( SPEAKING IN BODIES. )
The holidays have never meant much to you - less a promise of Christmas morning joy and more a reminder of all the things you’ve lost. Some would call you a grinch; others, just a plain old asshole. Jeon Jungkook would call you both. The more time you spend together, though, the more you thaw, melting beneath the sun that seems to sit right in the centre of his chest.
pairing. jjk x f!reader. genre + rating. mature. holiday!au. humour, fluff, angst, one (1) brief mention of bedroom activities. tags. jungkook being annoying, reader being equally annoying, referenced minor character death, super corny holiday-themed jokes. wc. 5.1k. beta reader. @hobi-gif, my forever queen, and @yeoldontknow, my saviour. graphic. @kookdiaries (ty!!).
a/n. this is a gift for the hoeliday well spent portion of the christmas in july collab hosted by the incredible @kookdiaries, @kithtaehyung, and @xiaokoo. please give every fic included a read because this is a wonderful idea and exactly what everyone needs during these hot summer months. ✨
November 25th. A day like any other.
For most people, at least. For you, it’s the day you’d signed your life away. A bit dramatic, perhaps, but true nonetheless. It’s exactly one month from Christmas, the same day your father had brought you into his office and levelled you with that stare of his - firm, unrelenting, the kind of look that left no room for debate.
(“Just take care of it,” he’d said, dismissive.
“Why me?” you’d shot back, exactly the petulant child he always claimed you to be.
He, more than anyone, should have known asking this of you was a recipe for trouble. But in true fashion, in the maddening way that only fathers could master, he’d brushed you off. Said something about taking one for the team before his assistant had shepherded you from the room.)
It bothers you even now, a week later, standing beneath the awning of the bus shelter, rolling luggage settled at your feet, down jacket pulled tight around your body. It’s colder than you’d anticipated and only because you’ve been standing there for far longer than you’d been prepared for, ends of your fingers touched by the cold, tip of your nose suffering the same treatment.
“Where is he?” You’re speaking to yourself - a habit you’ve always had, that presents itself in the worst of times. (Often, during meetings when your self-restraint runs thin, patience snapped clean in half by stupid questions.)
Irritation curls itself around the column of your throat, woven into the cashmere that loops like a warm blanket over your skin. You’d said noon sharp, had you not? Followed up about it twice, even, shooting off a concise email that morning before you’d stepped onto the bus and spent eight long hours breathing mostly recycled air and surrounded by screaming children.
Some would describe hell as a raging inferno; you’d say it’s right here, beneath a haze of light snow and waning sunshine.
You’d been wrong. So terribly, awfully wrong.
Hell hadn’t been standing under a blanket of snow, waiting for some backwoods Prince Charming to sweep you off your feet. It’s now, in the warmth of a car that’s got some questionable stains on the seats and a giant crack through the front windshield. It’s beside someone who makes you want to tear your own hair out, who’s been singing (surprisingly on-key) along to Christmas songs since the moment you stepped foot into the vehicle.
“Could you not?” Anyone else might have some semblance of kindness, too afraid to speak out so rudely to someone they’ve just met. Not you, though. You’re, as even your closest friends would say with affection in their eyes, the Grinch in human form, a piece of coal kept in your pocket for days like this where the holiday cheer is just too much.
“Huh?” The brunet - Jungkook as he’d introduced himself when he’d pulled up thirty-three minutes late - has the audacity to sound offended, head snapping to the side to level you with a look that you don’t bother returning. You’re already tired, not even the lukewarm cold brew bottle you’d brought with you enough to keep you going.
A hand waves between you in a nonsensical gesture, as if he should already know the answer. “Sing.”
“You don’t like my singing?” There he is again with that crowded mouth of disbelief, voice skipping two octaves as the Christmas carols continue their incessant blaring through the subpar stereo system.
“No, I don’t like this music.” Honestly, his voice is the least of your concerns. It’s fine, lyrical even. Much nicer than what you’d have equated with someone like him, all bundled up with his hair askew and collar of his flannel laid unevenly beneath his winter jacket. “Could you change it?” There’s no please to soften the blow. Nothing at all to make your request any better.
You’re still surprised when he turns the knob up with a flick of his wrist.
When you turn to face him, expression incredulous, sun streaming through the windows to illuminate your disbelief, there’s absolutely no way he misses it. He pretends like he does anyway, back to being insufferable, belting out lyrics like his life depends on it.
