Hate sex is still sex. — part 3 | ᴊᴇᴏɴ ᴊᴜɴɢᴋᴏᴏᴋ
You just got dumped. The one behind it? your boyfriend’s best friend Jungkook who’s hated you from day one. You hate him. He hates you. One thing’s for sure: when hate turns into desire, it gets messy, it gets reckless… and yes, hate sex is still sex.
3’—Somewhere between anger and desire, things with Jungkook stopped being simple. And lately, his coldness only seems to make it worse.
⎯⎯ pairing: Grumpy Jungkook x Mean girl reader
🧷Genre: enemies with benefits
🧷Warnings: 18+ content, explicit content, slight angst, commitment issues!reader, spoiled rich brat reader, pussydrunk!jk, dom!jk x sub!y/n mdni
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You’d think that after getting dumped over a three-line text message, the absolute last thing you’d want is to show your face in public.
Most people would go into total isolation, saving themselves the grueling embarrassment and the suffocating awkwardness that comes with a high profile campus split. But your situation was different.
You didn’t actually care about running into Minho. You wouldn’t mind walking right past him on the quad, and you wouldn’t even blink if you heard his voice somewhere in the background of a packed lecture hall. What actually made your blood boil was the aftermath.
Somehow, your private breakup had turned into public entertainment for the entire student body. People who had never even spoken to you suddenly felt entitled to every single detail of your relationship—down to your sex life, which was a horrifying realization.
They were aggressively digging for information, cornering friends of friends, cross-examining random classmates, and whispering about it in entirely different departments. Everyone was trying to piece together the wreckage.
Normally, attention didn’t faze you. You loved being the center of a room, just not when it chipped away at the image you’d spent a year building. And definitely not when the campus rumor mill was claiming you’d gone missing for three days straight because you were heartbroken, depressed, and locked in your room crying over a sophomore engineering major.
The last thing you would ever do is lose sleep over Minho. Were you furious about being dumped? Obviously. Getting discarded over text, a few sloppy sentences ending in a neat, indifferent period tends to damage a person’s pride. But that wasn’t the real reason you’d been treating your bedroom like a bunker. At least, that’s the lie you kept telling yourself.
The truth was, there was someone else you were terrified of running into.
Unfortunately, you couldn’t play dead forever. Not when you were the executive face of your sorority chapter, and certainly not when people expected you to actually show up and do the job you’d campaigned for.
So, you finally forced yourself out of bed and back onto the grid.
You made a conscious effort to ditch the bright, pastel colors you usually wore, settling on an oversized, muted black sweater in a pathetic attempt to blend into the background.
You were hiding from your own sisters, the same people currently busy entertaining rumors about your love life over iced coffees in the dining hall.
The heavy, black-rimmed glasses you threw on were self explanatory. You never wore them, strictly sticking to contacts, and you were almost positive no one on campus had ever seen you in them before. But today they served as a literal shield; they made you look sharper, and more serious. You refused to be perceived as a joke the second the news officially broke that Minho was the one who walked away.
So far, though, no one actually knew the exact details of the text; which explained why the campus was in a frantic, speculative frenzy, trying to invent their own version of the story.
The second you stepped through the heavy front doors of the sorority house, you regretted leaving your apartment.
Lina practically launched herself across the foyer before you could even clear the entryway mat, her hands clamping onto your shoulders like she was checking you for broken bones. “Where the hell have you been?” she demanded, her eyes scanning your face with detective-level scrutiny.
“Are you okay? Did you seriously cry for three days straight? Did you eat anything? Wait...are those glasses?” Of course that’s what she zeroed in on.
You let out a heavy sigh, peeling her fingers off your jacket and pushing past her toward the back reading room. “I’ve always had glasses, Lina.”
“Yeah, but you never wear them,” she shot back, her boots clicking right behind yours as she trailed you into the lounge. “You literally told me last semester that glasses make you look like a boring librarian. You refuse to be seen in them.”
You didn’t answer. Instead, you grabbed a random stack of philanthropy event papers off the mahogany table, snapping the folder open and pretending to analyze the spreadsheets.
Lina wasn’t buying the performance for a second. “So?” she pressed, dropping her voice into a whisper as she leaned over the table. “What actually happened with Minho? Everyone is saying something different. Half the house thinks you dumped him because he was boring, some people think he cheated, and a guy in Sig Chi literally claimed you slapped him in public outside the library.”
Well, thank God the general consensus was that you were the one holding the knife. Even the campus gossips knew it was structurally impossible for someone to dump you, even though that was exactly what had happened, in the most clinical and humiliating way possible.
“So you’re not depressed?” Lina asked, squinting at you through your new frames. You flipped a page in the folder with an aggressive snap. “Do I look depressed?”
Lina opened her mouth to argue, then gestured vaguely at your dark sweater. “You’re wearing solid black.”
“Since when is black a symptom of depression?”
“Since you started wearing it, that’s for sure,” Lina countered immediately, eyeing your muted outfit with deep suspicion. “And the glasses? Seriously? Who are you trying to hide from?”
You rolled your eyes, refusing to break character. She stared at you. You stared right back through the lenses until her shoulders slumped.
Eventually, Lina let out a sigh, realizing she wasn’t going to extract a confession out of you today.
“Fine,” she muttered, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “You never tell me anything anyway. But we have a much bigger problem to deal with right now.”
You kept your eyes trained on the papers. “What problem?”
Of course. Your house was co-sponsoring the entire upcoming spring calendar with them, which meant you were contractually obligated to deal with a group of boys who collectively shared a single functioning brain cell.
“They’re completely refusing to cooperate,” Lina continued, already snatching her tote bag off the sofa. “They won’t show up to the meetings here, they’re ghosting our emails, and apparently the only way to get their president to sign off on the budget is to physically drag ourselves over to the engineering faculty.”
You froze at the words; engineering faculty. The literal nest. You were already irritated just remembering how much diplomatic hell they’d put you through the last time you had to negotiate with them.
Your jaw tightened into a rigid line as you slammed the folder shut. “Fine,” you muttered. “Let’s get it over with.”
Ten minutes later, you already hated every single choice that had led you to this moment.
The mechanical engineering building was exactly how you remembered it: loud, brutalist, and overwhelmingly male. The exact second you and Lina walked through the electronic sliding doors, the entire atmosphere shifted in a way that made your skin prickle.
Eyes followed you down the main corridor like you were an anomaly. Conversations abruptly dipped into low murmurs before restarting as you passed. Someone near the vending machines let out a low, quiet whistle under his breath.
You locked your knees, ensuring your heels made a llethal click-clack against the polished concrete floor. If these idiots were going to stare, you were going to make them feel thoroughly stupid for doing it.
“The lounge meeting is on the top floor,” Lina muttered quietly beside you, checking her phone. Great.
The elevator ride felt three times longer than it actually was. By the time the metal doors chimed open, your stomach had twisted into an uneasy knot that you absolutely refused to acknowledge. Because somewhere on this exact floor… Jungkook was breathing.
It was almost comical, really. The one person you were losing your mind over running into wasn’t your ex-boyfriend; It was his best friend.
But you couldn’t even blame yourself for the panic; not after the unmitigated disaster of your last encounter.
Your mind involuntarily flashed back to that night—Jungkook pulling his car into the dark, underground garage of your penthouse building. The vehicle you’d aggressively keyed weeks prior. The air inside the cabin had still been thick and smelling faintly of sex from what you’d done. The silence between you had been unbearable, and you’d been swaddled in his oversized denim jacket like a makeshift walk-of-shame disguise.
Your dad’s ring camera would have alerted his phone the second the car cleared the sensor, and your father; currently doing business abroad and painfully overprotective would have had structural questions you had no intention of answering. So, Jungkook had stayed idling in the driver’s seat while you unbuckled and made the humiliating, stiff walk from the iron gate to the elevator lobby.
Every single step you took had been sore and painfully tight; a physical, visceral reminder of exactly how thoroughly he had split you open. The memory alone made your stomach turn over now. He had probably sat there in the dark, watching you limp away, his ego inflated enough to last him a lifetime. The thought of him feeling smug about your body made you feel physically sick.
You stepped out of the elevator anyway, ignoring the cold sweat creeping up the back of your neck as you marched down the hallway toward the designated frat lounge. Your heels echoed like gunshots in the narrow corridor. Lina was still talking rapidly beside you, something about the event budget, how they were trying to shortchange the sorority on the catering costs, and how you were going to have to “put them in their place.”
The moment you crossed the threshold into the lounge, the sheer volume of voices and the smell of stale coffee hit you all at once.
A dozen guys were scattered across the mismatched leather couches like they owned the square footage. A few of them looked like actual fraternity officers; others just looked like regulars hiding out to skip their afternoon labs, laptops open while their attention drifted everywhere except their screens.
Your eyes scanned the room automatically, looking for the president.
And then your lungs completely emptied.
Jungkook; He was sitting a few cushions apart from the main cluster of frat officers, his laptop balanced on his thighs, a thick pair of black headphones clamped over his ears. His dark brows were tightly knitted together, completely checked out of the room as his eyes tracked whatever lines of text or code were running across his monitor.
You blinked behind your new lenses. Was he seriously skipping his afternoon engineering labs just to sit in a chaotic frat lounge and study by himself? The thought barely had time to form before a violent, deeply unwelcome knot twisted directly in your stomach.
Your anatomy fired off a warning shot, lighting up at the sheer proximity of him before your rational brain could even attempt to construct a defense. At this point, your nervous system had mapped out a dangerous, reflexive association. The mere sight of Jungkook’s frame meant one thing, and one thing only: sex.
It was a ridiculous, infuriating reaction, made ten times worse by the suffocating level of sexual frustration you’d been harboring over the last three days of isolation. You hadn’t texted him. You hadn’t dialed his number. You hadn’t given him the satisfaction of a single late-night ping.
