left the door open just a fraction before stepping away, smoothing your hands down the sides of your clothes as if that could reset something invisible.
It was just work.
Just clothes.
Just a house.
Nothing more than that.
And still, as you walked out of the room, you found yourself thinking—without meaning to—that even things that didn’t belong to people still somehow managed to feel like they were waiting for them.
⟣*⟢
Yuna was sitting on the living room carpet now, surrounded by scattered toys that had slowly migrated across the floor like they belonged there more than anything else.
You were kneeling beside her, helping her line them up again.
“Like this?” yuna asked.
“Yes,” you said softly. “That’s perfect.”
Her small hands clapped once, satisfied. And so….you spent the rest of the day with Yuna.
⟣*⟢
The house always changed in the evenings in a way that was almost imperceptible at first, the kind of shift you only began to notice after spending enough time inside it to understand that silence had different weights depending on the hour, and that even stillness could feel like it was leaning closer to you when the day started to end.
You had already learned, in the short span of days you had been there, that this particular hour belonged to transitions more than actions, where everything slowed down just enough to make every small movement feel slightly more deliberate than it had any right to be.
The child was on the sofa again, wrapped in a blanket she insisted she needed even though the temperature of the room was carefully controlled in a way that suggested no discomfort was ever supposed to exist here, holding onto a picture book with a kind of quiet attachment as if the repetition of it made the world around her more predictable.
You were sitting beside her, turning the pages when she asked without ever really needing to be asked, because she liked the rhythm of it more than the story itself at this point, and you were beginning to understand that about her, that she didn’t always want new things, just familiar ones that stayed the same long enough for her to feel safe inside them.
And then the sound of footsteps shifted the atmosphere before the person even appeared, not loud enough to announce itself but familiar enough that your attention adjusted automatically without you having to think about it.
Mr. Jeon again.
He always arrived in a way that made it feel like he belonged to a different pace than the rest of the house, like everything about him was slightly ahead of time or slightly outside of it, never fully caught in the present moment the same way others were.
He paused at the entrance of the living room, as he always did, not because he hesitated in a way that suggested uncertainty, but more like he was taking a second to align himself with the space before stepping into it completely, as if even a house like this required a moment of adjustment before it could contain him properly.
Black shirt again. Sleeves rolled just enough to expose the line of his forearms without making it look intentional. A watch that always looked simple until you paid attention to it for too long. A silver chain resting quietly against his collarbone, moving only when he did.
“Is she asleep yet,” he asked, and his voice was calm in that familiar way that made it difficult to tell whether he had just walked into the room or had been standing there for longer than you noticed.
“Not yet, Mr. Jeon,” you answered, your attention still on the book in your hands, even though you were aware of him in the way you were becoming increasingly aware of everything he did in spaces he occupied.
A small nod, like that information had been stored somewhere for later use rather than reacted to in the moment.
Then he stepped inside.
Not far. Not intrusive. Just enough to no longer be at the edge of the room.
The child lifted her head immediately at the sound of him, her entire posture changing in that small, effortless way children had when they recognized someone they trusted without needing to think about it.
“Daddy,” she murmured, already half-lost in sleep.
He lowered himself beside her without hesitation, pulling the blanket up slightly as if correcting a detail that only he would notice mattered, his movements steady and practiced in a way that suggested repetition rather than effort, like this was something his body had memorized long before his mind needed to think about it.
“Still awake,” he asked quietly.
“Yes,” she replied, though it was obvious even to you that the answer was more habit than truth.
“That’s not true,” he said, but there was no correction in it, only acknowledgement, like he was gently agreeing with her version of reality for the sake of keeping it intact a little longer.
You watched without meaning to, because there was something about the way he interacted with her that didn’t feel like performance or effort, just a kind of quiet consistency that made everything around him feel slightly more stable without him ever announcing that he was doing anything at all.