Somehow, you keep from tearing Jungkook’s hand off the steering wheel to send the two of you off the road, relegating yourself to staring out the window as the snowflakes drift by. Everything’s layered in a blanket of white, boughs of trees weighed down by powder, condensation fogging the windows such that it’s hard to make out your surroundings past simple silhouettes.
(You don’t hate winter. In fact, you’ve always loved the snow, much preferring it to the sweltering summer heat. You just wish you weren’t here, so far from where you should be, relegated to a task that’s already off to a rough start.)
(Perhaps this is the consequence of being on Santa’s so-called naughty list for another consecutive year. Old Saint Nick’s way of telling you be good, be kind, do better.)
(You don’t hate winter - but you sure hate Christmas.)
“You’re not serious.”
“As a heart attack, doll.”
Jungkook is the smuggest man you’ve ever met in your life and you’ve worked with millionaires, oil executives, silver spoon-fed heirs to Fortune 500 companies. He takes the cake with his easy grin and twinkling eyes, dimples cut shallow into the corners of his mouth. Not even the constellations in his stare make it better; the stars in the dark are a false promise, meant to guide you home when all they’ve done is made things worse.
“I can’t stay here.” Here, being the small cottage just off the property, outfitted with a cable box that looks about as old as your father and powered by a generator you’d driven by on the way in. Here, being the space that looks barely habitable - okay, maybe you’re being dramatic - and has cold creeping beneath your skin, sticking to bone in a way that has you shivering in your boots.
“Well, you’re gonna have to.”
There’s not an ounce of sympathy to be found in how he regards you, arms folded across his chest - a perfect mirror of your own stance. Except he’s in flannel so thick you could use it as a blanket and boots made for this weather, wool socks pulled high above the worn laces.
He’s prepared for this. Probably born in it, if you had to hazard a guess.
You’re a city girl, as blue-blooded as they come. The kind of person to vacation in the Alps just to say you had, whose idea of a fun night in the mountains means bottles and bottles of red wine and liqueur-spiked hot chocolate. You don’t forage for berries or chop wood. (Jungkook likely doesn’t either but that’s besides the point.)
(And that’s what you’re all about: making points. Being right.)
“There’s nowhere else?” It seems impossible that you’ve been relegated to this place when the land on which you’re staying houses one of the most popular winter resorts in the province. (Then again, that could also be why. Your arrival had been impromptu, giving your hosts only three days to prepare. That doesn’t matter right now, though. You’re cold and tired and this just won’t do.) “Can’t—”
It’s then that Jungkook’s attention really finds you. It stops its casual hop, skip, and jump around the room, assessing the corners of it as if he’s checking for boogeymen. Under his scrutiny, you fall silent.
“Can’t I what? Kick someone else out so you’ve got somewhere nice to stay?”
You weren’t going to propose that. Not seriously, anyway. It’d just been an errant thought, one spurred to existence by the frustration that makes your head heavy and limbs jelly. “Well, no, but—”
“You’ll be fine.”
There’s an edge of exasperation that rubs you the wrong way, threading between his words, turning syllables into swords. (It’s reminiscent of your father’s scoldings and the tired stare he gives you when you’ve argued for the sake of it, leaving him to simply wave you out of his office.) They slot where you’re most vulnerable, right between your ribs, and twist; you flinch on instinct, jaw taut, molars aching with how sharply you grind down.
“We’ll move you into the next room we have available.” It doesn’t go away when he continues, spoken like he’s appeasing someone asking for the world. “You didn’t exactly choose a great time to pop in.”
Your response is a glare, spite shooting past your teeth. “I didn’t exactly have a choice.”
“Neither did we.”
He’s not wrong. You aren’t, either.
You still resent him when he slips out the door an hour later, leaving behind a pile of worn blankets and instructions on how to adjust the temperature.
Double check the windows before you head to bed. We had them open this morning so you might freeze otherwise. You’d thought he’d been joking, poking fun at your apparently unacceptable warm-blooded needs. He hadn’t been. It takes you three jarring pushes against the frame before the thing slams shut. The palm of your hands ache, as do the tips of your fingers. Running them under warm water hardly helps.
You go to bed hating Jeon Jungkook, too.
The next morning comes exactly as you’d expected it to - cold and miserable with sunlight peeking through the windows there don’t seem to be curtains for. You’d have liked to get another few hours in before the responsibilities came calling but that’s not in the cards for you.