Instead, you’d stayed locked in your penthouse like a stubborn idiot, suffering through the restless heat entirely on your own.
You kept your chin high, marching toward the center of the lounge with Lina, forcing your posture into something resembling corporate composure while your eyes did a fast, defensive scan of the room; Minho was nowhere to be seen.
At the rhythmic sound of heels cutting through the ambient noise of the lounge, Jungkook’s head lifted from his screen. He would have told himself it was just a reflex to someone entering the space, but deep down, he’d long since memorized the exact weight and cadence of the way your heels bit into a floor.
The moment you stepped into his line of sight, his dark eyes locked onto you, and you were instantly hit with a wave of hyper-awareness. You felt every inch of the armor you’d put on that morning; the heavy frames perched on the bridge of your nose, the oversized black sweater, the entire low-profile, “don't look at me” idiocy you’d tried to pull off.
He’d never seen you in glasses before. His gaze lingered on the frames for a fraction of a second, his pupils tracking the unfamiliar lines of your face before he abruptly dropped his chin, his eyes sliding right back down to his laptop.
Yeah. That was his new routine. He acted like you were just another body taking up oxygen in the room. Not like before; before you’d stood in front of that exit door and accused him of fabricating a connection just to get between your legs.
Despite the cold shoulder, your attention drifted back to him like a magnet. You took in the details of his outfit; a simple grey hoodie and matching sweatpants and a familiar prickle of irritation sparked under your skin at how unfairly good his physique looked in something so basic.
His eyebrows remained drawn together as he studied his screen, a deep, concentrated line appearing between his eyes. Your brain, entirely unhelpful, instantly connected that specific expression to the way he looked when his mouth was buried between your thighs. Your cheeks burned with an immediate, furious heat, and you had to physically swallow to force the image back down into the dark.
The ambient chatter in the lounge died out with comical speed the second Lina let out a loud, highly theatrical fake cough. It was impressive, really, how your presence could derail a room of twenty guys without you even opening your mouth. One second the space was a mess of overlapping voices and chairs scraping against the floor; the next, every single neck snapped in your direction.
Your stride slowed slightly under the collective weight of their stares. You weren’t used to them looking at you with this much confusion.
Usually, you walked into their house in bright colors, your hair perfectly blown out, looking an unapproachable prize. Today, you were drowning in black fabric and wearing glasses they didn’t recognize.
A few of the guys on the main sofa actually squinted, leaning forward to inspect you. “Hold on,” one of them said slowly, setting his red cup down. “Is that actually…?”
“No way,” another cut in, pointing at your face like a toddler. “Are you wearing glasses?”
A wave of lazy, amused laughter rippled through the couches. “And solid black?” someone added, leaning back dramatically. “Since when do you wear black? Who died?”
You stopped right in front of the central table, crossing your arms loosely over your chest, keeping your expression entirely deadpan despite your patience wearing paper thin. “I didn’t realize my wardrobe choices required a committee approval.”
That only made their grins widen. “Relax,” one of the older guys said, lifting his palms in a mocking gesture of surrender. “We’re just saying. This is like… a historic campus event. We’ve literally never seen your eyes without contacts.”
“Yeah,” another piped up. “Or your body without a designer dress.”
“Wait,” a guy near the back dragged the syllable out, his eyes glinting with gossip. “Is this like… a mourning thing? A breakup ritual?”
Lina immediately let out a loud groan, slapping a hand over her forehead. “Oh my God. Can we please not do this right now?”
But the guys were already far too entertained to stop. To be fair, you’d vanished from campus for three days straight, and given the massive, lingering question mark over why you and Minho were suddenly finished, your disappearance had been treated like a crime scene.
Especially since Lina had been the one forced to march over here and handle these idiots alone all week, a realization that made a tiny pang of guilt hit your stomach.
“Yeah, she completely abandoned me,” Lina complained loudly, throwing an accusatory finger in your direction. “Left me here to deal with these toddlers by myself for seventy-two hours.”
“Hey,” one of the guys protested with a grin. Another smirked, crossing his arms. “You say that like we didn’t give you the best week of your life, Lina.”
Lina rolled her eyes so hard it looked painful. “You literally refused to sign off on a single line-item budget.”
“That’s slander,” someone argued lazily from the depth of the couch. “We cooperated… emotionally.”
“That is literally not a legally binding concept,” Lina snapped.
The room broke into another round of loud, chaotic laughter. You let out a slow breath through your nose, forcing your muscles not to twitch toward the one corner of the room whose reaction you were desperate to avoid checking.
Before you could open your mouth to cut through the noise and start bossing them around, the heavy wooden door to the lounge bathroom swung open, and someone stepped out into the light. You glanced over. Yikes. Minho.
He froze the second he saw you, his posture turning incredibly stiff. His eyes locked onto yours for one long, agonizing second, and you could practically feel every single gaze in the room zoom in on the two of you like a magnifying glass. The guys were practically leaning out of their seats, hovering, waiting for a scream, a tear, or a public execution.
It was thoroughly embarrassing.
And ironically, your mind immediately skipped past the boy who had just dumped you and landed right back on his best friend. It was wild, really—your whatever-the-hell-this-was with Jungkook had more layers and more progression than your entire year-and-a-half-long relationship with Minho ever did.
With Minho, everything had been a scripted, predictable routine. With Jungkook… it was a violent storm.
You’d gone through cycles you couldn’t even explain to yourself: burning attraction, absolute disgust, sleeping together until your knees shook, hating his guts, letting him back between your legs, and repeating the whole toxic loop all over again. The border between pure hatred and physical desire had been rubbed so thin it didn’t even exist anymore.
And trying to read Jungkook lately? Completely impossible. He’d gone stone-cold. He carried himself with a clinical distance, like he’d permanently switched off the part of him that ever looked at you like a human being, the exact part you’d smashed when you told him he was just a pathetic fuckboy trying to clear a hurdle.
You actually regretted saying it, far more than you’d ever admit to his face, but your pride was a fortress. You’d never apologized. Not that he’d given you the chance anyway; he only used his mouth to argue with you or to destroy you on a mattress.
Minho shifted his weight awkwardly, realizing there wasn’t going to be a dramatic, cinematic confrontation in the middle of the engineering block. You were just staring back at him like he was a minor, annoying delay in your schedule.
He cleared his throat, muttered a low sentence to one of his fraternity brothers, and walked right past you, exiting the lounge without looking back.
The second the heavy door clicked shut behind him, you let out a tiny, imperceptible sigh. The room stayed weirdly quiet for a few. The guys, who were usually grating and insufferable, were actually watching you with an irritating level of caution; like you were a piece of fine china that might shatter if they spoke too quickly.
The implication pissed you off instantly. You squared your shoulders, setting your jaw. But what made your blood run hot with genuine fury was when your eyes inadvertently drifted back to the corner of the room.
Jungkook hadn’t looked up once during the entire interaction. He was still sitting there in his hoodie, his headphones clamped tight, staring at his spreadsheet like the drama didn’t even register on his radar. Like you weren’t even standing there. And for some godforsaken reason, his absolute indifference annoyed you ten times more than the actual breakup.
Exactly one hour later, you were fully convinced that fraternity men shared the collective attention span of a golden retriever.
Trying to keep them focused on an event layout for longer than thirty seconds was a form of psychological torture. Every single time you started breaking down the venue map, someone would interrupt with a joke, a side conversation would break out about a party from three weeks ago, or two guys would start a heated debate over the official rules of beer pong.
Fraternities, you realized, were only operationally efficient when it came to importing alcohol or blindly following a leader into a bad decision. For anything involving logistical coordination? Utterly useless.
By the time the meeting finally staggered to a halt, your patience was hanging by a single thread.
“So basically,” Lina groaned, rubbing her temples as she packed her folders, “that was an absolute waste of carbon footprint.”
You snapped your laptop closed with a definitive click. “Pretty much.”
Half the guys had already checked out mentally the second you started talking about fire codes, scrambling off the couches and snatching up their backpacks like they’d just survived a deployment.
You looked down at the messy, half-finished notes on the table. Nothing real was going to get done in this building. “We’re finishing the layout spreadsheet at Lina’s house tonight,” you announced to the remaining officers. “Be there by eight.”
A few of the guys immediately perked up, their ears tuning in at the word house. Lina pinched the bridge of her nose. “It’s a working meeting, idiots. Not a mixer,” she muttered, though none of them were actually listening.
You hated how easily your eyes wandered when you were irritated. Before you could walk out, your gaze caught Jungkook. His long fingers were flying across his keyboard with total precision. Your eyes lingered on the faint, calloused red tinge across his knuckles, tracking the way the thick veins along the back of his hands shifted every time he hit a key.
Your thighs pressed together, a tight, involuntary reaction that made you curse yourself internally. Great. You tore your eyes away before you could lose your mind.
This was exactly why you needed to get back to your apartment. Your brain was entirely unstable, and the last thing your body needed was a visual reminder of exactly what those heavy hands could do when they were pressed into your skin.
You swung your leather bag over your shoulder and headed straight for the exit, refusing to linger in the hallway while the frat boys crowded the elevator.
By the time you cleared the electronic doors of the engineering faculty, the late afternoon air felt humid. Your mind was a wreck, replaying memories you’d spent seventy-two hours trying to incinerate. On the long walk toward the campus gate, you stopped by a convenience store out of sheer habit, grabbing a cold onigiri from the open fridge, hoping the salty flavor might distract you from the dull, throbbing ache low in your pelvis.
When you stepped back onto the pavement, your driver was already idling at the curb. You slid into the leather backseat, taking a small bite of the rice as the car pulled into traffic, focusing entirely on the food so you wouldn’t have to face the restless, unrewarded heat pooling behind your underwear.
The second you unlocked your penthouse door, you shed your clothes and stepped straight into the shower, turning the nozzle until the water was scalding, letting the steam fill the glass stall. It helped clear the campus grease, but by the time you dried off and pulled on a pair of loose cotton shorts and a thin tank top, your skin was clean, but your head was still entirely chaotic.
