I started reading fics just a few months ago and this are some of my favorites 🥰
I’m so glad I found these amazing stories by these incredible authors 💓 each story is a masterpiece and if you can please give them a try and don’t forget to give these authors lots of love for their hard work and creativity 🫶🏻
SERIES
Mutual help by @personasintro
Genre: fluff, angst, smut, slow burn, fake dating au
Sumary: in order for you to pretend to be his girlfriend, he helps you with your sexual desires ⏤ he calls it a mutual help
Red by @taestefully-in-luv
Genre: FLUFF, smut, angst:(( pregnancy au
Summary: You drunkenly sleep with your ex-boyfriend, Jungkook. Can’t be that bad right? Unless he gets you pregnant.
Always you by @taestefully-in-luv
Genre: friends to lovers, idiots to lovers, roommate au, college au, SMUT (starting ch2), fluff, angst (in later chapters) slight crack
Summary: you and Jungkook have been best friends since freshmen year of college, there’s a lot of unsaid feelings and tension but neither make a move. what happens when his friend Taehyung (also your crush) needs a fake girlfriend?
Rule #5 by @taestefully-in-luv
Genre: fwb au, friends to lovers, fluff, maybe a little angst, SMUT
Summary: You strike up a fwb deal with your childhood friend Jungkook after kissing him one night after a dare. But you have rules…5 of them to be exact and it seems Jungkook doesn’t want to follow any of them.
As we were by @archivedkookie
Genre: divorce au, infidelity au, eventual smut, heavy angst, lots of pining
Summary: Your husband cheats on you and find comfort in someone else’s arms. He claims he’s happy—but is he really?
Long way home by @sparklingchim
genre: dilf!jungkook, friends to lovers, fluff, little bit of angst
summary: the one where you babysit jungkook's baby and somehow let the night end up with being a cockblock for him.
Cruel intentions by @explicit-tae
Genre: smut, Mafia!Jungkook
Summary: You adored your eldest brother - you truly did. Before his addiction got the best of him, he was amazing at caring for you and your other siblings. Now, however, it was your turn to care for him without the help of your siblings who long abandoned him, advising you to do the same. Once your brother manages to get himself imprisoned, you realize just how much trouble he got himself into. Once your family is threatened, you offer to pay off the debts your brother owes with the one thing any powerful man couldn't resist - your virginity.
Practice by @chryblossomjjk
genre: m/18+ | college au, fwb, smut, fluff, angst
summary: You usually spend Friday nights on your own. Tonight, however, your friend and campus fuckboy, Jungkook, decides to pay you a visit.
Bloodline by @jjkeverlast
genre: slow burn (sorry y’all) smut (a lot of it oop-) humor, angst and college au
summary a relationship was the last thing you wanted, but having wild and experimenting sex? now that was something, and jeon jungkook is there to give you simply that. as long as either catch feelings… but that won’t be hard for you knowing you’d never go for a guy like jungkook, although jungkook might have another opinion about you. let the (fun) begin!
Just friends by @kinktae
genre: uh best friend AU but really just an excuse for angsty smut
summary: The transition from best friends to best friends with benefits is never easy, especially when there’s a daddy kink involved.
Blackout by @jjungxkook
genre: best friends to lovers, roommate and college au, fluff, crack, smut
summary: Utility bills shooting up like this should be an international crime. Luckily, Jungkook has the perfect idea(s) to save up money and make your night sinfully unforgettable.
I loved you by @kimtaesss
Genre: angst, fluff, friends to (?)
Summary: being friends for 10 years means nothing, especially when he betrays your trust so easily.
Bad Guy by @taehoneys
Genre: Drama
Summary: A certain video circulates the school after your big mistake and you never do mistakes, but you did this time… a big one: Jeon Jungkook
Leave the door open by @here4btsfics
Genre: smut, a dash of fluff, humor
Summary: Your neighbor loves to sing karaoke in the middle of the night. You finally get fed up and confront him about it. Except when he opens the door, you realize you’re screwed. He’s gorgeous.
THIRTY-FIVE by @bangtansmauyeondan
Genre: rivals au, social media au, frenemies to lovers, mutual pining, slow burn, fluff, smut, angst, crack.
Summary: It has always been the battle of the best between you and your college rival, Jungkook. What happens when years later, you cross paths again working for the same broadcasting network company, and the competitive flame is rekindled? Well, a whole new drunken bet that determines your futures wasn’t in your line of vision, but here you are… and you have until 35.
Out of Time - JJK by @97erstan
Genre: angst | smut
Summary: after being invited to your ex's wedding, he invites you to visit his room for a final goodbye.
OUR TIME by @taestefully-in-luv
Pairing: Jungkook x Fem Reader (Detective!Jk x Graphic Designer!OC) side pairing: Seokjin x Reader
Genre: crime au, fluff, heavy angst, smut, romance, darker themes, amnesia au. Best friends to ???
Summary: After an accident and being in a coma for three months, you finally wake. But the last nine years of your life have been completely erased. You rely on none other than your best friend, Jungkook, to help regain your memories and yourself. But what happens when the truth of your missing time starts unraveling and it isn’t all it’s made out to be?
An abundance of luck & a sprinkle of fate by @borathae
(Spin-Off to I hate you I love you)
Pairing: CEO!Jungkook x Sexworker!Reader
Genre: Strangers to Lovers!AU, BDSM, Hurt and Comfort, Smut, Romance, Fluff, Angst
Summary: When two souls, with different reasons for why life has broken them, find together, it needs a whole lot of a luck and a little bit of fate to make them see that maybe healing together isn’t as bad as it sounds.
Love to Hate by @kpopfanfictrash
Pairing: Jungkook / Reader
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, Fuck Buddies!AU
Summary: Born with a silver spoon in your mouth, you've done your best to rid yourself of the taste since you were old enough to walk. Occasionally though, your mother manages to rope you into an obligatory function – or a blind date with playboy billionaire, Jeon Jungkook. Jungkook stands for everything you loathe about the world you left behind, but you can’t deny the spark of attraction between you. Intrigued by the promise of mutual satisfaction, you agree to one night in bed… and quickly realize you’re in far, far deeper than you ever intended.
Runaway by @archivedkookie
pairing ; tattoo artist / biker!jk x reader
genre ; best friend’s brother au, fwb (they’re not rlly friends tho), 4 years age gap, smut, angst, fluff, slow burn
summary ; When your best friend's brother, your first-ever crush, offers to help you explore your sexual desires, you just can't refuse. Especially when it's someone as irresistible as Jeon Jungkook.
Paradise by @minisugakoobies
Pairing: Jungkook x Reader
Genre: smut, neighbors to lovers, slow burn, love triangle, Stripper!AU
summary: That sexy man on stage - the one currently giving your friend the lap dance of her LIFE - is your super shy neighbor, Jeon Jungkook?!
ONE SHOTS
CRAZY by @personasintro
Pairing: jungkook x reader, jungkook x f!character
Genre: angst, smut, cheating au
Summary: your boyfriend comes with an idea
THIRTEEN ROUNDS by @moni-logues
Pairing: Boxer!Jungkook x f!reader
Genre: smut smut smut smut smut! sex ban smut lmao; established relationship
Summary: JK’s boxing coach tells him he can’t come for four weeks before his title fight. Ah, four weeks isn’t that long, right? … Right?
SERIES
The island by @taestefully-in-luv
Genre: strangers to lovers, slight enemies to lovers, soulmates au, roommate au, slow burn, fluff, smut, angst, slight crack, and drama.
Summary: You’re just two strangers waking up in a room on a lonely island where a company in the business of love has placed you. They believe that thanks to their in depth research you two are destined soulmates. What happens when your ‘soulmate’ and you want nothing to do with each other but falling in love is the only way to leave?
if it’s not you · kth (m) by @mercurygguk
content; exes to lovers!au, smut/angst, a bit of fluff
summary; Kim Taehyung grew up watching his parents fall more in love for each day that passed and he always longed for that great, passionate love himself. But if it’s not you? Then he doesn’t want it
I HATE YOU, I LOVE YOU by @borathae
Pairing: Taehyung x f.Reader, minor Jungkook x f.Reader
Summary: “You are marrying Kim Taehyung, heir to Kim Enterprises, one of South Korea’s hottest bachelors and a total pain in the ass. You do not want to marry him and neither does he want to marry you. But in families likes yours’, marriage does not come with love. “
ONE SHOTS
Pick of the Patch by @taestefully-in-luv
Genre: fluff, angst, smut, enemies to lovers
Summary: You’re a struggling artist with a strong desire to escape so when your mother suddenly calls and asks you to return home to replace her in this years Harvest Festival dance, you never said yes faster. However, she informs you that you’ll be working with another dancer, Kim Taehyung and upon meeting, you decide you do not like him…but right when you think you could grow up and move past it, Taehyung makes it clear that he does not like you either.
SERIES
Love Again | PJM by @taestefully-in-luv
Genre: exes au, exes to ???, fluff, angst, smut
Summary: A friend of yours is eager to introduce you to her new man but what happens when Park Jimin, the man who broke your heart 5 years ago walks in through the door?
SERIES
monachopsis by @personasintro
𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: angst, fluff, smut, mini series
𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬; after receiving unpleasant news that doesn't allow you to grow your family, your husband comes up with an idea that unfortunately involves his brother whom he despises
Away From You by @personasintro
𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: fluff, angst, smut, divorce!au
𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬; Trying to divorce Yoongi might be harder than you thought it’d be. Especially when you’re having a two year old toddler.
ONE SHOTS
Stay High by @personasintro
genre: fluff, angst, smut
synopsis; You’ve to stay high to keep your ex out off your mind when he comes back into your life.
Selfish Love by @personasintro
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: yoongi x reader
𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: infidelity au, smut, angst (?), drabble
𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬; we’re all a little bit selfish sometimes
SERIES
Sanguis Alpha by @borathae
Pairing: OT7 x f.Reader with main Taehyung x f.Reader & Yoongi x f.Reader
Synopsis: You change universities after moving towns. Your new university is an old, ancient building with secret tunnels and whispered ghost stories. There are two fraternities, which for some reason always seem to be in a quarrel. Alpha consisting of Kim Taehyung, Kim Namjoon, Park Jimin and Min Yoongi. Handsome, porcelain skinned men, who act as if they are out of another century and for some reason everyone on campus seems to be scared of. And Sanguis consisting of Jeon Jungkook, Kim Seokjin and Jung Hoseok. Men with skin just as pale and their faces just as beautiful, who always wear sunglasses when it is light outside and who never seem to open their curtains. And for some peculiar reason you always find yourself in the middle of them....
Summary: An empty clearing. Quiet, tiny waves. A broken heart, a seething chest, love unbridled. And lurking in the water, him and you.
➵ pairing: Jungkook x female reader
➵ rating: 18+
➵ genre: siren au; angst, smidge of fluff, smuuuuuut; oneshot
➵ warnings: heartache, unrequited love (but not really); flashbacks, coping, lake talk, yearning, impossible love, arranged marriage (oc is married off and can't be with jk), oc is also quite cold, manipulation, siren powers, well...death implied but nothing too hardcore, panic, angstttt, SMUUUUUT, cheating but not on each other, they're both naked basically the entire time; explicit sexual content: oral (f. rec.), teasing, cockwarming, licking, biting, lowkey aggressive touches from both sides, kissing, sex by the lake, harddd sex, dom!jk, big dick!jk obv, manhandling, jk fcks his frustration into her, multiple positions; andddd yes the ending… if there's more, i will add them on drop day.
➵ teaser word count: 2k :O
➵ est. word count: 12-15k
➵ est. release: asap! around mid-june for sure.
➵ a/n: jinshi jk. kinda. as promised, a teaserrr! hope you enjoy <3 also very long day and i'm tired, so if you see any mistakes... it's just an illusion mwah
TAGLIST | MASTERLIST | WIPs
Jungkook’s clothes are draped over a low branch of a thick tree, right where the sand ends and sparse grass begins; every piece of it.
In this tumult, he didn’t think of the intimate sight he’s unintentionally offering to you: exposed skin from head to toe. Such an outcome was rooted in other intentions before. Deliberate.
Only hurts more to think about now.
But he doesn’t care. No, he cannot care. And he genuinely wouldn’t if you weren’t in the exact same state.
His eyes stay glued to the tree trunk, never panning to you. His body, no longer buoyed by the water, suddenly feels unbearably heavy; and by the time his clothes are close enough to grasp, he’s already fallen to his knees. He turns, his back meeting the rough tree.
He’s not concerned with what crawls up his skin or about the splinters the wood might punish him with. He needs to breathe.
The towel underneath offers at least some comfort, and he remembers to drag his shirt over the parts that aren’t yours to look at anymore.
There’s no time or mind for anything else. Your existence at this very clearing makes him want to throw up. He needs to focus on heaving his chest. On pulling in the crisp oxygen that the forest so generously provides.
But you don’t disappear. The illusion stays, still surrounded by a fairy tale mist that dips you in something utterly surreal.
Your form surfaces the way he did, as naked as he is. You’re a blurry figure; his vision trembles like his limbs. The elegance and beauty with which you walk aren't new to him, but they are taunting him in a manner he has never perceived before.
And once you tower above him, looking down soon enough and your chest as calm as his isn’t, he knows he’s doomed.
There’s only so long that he can keep denying you.
You kneel. Pulling your legs in, you wrap your arms around them tightly; concealing the parts of you he always craved. Even now, a carnal desire grows within, but it is so promptly and swiftly overshadowed by the pain you cause him.