Instead, you haul yourself out of bed and take possibly the worst shower of your life, instant coffee doing its job just enough that you’re not quite a zombie when the knock on the door comes.
Before you can even acknowledge your visitor, the door has swung open, Jungkook standing in the entryway looking far more chipper than anyone should at eight in the morning.
“Ready?” His shiteating grin tells you he knows you aren’t.
“Did you bring coffee?” Spoken directly into the mug you’re holding between two hands, warmth seeping past ceramic and desperately soaked up.
“You’re already drinking some.”
“This isn’t coffee.”
“I mean, it’s made from coffee beans—”
“This isn’t coffee.” You hate repeating yourself.
“There’s a café in the lodge. You can get your fancy vanilla soy latte there.”
You want to give him shit but, well, he’s not wrong.
Standing at the bottom of the hill, said fancy vanilla soy latte in hand, you study the gaggle of children awkwardly stumbling by. It’d be an adorable sight if it weren’t for the fact that it’s not what you expect, four kids trailing after a young man who corals them like cattle.
“Why’re the class sizes so small?”
“Huh?”
“The class sizes. There are only four students.” You’re used to groups of ten, fifteen, twenty. Two dozen kids bumbling into each other as they try to navigate life on skis for the first time.
His look speaks volumes, single brow quirking into the mat of dark hair that swings over his eyes. “Better experience. If there’s that many, some kids get left out. They don’t really get to learn if all they’re doing is trying to copy someone who doesn’t have the time to properly teach them.”
It’s a sensible answer. A good one, actually. You still frown, teeth working into the meat of your cheek. Four students per class means more instructors. More instructors means more hiring. More hiring means more salaries to pay. More salaries to pay means—
“Your face is gonna get stuck like that.” It’s a sophomoric thing to say and yet fits exactly with who you assume Jungkook is. (It says something that you rise right to his challenge, your own childishness demanding a rebuttal.)
“Too bad yours already is.”
He has the decency to laugh then, sharp and ugly, a hyena in the Sahara rather than an idiot in South Korea. “Good one.”
“How many instructors are there?”
“Seven or eight. This season’s been busy.”
“So that’s, what, forty kids altogether?” You’re doing the mental maths, disappointed with the outcome. Then you’re speaking more to yourself, adding this to the long list of changes you’re certain your father will ask for. “We’ll need to increase the class sizes.”
“I wouldn’t do that.” Except he says it in such a way it’s not a reprimand like you’d expected. It’s deceptively soft, almost pleading. You double take just in case someone else has spoken or some Pod Person has taken over the man at your side.
“Why not?”
“Like I said, bad experience.” There’s a beat of silence - a welcome reprieve, given how frequently Jungkook likes to sing or hum or make some sort of infuriating noise when around you - before he continues, almost carefully. “We want people to have a good time here. Imagine being a kid and all you get to learn is how to fall down the side of a hill. It’s not fair.”
If you didn’t find him as annoying as a gnat, you’d soften. (You do, beneath it all, under all those layers of designer clothes that don’t do nearly as good of a job as keeping out the cold as he does.)
“They’re going to fall anyway.” You watch it happen right in front of you, one of the girls falling to her knees not twenty feet away.
“Doesn’t matter.”
Maybe it’s because you’ve never much liked children anyway. You’d grown up too fast in your own childhood, hardly making friends, relegated to etiquette courses and piano lessons you hated. Even now, years later, with decades dulling the loneliness you’d felt, there’s a lack of empathy.
You say nothing, moving away from the scene before you. You’re not here to debate fairness.
One single week has passed - excruciatingly slowly, each day somehow more boring than the last - when you notice it.
“When do the Christmas decorations go up?” You’re frankly surprised they aren’t already there, walls of the resort relatively bare. There’s no gold tinsel, no giant tree, nothing to lend any sort of cheer. You’d think the resort was operating as it normally did, as if December hadn’t slid into place and Christmas carols weren’t playing quietly in the dining hall.
“Next weekend,” Jungkook answers in between mouthfuls of soup, spoon in one hand, chopsticks in the other. (It’s a habit of his, you’ve noticed. He likes to rush to say what he has to, as if everything is of great importance.)
“Isn’t that a bit late?” Most places would milk the holidays for all they were worth, twelve foot trees centred by reception, wreaths hung over doors. It’s almost drab without, usual decor unassuming and plain. Fine as is but nothing noteworthy.