You dropped onto the mattress with a heavy sigh, reaching for your phone. You had an hour to kill before you had to drive over to Lina’s place, so you figured a nap might reset your system.
Instead, you found yourself scrolling aimlessly through social media, your thumb moving through your feed without registering a single video or caption. Eventually, without your permission, your finger drifted over to your photo gallery.
During your three days of isolation, you’d made a point to delete every single trace of Minho from your cloud. But to ensure the purge was complete, you started scanning through your older folders, checking the backgrounds.
Then, your thumb froze over a thumbnail you’d completely forgotten about. It was a candid photo you’d snapped of Lina a few months ago during a late-night house party. She was completely hammered, half-collapsed into a mountain of velvet couch cushions, laughing hysterically at something out of frame.
You’d taken it to blackmail her later. But Lina wasn’t the detail that caught your eye now. In the background of the shot, slightly blurred by the camera’s depth of field, Jungkook was there.
He was sprawled on the opposite end of the sectionals, his long legs spread lazily across the rug, head tipped back against the leather frame like he’d fallen asleep right in the middle of a sentence. His eyes were shut, his dark hair falling messily across his forehead, one heavy arm draped loosely over the top of the backrest.
You stared at the pixels on your screen for far too long. Something in your chest plummeted into your stomach, a slow, liquid heat spreading through your lower abdomen before you could stop it.
You locked the screen, tossing the phone face down on the sheet, then immediately picked it back up and unlocked it again, as if a second look would change the image. It didn’t. Your eyes went straight back to his body.
You remembered that night vaguely. The house had been deafeningly loud, Lina had been slurring her words, and Jungkook had disappeared into the kitchen to handle the ice situation, only to reappear an hour later looking completely drained. You hadn’t noticed him crashing out in the background when you took the picture. Now, you couldn’t look anywhere else.
With an irritated swipe, you hit the trash icon and permanently deleted it, throwing the phone onto the mattress beside you. You rolled onto your back, staring at the ceiling with a frustrated groan. You weren’t thinking about him. You were absolutely not going to think about him.
You closed your eyes, determined to force yourself into a nap. But your muscles refused to settle. You shifted once, twisting the sheets around your ankles, then turned onto your side, then back onto your stomach; restless and hyper-aware of the friction of the fabric against your skin.
It was deeply uncomfortable. The warmth pooling between your thighs was getting heavier by the minute. Your brain, completely defying your orders, went right back to the composition of that deleted photo. To Jungkook.
The way his frame had been sprawled across that sofa. His thighs spread wide, completely unbothered by the space he was taking up. His arm over the backrest, the short sleeve of his tee pulled back just enough to expose the thick, flexed curve of his bicep under the weight of his limb. Your imagination started aggressively filling in the rest of the canvas.
His jawline.
His knuckles.
His mouth.
Before you could stop the slide, you weren’t thinking about a digital image anymore—you were thinking about the man. You thought about the dangerous way his jaw ticked whenever you pushed his buttons too hard during an argument. A dark, lethal stare he gave you right before he decided he was entirely done talking.
Your thighs clamped together automatically. The tight pressure relieved the throb for a split second, but your mind kept racing, diving deeper into the memory of his heavy hands locking onto your hip bones to control your movements, flipping your weight around on that lounge couch like you weighed nothing at all. The low, raspy gravel of his voice when he told you to shut up.
You squeezed your eyes shut, your breath hitching. This was pathetic.
You shifted against the mattress, desperate to calm the electric twitching through your nerves. It worked for maybe two seconds. Then the heat flared out, spreading through your stomach until your skin felt tight.
You remembered how he would lean over you during a fight, invading your personal space until you were forced to breathe in his cologne, making your pulse jump before he even laid a finger on you.
You rolled onto your stomach, burying your face in the plush pillow to stifle a frustrated sound, but the darkness behind your eyelids only made the images sharper. Everything kept leading right back to him.
Before your pride could stage a comeback, your fingers hooked under the waistband of your cotton shorts, pushing the fabric down your hips. You kicked them off until they tumbled over the edge of the bed, leaving you in nothing but your thin silk underwear. The gusset was already damp, clinging to your heat.
This wasn’t unfamiliar territory. You knew your own body; it wasn’t like you’d never handled things yourself before. It was just… it had been months since you’d needed to. Mostly because whenever Jungkook was within arm’s reach, you never had to.
The thought made you let out a low groan into the pillow.
Before he’d ruined your expectations, you’d honestly thought sex was an overrated, largely boring chore. You’d never understood why your sorority sisters spent hours analyzing it when every encounter you’d had left you entirely underwhelming.
Your mind used to wander whenever you tried to finger yourself; you’d get bored halfway through, distracted by your to-do list, and eventually just give up and go to sleep.
That was before Jungkook had completely rewired your nervous system. Now, your brain was a broken record, playing every single obscene detail of his touch on a loop.
You rolled onto your back with a furious huff, staring blindly at the white ceiling, your legs shifting restlessly against the sheets. You closed your eyes, reaching down until your hand was cupping your own heat through the silk. Unable to take the agonizing frustration for another second, you hooked your fingers into the waistband of your panties, sliding them down your legs in one swift motion before tossing them aside.
The throbbing low in your pelvis refused to break until you finally brought your bare fingers down, stroking your clitoris back and forth in a slow, steady rhythm. You carefully parted your own folds, your skin slippery and hot, your thoughts entirely fixed on his face. Your fingers slid through the moisture, circling the sensitive entrance before you finally drove a finger inside, your muscles clenching tightly around the intrusion with a small hiss.
You squeezed your thighs around your own hand, throwing your head back against the pillow as you imagined his heavy, calloused fingers replacing yours. You could practically feel the way he would split you open, driving two fingers deep inside you and curling them against your g-spot while he muttered filthy, degrading things against your ear.
You pictured your thighs pinned against his cheeks while his tongue traced wet, burning patterns up your skin, destroying your composure until you were fisting his dark hair and surrendering every ounce of your control to him.
You thought about the way he folded your body like plastic when he got intense, dominating your weight completely while you took every single hard inch he gave you.
Your fingers started working through your wetness frantically now, the sheer, blinding speed of your thoughts driving you closer and closer to the edge.
You thought about the very first night you’d met him at that mixer, before the venom had taken over, when he’d gently tucked a stray piece of hair behind your ear and looked down at you like you hung the stars. You remembered his eyes in the low light—the tiny, golden flecks in his brown irises and how you’d looked right back.
And then... your spine went rigid. Your entire body convulsed as the orgasm slammed into your pelvis like a physical blow.
A wrecked, keening cry cut through the quiet bedroom, his name echoing behind your teeth as the contractions pulled through your muscles for long, breathless seconds.
Your chest heaved, your face buried back into the mattress as the final, tingling aftershocks rolled through your thighs. By the time your breathing finally slowed, you were a shaky, sweating mess, your skin hot against the sheets and suddenly, violently aware of your surroundings.
You glanced around the empty room, and a cold wave of realization hit you. You weren’t satisfied at all. If anything, the self-induced climax had only highlighted the absence of his weight, leaving your sexual frustration burning twice as hot.
The silence of the penthouse felt suffocatingly loud now. You stared at the ceiling for a long, miserable beat before letting out a furious groan and dragging a pillow directly over your face. “Great,” you muttered into the fabric, your voice muffled and cracked. “Completely pathetic.”
Eventually, the sheer exhaustion of the embarrassment caught up to you, and before you could overthink it any further, your eyelids grew heavy, and you drifted off into a deep, dreamless sleep.
You woke to the violent, jarring vibration of your phone buzzing against the mattress right next to your ear. For a second, you were entirely disoriented, blinking heavily against the dark amber light of the late evening filtering through your drapes. It took your brain a moment to realize you’d slept right through the sunset.
Your hair was a static mess, your cheek indented from the pillowcase when the phone started vibrating again. You groaned, blindly reaching into the sheets until your fingers closed around the metal casing. Lina is FaceTime-ing you.
You frowned, your thumb sliding across the screen to accept. “What?” you muttered, your voice hoarse from sleep.
Lina’s face immediately filled the screen, her phone held way too close to her eyes. Her hair was slightly crazed, and she looked like she’d been pacing. “Finally,” she whispered harshly into her mic.
“Why the hell are you whispering?” you asked, rubbing your eyes.
Instead of answering, Lina flipped the camera view. Your eyes instantly widened, the last remnants of sleep vanishing from your system. Her living room had been transformed into your absolute worst nightmare.
Fraternity guys were everywhere. Someone was sitting casually on the armrest of her mother’s expensive sofa, another guy was digging through a family sized bag of chips as though he paid rent, and loud bass heavy music was pulsing from a speaker hidden somewhere near the television.
You sat up straight in bed, the sheet falling to your waist. Right. The “working meeting.”
“…Lina,” you said, your tone dropping into a warning register.
“I know!” she whisper-yelled back, flipping the camera back to her face.
In the background, someone shouted something incomprehensible over the music, followed by a loud crash of a plastic cup hitting the floor. Lina pinched the bridge of her nose, her shoulders slumped. “Minho brought people,” she muttered quickly. “And then those people texted more people. And now my house is apparently an unofficial satellite frat house.”
You dragged a hand over your face, your head thropping. But something she said suddenly caught in your throat. “…Wait.” You narrowed your eyes at the screen. “Did you just say Minho is there?”
Minho wasn’t even an officer on the event committee.
Lina hesitated, her eyes darting away from the lens for a fraction of a second. “…Yeah.”
“Why the fuck is he at your house, Lina?” you asked slowly.
“He showed up with the president’s car pool,” she muttered, glancing over her shoulder as another burst of laughter erupted behind her. You could hear someone screaming about a shot glass. “Look, I tried to stop them at the door, but it just happened.”