The lack of readiness to stay. The urge to bid him goodbye one more time. The entirely missing fabric covering your skin, adding to your mock.
He sees your willingness to love him one last time and cut him into pieces so clearly. You do not understand what you do to him, how this final meeting severs his heart.
Or maybe you do but cannot find it in you to care.
Everything you’re doing might mean something. All of this exists to scramble his mind and hurt him further.
Your intentions have never been simple to decode, so he asks, “Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?”
You’re right. Doing what, anyway? Why is he so dizzy, so… so out of it? And why does the world, turning too fast up until now, suddenly stop spinning when you put a hand to his chin, lifting his head to… to do what?
It’s like you’re examining him.
Then, you whisper, “I… can’t stand him.”
Is that why you’re here? Because he could’ve figured this out himself, effortlessly too. Your face is too close now, nipples barely a hand-width from his chest when he breathes, “I… I know. I always knew.”
“I hate him,” you emphasise, “I hate how he talks to me. How he looks at me. And…” Your eyes wander down, along Jungkook’s body, pupils moving over the shirt and then back to your hand on his chin, “And I despise how he touches me. How he claims me.”
Jungkook will throw up. His chest is on fire.
He can feel the agony growing with every second and every syllable. It’s not like he hasn’t thought about it either. But hearing you say it, confirm it, shatters him.
How he claims me.
“What is he…” Jungkook starts but then stops again. Even if there was something happening behind closed doors that he’d like to resolve, you won’t let him.
That’s always been the entire point. You do not want to fight for this.
“Nothing forceful. But also nothing I didn’t expect,” you say, “I hate how he reminds me what I had.”
Jungkook shakes his head and your finger off in the process. You curl it in, your hand a fist now. He says, “I told you so many times. It’s too late.”
“It’s… it’s not.”
You always say whatever you want so blatantly. No regard for this human heart of his. What are you made of?
Jungkook’s limbs resemble the liquid water when you’re near; he can’t move or avert his gaze, can’t send you off with actual, true conviction in his words. It’s always been like this: him melting into the ground or the sheets or the fabric of his bed; and you stand tall, a brightly lit candle incinerating him.
Yet, he can’t help but let the fury spread in his chest. It’s scorching hot, and your weak, tentative smile fuels it further. Your words and your expressions — none of it help him calm the riot. Instead, his nostrils flare. A scream climbs up his throat.
But he doesn’t yell at you. Not even when you add a whispered, “I’m sorry. But it’s not. I just…”
You don’t finish your sentence and he doesn’t urge you to. No matter what you say, there’ll be nothing but torture ahead. Your Sorries are a constant, but only half-sincere, and after stomping on a fragile heart, you do not get to apologise anymore.
Jungkook shakes his head again, finally able to look away as if your eyes had his gape trapped before. A tongue darts out to lick his lower lip wet, and you, observing his every subtle touch, place a gentle thumb to the corner of his mouth, ghosting over the plushness before he dodges.
You push yourself up a little, some dirt on your legs. The lower parts that your pulled-in limbs hid so far are on full display again, and Jungkook tries, really, truly tries not to stare. But you’re not having any of it.
You’re not standing to leave. You’re still half-crouching, and soon, too sudden, dragging your left leg over to his right hip, straddling him with nothing between him and you but the thin piece of pathetic clothing.
The gasp he breathes is immediate and unintentional. Even if he tried to push you away now, you’d look through him instantly. His mind wants to fight you, but his body can’t. There are multiple ways he’s always belonged to you, and his body always revealed as much.
And still…
That smile. The pleading eyes. Your damn touch on his neck.
He gulps hard, hands rushing up to your waist. Softly, he tries to shove you off of him, but not really. It’s too much of an easy play for you, having him like this. And when you grip his face, it costs him an amount of energy that he certainly does not possess. Not anymore.
The escape out of your grip is tough, and the word he utters is feeble, “Don’t.”
But you insist. “One more time.” Nothing but whispers, even at such an empty place where nobody listens but the water, the birds and the moon. “I need you one more time.”
He’s lightheaded. Again. His words are mumbled; he thinks that if he was you, he wouldn’t quite believe himself either, “I’m not a puppet. I have… I’ve got real feelings. Unlike you.”
A smidge of pride blooms in him. He didn’t think he’d pull off such a confession, but you seem visibly startled. Somewhat irritated. He could never guess as much if he focused on your eyes only, but the slightly clenched jaw is… telling. New.
“You really think that?” you ask, still patient but… something is off. He doesn’t understand the approaching temper in your voice. You left him. “That I have no real feelings? That’s what you think?”
“I tried to love you,” Jungkook attempts, repeatedly swallowing the dry lump. “To help you see how I loved you and how you loved me. What we could’ve been if you’d let us.”
“Back then… Love wasn’t enough, Jungkook.”
Jungkook smirks. A hollow, sarcastic smirk.
His body feels drugged, but he keeps himself upright. Perhaps his emotions have reached a point that exhausts him inside out, and he’s lost the capability to face you by now.
White flag, must be.
He repeats, one eyebrow cocked, “Love wasn’t enough?”
“Mh-mh,” you voice, a slight shake of your head. “Love isn’t stronger than grief, at least. They fulfill different purposes.” He looks up at you; your head is tilted, your lips a gorgeous curve. Prettier when you speak. “We break first and then love harder. We can use that love.”
Use that love…
It took you this long to paraphrase an idea he’d already presented to you, over and over again.
A click of his tongue, and he wonders, “You want to use it now that… that we’ve become impossible? What about him?”
“I will find a way.”
“Empty promises.”
“No,” you vow, harsher this time. “Never empty.”
Your grip on his jaw is strong; he’s not used to you grabbing him like this. Your face draws in, and as your upper body leans forward, your lower half moves, too. Grinds on him. Or at least, grazes along just the length that he tried to hide under the shirt.
His fingers dig deeper into your waist. You sigh, and he knows exactly what this means. He can distinguish your breaths, can interpret your sounds. You’re not frustrated anymore, not tired like he is. You are pleased.
Because he’s growing; fuller and harder by the second.
“No,” he tries, “this might end horribly. If you end up… with…” His hands grip your shoulders, but he isn’t really pushing. Not lifting you off of him. “They will kill you and me both.”
Your smile widens, as if you’ve thought it all out; as if you’ve come here with a plan that presumably profits nobody but you. And Jungkook already knows he doesn’t want, doesn’t need to hear it before you say it, “They can’t. Even if… they’ll just think it’s his.”
No. No, no, no.
Have you hiked up all the way to this place to use him as a rebound? All the promises you’re forming right now, are they in vain, to offer some fleeting relief?
I will find a way.
You won’t.
“That’s not enough for me,” Jungkook mouths, his words stuck at the back of his tongue, muttered, “it means… you’re not truly trying to call him off. You’ll go back and find an excuse. Not to leave him, but me.”
“I only gave an answer to your statement, Jungkook,” you defend, sugarcoating your words, honey in your voice, “truth is: I’m ready to die for this one moment alone. Aren’t you?”
“No… no—”
“Please. Even if you don’t have it in you to fight anymore…” You lean in further, your nipples touching his chest. You keep grinding. “Just this once. Give me one more night.”
His shirt slides off his lap just a little but not enough; not in the way Jungkook inwardly hopes, just so he can blame the lust multiplying on anything but himself. Despite everything — the anger, the disappointment, the approaching, everlasting pain — he wishes he could feel you better.
Just like you are perceiving the constant twitches below. No hiding it.
And then, you take it a step further, sending a shiver down his spine, cold under his burning skin, “You can do whatever you want with me.”
His chest and stomach stir. His body feels heavy, your touch razorsharp. “What?”
“Whatever you want,” you reiterate, “I want you to. I need you to.”
Your breath shakes as you shift back again, all along the line of his stiffening cock, the shirt moving off more. You can already see the V-line when you glance down, and if you weren’t sitting on your throne the way you are, his entire shaft would jump out beneath the clothing.
It doesn’t. Instead, it stays trapped under you, blue and aching and never reversed to its previous state; even less when you repeat yet again—
“Anything… anything you want.”
The control diminishes; and despite all his attempts, Jungkook snaps.
wow, it's been aaaages since i posted a teaser. :') i was originally just going to release the fic directly, but i miss posting around here... and i wanted/needed some motivation as well. sorry the teaser got so long but there was no way to shorten it and i'm also too exhausted today to tweak stuff fksjakfjkd
another fun fact: i was actually pondering whether to post this teaser or for Saltstream (yoongi x reader x jungkook love triangle series) and went with Ashore since it's closer to posting. but if y'all would enjoy a tiny saltstream preview, let me know <3
Summary: One knock at your door — that’s all it takes for the clouds to burst. Because when it rains, it pours.
➳ pairing: Jungkook x reader
➳ rating: 18+
➳ genre: established relationship, royal!au; angst!!, fluff, smut
➳ warnings: ok ok – rain metaphors, mention of a traumatic past, daddy issues?, illegitimate child plot, backstories, mention of mentally abusive relationship, cheating (not between jk and oc), jk kinda a homewrecker, lies, tears, breakdowns, panic, fears, abandonment issues, craving/pining sigh, arguments and fighting, very sweet kids, dad!jk <3; explicit sexual content: oral (m. receiving, super brief f.), fingering, teasing, kissing/making out, manhandling, biting, big dick jk, soft dom jk, soft/hard sex, unprotected sex (shhh, they're married), he spills on her ass, cmnf for a bit, some aftercare; hm… the ending.
➳ wc: 31.8k
➳ a/n: alright. i courageously fought through the pain; not sure how this will go for you. we've waited quite a while for this, and all your support for this series really pushed me to no end <3 i hope this is all you guys expected it to be. take it easy with this one; love y'all sm and as always, let me know what you think 🤍
➳ a/n2: this is a bonus chapter for my mini-series candles & flames. reading the rest of the story helps!! find the mpost below <3 and the collaborative playlist here!
SERIES MASTERPOST | TAGLIST
MASTERLIST | WIPs
It’s fall.
Orange-red, beloved, drizzling fall.
And everything falls with its emergence. The leaves, the temperature, the warmth.
You’re bummed, experiencing the prior season coming to an end again; the colours are fading and the flowers disappearing. The trees are empty; pretty but a little eerie, too.
Hana insisted on a stroll since the sun still graced you this noon; by now, it’s gone again, hidden behind grey, monochrome clouds. It looks much later than it already is; great call to march outside since you were still able to pick leftover flowers in the garden with her.
In the middle of the drawing room, Hana leafs through the basket. Jungkook is largely free today, but he’s still busying himself with papers of some guest he’s expecting tomorrow. The man wishes to open a bar in the village and asked for an appointment with the town’s royal to discuss the profitability of the idea.
Jungkook is lost in thoughts, thick eyebrows furrowed, but your eyes are scurrying across the room, settling on your daughter. She’s carefully inspecting each flower, remaining on her favourites a little longer; kneeling with pursed lips.
She resembles her father down to each smileless dimple. She’s staring down, the same shape and arch of her lips, eyes big. Whenever she finds a particularly good flower, she jumps to her little feet, walking up to Jungkook to present her choices for him to admire.
Once she reaches her last favourite, she holds it up to him with a tongue sticking out, proud and childishly joyous as she says, “This is for you.”
“For me?” he drops the papers to the table, mouth open; cautiously takes the daisy between his fingers. “Gorgeous. I thought I was not allowed to have one?”
“You can have this,” she mumbles, lisping here and now, “I have many.”
“Right. Let’s see.” He lays it onto the documents he inspected, stretching out his palms for her. Obliging, she lets him pick her up and place her on his lap, immediately pumped when he asks, “Where did you find it? Want to tell me about it?”
And she does, with sheer enthusiasm so, explaining the spot and the colours vaguely. You know Jungkook still isn’t any smarter, probably not quite remembering where the daisies grow. He prefers the field in the distance over the garden.
Concluding her story, she soon tells him, “Can you keep this? Until I am big like you?”
“Oh…” You tilt your head. Your cheeks are hot like the summer that passed, watching him blush, melting with her in his arms. “Of course! Do you want to tell me why I am getting this one?”
“It’s pretty.”
“Ah. Like you then. You’re pretty.”
And Hana, aware and oh-so-humble, responds with her eyes on her fingers, nodding, “Yes.”
They do this sometimes. Exchange pretty things. She enjoys sharing her food or her collections with him, stuff she loves. She’s learned to show affection like this; makes him and you a part of herself this way. It’s a slightly different dynamic with the others in the room, though.
Because the moment her tremendous eyes look up, they darken a shade, displeased with the little body crawling to her basket, close to reaching in. Hana wriggles and jumps off Jungkook’s lap, her voice high-pitched when she starts whining, “Nooo! Not you!”
Right. There’s that, too.
The miniscule hand almost knocking over the basket, the same eyes as his sister’s, but the expressions a lot closer to yours. The surprise in his gaze is similar to the one you see right behind him, belonging to the partner in crime.
You rush to lift the near-accomplice before Hana can reprimand them both. And he looks just like you when he stares at you in shock, not minding the warmth, hands close to his body before they settle right on your clavicles.
He averts his gaze, following the drama on the ground. And the other twin, the one he’d been hurrying to, looks like your occasionally whining self, too, when Hana reaches him.
Jungkook might have enjoyed a copy of himself in her for years now, but you got two boys with your features instead. They clutch at you at all times, much as Hana sticks to her father.
Jaehoon, clever and thoughtful, secure in your arms, and then Jaehyuk, usually radiant, on the floor. Only right now, he isn’t as cheerful anymore.