“We have the children of guests do the decorating. We make it a whole night.” There must be something in your expression because he stops eating then, utensils laid neatly at the side of his bowl. “What?” He’s got that look he sometimes has - one that’s equal parts challenging and disbelieving, as if you’re the one who’s running a ski lodge like a summer camp.
You’ve got about five different questions you could ask but settle for why instead.
“The guests like it. The kids have fun. They make crafts and ornaments. There’s hot chocolate and one of the groundskeepers dresses up as Santa. It’s a good time.” Again, there’s that snarky little way of answering, almost patronising in its delivery.
“Do you charge for it?”
“Charge for it?”
“You said it’s a whole night. Do parents sign their kids up? Is there a fee for photos?”
He leans toward you now, arms folded across the table, his place setting pushed forward between the two of you. Despite how close he is - you can count each individual eyelash, each split end of his fringe - his expression is inscrutable.
Finally, he speaks, and you want to smack him. “Are you the Grinch?”
“Excuse me?” It’s not the first time you’ve heard it but Jungkook hardly knows you. He has no right to make this joke and certainly not after you’ve asked something perfectly reasonable. The whole reason you’re here is to report to your father on his latest acquisition; this comes with the territory.
“You’re the Grinch, right?” There’s a tilt of his chin, amusement playing over the cradle of his mouth. You can tell he’s biting back his laughter, cheeks wobbling with the effort he’s making to keep from laughing in your face.
Your own feels hot, either from anger or annoyance or potentially, and likely, both.
“I’m doing my job,” you seethe, on the defensive, shoulders squared.
“Your job as the Grinch.” He’s leaning into it, leaning into you - swallowing up all the space between the two of you until your breath is shared. (His is coffee and spice; yours, hot chocolate and peppermint.)
When you rise from your seat, flipping him off in the process, his laughter follows you.
“Have you ever even decorated a tree?”
The question comes as you’re trying to hang a bauble crudely and yet adorably decorated, covered in glitter that clings to your skin. Jungkook’s at your side, materialised seemingly out of thin air, with an elf hat precariously balanced atop his mop of dark hair.
“Of course I have.” You had a few times in your childhood, before Christmas had become a time of quiet, before your mother’s absence had stolen all meaning from the holiday.
“You realise you’ve got the entire other side of the tree to do, right?” Despite his mockery, there’s an easy familiarity to how he speaks, settling onto the bench beside you, a cardboard box of assorted ornaments pulled into his lap. “It’s not rocket science, either. Just hang where it feels right.”
He must mean the careful way you’ve spaced each one, imaginary ruler guiding the spacing of each piece. (It’s reasonable, you think. The last thing you want is a collective of glitter and gaudiness while the rest of the branches stand bare.) “I’m trying to make it look good.”
A snort comes, piggish and amused. A hook latches around pine stems, then another joins it far too close for your taste. “It’s a Christmas tree, _____. And kids made these decorations. It’s not being photographed for Vogue.”
You get the point he’s making but the execution is horrible, brow furrowing in tandem with the scowl that paints your face. “They don’t photograph Christmas trees for Vogue, Jeon.”
“Fine. Home and Country or whatever.”
“Town and Country?”
“Yeah, that.” He’s hanging another one, slipping past you to reach the branches you can’t. There’s no rhyme or reason to where he puts things, one glitterbomb joining a plastic ornament filled with marshmallows. It looks, truthfully, pretty stupid, but he’s grinning all the while, adding another directly below. “See?”
“I see a mess.” But you don’t move them like every part of you itches to. Instead, you stay where you are, continuing to balance each decoration. (You pretend you don’t see when he slides one into place on what is your side of the tree; you roll your eyes when he snickers to himself, pleased with having gotten away with it.) “Why the hat?”
From behind branches that hide him from view, you hear a jingle, followed by the top of his hat bouncing exaggeratedly. “I’m Santa’s helper, didn’t you know?”
“Isn’t that a dog from a cartoon?”
“What? No!” It’s then he peeks around the evergreen, glowering at you, pout firmly in place. “You don’t get to give me a hard time, Grinch.”
After a whole week of him calling you the dreaded nickname, you’ve grown used to it. You still shoot a glare his way, half-tempted to throw the ornament in your hand at him. (You won’t, because Eunsoo had painstakingly drawn all over it, painting neat little white snowflakes over the red surface.) “Santa’s helper should stop talking and keep decorating.”