“This was supposed to be a strict logistics review,” you said, your teeth grinding.
“I know,” she whispered miserably. “And now it’s… whatever the hell this is.”
You swung your legs out of bed, standing up. Lina suddenly looked back at the screen, her expression tightening. “Oh, also… Jungkook is here.”
You sat right back down on the edge of the mattress.
Your stomach dropped before you could stop the physical reaction. “Why is he—”
But Lina had already panned the camera around the room again to prove her point. The lens swept across the crowded living room—guys scattered across the furniture, drinks lining the marble counters, the usual frat chaos. And then the camera centered on him.
Jungkook was sitting on the far end of the couch, his long legs spread slightly, the sleeves of his grey hoodie pushed up past his forearms while he listened to one of his brothers ramble next to him. He looked completely, aggravatingly relaxed despite the absolute circus surrounding him.
As Lina held the phone up, Jungkook’s dark eyes abruptly lifted, tracking the angle of her camera until he was looking directly through the screen, right at you. A split second later, Lina flipped the lens back to herself.
“So,” she said, her voice frantic. “Are you coming over or not?”
You stared at the dark screen for a frivolous second. As if your day couldn’t possibly get any more structurally unstable.
You were still vibrating with leftover sexual frustration, and now you were expected to march into a house occupied by the boy who had dumped you over text and the best friend you’d been secretly riding for months.
You let out a low, ragged groan into your hand. “Give me fifteen minutes,” you muttered.
“Make it ten,” Lina said before snapping the call shut.
You sat on the edge of the bed for another thirty seconds, staring at your blank phone before forcing yourself to stand up. How bad could it actually be?
After the total disaster of your low-profile outfit on campus earlier, you decided to scrap the camouflage.
If you were going to walk into an ambush, you were going to look untouchable. You swapped your shorts for a tight black skirt that hit mid thigh and a simple cream knit top, throwing on a lightweight jacket before grabbing your leather bag and heading downstairs to your driver.
Lina’s family home sat at the cul-de-sac of a quiet, wealthy street. Her parents were international corporate lawyers who were almost never in the country, meaning Lina essentially had a five-bedroom house to herself most semesters. And tonight, half the engineering faculty was treating it like a playground.
Your driver pulled into the long driveway, and the second you cracked the car door, the muffled thump of bass vibrations rattled through the brick walls, silhouettes moving across the glass windows as you approached the porch.
You let out a heavy breath and marched up the steps. The front door wasn’t even latched. The moment you stepped into the foyer, the full volume of the music and the smell of cheap gin hit you like a wall.
The house had a massive, open-concept layout with vaulted ceilings that made every voice echo. The main living room flowed right into a state-of-the-art kitchen, separated only by a wide white marble island.
Normally, the place looked like an architectural digest spread. Right now, it looked like a high-end tailgate.
You spotted Lina standing near the refrigerator, her face a perfect mixture of intense stress and absolute disbelief. The second her eyes caught yours, she let out a breath. “Finally.”
You dropped your leather bag onto the marble island, your eyes instantly judging three guys who were currently tossing a lime between them. “What happened to the layout review, Lina?”
“I don’t know,” she groaned, throwing her hands in the air. “They just kept multiplying at the door.”
For the next ten minutes, the two of you attempted to restore some semblance of order. Attempted being the operational word.
You ordered a group of sophomores to clear off the dining table so you could set up your papers, while Lina tried to locate the bluetooth speaker to turn the volume down. The fraternity president promised to help line everyone up, then immediately got distracted by a text message and walked into the backyard.
Eventually, you gave up entirely. With a sharp sigh, you pulled your laptop from your bag, propped it open on the kitchen island, and opened the event draft anyway. If these idiots weren’t going to cooperate, you were at least going to finish the layout draft before the midnight deadline your professor had set.
Behind your back, the noise continued to swell. You hammered away at your keyboard, trying to block out the environment. Lina was currently arguing with a guy near the pantry about where she kept the extra cups, and another guy kept asking where the downstairs bathroom was like it was a riddle. Your fingers hovered over the keys, stalling out. You glanced up, and you immediately regretted it.
Across the expanse of the living room, Jungkook was leaning his weight back against the sofa, watching the room like the entire party had absolutely nothing to do with him.
Your jaw clenched in pure annoyance. Of course he looked perfect. His dark hair looked slightly damp at the temples, pushed back messily as if he’d been running his fingers through it all evening. The house was running warm from the sheer number of bodies, and there was a faint, glistening sheen of sweat along the side of his neck that caught the low light every time he turned his head.
Your brain, acting entirely against your best interests, cataloged every single detail; The way his hoodie sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, exposing the thick flex of his forearms every time he lifted his beer bottle. The casual, wide spread of his thighs as he sat back, one heavy arm thrown over the leather ridge of the couch.
It infuriated you how entirely unbothered he looked, like your entry into the house hadn’t even registered on his radar.
You snapped your eyes back down to your screen before your thoughts could drift down to your pelvis again. You tried to type a sentence, anything coherent but every five seconds, your eyes cut back up against your will.
Someone told a joke, and Jungkook let out a low, lazy laugh. Your stomach twisted into a knot, your fingers tapping a restless, chaotic rhythm against the marble counter. God, you loathed how hyper-aware you were of his breathing. It was like your nervous system was on strike, refusing to settle until he gave you some form of acknowledgment.
When he shifted his weight forward to set his beer down, his fingers raking briefly through his messy hair, you had to physically force your head down.
A deeply inconvenient thought flashed through your mind; remembering how it felt to have your own fingers tangled in those exact dark strands while he was buried between your legs. You snapped your gaze back to the monitor, your teeth biting into the inside of your lip.
This was ridiculous. You felt restless, irritable, and entirely pushed to the edge, but what was driving you genuinely insane was how Jungkook was sitting right there, acting like your entire existence meant absolutely nothing to him.
And then there was Minho. You noticed him a second later, leaning casually against the far counter near the liquor cabinet, talking smoothly to Lina. He looked perfectly comfortable, entirely unaffected by the text message he’d sent you three days ago, which only added fuel to the fire burning under your skin.
Perfect. Just beautiful. Your ex-boyfriend and his best friend, taking up the exact same square footage while you tried not to lose your godforsaken mind over a laptop.
Lina appeared beside you a moment later, cracking open a silver can of beer with a sharp hiss. She leaned her elbow on the island, peering over your shoulder at your spreadsheet, an apologetic look on her face. You just gave her a small, indifferent shrug.
She took a slow sip. “Maybe we should just call it a night and do this over zoom tomorrow,” she muttered, looking out at the living room. “They’re clearly not going to look at a budget. It’s pointless. We can just tell the department advisor that the frat ghosted.”
“And let the advisor think we can’t handle a bunch of engineering majors?” you scoffed, rolling your eyes as you typed another line. “No way. I’d rather do the entire layout by myself before I let them think I failed a project.”
Across the room, Jungkook’s eyes finally drifted over. He’d been half listening to a story from the guy next to him, his beer bottle hanging loosely from his index finger, but his attention shifted the exact second he noticed you hunched over the marble island. His dark eyes traced the silhouette of your shoulders, tracking the line of your neck for a long, quiet second before he took a slow sip of his drink.
A faint smirk touched the corner of his mouth. He set his bottle down and pushed his weight off the cushions. There was a dangerous amusement in his stride as he started walking straight toward the kitchen.
Behind you, Lina finished her can and glanced over her shoulder. “Oh, Minho needs help finding the cooler keys,” she muttered, already stepping away from the island. “I’ll be right back.”
The second she left, your fingers stalled on the keyboard. You stared at the glowing pixels, your posture locked.
Minho and Lina seemed oddly synchronized tonight, a realization that made you wonder if he’d already given her his manufactured version of why the two of you broke up. If he had, you could easily guess how he’d painted it. He’d probably made you out to be the cold, demanding bitch who expected too much.
But Lina had been strangely attentive to you all day, which didn’t make structural sense if she knew the truth. Then again, you didn’t even know the real catalyst behind the split yourself. All you knew for certain was that Jungkook’s mouth had been involved somewhere along the line.
Your fingers hovered over the home row.
Your shoulders locked instantly at the gravelly depth of that voice hitting your ear from right beside your shoulder. Your anatomy reacted before your brain could even process a defense; every single muscle along your spine went rigid, as if he’d just brushed a block of ice down your bare skin.
You hadn’t even heard his sneakers cross the tile. You slowly turned your chin.
Jungkook was leaning one heavy hip against the edge of the marble island, close enough that the radiating heat of his torso brushed against your arm. One of his large hands rested lazily on the white counter right next to your laptop casing, his beer bottle swinging loosely from his knuckles. Up close, the sharp symmetry of his face was completely unfair.
You forced your eyes back down to the screen, your jaw tightening until it ached. “Yes,” you said, your voice a razor sharp line. “Someone in this house has to be.”
Jungkook leaned a fraction closer, his chest nearly brushing your shoulder as he looked down at the document. Your entire frame went stone still; you could feel him deliberately invading your perimeter, filling your senses with the heavy scent of his cologne mixed with the warmth of his skin. It was suffocating.
Your fingers pressed harder into the keys, making a loud clicking sound.
Jungkook let out a low, quiet hum. “You’re actually trying to run a budget review in the middle of an annex party?” he asked, gesturing lazily with his free hand toward the roaring living room behind him.
You slammed the laptop screen down with a sharp, aggressive click. “What do you want, Jungkook?”
He raised his dark brows slightly, his expression perfectly innocent. “Oh, nothing.” He paused, his lips pulling into a mocking slant. “Just thought you looked like you were drowning out here.”
You stared right into his eyes. “You?” you scoffed, your voice dripping with venom. “Helping me?”
Jungkook took a slow swallow of his beer, his eyes never breaking contact with yours. Watching the thick muscle of his throat shift as he gulped the alcohol made a sudden, liquid prickle travel straight down your spine.