Rather devastated, startled as Hana opens the small fist crushing a flower. He ogles around with wide eyes, already breathing towards crying, and then, finally — juts out his lower lip. Seeks your attention; and when he catches your tilted, worried look, he starts weeping.
As if your presence permitted his breakdown. You sigh.
His fist is closed tight, but when Hana sharply orders again, “Let go!”, he does, scrabbling away from her. She collects her possessions with a grunt; you inch closer to her the same moment Jungkook rises from his seat on the diwan.
Lifting the crying Jaehyuk in his arms, he plants a soft kiss onto the child’s temple, shushing him with a gentle, “It is alright. Look, nothing happened.”
But Jaehyuk still buries his face in Jungkook’s chest, crying harder, actual tears this time around. Jungkook squats down to Hana with a scolding look in his eyes, one eyebrow cocked as he explains, “Suhana, it is good to share.”
She doesn’t quite look at him; throws the remainders of the demolished flower into the basket, grazing the petals. Sulking, she defends, “But he destroyed them.”
“He is little. You did this as well when you were small.”
Hana shakes her head, convinced, “I do not think that I did.”
“Ah… really?”
“I don’t destroy pretty things!”
Jungkook mimics your sigh, kneeling down, and you shift your eyes for just a moment to check on the baby in your arms. He’s the calmest in the room, observing the rest of his family with curiosity. You smile a little; he’s beautiful, so innocent, so clueless.
So empathetic.
Worried when he sees his brother still crying, not imitating his sobs, but pointing to his other half before he looks at you as if you understood. Awaiting your answer.
You did understand, actually; you often do. So you nod, telling him, “I know. Jaehyuk is a little sad.”
Jaehoon points again, and then suddenly leans forwards. You hold him tight, walking closer to the rest, and he relaxes. Happy you obliged, a finger in his mouth. You set him on the ground when Jungkook does the same with Jaehyuk, listening in as your husband tries again—
“Look. You gave me a nice flower, so give him one, too. He’s your brother, right?”
Hana hesitates. Then, “Yes.”
“Don’t you love him, too?” You hum at his words, enforcing the message. “You should give nice things to people you love.”
“Yes. But he is annoying…”
She grants her siblings a look, a little calmer when Jaehyuk sniffles. Jaehoon shifts closer to his disheartened brother, touching his hand, knees close. They can finally sit on their own now, and they use the ability to keep themselves glued to the other.
A second passes before Hana adds, “Alright, he should have one. He is too small to get his own.”
You agree, “That’s right.”
Holding two different flowers towards the now far calmer Jaehyuk — Jaehoon’s presence seems to help — she inquires, “Good, which one do you like better?”
Her voice is authoritative, the classic older sister. It affects the twins for just a moment as they blink at her; but then, Jaehyuk regards the choices presented to him — though his eyes settle on the marigold quickly.
Opting to grab it, he hits the void when Hana pulls back, shaking her head. You’re about to nag again, seated on the ground next to Jungkook, much like royals should as your sister would jest, but then hold back when Hana speaks again.
“No. Grab it from here, yes?” She hands him the stem, and he listens, takes it as carefully as a baby can. “Yes, like this.”
And then he’s raising it to his cheek, fascinated by it, touching the petals after all. Jaehoon watches quietly before his beseeching eyes drift to his sister. His plea is soundless, but she understands; says, “You can have this, Jaehoonie.”
The daisy he receives is from the same spot she plucked Jungkook’s from. Pretty things for her pretty brother. He’s not sure what to do with it, though, but he imitates the way Jaehyuk plays with it so tenderly, more than happy to accept.
You catch the smile spreading on Hana’s countenance, balanced out by her sassy little, “But you have to work for more. These are mine.”
You laugh, content, “This is good enough.” You reach out to her cheek, caressing for a moment. “Be nice to each other. They love you a lot.”
She only nods, yet baffled when Jaehoon suddenly opts for her, climbing half onto her lap. She gives in, though she can barely properly hold them yet; so she reshifts him as well as she can, placing him in front of her, between her legs.
Like this, they look through the basket; he’s kind and soft, so he doesn’t do much anyway. Just stares while Jaehyuk busies himself with the flower until he gets bored and targets the toy he abandoned minutes ago.
They’re cooing and conversing, Hana speaking, Jaehoon incoherently babbling. You’ve heard this is good, talking to your kids; apparently, they’re vocal much more later on.
But the room is filled with noises and a stack of papers, so you turn to Jungkook and suggest, “I can take them somewhere else. You’re working, so I reckoned…”
“It’s alright,” he, however, assures, “I am already done. This is rewarding, actually.”
“Isn’t it tiring?” You regard the scattered children, full of love for them, but brimming with fatigue, too. “I am so… exhausted.”
“I know. I understand that you are,” he says, grasping your hand, knuckles to his lips, “which is probably why I should stay, too.”
He gets it. You know he truly does, never just says it.
Ever since the birth of your twins, stress, anxiety and restless nights came together to an undesired mix. Barely sleeping makes you prone to headaches and mood swings; one child was already difficult to manage, but three…
You haven’t rested in years. Your skin and your eyes have changed. More tired, more sensitive, your heart a little more feeble.
And the birth wasn’t easy, either. You lost a ton of blood again, another source of Jungkook’s resurfaced panic; but this time because there were two kids at once. You feel grateful, you do — but the days and weeks after they were born were hell on Earth.
You didn’t quite feel like yourself for so long.
But their warmth and Jungkook helped. Honestly, you can’t anyhow fabricate a world without him and his support even just in theory. And beware, such love isn’t given; you’ve seen friends and relatives wade through terrible experiences.
Jungkook is a man they don’t place in every corner of the world, so you’re thankful beyond imagination.
Because you survived due to him. You live because of the humble personalities in this brightly lit room, dimmed only by the grey afternoon sky. It’s a cruel world at times; some pasts are an accumulation of everything bad. Jungkook’s more than anyone’s you know.
Looking at him now, you can hardly believe he was once the sad boy stranded in the rain.
That crying, sobbing mess, freezing, seeking peace when he was inundated by misery. But…
Things came together well, right? The world is less terrifying like this.
You guess the warmth might fall outside all the time, but it never does in these rooms.
“And?”
The answer echoes less than it did a moment ago. The peeking head is retracting just slowly, still frozen between the open door and its frame. You don’t think his eyes are spying much of concern, and he confirms it when he shakes his head, responds—
“Nothing.”
“This should be good enough then.”
“Hm, yes. I don’t know. It took hours last time, as well.”
Without a piece of context, it’s a hilarious picture. Somehow, it even is with context; so you can’t help the quiet chuckle, silencing quickly to avoid waking up the tiny bundle slumbering in your arms.
You reprimand your husband, “But you can’t keep standing there for hours.”
The sigh you receive is deep and long. You understand his worries.
It hasn’t been long anyway — the night transpired just a while ago. Still in the back of your mind since Hana waddled to your room, knocking with the might that her fist could possibly conjure; you barely heard it, but you did.
You have been a light sleeper since she was born, so you were shaken awake rather fast. You welcomed her in with softness, veiling the horror in your voice. You were devastated when you saw her feet bare, standing in the dark hallway.
Luckily, the moment turned out not quite frightening — she couldn’t sleep. That was it. So you pulled her into your arms and off the ground, stroking her back and her head, planting kisses in her hair.
It took a while to lull her to sleep; to be certain, you kept her right next to you for the remainder of the nightly hours, even though her room was next door. She’d mumbled something about a poor bird, and you’d understand only minutes after her silence that she had seen a dead pigeon in the garden that day.
The nightmare this scene called forth prevented her from sleeping comfortably in her chamber for some days to come.
Jungkook had come to bed late that time, so he was long knocked out when Hana came. The regret doubled the next morning when you told him about the occurrence, and Jungkook blamed himself for the coming hours — only, the guilt extended. Still prominent.
Because he’s still glancing out, fearing she’ll come and knock again; fearing it might go unnoticed once more.
“I would hear it,” you reassure, “I always will.”
“What if you don’t?”
“I will,” you try again; you keep your voice low, soft, understanding his string of thoughts. But you miss him next to you, and you want the door to close. You insist, “I will, love. Don’t blame yourself for not hearing it, yes? You were tired.”
Jaehoon moves in your arms, a small fist loosening. He’s fast asleep, but you still wait before you speak again, assuring that he won’t wake up again. Jungkook must be thinking the same, because only once you sigh a breath of relief, he says, “You are tired, too. Don’t undermine your importance here—”
“Just come to bed, darling.”
Interrupted, his lips morph into a pout, round eyes regarding you for a moment. But it seems you render him at least a little delicate, aware of your effect on him, tilting your head by a few degrees. Your smile must be jarring; because the second you flash it, he gives in.
The door shuts behind him, and he offers an upward twitch of his mouth in response before he asks, “Would you reckon she’s too young to have her own room?”
“Perhaps… I don’t always feel very comfortable with her absence at night either. We have gotten too used to her, haven’t we?” You shake your head as he steps towards your side of the bed. “But she wanted this so bad.”
“Hmm… good thing she spends half of all her nights here anyway.”
“True. She got too used to us, as well,” you say before sitting up, eliciting a brief groan as you prepare yourself to put Jaehoon back in his crib. You can barely stand up; your body is exhausted, begs to stay in the resting state for now. “Alright then…”
But by then Jungkook’s helping hands are already reaching out, his back arching, bowing forwards. Carefully, sweetly, he mutters a little, “No, let me—” before he’s sheltering his son in his hold, slow and gentle as he tackles the task for you.
For a minute, he remains there, standing over the crib, gazing at the babies so peacefully dreaming away. He does this sometimes — lose himself in the sight. This is a fairytale for him. When he read all those books on parenting years ago, he didn’t think it’d come this easily to him.
Not that parenting has ever been particularly easy. Tears and arguments were frequent at points in time, but so were sacrifices and compromises. You knew what such a change did to a vulnerable heart and mind, so you fought through the difficulties with courage.
And it was worth it every single time. All in all, you don’t regret a thing; you’d repeat it all if you could. Jungkook is your dream; this life is your dream.
Never ceased to be.
Even now, as he returns to the bed and jumps under the blanket, you register an odd, sparkly feeling in your tummy. It always existed underneath, never diminished or decreased. Ever-so-present, you still cherish its intensity, even after all these years. Or perhaps because of the time that has passed.
Such passion isn’t a matter of fact. You know it isn’t.
Triggered by the funny, pleasant feeling in your body, your smile grows a little. Softer and more loving when he kisses your shoulder as if to greet you. Proceeds to place his head on your chest as his arms snake around your body, settling in his very own safe space.
“Are you feeling well?” his drowsy voice questions, just a little muffled as the lips graze your gown’s cotton.
“I am. You?”
“Just cold. I need a bit more of this,” he cuddles in, kissing underneath your breasts, right above your ribs. “It has been raining so much.”
“It has been indeed.”
“But,” he shifts, closer to you, “I’ve learned to appreciate it now.”
You chuckle. Time steadily passes, but some memories stay right at their assigned spots, like an immovable anchor. You’re proud, having replaced his terrifying images of nature’s showers with fond ones. And ever since, the rain has felt closer to you, too.
“That is something, then,” you say, “I’m just sad for the kids… they can’t stay out too long without feeling under the weather. If I could, I’d show them the sky all the time, too.”
“And how we’re connected to it?”
You laugh again; you wonder if he’s feeling warmer now. You’re inundated with the heat, at least. “Yes, this.”
His grip tightens just a little, a fragile attempt to draw you deeper into him. This is all the laws of physics allow — no gap left for him to close. Yet, he tries. His kiss wanders up as he raises his head, lips missing your clavicles by a bit; thumb stroking the side of your mounds.
“Love,” he calls quietly; when your eyes move to his, you see a change in them. They’re fog-shrouded and somehow questioning. “Do you feel tired?”
You’re surprised; you expected something else. The question doesn’t match his expression.
For a moment, you assume that your answer might serve a bigger purpose, so you weigh it back and forth before you decide on a straightforward, “Less than usual. It’s been so long since we fell asleep together.”
Maybe that’s what’s keeping you awake. Maybe that’s what he wants to hear.
Because he nods fervently against your breasts, cheek pressing against them, and agrees, “It has been. Yet, do you know it has been only three days in reality?”
Oh. Dang. You guess there is no true limit to your mutual obsession. You shrug, “Feels much longer.”
“Well, in that sense…” Warm digits touch your arm, circling your elbow and then travelling up your skin. “There is one good thing about Hana sleeping in the other room, yes? We’re alone for once.”
“Unless she once again catches us in the middle of—”
“Don’t remind me.”
You giggle, but the sound dies when he pushes his palm under your short gown sleeve, caressing your shoulder and then the lower part of your neck. Angling your head, you close your eyes, somehow spitting, “Are you planning something, Sir?”
His leg moves further over your own; there’s a growing firmness between them that you can’t ignore. He teases, “Sir? Now, that is new.”
“Mmh, do you like it?”
“Admittedly, it is somewhat odd, but… it’s still something.”
“Then, what is going on now?”
“Well, it’s… very boring to talk about it. Lemme just—”
The palm covering your tits is sudden, but the mouth exploring them isn’t. You felt the touch from miles away, satisfied and alight when his teeth graze over your perked nipple. His hand, restless, works on pushing down your nightgown to bare one side, and he’s…
Impatient, as you’ve known.
His tongue is hot and soft, the tip of it merely teasingly brushing over the freed nipple as his hand pushes your tit up, further into his face and towards his mouth. You sigh. He sets fire to your nerves; you feel each of the licks affecting your body.