“I’m busy gathering intel,” he retorts, ducking back behind the safety of pine needles.
You have no idea what Jungkook’s talking about. You still entertain his silliness, reaching for another bauble in the same instance he does. “On what?”
“It’s top secret. Only us on the nice list get to know.”
This time, you do throw something at him. A piece of popcorn that’s come off its string, that hits him right between the eyes when he comes back around to pull a makeshift garland from the table.
“Whatever.”
Like a Christmas elf - or whatever those weird little things that get put on door frames and mantels are - Jungkook appears when you least expect him. He’s dressed in the ugliest sweater you’ve ever seen, big bulky jacket swallowing up his frame.
“Hurry up,” he says, pushing into your cabin like he owns the place. (You suppose technically he does. Or his family does, anyway. The deal doesn’t go through until the new fiscal year, one whole week keeping him safe from you using that against him.) “Get dressed.”
“I am dressed.” Better than he is, anyway. Comfortably, too, in cashmere that feels luxe against your skin and hangs halfway down your pyjama pant-clad legs.
“Okay, get your jacket then.”
Now, if he’d done this three weeks ago, before you’d come to expect these sorts of shenanigans, you probably would have told him to kick sand. As it stands, you’re almost fond of his antics, peering up at him from where you sit on the couch.
“It’s almost midnight. I’m not going anywhere with you.”
His eyes roll even as he crosses to you, gloved hand held out, gaze expectant. You recognise that look; he’s not leaving without what he wants.
“Up and at ‘em, doll.”
“What, I’m not the Grinch anymore?”
“Would you rather be Cindy Lou Who?” He’s reaching for your face then, or more likely, your hair. It’s not the first time Jungkook’s pulled your strands into a stupid sprout, cackling loudly when silk had poured through his loose fist in a poor mimic of the iconic hairstyle. “Hurry up. We’ve got places to be.”
“It’s—”
“Yeah, almost midnight. You already said. I don’t care.”
The figure he cuts would be intimidating if he didn’t have the goofiest smile on his face, mischief dancing as brightly as the lights that string the exterior of your cabin.
“Please?”
You almost want to scream - you’re tired, it’s been a long day - but he’s so eager, having weaseled his way into the piece of coal that’s held within your chest. Finally, you relent, scowling as you rise and accept his hand. “This better be worth it.”
As it turns out, it is. Because it’s beautiful. Glorious. A true Christmas miracle.
(Or maybe that miracle is you, standing atop a bank of snow, staring down the mountainside, taking in the scene before you. There are lights running up tree trunks, pretty patterns woven within branches. It’s exactly the kind of sight that might take someone’s breath away.)
“It’s pretty.” That’s as far as you’ll go, staring out over the hill with a smile you won’t let out. It tips your mouth to and fro, pulling and pursing your lips even as Jungkook beams brighter than the moon above your heads.
“Merry Christmas.” The box he holds out to you is small, four by four inches, unassuming and topped with a haphazardly knotted bow. “Open it.”
“I thought I didn’t get on Santa’s nice list.”
Jungkook shrugs, breath coming in a puff of air visible in the dark. “You didn’t, but I pulled some strings.” With the full weight of his grin upon you, it’s hard to begrudge him this, corny as it is, cold as you are. “You owe me one.”
“You’re not getting a present.”
He shrugs again and nudges the gift into your hands. A silent shut up, if ever there was one.
Despite the tingle in your fingers - note to self: bring gloves the next time you’re dragged out into the cold - you’re careful with how you unwrap the present. The golden ribbon is tucked into your pocket for safe keeping, top of the box pried off with more effort than you’d need if you were somewhere warm still.
Nestled among what could only be leftovers from decorating last week sits another ornament. It’s small, no bigger than the size of your palm, and studded with glitter. A green design has been painted over the glass - a little Grinch tree, complete with red bauble hanging off the end.
Your laughter is immediate, loud in the quiet, splitting the darkness with how it comes barreling past your teeth, rounding your cheeks and waning your eyes into crescents.
“Did you make this?” You’ve met Jungkook’s stare with a smile so big it hurts your face, the strangest feeling fluttering about in your chest. You’d equate it to butterflies but it’s minus five degrees and it’d be impossible for them to survive.