“Relax,” he said softly, “You look like you’re about to combust.”
You glared at him, knowing your cheeks were probably turning a deep, telltale crimson from pure irritation. Oh, if he only knew the half of it.
Refusing to let him win, you snapped the laptop open again, ignoring his presence entirely as you focused back on the grid. Jungkook didn’t move. His dark eyes scrolled lazily through the paragraphs on your screen, his expression returning to the indifferent mask he’d been wearing all week; as if you were a minor chore he didn’t want to waste his energy on.
You tried to block him out, typing another sentence with aggressive force. Beside you, Jungkook reached out without asking, his long index finger brushing the trackpad of your laptop to scroll down the page. The uninvited intrusion into your space made your jaw lock. “You could try asking,” you muttered through your teeth.
He didn’t look at you. “Didn’t need to.” The answer was an established fact.
You glared at the profile of his face, but he remained focused on the monitor, his posture perfectly loose as he rested one solid forearm against the marble. A stray, dark strand of hair fell across his brow as he tilted his head, scanning the next block of text. He clicked his tongue softly against his teeth. “This entire section is redundant.”
You whirled your head toward him. “Excuse me?”
Jungkook finally cut his eyes to yours, the sheer distance in his gaze making your pulse stutter. Then he looked back at the screen. “You already stated the venue capacity requirements three lines up.” He scrolled back up with the trackpad to prove it.
Your lips pressed into a tight line. “You’re not even on this committee, Jungkook.”
“Then why are you reading my project?” you snapped.
Jungkook merely leaned his weight further against the island, settling in like he had all the time in the world. “You left it wide open.”
You let out a sharp sigh, turning back to the keyboard and deleting the sentence with a few vicious strikes. For a moment, the only sound between you was the frantic clicking of the keys and the muffled bass from the living room. “Don’t look so incredibly pleased with yourself,” you broke the silence, unable to handle the quiet.
“I’m not,” he said calmly.
He gave a loose, single-shoulder shrug, taking another sip of his beer. “Maybe a little.”
You rolled your eyes, your fingers moving rapidly across the board now, trying to outrun his commentary. For another twenty seconds, neither of you said a word. Then, his voice cut through again. “You’re taking this pretty seriously.”
You didn’t look up from the cursor. “It’s called having an actual sense of responsibility.”
“Or just being incredibly stubborn.”
That made your fingers stall. Slowly, you turned your head to face him fully. “Do you mind?”
He raised an eyebrow, his expression perfectly blank. “Mind what?”
“You hovering over my shoulder.”
“I’m contributing,” he said flatly. “You’re really not,” you shot back.
Jungkook leaned back slightly against a barstool, his dark eyes tracking the tension in your shoulders. “You’re completely wound up,” he noted.
You let out a dry, bitter scoff. “Gee, I wonder what could possibly be causing that.”
From across the living room, someone yelled Jungkook’s name, waving a bottle and asking about the extra ice. He ignored the shout entirely, keeping his gaze locked on your face, then down to the screen, then back to your eyes.
“You know,” he said, his voice dropping a casual drawl, “you’d probably finish that layout a lot faster if you stopped glaring at the pixels like they insulted you.”
Your grip tightened around the edges of your aluminum laptop case. “Then maybe stop giving me an incentive to glare.”
His dark eyes flickered, a gleam of interest breaking through his cold exterior. Before he could formulate a response, a drunk sophomore accidentally crashed backward into the opposite side of the kitchen island, sending a spray of lukewarm beer sloshing across the white marble.
“Shit! Sorry, my bad—” the guy mumbled, stumbling back into the living room crowd.
You closed your eyes, letting out a ragged breath. “This is completely hopeless.”
“I thought you wanted quiet,” Jungkook said, his voice right next to your ear.
You opened your eyes and looked up at him, entirely unimpressed. “You are not quiet.”
Jungkook rested his elbow on the counter, his knuckles lazily brushing against the sharp edge of his jawline as he studied the flush on your neck. The low, recessed lighting of the kitchen made the hard angles of his face look entirely too pronounced.
He didn’t say anything for a long moment, then his hand reached forward, his fingers slowly turning your laptop a few inches toward his torso.
Your hands stopped instantly. You stared him down. “Touch that case one more time, and I will throw it at your head.”
Jungkook didn’t even blink at the threat. His eyes scanned the paragraph you’d just finished before he leaned back against the counter, perfectly loose. “You missed a comma after the clause.”
You stared at him for three long seconds before violently slamming the laptop lid closed. He only settled deeper into his space, his arms resting loosely across his chest.
“You’re welcome,” he said flatly.
Your eye literally twitched behind your frames. “You didn’t fix a single thing.”
He lifted one shoulder again. “Sure, princess.”
Your head snapped up, your posture going completely rigid. “What did you just call me?”
Jungkook’s expression didn’t even shift. “Princess.” He said it casually, as though it was the only accurate description available in the language, and a sudden, violent flash of heat traveled straight up your spine.
“Am I wrong?” he asked as he tracked the way your breath hitched. “You walk around this campus acting like everyone was put here to follow your itinerary.”
You pushed your stool back with a loud scrape. “At least I’m actually attempting to produce something instead of sitting around in sweatpants, drinking beer, and criticizing people who do real work.”
Jungkook’s gaze flicked down to your closed laptop, then slowly rose back to your eyes. “You’re not trying to get work done.”
Your brows knitted together. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“You’re just trying to maintain control over a room,” he said simply.
You let out a disbelieving laugh at the sheer audacity. “You don’t know the first thing about me, Jungkook.”
His dark eyes lingered on your mouth for a fraction of a second. “You’re right,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, turning significantly colder. “But I do know exactly what you’re looking for tonight.”
Your stomach twisted into a tight knot. “And what’s that?”
He studied the pulse points on your neck before leaning across the marble island, his face inches from yours. “Attention.”
Your jaw tightened until it clicked. “Oh, please.”
“And when you don’t get it,” he continued in a low, raspy murmur, “you get mean.”
You stared at him, blood boiling at the sheer nerve of him. “You’re the one who walked across this kitchen,” you hissed. “No one invited you over here.”
The absolute corner of his mouth twitched upward at your fury. “You’re trying to prove a point.”
You yanked your stool back harder this time, the metal legs groaning against the tile as you snatched your laptop off the counter. “I am entirely done with this conversation.”
Jungkook didn’t move an inch to clear your path, his eyes gleaming with clear mockery. “Running away already?” he asked. You shot him a look. “I’m going upstairs to find a room that doesn’t have you in it.”
You turned on your heel, but paused right at the threshold of the kitchen hallway, your fingers digging into the edge of your laptop. “God, you are such a fucking asshole.”
He didn’t argue the point; just watching your retreat like he’d already scripted your next three moves.
You marched toward the staircase, trying desperately to ignore the way your skin was vibrating from the friction of the argument and the even more infuriating realization that a pathetic, weak part of your body wanted him to drop his bottle and follow you up the steps.
Jungkook stayed perfectly still by the counter, watching the bounce of your skirt as you climbed the stairs. He finished the last of his beer in one heavy swallow, then set the empty bottle down on the marble with a dull, heavy thud. His gaze lingered on the dark staircase for three seconds. Then he stood up straight and followed you.
You stormed up the carpeted stairs, your head buzzing with a dangerous combination of pure irritation and adrenaline. You moved quickly down the second-floor hallway, looking for any door that didn’t have light bleeding under the frame until you found a dark guest room.
You stepped inside, ready to slam the door behind you, though, you didn’t even get the chance to reach for the wall switch before the heavy oak door shut with a muffled click.
A sharp gasp left your throat as a large palm suddenly clamped down hard over your mouth, your back hitting the drywall with a thud that rattled your spine. Your heart leapt violently into your throat.
For half a second, your survival instincts kicked in and you raised your hands to fight, but then the familiar scent of his cologne filled your nose, and your muscles instantly recognized him. Your brows knitted together in pure fury as you twisted under his weight, your fingers locking around his thick wrist to wrench his hand away from your lips.
“Are you out of your mind?” you hissed the second you managed to shove his palm down. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
The room was pitch black. You could barely make out the sharp outline of his torso in front of you; just the massive presence of his chest blocking the exit, trapping you against the wall.
Your spine was pressed flat against the plaster as his forearm braced right next to your ear, sealing you in. You pushed against his chest with both hands. “Move, Jungkook.”
Jungkook let out a quiet breath, a sound somewhere between a scoff and a dark laugh. “You’re the one who ran up the stairs,” he said, his voice a vibrating rumble in the dark.
“Yeah, to get away from your annoying mouth,” you snapped back instantly.
“Doesn’t look like you barred the door very hard.”
Your jaw clenched. “You followed me into a dark guest room and pinned me to a wall,” you muttered, your voice shaking slightly. “That’s not exactly subtle behavior, even for you.”
He shifted his weight, the movement dragging the rough denim of his jeans against your bare knees, and the sudden heat of his body made your pulse spike in the most aggravating way possible.
Then, out of absolutely nowhere, “Since when do you wear glasses?”
You blinked behind the lenses. “What?”
The question was so entirely random it derailed your anger for a split second. You squinted up at him in the shadows. “What the hell are you even talking about?”
Something faintly reflective glinted on the carpet near your feet, drawing both of your eyes down. Ah. Your frames. They must have slipped out of your tote bag when he shoved you against the wall.
“Great,” you muttered under your breath, already bending your knees to reach for them, but Jungkook was faster. He anticipated the movement, blocking your descent.
Your back pressed even flatter against the drywall as he slowly dropped down, lowering himself all the way to his knees right in front of your legs, causing your breath to catch completely. “What are you doing?” you asked quickly, suspicion sharpening your tone.
He didn't give you a verbal answer. Instead, his large, warm hands reached out, fingers wrapping around your bare ankle. His thumb brushed over the leather strap of your heel, adjusting the buckle as if it actually required maintenance. Your lungs completely emptied at the burning contact of his skin against your bare leg.