Then, amidst the comfortable, sweet journey, he suddenly bites.
You gasp, followed by a tiny exclaim of an, “Ouch,” and work on playfully escaping his advances — to no avail. He laughs against your bud, his hands stronger than your dishonest attempt as they pin your arms to the mattress.
His eyes are evil, an eyebrow cocked, lips parted as he breathes, “What?”
“You’re about to lose it again. I can see it!”
“Ah… do you— do you not want me to?” He’s still in a daze, his words mumbled. He moves back just a little, wondering if you’re not quite where he is tonight. But you shake your head the moment he suggests, “I’ll hold myself back if I need t—”
“Oh, can you?”
You’re smiling, so he’s quickly encouraged to offer a grin of his own; honestly admits, “No… but I will for you.”
“You will for me?” The everlasting beam on your face is inevitable; how could you keep your cool, pretend you’re not thoroughly warmed when he says things like these? “While I appreciate how thoughtful you are… I’m not a fool.”
Not a fool. I won’t decline.
“Then… May I kiss you?”
“You’re asking so politely, how could I—”
There’s no time to reject, even if you wanted to. His kiss is abrupt and hard, though his lips still refrain from any aggression just yet. He lifts his hands from next to your head to above it, dragging your captive arms with them.
As his head tilts, deeper in the kiss, his tongue mingles with yours with a tempting hum so unique to his voice — as if he’s tasting a delicatesse. Your mouths are in main action, but both your bodies are reacting in their entirety, too.
In constant motion, winding, closing in.
His upper body urges you down until you’re flat on your back; the nightgown settles back over your tits again as you move, but he grabs your flesh above the clothing, kneading. Clumsily, with his eyes still shut, he attempts to unlace the front of your gown.
You wait for his intention to manifest into reality, readily letting his palm brush over your hot skin, your neck, your jaw. But once he opts to undress you fully, your patience dwindles, and you let him know, “I don’t want to wait this time.”
“Ah, alright, alright… This is how we’re doing things tonight?”
Your poor dress will be wrinkled up by the morning; you know by the way he’s hiking it up your leg this time, stopping at your waist, force of habit. There’s a satisfying, delighted smile on his face, mixing with a pleased sound when he discovers you’re bare underneath the gown—
And it seems it motivates him more rapidly to tug at his own trousers. You nod as if to encourage him further, hands seeking out the hem of his pyjamas. But you’re as useless from this angle as can be.
So he sits upright, slipping out of it, pushing it down his thighs until it’s wrapped around his knees. He’s no better, really; just as naked, just as uncovered underneath the trousers, as if the two of you planned this, or hoped for this.
Kneeling, he pushes your legs apart, spreading until your flexibility stops. He settles between them properly, leaning down, and uses the position to kick off the rest of his disruptive trousers. The length of his cock, as unbelievable as ever and quickly hardening, presses against your damp cunt — bliss for the moment, but torture for the next.
The way his cock dips between your folds and rubs along your pussy’s growing dampness feels almost deliberate. As if he’s tormenting you, demonstrating his power over you, stiff past your hole and up your tiny clit without ever diving in.
But you won’t lie — you could probably come from this alone. It’s embarrassing, being so weak in his presence. And the filthy sounds, wet and inappropriate, don’t help a bit.
So you’re not sure whether you’re relieved or agitated when the touch finally vanishes but his mischievous smile doesn’t. It’s somewhat weak, hindered by the lust clouding his brain, but it’s insane and misbehaved either way.
He’ll kill you one day; or you might kill him. You don’t know who might end up asserting the more hazardous dominance.
For now, it’s you who’s surrendering. How could you not, considering he’s conjuring his own battle plan right above you, hand reaching between his and your legs and underneath the blanket to—
Damn the tip of the digits against your clenching cunt. He’s not even inside, but you react immediately. Know to bite your lower lip when he circles your clit a little, the position and the spread legs keeping you from shutting your thighs.
Your head falls to the side; Jungkook considers it an opportunity. He plays around your nub further, testing the waters, and when you moan out, he closes the gap between the two of you, latching onto your neck to suck and kiss and bite.
“Fuck,” you curse, incessantly hoping the kids are deeply asleep and won’t have to witness their mother’s foul language this early on. “Fuck, start already—”
He knows you aren’t talking about his fingers; they’re already in action, tapping your clit, drawing over it. Then moving down, slipping along your wetness, already drenched when he decides to ram a finger in.
Yet, he understands you’re still referring to the member standing tall, anticipating and urging for you but holding back either way. No, instead he chooses to drive you crazy first, using a free hand to grab your chin and turn your head back to him, going for another messy kiss.
And you can’t do more than give yourself to him so willingly, wincing and whimpering as he finger-fucks you as well as the position allows. It’s not ideal like this, and to your chagrin, he can’t use his skills fully, but the fact that he can turn your thoughts this incoherent speaks volumes already.
You can’t wait… can’t wait for him to bury himself in you.
Half hovering over you, he soon loses the strength to keep himself afloat, dipping and retracting his fingers to lead his cock there instead; still, once again, without fucking you dumb yet. You’re drifting, but still too sane for your liking.
Your wetness helps him toy with you some more; he keeps pumping with his hand as he humps you once, twice, and you mutter his name and a couple mumbled pleas — but he remains as wicked as ever.
But when the dam breaks and your mind explodes, you exclaim his name again in pure desperation, half your brain gone when he pushes just his tip inside you and continues jerking off to make himself as hard as he can.
Eventually, you demand, “Put it in!”
The shake of his head is vile. Your eyebrows furrow at the man, and you try to grind up into him — he doesn’t let you. Only the head remains inside you, and he keeps doing his thing, not leading it in or out, just drenching himself.
You reprimand, “You’re being impossible tonight.”
“Aren’t I?” he responds, like a naughty child who’s caught and proud of its sins. He presses another peck to your lips, his words breathy when he reveals his true thoughts, “No, sweetheart, it is just that— you aren’t ready. That’s it.”
You aren’t ready? You feel like you’re overflowing. But you understand; there’s no room for impatience after all. It’s happened before — him pushing in, only to realise it was too early, that it pained you instead of pleasuring you.
“Well…” you start, dumbfounded. He noticed and you didn’t — the ultimate proof that he knows you inside out. “You could’ve said this earlier. Put it in my mouth then.”
“Huh?”
“Right now. This will help, too.”
“Oh… yes? I— I won’t reject the offer.”
Of course he won’t. In fact, he climbs up the bed quickly, lifting, caging your body between his knees. The sight is incredible; thighs as wide as your face, muscular. You hold onto them, bask in the sight of the dangling package, harder by the moment.
With effort, he says, “Just for a second.” The tip taps against your mouth, hot as he pushes it inside. Thick and heavy on your tongue, his cock twitches, affected by the swirl of the wet muscle and the hollowing of your cheeks. “Yes… not long, no—”
He must be talking to himself. Keeping himself from thrusting and fucking your mouth all the way to the end. And when you bop your head up and down, lightly touching his balls and the parts of the length you can’t swallow, he restates, “I really do not want to wait.”
You let go for a moment with a slurping sound, agreeing, “Fine by me,” before you come back to go in harder. Giving him all you can, crossing your legs, seeking reprieve.
And you think you’d quickly overflow, by virtue of his enticing reactions, if the moment wasn’t so short lived.
Because it seems he reaches a limit when your drool starts flowing down the side of your face, nasty and warm, your throat still working full time on not gagging. On staying quiet. It’s become a task by now.
And for the first time tonight, Jungkook doesn’t serve the devil, but pulls back.
While it’s a pity — why didn’t he finish in your mouth? — you won’t deny your selfish part. The one that craves and awaits, glad when his body disappears beneath the sheets again, his head with it.
What—
Won’t he start? You didn’t expect him to fall out of your sight entirely. And there’s not much guessing needed until you understand that he’s aiming for his favourite spot, his tongue lapping up your juices a moment later.
He kisses your cunt just once, slides a stripe between your folds, and you’re certain his goal is much more profound. Normally, you’d be fully down for this, but you’ve reached a limit you can’t bear anymore.
So you whisper, “You don’t need to.”
He doesn’t register it right away, spitting and feasting further; more kisses, more tongue, untamed until you grip his hair and raise his head off of you. He obliges surprisingly easily when you pull him back to your lips, reiterating, “I don’t want to fucking wait. Just…”
“I know,” he says, peck after peck, in between each word, “I know. I have had enough, too, I have—”
His arm steals your breath when he twines it around your body like a vine, arching your back, lifting you by mere inches. Both his hands are busy; caressing your sides or your face; he’s confident about the touch, about the eagerness the two of you harbour for each other.
Which is why he doesn’t even guide his length towards your pleading heat anymore, gliding up and down; hard enough to stand tall against it, poking as if knocking. The thought makes you laugh for only a moment before your lungs suddenly empty—
Part of his cock slips in effortlessly; there’s no resistance, no struggle, no need to glance down and complicate matters. You welcome him easily; match his smirk, proud and unsurprised about your keen craze when he says, “Wasn’t supposed to happen already. I wanted another moment to—”
You vigorously shake your head. “Too late. Too damn late—”
The last word comes out strained as your body comes in motion, moving against him. And he matches your pace and fervour, shoving himself in harder. Unable to resist anymore, all the teasing vanishes along with his patience.
Instead, he bottoms out at once, and you yelp, an unintentional volume that he immediately shuts with a hand over your mouth and a chuckle. Jungkook enjoys playing the beast when he’s with you like this, but he can’t suppress his amusement when he shushes you.
“Are y-you trying to wake the mansion, huh?”
But his words are nothing but a breath, airy and quiet. Such a whistling whisper that it, much as your noise, might just be enough to wake everybody, too. The irony is comical.
You shake your head and his hand with it, relying on your nose to breathe the oxygen still left in the room. Your neck feels hot, your face and body burning up. Not quite sure whether it’s the way he’s handling you or whether your leg is actually trembling like this.
His strokes, slowly starting, shake up your body at least. The friction drives you insane; his length, reaching a mind-boggling depth, renders you so stupid each time. Thick against your walls, leaving no gap, no spot untouched.
You’re boiling under his hand, somehow glad about the muffled sound. Because if he didn’t silence you like this, you’d be wreaking havoc right here, an unbridled mess wrapped in your husband’s body.
They say love and passion fade sometimes; that affection lessens when you get used to it, bored of it. But the two of you haven’t reached that stage yet — you doubt you ever will.
Because the flames that have surrounded you ever since you fell into these depths for the other… they don’t ever seem to dim. Who would’ve thought that a candle could turn into an inferno?
No, your body signals more than enough; this isn’t boredom. This isn’t a reduction in adoration. You feel the devouring and the worship in each thrust and touch and kiss and gaze.
In each curse and movement, how he shifts you and you wind. Dancing in the sheets and shivering under the goosebumps as he hears your stifled moans drowned out by his palm. If he could, he’d listen all day; if the circumstances allowed…
He rams into you hard but slowly and only raises the pace gradually; once he’s gotten used to the effect, however, and seeks to possess you more, he sends your body up the sheets. Each time, over and over again, restraint thrown overboard.
You mewl with a raised head and tightly shut eyes; his hand drops just a little, and you, in your misty moment, dig your teeth into the finger still covering your lower lip. The sound he lets out suggests pain here, but then again… lust there.
His voice is feathery, mellow; as if he’s softly charmed, seduced rather than achingly bitten.
Lips apart and eyes hooded, he relocates his hand just a little, twisting it until the thumb grazes your chin, hand laying on your cheek as the forefinger dips into your mouth. It’s difficult to focus; what does he look at?
The way his digit is gently trapped between your teeth, the tip of it teased by your tongue? The arch of your mouth and how his finger presses against the lower lip? Or the heat that grows under his palm, the rise of your chin, the eyes rolling back before shutting?
A feral urge expands in him, growing like a well-watered seed; he doesn’t know how you do it, but you encapsulate all his beginnings and ends in a moment, now and always.
Your hair is a mess by the time he removes his other hand from it, not quite sure when he grabbed a patch at all. He pins one of your legs to the side, angling it, and you breathe unsteadily, mumbling a tiny, “Oh— Kook—”
“Yes.”
It’s not quite a dialogue, but neither of you cares for it. There isn’t much to say at all. And neither any calls of his or your name, nor his quiet, “I love you so much,” do the emotion bubbling in his stomach justice.
In all honesty, he could explode just looking at you. You’re a wonder of nature, aren’t you? You pump relief and craze and comfort and insanity into him, one after another and all at once.
“Baby,” you call out the moment his teeth drag your damn gown down your tits again, kissing them, nibbling at your nipple. “I think I might already— soon…”
You don’t know whether it’s because it’s been so long, or because Jungkook knows just well how to fuck you right, but you’re nearly bursting. Or is it the mental picture of the movements he’s granting you?
Elegant yet beastly thrusts, hips and ass and upper body swaying up and down steadily; slow, then fast, then soft, then hard… rhythmic and then stuttering—
He wipes the hair off your forehead, and then whispers warm and close to your ear, “Hey, do you… know how obsessed I am with you?” A peck to your earlobe, and you wind, ticklish and pleased. He shifts to your lips, the kiss an inch away. “You—you’re all I’ll ever need.”
You can’t serve as much of a smooth and rational answer as him, but you still tell him all lost, “Then— be with me… me, always, yes?”
He chuckles; you’re not sure why. Perhaps this is such a matter-of-fact for him that he doesn’t need it spelled out. “Yes… yes. What else? Where else would I go?”