The room settled again after that, returning to its usual evening stillness, the kind that wasn’t empty but full in a way that made you feel like you should move more carefully just to avoid disturbing it.
You stood slowly, assuming your part of the evening was complete, gathering the book slightly tighter in your hands as you prepared to leave the space the way you always did.
“I’ll finish up for today, Mr. Jeon,” you said.
He didn’t respond immediately.
Not because he ignored you, but because he was still adjusting the blanket on his daughter’s shoulders as if the act itself deserved full attention before anything else could interrupt it.
Then, without looking at you at first, he spoke.
“You don’t have to leave so quickly every night.”
You paused, your hand stilling slightly at the edge of the book.
“I usually leave after she sleeps,” you said carefully, because it was the only structure you had for your presence in this house that made sense to you.
A quiet exhale.
“I know.”
Then he looked at you.
Not long enough to feel like pressure.
Not short enough to feel accidental.
Just long enough to register.
“She asks for you when you’re not here,” he said, as if it was simply something he had observed rather than something he expected you to respond to in any particular way.
And for a moment, the sentence stayed in the air longer than you intended it to.
“I’ll stay until she sleeps then,” you said after a pause, because that felt like the correct answer.
A brief silence followed.
Then, almost softly, almost absentmindedly—
“Thank you,” he said.
And when you responded this time—
“Of course, Mr. Jeon,”
—you noticed, for the first time, that he didn’t correct you at all.
⟣*⟢
The ride home was always quieter than you expected it to be.
Not uncomfortable.
Just the kind of silence that made thoughts easier to hear.
The driver remained focused on the road the entire time, occasionally glancing at the mirror only out of habit rather than curiosity, while the city outside moved slowly past the windows in blurred lights and softened reflections that made everything feel farther away than it actually was.
You rested your head lightly against the seat. Tired. Not physically.
Just mentally in the way people became after spending too much time observing lives that looked nothing like their own.
The Jeon household still lingered in your mind, though not because of anything dramatic.
It was the little things.
The quietness of it.
The structure.
The way nobody raised their voice to be heard.
The way warmth existed there without demanding attention.
You thought about Yuna curled beneath her blanket earlier, sleepy and stubborn in the small ways children were allowed to be when they grew up feeling safe enough to stay soft.
Then Mrs. Jeon. Then Mr. Jeon. Not individually. Just… together. A family.
And for a moment, you realized how unfamiliar that feeling still was to you.
Not families themselves.
Just peaceful ones.
Your gaze lowered toward your hands resting in your lap.
You had left home when you were nineteen.
Not dramatically.
No screaming match. No final scene worthy of remembering forever.
Just years of conversations that never felt right, a house that never really felt calm, and eventually the quiet understanding that staying any longer would only make you smaller than you already felt there.
So you left.
University became survival before it ever became education.
Part-time jobs. Late shifts. Cheap meals. Rent payments that always arrived faster than expected.
And even after graduating, nothing became easier in the clean, satisfying way people always promised it would.
Jobs came temporarily.
Money disappeared quickly.
Life kept moving without ever slowing down enough for you to catch up to it properly.
Which was why this job mattered more than you liked admitting.
The apartment you rented wasn’t cheap.
Neither was existing.
You still called your mother occasionally.
Short conversations.
Careful ones.
The kind where both people avoided stepping too close to anything real because neither of them knew what to do with honesty anymore.
Your father spoke even less.
Sometimes not at all.
And maybe that was why the Jeon household unsettled you slightly, because there was something strangely intimate about witnessing people who seemed to know how to coexist without constantly hurting one another in the process.
It made the house feel warm in a way you weren’t used to.
Not perfect.
Just… gentle.
The car slowed near your apartment building.
You blinked slightly, only then realizing how long you had been staring out the window without actually seeing anything.
Maybe that was all this really was.
Not attachment.
Not longing.
Just the quiet fascination of standing too close to a life that felt softer than the one you came from.
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