His palm rested heavy against your ankle bone, and your brain, entirely unhelpful, instantly generated three different possibilities as to why he was currently on his knees between your spread legs in a dark room. Your hand lifted automatically, your fingers hovering over his dark hair, ready to grip it before you could catch yourself.
And then he stood up. The fragile moment snapped instantly, and your hand froze awkwardly mid-air before you dropped it back to your side, cursing your own weakness.
Jungkook straightened his spine, rising to his full height in front of you. The black-rimmed glasses were now hooked loosely between two of his fingers. And instead of just lifting them up to your face, he dragged the plastic frames upward, letting the edge glide lightly along the bare skin of your outside calf.
Your breath staggered as the plastic slid over your knee, his fingers gently skimming your skin, causing your thighs to tense up instantly. He took his sweet time, fully aware of the electric reaction he was drawing out of your nerves.
When the frame glided along the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, you instinctively tried to clamp your knees together to trap his hand before it could reach your underwear. But he was too quick, slipping the glasses away just before your thighs could lock around his wrist.
By the time you looked back up at his face, he was standing tall in front of you again, his expression perfectly blank, as if nothing had happened.
You stared at him, a hot wave of irritation flaring in your chest. “You could have just picked them up normally,” you said.
Jungkook reached forward, his large fingers carefully sliding the arms of the glasses over your ears, positioning them back on the bridge of your nose clinically. Your jaw clenched behind the frames.
He tilted his head slightly, studying your eyes through the lenses now that they were back in place. “You dropped them,” he said flatly.
“That doesn't give you the right to—” You cut yourself off before you could finish the thought. His dark gaze flicked briefly down to the trembling tension in your thighs before returning to your eyes.
By the sheer look in his eyes, you knew he was fully aware of exactly how close you were to breaking. And the fact that he still hadn't kissed you or properly touched your skin made the frustration coil deeper into your pelvis.
“Are you done yet?” you asked sharply.
“With whatever psychological game this is.”
Jungkook considered your expression, then said in a quiet, dangerous murmur, “You’re the one who looks like she’s begging for something.”
You glared through your frames. “You’re playing with me.” His gaze flicked down to your mouth for half a second before rising. “Am I?”
He slid his heavy thigh forward, wedging it directly between yours and pressing up against your crotch. A broken gasp slipped from your lips before you could stop, a wave of heat flooding your face instantly.
Pure embarrassment raced through your veins as you forced your muscles to stay still, refusing to give him the satisfied reaction he was clearly digging for. Your fingers curled against the drywall behind your hips as you struggled to keep your breathing intact.
“Move,” you muttered, though the command came out weak. He didn't move an inch. If anything, the solid pressure of his thigh shifted slightly, a tiny adjustment of his weight that made your breath catch in your throat. You tried your absolute best not to give him the satisfaction of total control, because the second you shifted even a fraction of an inch, it would look like you were grinding yourself against his leg which was exactly what your body was fighting not to do.
Jungkook’s voice was a low gravel when he spoke again. “You were saying something downstairs.”
Your eyes narrowed behind your glasses. Your thighs tensed involuntarily around his denim-clad leg, your muscles fighting to relax while he held you pinned right where he wanted you. The absolute corner of his mouth twitched before he pressed his thigh further up into your heat, causing you to clench against him with a sharp hiss. It didn't help at all that your short skirt had bunched up around your hips, leaving your thin silk panties damp with your own arousal and pressed directly against the rough fabric of his jeans.
Your irritation and need spiked through your chest simultaneously. “You’re doing this on purpose,” you accused, your voice raspy.
He didn't even bother to deny it. “Doing what?” His mouth was right next to your ear now, the proximity making his thigh press even deeper between your legs. The friction filled movement pulled a humiliating whimper from your throat before you could clamp your teeth shut.
“You know exactly what, Jungkook.”
Another heavy second ticked by, then he leaned just a fraction closer, his chest anchoring your weight to the wall, though his hands remained flat against the plaster. “If I knew exactly what you wanted,” he murmured against your skin, “you wouldn't still be standing here talking.”
Your breath stuttered as you tried to lean back, flattening your palms against his broad chest to force some distance between you, but he only crowded closer, taking up every available inch of oxygen. Your skirt bunched even higher on your thighs, making every tiny adjustment of his weight drag a wave of delicious, maddening heat through your nerves.
Your fingers clutched the cotton of his shirt. “Move,” you whispered, completely wrecked.
He didn't comply, his face lowering until his lips were barely a breath away from yours. You could feel the intense warmth of his mouth against your skin. Before your pride could interfere, you leaned forward to close the distance and kiss him... And Jungkook instantly stepped back.
His heavy thigh slid out from between your legs, the friction vanishing in a split second. You almost stumbled forward from the sudden, jarring loss of contact. Your hands gripped his shirt tighter, your fingers curling into the fabric as if you could physically pull his weight back into place.
But Jungkook just stood there, his hands sliding casually into his hoodie pockets as he watched your chest heave. Your fingers trembled slightly where they were holding him. Before you could lash out, the wall switch clicked, and the bright overhead bedroom light flicked on.
The sudden illumination made you blink rapidly, your pupils contracting. Jungkook finally got a clear, unobstructed look at you; your flushed cheeks, your messy hair, and your black-rimmed glasses sitting slightly askew on your nose.
His dark eyes lingered on your face for a quiet moment, then he tilted his head faintly. “Huh,” he said softly.
You stared at him, your chest rising and falling violently. “What?”
His eyes flicked briefly back to the frames. “They actually suit you.”
You couldn't tell if that was a genuine compliment or just another layer of his game. Before you could formulate a response, he turned on his heel toward the door, preparing to just walk right out after what he’d just done to your body.
Your hands fell to your sides, shaking with leftover adrenaline and unspent friction. Jungkook didn’t say another word; he just opened the door, stepped into the hallway, and let it click shut behind him.
You stared at the wood for a quiet second, your entire lower half still buzzing with a heavy tension that had absolutely nowhere to go. You smoothed down the hem of your skirt, though that did nothing to calm the restless heat under your skin. You were supposed to be upstairs working, and instead, you’d spent ten minutes letting him dismantle your composure, only for him to walk away.
You fixed your hair in the vanity mirror, adjusted your glasses, and finally forced yourself to leave the room.
By the time you made it back downstairs, the party had swelled, more bodies crowding into the living room. Your eyes scanned the clusters of people automatically, looking for a grey hoodie. No sign of him anywhere.
Fine. If he wanted to vanish into the night, he could go to hell.
You turned toward the kitchen counter instead. A cold drink sounded necessary right now. Actually, three of them sounded better.
You pushed your way through the dense crowd, reaching for the edge of the marble island just as a senior turned around too quickly right next to your shoulder, his red cup tilting.
A cold, heavy splash hit your chest.
Lukewarm beer soaked straight through the cream knit of your top, the wet fabric immediately clinging to your skin. You froze in place.
“Oh, shit—” The guy holding the cup looked absolutely horrified, his jaw dropping. “I am so sorry, holy shit, I didn't see you right there—”
You looked down slowly at your expensive knit top, completely ruined by a dark puddle. You looked back up, ready to absolutely incinerate him where he stood, but the frat boy looked like he was about to faint from pure panic. “I swear to God I didn't mean to, hang on—”
He grabbed a white dish towel from the counter and hurriedly stepped into your space, reaching out to wipe the liquid off your chest before abruptly freezing mid motion. His face turned a bright, violent red as he realized where his hand was heading. “Uh, sorry. Sorry—”
He shoved the towel into your hands instead. You stared at his terrified expression, then let out a humorless laugh. “Great,” you muttered, grabbing the cloth and dabbing uselessly at the stain. “Perfect. Exactly how I wanted this evening to go.”
“I’ll buy you a new one,” he stammered, pointing at your shirt. “I swear. Whatever the tag says.”
You glanced at his worn sneakers. “You probably don't want to hear that number.”
He winced. “Yeah… probably not.”
You glared at him for a second longer, the frustration from upstairs still humming under your nerves, but his expression was so genuinely pathetic that it took the bite out of your anger. It was obviously an accident. And judging by the way he looked like he might throw up if you handed him an invoice, you were pretty sure he couldn't afford to replace it anyway. So you just let out a heavy sigh.
The beer had soaked completely through the knit, leaving a damp, sheer patch across your front. The material was cold and sticky against your skin. You grimaced, feeling thoroughly uncomfortable. The guy hovered awkwardly for another second before scrambling to grab an unopened beer from the ice bucket.
He handed it to you like a peace offering. “Here. Uh... sorry again.”
You noticed how he was still bracing for an explosion. That pulled a small, bitter laugh out of your throat. “Relax,” you said, taking the cold can. “I’m not going to execute you in the kitchen.”
He let out a massive breath of relief. You cracked the tab and took a long swallow, the cold bitterness hitting your tongue. “Thanks for the total chaos, Jake,” you added dryly, tilting your head. “You guys throw these ragers every single weekend, but the one time we expect actual focus for a department deadline, you turn the house into an annex.” That shut him up instantly.
Across the room, you suddenly felt the distinct weight of a gaze locking onto your skin.Jungkook had just walked back through the front door. He hadn’t planned on staying inside long, but the exact second his sneakers cleared the threshold, his eyes went straight to the kitchen island. He took in the sight of your damp shirt clinging to your chest, the sophomore standing too close to your perimeter, the can in your hand, and the small laugh that had just left your mouth.
Jungkook stopped moving entirely near the living room entrance. He watched the entire interaction play out. His tongue pressed hard against the inside of his cheek as his dark eyes stayed glued to your wet top.
Jake muttered another quick apology before drifting back toward the couches, clearly relieved to escape with his life. You stayed by the island for another second, dabbing the towel against the fabric, but it was useless; the knit was thoroughly wet.