Away from you — even for a moment, even just a bit. Right now, you can’t bear the thought of a hint of a distance between the two of you. You want him close, closer, part of your heart, thawing with you in cool falls and cold winters.
“You’re pretty,” he then proceeds, tugging at your lip, “don’t know where to touch you. So pretty.”
“Everywhere. Just don’t stop— touching me,” you begin, every now and then interrupted by an exhausted kiss, “at all.”
“Right.” And still, he backs away out of the blue, all touch gone except the gentle rub along your hip, and you stare up at him with big eyes, body so empty before he orders, “Turn around.” He’s acting tough, but you see the madness in his eyes the moment he says it. “Quickly.”
Quickly.
You know what he’s thinking without him vocalising any of it. Know what he’ll do before he does it.
With quivering limbs, you oblige, helped by his hands as he hauls the gown easily over your body, crumpling it up and placing it next to the pillow. Within a moment, you’re bare, head to toe.
He keeps you on your knees, reluctant to wait a second before he enters you again. His hand lands on your ass, pulling apart to see better, and once all in, he starts moving again.
You don’t need to glance back to know that the muscles of his back and his ass are flexing, tanned and golden. The veins of his arms are probably protruding, his abs and chest damp, latter heaving. You know he probably resembles some textbook God, and maybe that’s what topples you over the edge.
That and… the hand on your clit.
Softly circling, the nub immensely sensitive, limbs buckling and weak. You require all your might to not fall and close your legs and sob.
But the tears are inescapable; one or two tip over your waterline when you finally come to an end. His prior teasing and the anticipation already drove you too close to the peak, and it seems that now you’re surrendering eventually.
You shake, your arms more so than the rest of your body. Wobbly, you try to keep yourself upright, but as the blur covers your vision and the waves crash over your pelvis and stomach, you let your cheek fall to the pillow. Hands clutch the sheets.
The tremor is out of control.
And you’re still riding out that high, aided by his continuing shoves and hammering. He’s generous when he pushes you all the way down, a hand on the small of your back as he says, “Take your time— I’m almost there, fu—”
Take your time with what? You don’t know; the chances are high he doesn’t either. Or is he talking to himself again?
To no avail, though, because he’s manic, uncurbed. Your cheek digs into the pillow, the bed moving more than it has during these moments lately. He’s chasing ecstasy, calling your name and little words, such as, “Love, sweetheart, darling,” over and over again like it’s his sole vocabulary.
His lips move over your shoulder and to your back, featherlight as opposed to how he’s fucking you. The care with which he kisses your skin leaves you gasping, affects you whole, and you feel the shiver down your spine, along your arms.
You want to stay awake all night. Want this to keep going.
Funny, how this very thought is followed by a question you neither expect nor grasp, “Have I… kissed you too much already? Are you sick of it?”
You think your eyebrows furrow, or perhaps you imagine it, because there is no way your facial muscles still have that much energy left. But he must be out of his mind, daring such questions. Is there such a thing as getting sick of him?
“Why—”
This man never lets you finish. There is an art to interrupting without irritating, and he’s mastered it — because you can barely complain when his hand wraps around your neck, cautiously lifting and turning your head to make out with you again.
The tongue sneaks into your mouth right away; the kiss is barely a kiss, too filthy and chaotic to be called such. Rather, you’re eating each other up, mixing your moans, crazed by his drilling until his breaths turn laboured and his sounds hoarse.
They come straight out of his throat, sweet in your ears. And before you know it, he’s getting to his knees and rapidly pulling out; you feel vulnerable and tender, thoroughly worn out. The heat is blistering and your mind gone — but you still notice the ropes landing on your ass.
Sticky and hot and plenty. Scattered over your flesh; you contribute some, too, moving your ass left and right just a little, and it seems he’s enjoying it. Groans as he pumps on; when you look back at him, eyes halfway closed, you give him the rest.
And a couple seconds later, tongue poking the corner of his lips, he’s done.
Panting, whispering something you can’t understand, weak… but done. Close to falling onto you until he realises he probably shouldn’t.
Instead, he lays down next to you. Your eyes are closed, but you immediately feel a loving brush over your cheek, ridding it of the strands sticking to your face.
You shake your head — or at least, you think you do. It’s probably more of an attempt, just a slight movement before you playfully scold, “Great… what do we do about this now?”
Jungkook swallows, calming down as he responds, “Over there— there’s a jug of water on the table still.”
“…And?”
“I will go and find a cloth?”
The careful question in his tone is so sweet. You’re not sure if he intended to stain your skin like this before the lust took over him. What a fool for you. Enough to barely ever think of the consequences, be they big or small.
In this sense, you could say that falling for you happened without a single thought for him, too, didn’t it?
He was chasing a different plan. Didn’t fathom that he was losing himself in you. And when he did, he didn’t consider the aftereffects and the risks of what his uncle had come up with; Jungkook didn’t care much about anything at all but being with you.
He’s told you many times.
Back when you hid in that room, or touched in the carriage — in those fleeting moments, the future didn’t consist of what his relatives needed, but of what he could give to you. Who he could be to you.
In hindsight, he was so in love with you. Looking at your relationship, you can’t compare the affection you started out with for each other with the overload of passion now, but… goddamn, he was so in love with you. You know.
And the truth is that no matter what obstacles life may place on your road ahead, neither of you will love the other less than the minute before.
You laugh when you meet his big, brown eyes, asking, “Is there any cloth in this room?”
“I… I think I brought one before. Should be on the table…”
“Might be good enough.”
“Or I can get one from the kitchen.”
You scoff. “You want to sneak around the mansion now? Really?” You lift your upper body, balancing it on your arms, catching him as he licks his lips at the sight of your bouncing tits. You nod towards the table. “That will do. Go and free me from your stuff.”
“Tsk. Good.”
You were right; his idea sufficed. And the kids are still asleep — a double win for you. In theory, you’re ready to crash for the night, succumbing to fatigue. But the truth is that only your body feels spent; your brain doesn’t just yet.
So as Jungkook wipes over the flesh of your ass, you confess, “I’m still not tired enough.”
“Mmmh, me neither.”
“…So what now?”
He falls back to his side with another grunt, throwing the dirty cloth to the floor. You reach out, grazing his chest, playing with the cotton he’s still sporting. He probably knows what you’re hinting at, despite being already battered, but he ignores your advances just to—
“Mh-mh,” he rejects, “I want to talk. I just… I need to hear your voice for a bit.” He stops the finger on his chest, raising your hand to his lips, and kisses each knuckle. Dramatically, he adds, “What would I do without your voice?”
You ponder. Then jest, “Still hear it in your mind somewhere.”
“Yes, very true. I still always do in the office.”
You laugh, so gripped by the emotions stuck to your heart. “So, what would you like me to say?” He shrugs, an indicator for, “Anything.” So you ask, “Would you like me to tell you a story?”
“Yes… story. Yes, tell me one.”
“I can think of one right away. Sort of a lullaby.”
“So it’s got to be a good one,” he says as he covers you with the thick blanket. An arm over you pulls you closer to him. “Right?”
Your eyes drift to the window. You’re lucky, sleeping in a bedroom with a view. Jungkook’s office has one, too, but Hana’s room, while next door, doesn’t. You’re at the far end of the corridor and this mansion’s wing, risking much, so exposed.
Perhaps you’ll move your room to a safer place in the mansion soon. But for now, you’re grateful for the sky, the stars, the moon. The pouring cloudburst.
Jungkook might have caught your distraction; because he wraps one of your hair strands around his finger, inquiring, “May I guess?… Is it a story about the fall and the rain?”
Your lips twitch upward to a smile. Flooded by past pictures, you refuse to end the night, preparing for a concluding tale as you say—
“How did you know?”
When it knocks at your chamber door the next sunrise, you could swear you haven’t slept more than a handful of hours. The exhaustion weighs on your eyes and muscles, body limp as you stir awake. Your voice is still hoarse.
So you’re startled.
Not just because it’s early or because of the interrupted, peaceful slumber; and not just because there’s a knock at the grand, adorned door, either. In reality, it occurs regularly — for Jungkook and his work, or to remind you of your children’s riding and violin lessons, or to inform you of the arrival of guests.
This time it’s the latter. Yet, you’re alarmed, not even because of the guest, but because it’s Sunday, and you don’t usually expect a visitor on Sundays — unless, perhaps, something is transpiring down in the village that needs your urgent assistance.
But — these things are rare. People here regard it as their rest day, too. It’s why you wake up drowsy and confused, ready to sleep the fatigue off and hoping it’s nothing too grave. Squinting an eye shut, you glance at the longcase clock in the corner of your room.
Seven in the morning.
You register a mumble of a voice next to you, low and gravelly, welcoming the staff inside who, a second later, informs, “Visitor for you, Lord Jeon.”
Jungkook sighs. A hand emerges from under the heavy, floral blanket, rubbing his tired, puffy eyes. He hums in gratitude, telling the informant he’d be downstairs in a minute; and when the young man has stepped away, Jungkook half turns to you.
His voice is still husky and half asleep when he gently wipes a strand behind your ear and says, “Go back to sleep. Might be Byun for the boxing ring. I should be back in a little.”
You only nod, moving his cradling hand with it. You can barely speak, fighting the urge to yawn. Frankly, you wouldn’t know what you’d be uttering anyway, though your mind is still present enough to understand that he’s kissing your knuckles and then leaving his side empty.
Falling back into the mattress, you once again hope for a speedy get-together on the floor down below; but when you awake again, the clock indicates the passing of over a full hour. The bed is still half vacant.
You wonder what’s going on, gradually cracking your eyes open to the ceiling until your brain fathoms well enough that a meeting this early shouldn’t take so long, and that anyway, there’s no reason for a business visitor to come by this soon into the day.
So you clear your throat, sitting up at the edge of the bed. You wrap yourself in your gown and your silk coat, arms folded as if to protect yourself. It’s just cold; a chill autumn day.
And as you walk down the staircase, you hear faint chattering from the main hall, like a tiny whisper from here. There’s only some staff in the welcoming hallway, but they’re guarding the parlour. That’s where the voices are coming from.
Nobody hinders you from entering the room when you do. Of course not; there’s no reason to.
But the atmosphere is still oddly charged when you step in, meeting Jungkook’s pale face from afar. You blame it on the sleepless night, just as much as the somewhat dark circles under his eyes.
Still, it gets weirder as you near; because he’s looking at somebody who has their back turned to you. A woman with long black hair, gazing down; and when Jungkook detects you, he looks terrified.
Uprighting himself, blinking, drawing a breath too deep to not worry.
You automatically assume the worst; bad news from the city? Some issues in the village? Or a girl trying her charm on your husband? Wouldn’t be the first time.
You round the chair she made herself comfortable on; and your surprise increases, skyrocketing when you notice that she didn’t come alone. There’s a child next to her. Proper and sweet, certainly older than Hana.
His hands are neatly folded in his lap, hair combed back. He’s just listening, it seems, to whatever they spoke about. And his face… his face looks familiar somehow; as does the girl’s, yet in an entirely different way.
“Good morning,” you greet the woman and she responds with a nod. “Is everything alright?” you finally ask, turning to Jungkook, a hand on his shoulder. “You didn’t come back.”
But Jungkook doesn’t answer. Your heart grows a little more wary. Because, why is he so speechless? Why does he look scared, eyes wide, chest risen, as if he’s holding his breath? Blinking faster.
The woman is back to staring at her legs, shifting her hand to grip the little one next to her; and the boy looks like he doesn’t want to be here at all. At the same time, however, he starts to admire the fancy interior of your mansion.
The lustre, the floor, the table, the chairs. Everything you’ve grown used to.
“What is wrong?” you try again. Panic watered by Jungkook’s lack of response, you gulp, but still steady yourself and remain polite. “May I ask… who are you?”
You’re looking at the woman again. She glances up to you. She’s gorgeous — full and curved lips, light brown eyes, pitch black hair. Looks young; about your age. She doesn’t answer, but Jungkook’s quivering voice does.
“This is Jihyo, darling.”
Well, alright. Doesn’t tell you much. You’ve seen her, maybe even heard the name, you think. Is she from your town? But you can’t assign her any significance…
“What does this mean?” you inquire.
“She… She wanted to talk to me,” he explains, “she came all the way from a village close to our hometown.”
“Ah. To say what, exactly?”
You don’t want to sound agitated; but the suspense is growing unnecessarily, and you want whatever truth out. And honestly—
The tension forms a little something in your head. Not enough time has passed for him to properly answer, but you still repeat, “To say what?!”
You feel like you have a hunch… you’re starting to come up with theories. And the worst of them dizzy you, make you want to yell and throw up, tempting you to smash a nearby vase.
Did he… could he do this to you…
No.
“Jihyo and I knew each other… way before you and I got married. Way before.”
He echoes the last two words as if to reassure you; like the verbal equivalent of a soft hand on your back, rubbing you in comfort. But… the tactic doesn’t quite bear fruits. Your chest tightens more; the fatigue of the morning eventually fades.
“And?” you prompt, regarding her. “Why aren’t you saying anything then?”
“I have… to him. I—I do not quite know if it is my place to—”
“No, it is not,” you interrupt, “maybe you’re right. My husband should explain, no?”
But he’s stuttering as much as her. You don’t lose your patience often with him, or with people for that matter. You’re a cheerful person, fuelled by the miracles of the world. But…
This is pulling out your worst self.
“I—” he starts.
Terrified. What the hell is going on? You wait — wait more as he swallows. And then, when he drops the explanation, your heart falls with it. Bursts, plummeting from such a height.
“Jihyo and I met for a while and… she just came and told me that this… he’s—”
You understand.