(It’s more like first snowfall, dizzying and pretty, bringing about a sense of wonder.)
“No, an elf did.”
“Guess I’ll have to thank that elf.”
“Guess you will,” he agrees with a hum, expression thoughtful, calculating. It has you narrowing your stare, suspicion pinning him where he stands, close enough you can see the reddening of his nose. He looks like Rudolph.
Your question doesn’t mean anything. There’s no underlying meaning. (You tell yourself this over and over despite the breath you hold, lungs aching from the cold.) “Any idea how I can do that?”
“Not sure.” For once, Jungkook seems uncertain, precariously balanced on the heels of his feet, shifting his weight. It’s endearing, if not a little unsettling. You’ve never seen him like this, so used to his boisterous, larger than life attitude. You almost miss that.
“That’s too bad.”
What isn’t bad is how he kisses you then, tender and sweet, barely even a peck. Just a brush of his lips against yours, feather light and almost inconsequential. In fact, it’s nice. Exactly what you’d have wanted for Christmas.
(The gift is just a bonus.)
“Stay another week,” he purrs into the crook of your neck, buried face deep into the swell of your cleavage, warm palms searing heat everywhere he drags them. Across your ribs, over your stomach, down the curve of your hip. He takes his time in exploring your body, tracing each beauty mark and scar with a reverence that makes your head spin.
“I have to head back.”
Your flight has been booked for over a month now, set in your calendar with a high priority flag. (Back then, you couldn’t wait to leave, all too eager to return home. Now, you’re counting down the hours, making the most of them.)
(Or, well, Jungkook is, anyway. Has been, every moment he’s not tasked with something else, keeping you company in your cabin like a true host.)
“You could not.” He’s really quite bad at the whole persuasion thing, despite having Disney eyes that would stop a love interest dead in their tracks. “Just tell your dad you’ve got more to report back on.”
Now it’s your turn to snort - you’ve picked up the habit over the weeks, thanks to his infuriating tendency to do so - and it jostles the fluffy strands that frame his face.
“What am I going to tell him? I’ve already sent my post-mortem in.” You are, as always, being far too realistic, crushing his hopes and dreams under the toe of your inadequate-for-winter boots.
“I dunno.” At least he doesn’t pretend to care, focused on his own agenda of keeping you hostage in this winter wonderland. (It’s snowed twenty-four centimetres in the last week. Jungkook had insisted it was a sign when it had happened, smugly crushing you against his chest when you’d been unable to step foot outside without complaining about your pants being soaked.) “I’m sure you can think of something.”
A hand smoothes down the back of his head, fingers sliding into the strands that curl over his nape. You repeat the motion over and over, combing through silk as he lays kisses all over your skin, stamping his affection in the shape of his mouth.
“You’re no help, you know that?”
(Not that you’re entertaining the idea, of course. You’re ready to head back, to be in your own bed. You’ll miss him - but only for the three weeks before he comes to visit, having unilaterally decided that any longer would be unfair to him after he’d had to put up with your attitude for all of December.)
“Never said I was. You’re not Santa.” He’s still on about that, cracking his silly little holiday-themed jokes despite the fact that Christmas has indeed come and gone. (The irony of someone so in love with the holidays having found his way into your heart doesn’t escape you. Every day he reminds you of it, you hate it. But not him, and not Christmas. Not anymore.)
“Right, you’re a dog.”
(You’d been right and for every stupid thing he says, you remind him of it, snickering when he glares and complains. It’s only fair, after all.)
“I’m a dog, huh?” Pushed up on his elbows, he crowds your space, pretty profile engulfing your field of view. It’s not a bad sight to behold but you push his face away regardless, nodding emphatically as he bites into the flesh of your palm. “Saying things like that’ll get you on the naughty list again.”
You meet his gaze half-lidded, touch turning soft, fingers tracing the lines that fan the corners of his eyes. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
(God, you could cringe. You do, internally, even as he cackles.)
You don’t know the person you’ve become when Jungkook gathers you into his arms and presses his laughter into your throat, holding you so recklessly tight you can hardly breathe. You don’t know who you are but you think you don’t mind, because when he captures your lips and hooks an arm around your waist, you don’t mind the cold. You’ll take it every day if you have to, if it means he’ll warm you up with the closeness of his body, filling you with a deep, measured stroke of his hips and a sweet, lingering kiss.
You’ll take all the good and the bad if it means another Christmas with him.
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