You took another long sip of your drink, deliberately avoiding eye contact with the front door, but your pulse fluttered when you saw his grey silhouette shift and start moving toward the kitchen.
You immediately turned toward the hallway bathroom, pretending you hadn’t seen him watching you.
The heavy bathroom door shut behind you, instantly muffling the thump of the bass.
You set your can on the porcelain sink and leaned over the glass to inspect the damage. The cream fabric was nearly translucent now, sticking to your skin. “Perfect,” you muttered, ripping off a handful of paper towels and blotting the knit, but it only made the material look wrinkled and ruined. There was no fixing it.
You straightened up, staring at your reflection; your cheeks were still flushed from upstairs, and your glasses were slightly crooked. Your only real option was to walk back out there looking like a mess.
You reached for the brass handle, twisting it open, and the second the door cracked, you were violently pushed right back inside by a heavy weight. His large hand caught your wrist, pulling you backward into the small bathroom before the door slammed shut behind him loudly. You stumbled over your heels, catching your balance against the edge of the sink.
“What the hell?!” You whirled on him instantly, your voice dropping into a furious whisper. “Are you completely insane?”
Jungkook was standing directly between you and the exit, his broad shoulders locked, dark eyes burning with an intensity that made your chest tighten.
“Someone could have easily seen you,” you hissed, stepping right into his space. “You just marched into a single-occupancy bathroom right after me.”
His jaw tightened. “And?” he said flatly.
“And?” you repeated, your voice rising in anger. “The house is full of people we know, Jungkook. If someone saw you follow me in here—”
“Then what?” he cut you off.
Your mouth snapped shut. You hated that question, mostly because you didn’t have a logical answer to give him. You crossed your arms over your chest instead, partly out of defense and to hide the sheer fabric of your shirt. “You’re being completely reckless tonight.”
His dark eyes dropped immediately to your chest, tracking the way the wet knit plastered against your skin. He stared at the outline of your body for one heavy second before his gaze snapped back up to your eyes.
“Seriously,” you muttered, trying to maintain your glare though the sudden heat in your stomach betrayed you. “What is your problem?” There was something dangerous in his expression now. “You looked pretty occupied out there,” he said calmly, taking a heavy step forward that forced you to step back against the porcelain.
You caught his tone instantly, letting out a sharp scoff. “With Jake? He spilled his drink all over my top.”
Jungkook’s face didn’t soften. You couldn’t tell if he was furious or just entirely done with the night. “You seemed perfectly comfortable letting him handle the towel.”
Your eyebrows shot up behind your frames. “Oh my God,” you laughed under your breath, your voice thick with sarcasm. “Yeah, Jungkook. I deliberately spilled alcohol all over myself because I was dying for attention. Clearly, it’s all part of my master plan to get a sophomore to look at me.” You gestured aggressively down at the ruin of your top.
“That’s not what I said.”
“Really?” you fired right back. “Because twenty minutes ago upstairs, you seemed pretty convinced I was desperate for it.”
Jungkook just stood there, crowding your space, his eyes drilling into yours until your irritation flared back into pure, hot need. “God, what is your issue tonight?” you snapped, your hands trembling. “You follow me into a dark room, pin me against the wall, tease my body for ten minutes, and then just walk out.” Your voice dropped into a raspy whisper. “And now you’re acting like a lunatic because a guy handed me a napkin?”
His eyes narrowed to slits at your outburst. “Is that why you’re so frustrated right now?” he asked. You crossed your arms tighter. “Maybe it is.”
Jungkook tilted his head, taking one final step until his torso was nearly pinning yours against the sink basin. “Or maybe,” he said, his voice dropping into a brutal gravel, “it’s because I haven’t fucked you in a week.”
His raw words hit like an open flame, and your mouth dropped open. “Are you serious right now?”
“You’re the one who drew the blueprint,” he continued, his face inches from yours. “No strings attached. Just sex.”
Your eyes flashed. “That doesn’t mean you get to treat me like—”
“Like what?”You glared up at him. “Like you can just turn me on and walk away whenever you feel like pulling a power move.”
The air in the small bathroom turned thick and suffocating before he opened his mouth again. “You just hate not getting exactly what you want, when you want it.”
Your temper dissolved into pure, defensive rage at his attempt to analyze you. “Again, you don’t know the first thing about me, Jungkook.”
He stepped closer, obliterating the last remaining inch of space between your bodies. His face lowered until his breath hit your cheek. “No,” he murmured. “You don’t know the first thing about yourself.”
Your breath caught in your throat. “You are so full of shit,” you whispered.
Jungkook let out a slow, heavy exhale. “You’re the one talking entirely too much tonight.”
Your pulse leaped as his hand suddenly snapped out, locking onto your waist and yanking your body forward until your pelvis hit his.
His face dropped into the crook of your neck, his lips pressing against your bare skin in a rough, biting kiss that sent a violent shock of relief straight down to your knees. You sucked in a sharp breath, your hands instantly flying up to fist the fabric of his grey hoodie. “Jungkook—”
But he didn’t give you a verbal response. His mouth moved aggressively along your jawline, his lips punishing your skin like he was trying to prove a point you’d both been denying all day.
Your fingers tightened in his dark hair despite the anger blooming under your ribs. He bit down on your collarbone, drawing a soft, broken gasp from your throat before his heavy hands hooked into the rounded collar of your shirt. With one impatient, downward yank, he pulled both the knit and the lace of your bra down to your waist, exposing your bare breasts to the cool air of the bathroom.
“You are such an idiot,” you breathed heavily, your fingers digging into his scalp as his mouth closed over your nipple, sucking hard.
He let out a low, muffled grunt against your skin that sounded almost like a humorless laugh, his teeth grazing the sensitive tip until a soft whimper cut from your lips.
A second later, he broke the contact, his head lifting for a split second before he abruptly dropped down to his knees on the tiled floor in front of you.Your lungs completely emptied as his head disappeared beneath the hem of your short skirt. The sudden, violent shift in control made your head spin with a mix of fear and intense desperation. You were still furious with him, but your anatomy was completely ruled by the starvation of the last three days.
The tension coiled in your pelvis was unbearable. Your fingers hesitated for half a second over his shoulders, embarrassed by how badly your body was craving his mouth, but the second his warm lips traced a line of wet kisses up the inside of your thighs, you gave up completely. Your fingers locked into his dark hair, guiding his head closer with frantic impatience.
You threw your head back against the mirror, a wrecked sound escaping you as the wet texture of his tongue hit your clitoris right through the thin silk of your panties. Your legs started shaking violently from the sheer sensitivity of the contact.
Jungkook reached up, grabbing your right thigh and hoisting it over his broad shoulder to lock your pelvis in place beneath his mouth.
Soft, broken whimpers left your lips as his tongue worked through the wet fabric, every lick so heavy it made you gasp loud enough to echo off the bathroom tiles. Your thighs tried to clamp around his head, your spine arching completely off the porcelain counter.
“Jungkook, oh my god—” He shut his eyes tightly in the dark of your skirt, inhaling the deep, musky scent of your arousal before letting out a low groan against your skin.
His mouth opened completely against you, tasting your slick through the silk with a frantic, hungry desperation that bled through his cold mask. You bit down hard on your own knuckles to stop yourself from letting out high-pitched, loud sounds that would carry right through the wood.
The terrifying possibility of someone walking past the door made your heart slam against your ribs like a hammer. “No... someone’s going to hear us,” you protested weakly, getting entirely overwhelmed by the speed of the friction, trying to push his shoulders away even though your hips were subconsciously bucking into his mouth.
But Jungkook only tightened his grip on your thighs, pinning your weight to the porcelain and dragging your hips closer until you had absolutely nowhere to slide. “You’re not going anywhere,” he rasped against your skin, completely raw and muffled between heavy, wet licks.
Your breath hitched as you writhed against his mouth, entirely overstimulated now. “Kook, I can’t... I can’t do this here—” your voice trembled, on the absolute verge of tears from the sheer volume of the sensation.
Your thighs were shaking too hard to hold their position on his shoulders, but his iron grip kept you anchored while you squirmed, terrified of being discovered by Lina or your ex-boyfriend just ten feet away.
A sharp, loud moan slipped past your teeth, and you immediately slapped your palm over your mouth, your eyes wide with panic.
You were still trying to catch your breath when he abruptly stopped. Following your frantic pleas and the way your hands were pushing at his head, he let go of your legs, leaving your thighs to snap shut instinctively.He stood up to his full height, his dark eyes fixed on your trembling frame, his breathing heavy but his expression tight. He was forcing his own body to halt before he lost his grip on the room.
You were left completely shaky, unfulfilled, and hovering right on the edge of a cliff for the first time in your life.
While you wheezed for air, his large hand lifted toward your face, his fingers gently sliding your black-rimmed glasses off your nose. Before you could react to the loss of your armor, his other hand hooked hard behind the back of your neck, yanking your face forward into a rough, deep, crushing kiss that tasted like your own slick.
Your fingers immediately clutched the front of his hoodie, your lips parting to deepen the contact in pure desperation but just as quickly as it had started, he ripped his mouth away from yours, ignoring your low sound of protest.
The look in his dark eyes was steel cold, his jaw locked tight. He looked down at your doe eyes, his chest heaving. “Don’t start something you don’t have the stomach to finish next time,” he sajd quietly before turning on his heel.
He grabbed the brass handle, and walked straight out into the hallway, slamming the bathroom door shut behind him. You were left completely alone in the small room, your heart hammering against your ribs.
What the hell was his issue tonight?
You genuinely had no operational theory as to why he was suddenly so furious, or why he’d just abandoned you on the sink like that.
You had pushed him away, sure, but it was purely because you were terrified of getting caught by twenty people in a crowded house.
And why did he look like he wanted to murder Jake over a dish towel? You couldn’t figure him out at all. It was like he’d surgically removed the part of himself that used to look at you with warmth after you’d called him pathetic in his car.