You understand immediately because your guts warned you the moment you saw his expression. You look back and forth between him, her and the child, realising the similarities once and for all, well aware from experience why similarities are a thing in a family and…
You can barely hear yourself emit the words once they tumble out; like your voice isn’t your voice, and your thoughts aren’t your thoughts, “This… is your son?”
Like you’re living somebody else’s day who’s about to trudge through a life-changing, agonising event. Because this can’t be happening to you. Actually, it’s not sinking in at all; you’re fantasising, and you refuse to believe reality.
“Jihyo says he is my son,” he paraphrases, as if he doesn’t really believe her, either, “he’s uhm. He’s six years old.”
Your mind begins to calculate immediately. Sudden dread fills you — because wait. Weren’t you together at that time? Did Jungkook hide from you, lingering in the dark, and yet another past is catching up to the two of you?
No. Hold on once more.
You got married to him five years ago. Were engaged and together for a year before. That makes six. You curl in the fingers in your mind, keeping up your math.
It’s been wrong all along, so you need to be correct this time.
Okay, so, if her — no, his, their son was born six years ago, it’d mean that Jungkook had been with her not too long before you. That’s not way before you got married, is it?
Your breath hitches. You blink the way he did before — not sure what to do or say. Your eyes move over to the rosy cheeks of the child again. He looks so innocent, still clueless, even though he perfectly understands what Jungkook just said.
Who the man is to him.
Of course. Same doe eyes, button nose, shape of face; like a damn copy. Not that the truth hurts enough, no — it had to be accompanied by another of his faces. Not in your own sons, somewhat in your daughter, but in him.
But you guess everybody is confused.
Even Jungkook. Most of all Jungkook, right?
Jihyo says he is my son.
Why? Does he not realise it?
That must mean he didn’t know, did he? And the child didn’t know either.
Jeon Jungkook, your husband of half a decade, has a son he never knew of. Older than Hana. Predating all of your history with him, alive and a toddler already back when you so profoundly believed that you were the first to share this very bond with this man.
To be the first for him at least once. But…
You’re not.
“Say something,” you hear him plead.
His voice is a little farther away. Your eyes drift back to him; he looks miserable, a hand reaching out. His fingers graze the tip of yours, but you retract in time. He sighs in absolute sorrow, face falling, as if his chest is surrendering.
You barely whisper when you answer, “What do you want me to say?”
It’s him and you; the woman is quiet, and you’re shattering. She can’t do anything anyway. Only contorts her face in pure guilt when Jungkook, defeated to the core, begs, “Anything.”
“As you wish.” Another glance at her. She’s looking at you, too. “Why are you here now?”
Her eyebrows raise; she’s caught off guard, but she still has an answer ready. Of course; Jungkook heard all of it minutes before you are, so it must be easy.
“I… I haven’t been doing well. The man I was supposed to marry left when he found out I carried somebody else’s child… even— even before that, actually.” Jungkook breathes air through his lips as she explains; you can’t tell why. “And I need help. Any help.”
“I see… And you couldn’t come years earlier, I assume? When I didn’t have three children of my own?” You lift the corresponding number; your cheeks are fiery hot. “When there was nobody I’d have to explain this to? How…”
You shake your head, disgusted with your attitude, but more devastated by the situation. So you spit, “How selfish are you?”
Her mesmerising eyes are so big; with her and Jungkook’s lives combined, their son could only end up with these grossly sweet eyes, pupils fracturing your heart. She’s looking at you as if you’re about to eat her.
Then she apologises, “I’m sorry… I tried to get by for as long as I could.”
“Didn’t you know we have a family?!”
“I knew! I— Of course I knew.”
Jungkook is royalty; people in your city know the two of you. Know your story. You wonder what this will do to you both.
“And,” you continue, “you still thought it’d be a good idea to bring chaos to our home.”
“I did not wish for this at all,” she defends, “I felt terrible all the while, and… I was so desperate, please try to understand. I need something, anything and… If his father can provide any of it in any way…”
His father… his father…
You might spiral. The same thoughts circle your head at a pace that might make you faint.
This woman. This child. And his father.
You can’t breathe.
So you don’t respond to the sheer idiocy she just uttered, still in disbelief; the denial will be over in a minute. But for now, it hurts and you’re confused and absolutely out of touch with reality, and… fuck, your stomach—
You put a palm to your chest; the rise and fall is heavy. And just as he calls your name, you bolt away.
Just a second before you once again feel his fleeting digits miss your wrist, a lingering ghost touch as you run.
The first instinct your feet follow leads you to Jungkook’s office.
Somewhere in a corner of the mansion, you have your own chamber, dedicated to your time and your moments; but somehow, you still land in a room drenched in the scent you’re fleeing from.
And it’s counterproductive, the way you’re moving. Fast enough to dim his calls, but slow enough for him to catch up, too. Like you want him to follow. You know he’d find you even if he wasn’t hot on your trail, because you like to hide there.
But on other days, it’s you finding solace in him, not away from him.
You’re dizzy, deeply breathing when you shut the door behind you, both palms on the heavy door. You keep them there as if they could guard you from the disaster outside. But they don’t. None of it might.
Because he’s still right there, busting your glass heart when you hear steps outside, nearing; closer, too close, the corresponding voice hesitating for not a moment—
“Open… open, please.”
And suddenly, you’re crying.
There is no warning, no quiet tear falling, no steady progress. The stream of shock and grief is immediate, and it leaves your eyes, passes your cheeks, collects at your chin so fast that you barely notice the door blurring.
You’re sobbing; your forehead collides with the cold of the door, the carvings unpleasant against your skin. Where are your kids? They must still be asleep. Or maybe somebody is already — hopefully — taking care of them.
Jaehyuk gets all moody when Jungkook or you stay away for too long. You don’t think he should be this attached to you, to not learn to trust others. But trust is fragile and the child seems to know and… and… you know as well. You wish you could be as oblivious as him, though.
The world doesn’t work that way. No, it’s cruel and painful and everything good spoils someday, becomes rotten.
Doesn’t it?
Why does the voice on the other side cut you in pieces?
God. You want to return to your children. You want back to what you had last night; you crave their warmth, and his warmth. Of your children, his children.
But wouldn’t it remind you again? That the number isn’t uneven as you thought. That there’s more out there; he has more pieces out there that you’re not part of and… fuck. Fuck.
“I d-do not want to,” you finally reply, stuttering, words cut.
He silences. Maybe because he can hear you weeping. But he tries again, “Please… open.”
You shake your head against the door, but you know such a choice won’t lead anywhere. He’ll stay right there and you’ll keep telling him to leave, and despite his guest downstairs, he’ll persist.
So your hands sneak to the handle, weakened by the shaking. Jungkook doesn’t barge in until the door cracks open a slit; and when he steps into the room, you tumble back, out of his reach.
You don’t want his embrace. You don’t need his arms.
No, that’s a lie.
You do, but you can’t brave them right now. Body weightless, you rely on your voice, stating, “You never told me.”
His face is fallen, cheeks rounder when he looks to his feet. They’re flushed; the hue is so different from what you’re used to seeing. It’s always accompanied by a smile and crinkles around his eyes, sometimes shy, sometimes delighted.
This time it’s something else. Embarrassment and guilt and pain.
There’s a crease between his eyebrows, smoother due to your quiet tone; but it’s still there, distressed. Pained when he admits, “I didn’t know. I didn’t know a thing.”
“Who is she?”
He knows that, at least. You need to move away from pointless questions and throw those that you’re certain he possesses knowledge about.
He says, “She’s somebody I knew… so long ago.”
A thought after another creeps into your head, like a parasite, feeding on your sanity. You feel crazy and sick when a horrifying idea makes its way through, but you can’t resist the question regardless of the answer.
“Was she… was she one of the people you tried things with? To escape town…”
“No… she wasn’t part of any of this.”
And you cannot say if this is better or worse than what you expected. He wasn’t as terrible as to try with this many women. But if she wasn’t part of that stupid plot, and you were, does this place her higher in worth than you?
You weren’t good enough to be approached without a deal. To be fallen in love with unintentionally. But she was something else. It seems there was something, right?
But he’s with you. He chose you. You’re his wife, the woman he spends his days with, the only thought in his head. He’s loved you throughout the years; he’s devoted to you like the moon to the stars, not to her.
And he’s standing here, his eyes begging, his fingers quivering. You’re the subject of his desire and the name in his heart; he never even mentioned her. Fuck, he breathes for you… but you can’t seem to breathe.
You’re the mother of his children, yes. But so is she.
“Did you… did you get with my sister or me to forget about her?”
Fuck, you’re breathless. Why are you breaking like this? Why does the moment feel like this? When is it going to be over? Will you wake up easier?
“No…” he says, shaking his head immediately, “no. You know how it started. It had nothing to do with her, just with him…”
“So what?!” you spit, unable to contain yourself, somehow not affected enough by the big, sad eyes, pleading and fearing. “Who was she?”
It hurts. It hurts not only because of the obvious circumstances but — your love was born out of a facade, out of a lie. Even if he loves you genuinely now, even if you’d die for him without hesitation — the two of you happened as part of a different purpose.
But she never did.
She was real. Whatever he had with her or felt for her, it stemmed out of something authentic.
Your face heats up when you inquire, “…Did you love her?”
“I…” He hesitates. Fucking hesitates. But then says, “I didn’t.”
“You’re lying.”
You don’t know if he is. You can usually tell; this seems a little more complicated. One, you’re clouded by your own judgement. Second, the situation isn’t easy; Jihyo so obviously belongs to parts of his history.
Jungkook insists again, “I didn’t love her.”
“But you felt something.”
“I don’t know,” comes back, and something inside you falls, even if it shouldn’t, even if you had nothing to do with whatever was before you came along. You hate it, but you can’t stop yourself from plummeting face-forward into pain when he says, “But she was nowhere close to where you are now. Or where you were even back then.”
Can you believe this? The but pierces through you, repeating in your mind, as if saying, “No, she was less than you, but still something.” How do you know none of it will return with a child present in his life?
“But she was enough for a child,” you retort, “and… I don’t know how careful you were with others, too…”
“I was. I was careful.”
“But not with her!”
He doesn’t respond. This isn’t you; you don’t make others feel bad. You endorse empathy and joy. No, this isn’t you and it frightens you. If you had it in you right now, you’d take him into your arms. He’d deserve it, considering that he’s as surprised as you, falling as much as you.
Suffering like you.
But your thoughts are going haywire, and they keep falling out, “I thought I was the first one. I wanted our children to be our first—”
“I thought so, too,” he defends, “it’s what I would have preferred, baby, I… If I could just…” He gulps; it’s as if you can hear it from afar, in this quiet, empty room. There’s a pause between his words before he steps closer, whispering, “Please, I love you—”
“No, I…” You back away again. Shield yourself. You can’t take a single touch right now.
“Can we mend this?” Jungkook asks; the question splits you in half.
Because what could you do, really? This very real fact looms over you, might do so forever.
“Mend what?” you echo. “That you have a child with another woman? What is there to mend? This is reality and you cannot undo it.”
When you look closely enough, his eyes shimmer with tears, too. The sparse sunlight seeping through the windows for the first time in hours upon hours highlights the glimmer, but there’s nothing soft about it. You recognise dread in it.
Jungkook has been abandoned before, and ever since he married you, he’s been just as afraid, too. It took months and years for the two of you to find a remedy, to decrease the terror. To make him trust your presence entirely. To help him understand that you’re here.
Now, by the looks of it, it seems he isn’t sure anymore.
He tries again, desperate, out of his mind, “Just somehow. Somehow, we can fix this, right?”
“Fix what, Jungkook…?”
“Please.”
You’re moving in circles. He keeps imploring you to reconsider, and you remain clueless about what exactly he’s begging for. You just want to know where this is going. Who she is. Who she was.
“Please what…” you whisper, eyes drifting to the ground. “What are we going to do about it, Jungkook? It’s important to think about, right…? Who was she to you?”
Who she was?
Jungkook’s memory is fragmented.
Pieces of what she really used to be to him evaporated long ago, just when he turned to look at her properly for the very last time on that warm early summer night. Back then, her smile was fake, apologetic, as if she’d committed an unforgivable crime.
As if sorry for wasting his time, for hurting him, for watching him leave when she wished for him to stay a little longer.
A similarly sad smile, yet so different in nature, appeared when she greeted him so gently in the hallway today. He was frozen in the staircase, stuck on that damn smile that haunted him for weeks and months back then, trying to understand whether she was actually here.
Wondered how he could make her disappear again. It wouldn’t fare well with how he lives his life with you now, he already knew. She was interfering.
And… the familiar smile told him she wasn’t here to deliver any good news. And even though he doesn’t remember it all anymore, he hated how the expression brought back the flood of past images.
The first fuzzy image was of a smile, too, albeit incredibly faded. More optimistic, tender. Enthusiastic, craving the solace and joy of the night as much as Jungkook had.
She stood on the far opposite side of the spacious hall back then; even through the dancing couples, he could see her gleaming, absorbed in a conversation with her dearest friends.
Jungkook had seen her before; perhaps once or twice, but he could barely remember her face. It was as if he was actually looking at her for the first time that night. He didn’t think she generally attended too many parties; and when they’d crossed paths before, they’d probably been a little younger.
He just…
He couldn’t remember her being this striking.
He couldn’t recall the dimples or the vibrant smile or the sparkle in her large eyes. Far away in the room, Jungkook lightly bit his lip as he observed, cocking an eyebrow when she gasped to something her friend had said.