And you loathed admitting it to yourself, but you deeply missed the version of him that wasn’t so vicious and rude.
Not that you were ever going to apologize; because he’d never actually given you an indication that he wanted anything more than a secret arrangement anyway. And the absolute hell he’d put you through while you were dating Minho, constantly picking at your relationship, calling you a prudish rich girl who liked playing house justified your armor. So no. You were absolutely not apologizing. Even if your fights with him lately felt way too personal and way too heavy to just be casual bickering.
And you definitely weren’t frustrated because he hadn’t slept with you in days.
You weren’t. You were just... maybe a little humiliated that he had the power to look at you and say it out loud like that. He knew the exact psychological button to press just to watch you unravel.
You stayed by the sink for another full minute with your thoughts, staring into the glass with your glasses clutched loosely in your fingers.
The heat sitting low in your abdomen only burned hotter now that he’d left you stranded on the edge. Technically, you’d ordered him to stop.
You shoved your glasses back over your ears, turned the brass faucet, and ran freezing water over your wrists to bring your pulse down. You grabbed a paper towel, dabbing uselessly at the beer stain on your top before giving up on the fabric entirely.
With a heavy sigh, you pushed the door open and stepped back into the corridor. The noise of the annex party hit you instantly.
You made it halfway down the narrow hall before a hand clamped onto your forearm.“Whoa, what the hell happened to you?” Lina looked you up and down, her eyes immediately zeroing in on the damp, sheer patch across your chest. “Oh my God,” she said, her expression turning to horror as she dragged you toward the kitchen. “Did someone dump a drink on you?”
“Yes,” you said, your voice entirely deadpan. She frowned, looking around. “Why didn't you shout for me?”
“Because it’s just cheap beer, Lina. It’s not a national emergency.” Lina stopped by a kitchen stool, squinting at your face. “Who are you and what have you done with my best friend? Usually, you’d be threatening to sue their parents for the price of the silk by now.”
She walked over to a nearby armchair where a mountain of guests' jackets had been dumped earlier, rummaging through the fabric. “Take this,” she said, pulling out an oversized, faded vintage sweatshirt. “My brother left it in my car last weekend.”
You hesitated for a fraction of a second before snatching the thick cotton and pulling it over your head. You were grateful to hide the sheer cream fabric, though the soggy feeling of the wet knit sticking to your skin beneath the sweatshirt made you grimace.
Lina watched you carefully as you adjusted the long sleeves. “You are in a thoroughly foul mood,” she noted.
You shot her a venomous look through your frames. “I’m always in a foul mood, Lina.” You reached onto the counter, grabbed a random unopened can someone had left behind, and took a long, burning sip.
Lina leaned her weight closer to your shoulder, her voice dropping. “...Is this about Minho being here?”
Your neck snapped toward her instantly. “What?”
“You’ve been completely weird all night,” she said, her eyes tracking your expression carefully. “And you keep vanishing into the back hallways.”
You let out a harsh scoff. “Please. Don't flatter him.”
But Lina didn't look convinced. Her eyes narrowed into tiny slits as she inspected your posture. “...Is it because he and I have been hanging out a lot lately?”
You blinked behind your glasses, entirely caught off guard. “What the hell are you talking about?”
She shrugged her shoulders, her expression turning slightly awkward as she looked down at her fingernails. “Minho and me,” she said softly. “We’ve been helping each other with some department stuff over the last week. I just... I thought maybe you felt weird seeing him around my house.”
Oh. You awkwardly twirled a strand of your hair between your fingers, forcing your facial muscles into an unbothered expression so she wouldn’t see you calculating the timeline.
You took another slow swallow of your drink instead. “Why on earth would I care who you hang out with?” you said probably the single closest thing to an honest statement you’d made all evening.
Lina paused for half a second, and then her entire face lit up with a massive wave of visible relief. “Right,” she said quickly, a smile breaking across her mouth. “Of course. I knew you wouldn’t.”
You narrowed your eyes slightly at how fast her relief had surfaced, but you chose not to comment on the shift. She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, suddenly looking far more cheerful than she had since you walked through the door. “Okay, good. That’s really good to know.”
You raised a singular brow. “You’re being incredibly weird, Lina.”
“I’m not,” she said smoothly, already backing away toward the living room archway. “I just... it’s good to clear the air. Anyway, we still have to wrap this entire event layout up somehow,” she added, clapping her hands together as if remembering her job. “Don’t forget to submit that email draft to the professor tonight.”
“I’ll send it from my desktop the second I get home,” you replied flatly.
Lina let out a highly dramatic sigh, her shoulders dropping. “Thank you. Seriously.”
She looked out at the absolute disaster of her living room. “And now I have the joy of trying to evict thirty drunk engineering majors before my mother’s flight lands tomorrow morning.”
You let out a quiet snort. “Good luck with that project.”
“Yeah,” she muttered grimly, turning toward the center of the noise. “I’m going to need security.”
A second later, her voice echoed through the high ceilings sharply. “Alright! The keg is tapped out, boys! Party’s officially over! Everybody out of the house!”
A collective chorus of groans and complaints followed the announcement immediately. You leaned your weight back against the kitchen counter, quietly finishing the rest of your can as you watched the agonizingly slow process of guys gathering their keys and stumbling toward the front door.
The house gradually cleared out, the volume fading down to zero as groups spilled out onto the dark driveway. Lina stood right at the threshold of the foyer, practically herding bodies out the door while laughing and apologizing to her neighbors at the same time.
You stepped onto the front porch to get away from the smell of stale liquor while she handled the final wave of departures.
Lina leaned out the front door, shouting down the driveway. “Text me when you get to your apartment!” she called after a group of girls, laughing as she finally clicked the heavy deadbolt into place.
You stood near the concrete curb with your arms folded tightly over the oversized sweatshirt, waiting for your driver, who was late yet again. You tapped your phone screen.
Driver status — 7 minutes away.
Behind your back, the front window cracked open briefly, and Lina poked her head through the screen. “Hey! I’m going to lock the porch lights and start bleaching the kitchen before my parents get back tomorrow. Are you good out there?”
“I’m fine,” you called back.
“Text me when you get in!”
Her head disappeared back inside, and the window slid shut, leaving you entirely alone on the quiet, dark street. A split second later, the distinct sound of heavy footsteps crunched on the gravel behind your heels. You didn’t even bother turning your head.
“Your ride still hasn’t materialized?” Jungkook’s voice cut through the quiet, making you let out a heavy sigh. “Nope.”
He stopped a few feet away from your shoulder, his hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets. “My car is parked right there at the curb,” he said, nodding toward the dark sedan. “Need a ride?”
You finally cut your eyes toward him, knowing exactly what kind of ride he meant by that. “I am not getting into a car with you tonight, Jungkook.”
He gave a loose, indifferent shrug, as if he’d fully anticipated the refusal. “Suit yourself.”
A heavy silence settled over the asphalt between you. Then, his dark eyes flicked toward the front of Lina’s dark house. “She always just leaves you standing on a curb alone like that?” he asked, his voice dropping critically.
You frowned up at him through your glasses. “Like what?”
“In a yard after a house party,” he said flatly. “While she’s busy closing up.”
Your head snapped toward him fully at the critique. “She’s not just closing up, Jungkook. She has a family crisis to clean up before her parents land.”
Jungkook tilted his chin down, his eyes dark behind his bangs. “No?”
“She just has other things to occupy her mind,” you snapped, your defensiveness flaring. “Unlike your friends.”
The corner of his mouth twitched faintly. “What kind of best friend leaves you standing in the dark on a public street while she takes care of everyone else inside?”
Your irritation boiled over instantly. “You do not get to lecture me about the dynamics of friendship, Jungkook. Not after your track record.”
His dark eyes narrowed into thin slits. “Oh?”
You let out a short, biting laugh. “Yeah. Oh.”
For three long seconds, neither of you said another word. Then, he let out a quiet sigh, cutting his gaze down the empty road. “Your driver is taking his sweet time.”
You glared at the side of his neck. “Thanks for the traffic update.”
Another car passed the intersection, its headlights sweeping over your frames, but it wasn’t your ride. Jungkook pushed his weight off the curb after a moment, his hands remaining in his pockets as his eyes did one final, heavy sweep over your oversized sweatshirt. “Try not to trip over that massive attitude before your car actually gets here,” his voice dropped into an aggravating tease.
He turned on his heel and walked back toward his sedan, hitting his key fob with a quiet beep.You assumed he was going to pull out of the driveway and leave you there, but he didn’t.
Jungkook leaned his hips against the driver’s side door instead, crossing his heavy arms over his chest as he stared down the empty cul-de-sac like he was waiting out a timer.
Your phone suddenly buzzed with a notification—your driver had finally arrived, two bright headlights appearing at the edge of the street.
You stepped off the curb as the car pulled up to the line, pulling the comically large sweatshirt tighter around your waist to shield your skin from the midnight wind.
As you opened the rear door, you couldn’t stop yourself from casting one final look back over your shoulder; He hadn’t shifted an inch.
Jungkook was still leaning against the metal of his door, silently tracking every single move you made in the dark. Only when you slid onto the leather seat and the door shut with a heavy thud did his head finally turn away.
Your driver hit the gas, and as the car pulled away from the curb, Jungkook’s sedan remained exactly where you’d left him, holding his ground in the dark.
note; hi my loves <3 im not going to have much free time anymore so hopefully, i’ll try updating this every tuesday as keeping a deadline will probably help wrap it up faster. And, i would feel super unsatisfied if i can’t write all of it in hecking detail; hence the long word counts so please bear with me lol :s
thankyou for reading!! ^^
🖇tags!!<33 @magicalnachocreator @jungkookgoodlookin @cherricherryy @cookysstuff
lmk if yall wanna be tagged when i post next!!