As if he was standing next to her and hearing it, too. Mimicking her reaction, caught in a bubble.
And it took her a little to notice him, too. But when she did, her friends’ eyes followed, an immediate elbow teasing her sides as much as their words. Jungkook could only imagine what they were saying.
What are you looking at?
Is it your turn already? With him, yes?
Oh, and the season has barely begun!
He could read parts of it off their lips. Lifted his ego a little. But he averted his eyes nevertheless, despite the resistance in his movements, only to shift back every now and then.
To his chagrin, the night didn’t offer too many opportunities to near where she stood, but as the event snuck to its end, at least a sliver of hope twinkled, even for just a minute. Approaching the carriages at the same time, he found her waiting not too far from him.
Her family was missing just like his; but he was comfortable here, staring at the sky, breathing in the late spring breeze. But her gown, while heavy, wasn’t accompanied by a shawl, her arms bare.
He used the chance to ask, “Aren’t you cold?”
She stared up in surprise, not quite expecting a conversation. Yet, smoothly, and either bold or courageous or sweet, she answered with a confidence so enticing, “Hmmm, no. I guess I felt warmed enough throughout the night.”
Interesting. So very interesting.
Jungkook’s lips twitched upwards, an enthralled smile; his voice sounded somewhat different when he asked, “Is that so?”
“Mhm. I’ll thank you another day, though.”
Behind her, her folks neared, and he looked ahead and then down, smile still plastered to his face. Even when she’d left, the sparkle remained in his eyes.
That was it for now.
Jungkook’s and Jihyo’s paths crossed again merely a week later. He understood in that time apart that the tiny interaction had caught him somehow; he was relieved when he saw her again at the next party.
Brave, he joined her where she stood, scanning the finger food before settling on some tartelettes. He’d been hopeful throughout these days, yes, but Jihyo didn’t show her face too often; so he didn’t lie when he confessed, “I didn’t expect you here.”
“Well…” she answered, “I hoped to see you. I told you I’d want to thank you.”
“Mhhh, I’m still not sure what for, though.”
She shrugged her shoulders, smile so vibrant. “It was a pleasant night. I felt warm throughout.”
She’d said the same thing last time, waiting at the carriage, moonlit and breathtaking. He smirked a little, satisfied by the flow of the dialogue; then argued, “But it is the summer season. Heat is all that is ahead.”
“…Isn’t it?”
Something stirred in Jungkook. He wouldn’t analyse her words on other days, but her expression was telling. Made him fearless, whirling his mind as he asked, “Have you explored this place yet?”
“No. I never get to do so much. But,” she said enthusiastically, licking cream off her snack. Jungkook couldn’t look away. “I wouldn’t mind walking around. It is hotter inside anyway.”
And matching her fierce response from before, Jungkook added, “…I doubt it.”
He was right. She’d prove it quick minutes later. In the backyard, stopping in the middle of their walk, he felt the warmth, the heat when she pushed him into an empty corner, lips crashing against his.
Jungkook’s blood scorched indeed; the outside wasn’t cooler. In fact, it burned. He burned. And she burned, too. Her skin, her shoulder, the mounds of her breasts underneath the dress that he pulled down.
There wasn’t any room or chance to proceed too far, but somehow, Jungkook was content with this.
It made him crave harder; and he enjoyed the feeling. The temptation. The yearning for all he hadn’t yet seen, yet felt. He hungered for her; she was the opposite of what the world held, brought him excitement.
Today, he doesn’t know if it was this very exhilaration or the need for distraction or something else that dragged him back to her over and over again. He recalls his heart nervously jumping, but he can’t recall it blooming. Never the way it did with you. Never.
But she still evoked something different. Reprieve from his days, his sorrows, the grief in his big, old home.
He never told her any of this, but he assumes she saw. Sometimes, she’d raise his chin when they met in private, mouth breathing close to his, asking if something was wrong. He’d deny. He’d dive into her eyes and lips instead, forget about it all, enjoy her empathy.
She’d somehow worry, he thought, and then kiss him, tell him it was alright, no matter what it was. That she was there. And he’d appreciate it. Would like the warmth, the care.
And still, he’d go home to tears, suffer all over again. But when he fell asleep, he’d think of her, forbidding the last thought of the night to be anything dreadful, anything but the same pretty smile.
She offered madness. She offered humour, sweetness, and most of all, relief.
Jihyo always refused to walk around town. She never hesitated to decline his offers.
Jungkook was alright with this; didn’t question her rejection at first; he didn’t know what the two of them were, anyway. There were fuzzy feelings somewhere, something twinkling in his mind and his guts and his chest.
He didn’t think love felt this way, however.
He regarded love as a much stronger sentiment than what they had. What was it that they indulged in anyway? Ablaze days and nights, baring themselves behind locked doors, lips on her skin, her sides, her waist, her flesh. Hands on, under, between her legs.
The digits would dig into her hips and remain; his tongue tasted her up, up and down, in and out. Taking in her scent, lapping her up, showing her new things. Body against body. Buried in her, glued to her — could that be love? No.
It was just that, wasn’t it? Yes, he’d stopped meeting other women. Yes, he’d be distracted at events.
He would spend his time with his boys, but let his mind and eyes travel far from them; even the presences hiding in those halls that he’d usually mock or annoy or disregard, projecting his own insecurities onto them, dulled.
Jihyo was beautiful. Jihyo captured focus. And he called Jihyo’s name until he even muttered it when alone; she breathed it until he could only hear his own name in her voice.
But.
It wasn’t love. Even today, he knows it never was.
Yet, even then, he could imagine this for a while. If he couldn’t love her now, he thought, maybe he could love her some day. He couldn’t tell, but he could imagine it. Who knew?
Then again, it seemed he would never find out, anyway.
Some days, some time later, Jungkook eventually started thinking how odd it was that Jihyo never wanted to go out. To tell somebody about them; would it be so bad?
He presumed it was because she didn’t want others to know. He understood, truly; at an age where people would pressure one into obligations just when they saw others together, he didn’t want them to rumour yet.
Then again, Jihyo and he were connected somehow; sometimes he thought that was enough, too. Deep under the sheets so often, sharing stories sometimes, and perhaps they weren’t for the public to hear.
And there was something mysterious about them that nobody would understand, anyway. He couldn’t wrap his finger around the mystical nature of the two of them, but he started to understand she had him good.
Yet…
Yet. Something was wrong with her. So entirely wrong when she’d keep him hidden in rented rooms or in the dead dark of the night.
When she’d refuse his offer to promenade through the park, be fully against his invitations on some days without a proper reason at all. Or, when she’d skip events that she promised to attend, and then told him she hadn’t been sick — just not in the mood.
And one day, he decided to ask.
A very futile intention; the urge to ask was quickly overshadowed by kisses too intense. He already wanted to see her again even before the evening was over, no matter what she’d answer. He was already dreaming of her body, despite towering over it right now.
Would these dreams ever stop?
His nights were sleepless anyway, just like this approaching one. Hands on his own skin, today replaced by her, pumping and fondling. All over him when he climbed onto her and pushed in again.
He couldn’t free himself of the itch she caused just yet; kept scratching. Then again, he was so clueless about who she was at this very moment. Fond of her, but confused, too.
Aware of how much he thought of her, but having no issues retorting things snarkily, like when she mumbled underneath him, “You can’t live without me,” and he effortlessly rose from her neck, swollen lips answering, “Oh, I can.”
And he could. They were confusing in nature, but he knew that he could.
Because she was veiling something that he thought might distance her from him, so he started keeping himself mentally distanced either way. Even though it proved harder these days.
But the two of them were still something. They got along; there was humour in this, attraction and fire. And he felt heavenly inside her every damn time.
In the midst of it, he told her, “We could try harder.”
Perhaps she misunderstood; perhaps she couldn’t read his eyes and his tone yet, because she pulled him closer, deeper. He let her. Wouldn’t voice these thoughts properly again until he dropped next to her and said, “I like spending time with you. And I want to try more.”
He didn’t notice right away — her hesitation, her silence.
It took a second to even look at her; and when he did, he recognised the sudden guilt in her eyes instantly. Remorse, pain. Like he’d just broken something with his idea that she’d kept whole. Only now, she couldn’t save it anymore.
He didn’t know what it was, so he wondered, “What is it?”
“I…”
Then again, it wasn’t hard to figure out anyway. He deduced, “…You don’t want it.”
“It’s… not that I don’t want it.”
“I mean. It’s alright, you see? We aren’t this far, so if you want to reject this, I do understand. I will live.”
“I might have to reject it… you, Jungkook,” she confessed, and he had to admit that he wasn’t overly enjoying what he was hearing, “not because I want to, but it’s…”
And the universe had cruel ways of interrupting. Always.
Because her words halted somewhere between him and her and then vanished into thin air. Cut by strong, arhythmic knocks at the door. The sudden interjection startled them, dropped the quiet hearts into the pit of their stomachs.
As the door worked on being unlocked, she whispered a tiny, anxious, “Please… you might get hurt.”
And Jungkook understood; jumped off the bed, slipping into his trousers within seconds before dashing to the back. The wardrobe was empty, ideal to hide; it’s what he knew she wanted, for him to stay anonymous.
Jihyo, still bare, sat up on the bed, and Jungkook, in the dark with only a gap to observe the outside happenings, waited. Waited until the door opened. Until a man, more or less a stranger to him, only minimally familiar, stormed in with furious eyes.
He didn’t stall a second before his anger ambushed her. Jungkook’s fingers tingled to crash the door of the wardrobe open; even from here, it was abundantly clear that the man struggled to not hurt her.
But right now, he relied on the fury in his tone; Jungkook assumed it was a brother or friend raging about her indecent behaviour. But it soon became all too obvious that he wasn’t. Somebody of such a relationship doesn’t snap like this.
No, Jungkook understood. Knew what the issue was when the man asked, “So you’ve started getting naked for others? Is that it now? That’s what you whore have been doing?”
For others…
She tried, “Listen, I—”
But he cut her off, “No! I promised you everything. Why do you despise me so much? You couldn’t wait for us to be wed, but needed to satisfy your needs elsewhere? Why do you despise me, huh?”
Jihyo didn’t hear much of what he said, zeroing in on specific statements, and whispered, “You do not give me everything. Not even close.”
Fuck.
If it wasn’t clear already… Jungkook’s mind spun.
Jihyo was promised to somebody else and was using Jungkook with a purpose and intention, as a means of fulfilling whatever she needed to fulfil. And he— he was the homewrecker, the third wheel, not her focus the way she was his focus.
Despite the mistakes he’d ever made, despite his damn flaws, he never wanted this.
What was he? A placeholder? Thrown aside the moment she’d marry him? Why was it that Jungkook’s existence was regarded as something so low, stomped beneath people’s feet, like he was nothing at all?
Who knew? There wasn’t even a second to think about it, to ask about it.
Priorities shifted, inquiries shoved away; when the man reached low, snatching a patch of her hair to pull her off the bed, sirens chimed in Jungkook’s head. It still mattered to him, not seeing her hurt; but his instincts were deep-rooted.
Nobody, including Jihyo, should have to experience this.
So Jungkook pushed the door open, met with a gasp, surprise and wrath. The man didn’t need to ask who he was or what he was doing here; he knew immediately, more than cognisant of the wretched situation.
Jungkook was ready to throw some insult onto him, words already on his lips, arms reaching out to defend her. But he didn’t need to; the guy had already let her go, taking a swing within a second before his fist landed on Jungkook’s jaw.
It could’ve been worse; he could’ve broken it. Jungkook knew right away that the damage wasn’t as terrible as it had the potential to be.
But his tongue still felt warm, tasted metallic. He took a deep breath through his nose, dizzy for a moment, still sane enough to hear the stranger say, “You can have the slut.”
There was another blob of disgust landing on Jungkook’s face; no doubt that the man bid him farewell with one last literal spit on Jungkook’s cheek. Then, the door fell into its lock, and it got quiet again.
Or… not quite.
Jungkook lacked words; there was nothing to say anyway. He was the culprit after all.
Worried hands settled on his body; he didn’t notice how much he’d sunk to the ground, one knee hitting the floor. But when the exploring fingers touched his waist, up to his armpits and his elbows, he stood tall again.
She was trying to lift him. To check for wounds, despite the clear drops of scarlet red he was leaving on this rented room’s floor. Eyes shutting for a second, he slapped the concerned palm off his arm, dodging it when she came back with a quiet, “Jungkook…”
“Shut up.”
“Please listen—”
“Listen to fucking what? You’re…”
There was no ending to the sentence. He didn’t know what she was. A fraud, maybe. But he didn’t have it in him to insult her somehow; perhaps because she, too, was already in enough pain as it was.
When his eyes opened, they glared. To his feet, to the side, into her wet gaze. She was nearly hiccuping, but he couldn’t get himself to give into the empathy entirely; the anger simmered in the pit of his stomach, threatened to come to a full boil.
Yet, he registered when she said, “He doesn’t treat me well, he— he’s controlling. And emotionally abusive, he— please,” she grabbed his hand, but he pulled out of her grip, “I can’t marry him, not if— not if I’m scared he might raise his hand at me.”
“Then don’t fucking marry him. You have this choice,” Jungkook said, spitting into the corner; the colour was disgusting. “Controlling and abusive, however? You sound perfect for him.”
“I don’t… I can’t. I can’t stay with him, but I— I could stay with you. I would.”
Jungkook scoffed. She had to be joking. Undoubtedly; there was nothing in him capable of believing she meant this. Not when she’d refused just this idea mere minutes ago.
He shook his head; he wouldn’t have any of this. Even if she left this man… even then…
He couldn’t do this because she made him do something so easily that he abhorred. He’d seen the love between his father and his mother before, and then witnessed the hatred between her and his uncle.
After all these years of affliction, he knew the difference between love and despise.
Knew where affection could grow, where it would wilt. Where it’d be replaced with hostility.
She wasn’t made for him; he wasn’t in the mindset for her. And he was wrong after all; he didn’t love her and he never could have.
“Please, don’t go,” she begged as he picked up his clothes, wiping his mouth on the bed sheet, ready to leave. “Please, I—”
She followed him all the way to the door; Jungkook resisted each push and pull, charging towards the exit with resolution. And when she blocked the door for too long, sobbing onto her body, he fletched his teeth, sharpened his jaw, clasped her wrist before he turned her around.
Arm pinned to her back, cheek pressing into the door, she kept crying, and then, finally, sighed. She gulped; then lowered her face, forehead to the cold of the wood, and too courageously as always pleaded, “Be with me one last time. Just… just once.”
And her tone… her voice… her curling fingers…
They tempted him. Something about this, something about her tugged him in again, like an invisible force. And for the tiniest moment, he hated himself for thinking this way. But deep inside he knew the truth.
That he still craved her. Still wanted to feel her once more. Still hungered to bury himself in deep, leaving scars and marks as if to punish her just once. But…
But he remembered. She’d turned him into somebody he wasn’t. So he couldn’t. He’d carry the regret to his grave.
So he let her go, using the moment of weakness, shoving her away slightly — she let him. She understood to give up. And he, with a coat over his shoulder, left.
A hand over the bleeding wound, and the other over his injured mouth.
If he wakes up now, you won’t be able to take it.
It was already difficult, breathing through every second of the rest of the day. Overthinking, but never quite processing the information you received. From the very moment you woke up to the story Jungkook narrated and everything that followed, the seconds have been hell.
Everything… everything—
The remaining conversations. With her, with the village bartender he expected. You don’t know how he survived any of it, functioned at all; using his brain at full capacity, reading through papers when you were sure the letters were blurring in front of his very eyes.
And how he looked at you after he was done and returned to you, reaching for your limp hand…
The hurt was prominent, your heart still reluctant, but you let him; what good would it have done to send him away? He kept coming back. Sat there for an hour until you told him to tend to his guest, to discuss whatever he needed to.
Truth was, you didn’t want him to go… but you didn’t want him near, either.
Your mind kept circling around a hundred and thousands of things. The woman sitting downstairs, fiddling and nervous, the child still next to her. Possibly bored. She’s aware of her past as much as you are, of the role she played. Of the hurt she caused.
The more you think about it, the more it pains. The more it seems like a tragedy, like an anti-fairytale. Fabricated.
So unreal.
It’s as though thinking it senseless could make it less real. You’re married to him now, but you still feel small, shrinking, insecure and hurt and unable to make any of this coherent.
You needed silence today. You wanted your mind to divert, conjure different, more pleasant thoughts, memories of better times. But this proved worse; so somehow, you ended up overthinking the situation to death.
You don’t want the children to wake up again. Hana is fast asleep, Jaehyuk dozing. It was Jaehoon’s subtle whimpering that finally shifted your attention twenty minutes ago; your arms were too weightless to carry him, but you did, swayed him, blended out your brain with his sounds.
By now, he’s already drooling over you again. You hope he stays just like this; hope Jaehyuk doesn’t notice the empty side of their crib.
There’s something about this, the twin intuition. You had heard about it before, but it is truly fascinating, the way they communicate. You’re still baffled that Jaehyuk stayed as unmoving as he did when you pulled his brother towards you, comforting yourself with his warmth.
But you have to admit…
You’re exhausted. More so mentally than physically. Your body yearns to drop. The up and down pacing only drains you further.
You should set him into his crib again. He’s fast asleep anyway; everybody is. Just you aren’t. And your husband isn’t.
In fact, he’s not even in this room with you. Heart palpitating and chest paining, you’ve been waiting. He slipped in and out of the rooms you were in for hours, and you kept sending him away, sickened by the apologies, not even certain what exactly he was apogising for.
For having a child? For once tending to secret meetings with a woman you don’t know, ambiguous about what he felt for her? You don’t know.
And…
Honestly — your heart isn’t splintering because he made a mistake, really, did he? You and him were nothing back then. No. You’re fractured because of your own damn expectations. And because you wanted life to lead somewhere else.
You didn’t want somebody to become such a part of your love and marriage like this.
You sigh to breathe out the ache, deep from your stomach, hoping it’ll lighten the load. But it doesn’t really. Not even Jaehoon’s little hand over your chest does, his head on your shoulder, the scent of his baby hair.
And once the door to the bedchamber creaks open, you don’t feel relieved, either. Your heart stirs more, if anything. Scared your son might hear or notice, you hurry to put him down again, draping a blanket over his little body before you shut your silken robe.
Jungkook appears as if he’s lived a dozen lives in a day. His pupils have shrunk, shoulders low, hair as uncombed as in the morning. He didn’t bother; as little as you. He halts when he sees you standing in the middle of the room, surprised about the random spot you chose.
Endless affection flashes across his face, transparent yearning, as though he hasn’t seen you in days. Within a moment, the expression calms a little, and he pulls himself together enough to ask, “You are still awake, darling?”
You hold yourself tight, as if binding your body together. Clearing your throat, you say, “It’s… I don’t know if I will be able to sleep tonight.”
“…Me neither.”
“What happened?”
You gesture to the ground, referring to the parlour. She’s probably not even there anymore. She was all day; and she journeyed. She must be tired.
Jungkook explains, as if reading your mind, “Jihyo… she’s in one of the guest rooms.” You nod. He cards through his hair, continuing, “She said the guy she was supposed to marry never told anyone what had happened that night… I— I don’t know why. He never came back at all, but I figured that bit. She didn’t want him to, and I told her he shouldn’t have either way.”
He sighs; so do you. Feelings or not, you guess Jungkook has never been a bad person. It still feels odd. He then says, “And then she was abandoned by her family when they learned of her pregnancy and she wouldn’t tell anybody who the father was…”
Of course not. Somewhere, she must have cared.
“They sent her to some faraway aunt who was apparently a tyrant… and she ran away when her boy was a year old.”
Your dropped chin lifts, an immediate response forming in your mind. Your boy. Your boy, too. But you don’t spill it. In truth, you don’t even need to. As if written all over your face in big, bold letters, Jungkook sees right through you.
He halts, gives himself a moment to be sure it’s what you’re stuck on, and then tells you, “…I know but… I have no connection to him. She does. I have none at all.”
“She does, and now she’s here… actually here…”
“She’s here because it was nearly impossible to survive for her,” he insists, the tone of defence sharp and clear, “but somehow she still did. It’s gotten more difficult now, however, and—” He’s struggling more now; while some words pour out, others are whispered. Like, “As the father of her child… she says it is both our responsibility to ensure he is well. But…”
As the father of her child, as the parents of their child.
He’s not wrong; and you guess that if it wasn’t happening in your own household, you’d be much more lenient about this. You’d be nodding along, agreeing that a father should be present, that a child deserves it.
You’ve been part of an orphanage filled with lonely kids for too long to think otherwise.
But it surely is different in moments like these. You feel like a hypocrite.
“But?” you prod.
“She understands if I say no, too. I have my own family now.”
Yeah…
Did she need to tell him that? Did he know by himself; are these her or his words? You wonder…
“You say she always struggled,” you draw back to again, “why did she never reach out when she knew she was with child already?”
He rubs his eyes. Tired, his body somewhat more worn out than ever. Barely looks active; the shoulders are in an entirely new position. Or no… not new. You’ve seen it before — it’s just been years now.
“She thought I wouldn’t bother,” he says, “she thought… I’d abandoned her once and for all. Which I reckon I did.”
“And…” You’re scared to ask. You swallow. “Would you have aided her? If you’d known.”
He quietens. You’re not too fond of the hesitation loudening the silence. You know he’s thinking, eyes unfocused, imagining the scenario you narrated without probably really wanting to. You brought this to yourself, so you’ll need to be patient.
And you are, until he finally concludes, “I would have… I— I would have felt like I owed this to my child. I can’t— sweetheart, it’s not my nature, please understand. I wouldn’t leave a woman alone with this if I was anyhow part of it and—”
“And… If you’d known… we wouldn’t even have happened, right?”
Jungkook shakes his head again, the movements even lazier now. You’re afraid he might drop and faint. But he breathes in, then out, uprights himself, “It doesn’t matter what would have or could have happened. I did approach you and I did fall in love with you and we did happen. Isn’t… isn’t that enough?”
You blink; then blink more. A shaky breath escapes your lips to keep your voice as steady as doable. “Yes… I assume…”
Another pause. More stalling until the thoughts previously forming in your head become less of a tangled, messy garn and get clearer. You just do not know how to voice them; to keep the man who brought stars down to the ground to you whole.
You don’t want to hurt him. But you don’t understand how to handle the next few days any other way.
But you don’t say it yet. You wait. Listen as he begs, “Please tell me… tell me what you’re thinking. I don’t know what to do.”
You lie, “I don’t know, either, Jungkook.”
His strong hands get ahold of tufts of his hair again, butchering his mane more. The gesture isn’t aggressive, but he still looks so out of his goddamn mind. Desperately, he steps closer, breathing, “You know that I love you, yes?”
…You’ve seen needles at your seamstress’ place before. They always strike you as effective, professional. Sharp. The sting you feel reminds you of when her needle digs into fabric. Perhaps worse.
Perhaps it’ll turn into a sword in a moment.
“Only you,” he adds, but then halts, a shake of his head correcting himself before he tries again, “no. Only you and them.” His eyes briefly dart to the crib, a reminder to lower his voice, even though the shudder makes it hard. “I haven’t thought about her in yea—”
No…
“You haven’t thought about her once?” you interrupt. It’s one of the things your derailing mind tried to convince you of today. That she never really disappeared. “The woman you were involved with like this… you never ever thought of her or regarded her important enough to tell me about her? To think about her?”
And now he’s confused. Why do you keep asking questions? You’re your own worst enemy, really. Then again, how does one stop this toxic curiosity from overflowing in a moment like this?
“I don’t know,” he admits. Not a needle anymore… “She might have crossed my mind as somebody who once existed in my life. Not in a romantic manner. Nor in a yearning manner. I did not miss her, you see?”
He moves closer, hands lifting. You only now see how pale he is, his skin so close, eyes nearly lifeless, but not quite. They’re still filled with so much emotion and pain as he continues, “And I certainly did not care enough to prioritise her over you anyhow.”
Palms cradle your face. Usually so warm and comforting, they’re icy today, as if his blood has frozen in his veins. And he sounds so utterly dehydrated when he says, “She was never important enough, no…”
“I— I see.”
He waits. His breath falls on your face before he runs his tongue between his lips nervously. His waterline is damp, but holding back. You wonder when he last ate, when he last drank.
You guess he’s not as concerned about himself when he requests, “Tell me what you are thinking.”
A lot. Too much to condense into one single thought. But you still pick out one of the million swirling around and throw it out, “I am wondering… about what you will do now. I will assume you will help.”
You see how much he hates to admit it; you nearly take it back before he, however, tells you again, “I may have to.”
“And… if you do. What will it look like? Will you— I do not know. Will you meet her regularly, send her money, see the child? Build a bond? Have… have two families on either side?”
“I d-don’t think it will be like this, I—”
“How will it be then?”
His hands drop. He shuts his eyes, but opens them again a minute later. “I will provide… I might get to know him. But I do not plan on making them an integral, main part of my life. I don’t want this to come between us or have the children think wrong of me, and… you’re my priority.”
You know…
As the wife of somebody like Jungkook, you have seen the hardships that come with a traumatised mind. One that so deeply fears he will step into his family’s shoes, mimicking the misery he once experienced.
He’s been afraid of passing on generational trauma for years, and he battled the fear… you know he doesn’t want to start at zero. You don’t want it either. And you genuinely do not perceive him as a bad father; quite the opposite.
Jeon Jungkook gives his all. He loves with his all. He worships with his all.
But you still think this needs time and patience.
So you confess, “I believe you… I do. I just. I think this will change things. I cannot stop thinking about you moving back and forth, nurturing two families, and yes, I am selfish, but… I always assumed I was the only one.”
Not before. Not long ago. But now.
You would’ve been content with somebody like her being out there and never finding out about it. For the very first time in your life, you’re selfish, and it hurts, it burns, and you loathe that you cannot turn it off.
“I did, as well…” he confirms. “But you’re the only one that matters.”
“What about your son? Do you have it in you to not care?”
“He’s a child I never spoke to!” he argues, voice rising by an octave. “I just… fuck, I do not know. Baby, I… I don’t want to be a pendulum. I’m not swinging between two spaces… I will never perceive anyone as more important than you.”
“I see.”
Pause. Then, “…Please look at me.”
You feel another clump rise to your throat. It’s more dense this time, inevitable, and it affects your speech. Accompanied by something lifting to your head and making it heavier. You tell him, “I can't.”
“…Why?”
“I just can’t.”
“You ca—” He shifts, eager to bring you back to him; you’re already miles away and he knows. “Baby… Do you still love me?”
You could scoff. But you don’t; instead, you feel the liquid starting to pour. Like the rain these days, less comforting now, it drops out of your eyes. You somehow very well expected it, but the amount of the drops still surprises you.
Like a grey sky indicating a gloomy day, yet not a reliable preparation for a downpour.
Your inhale is sharp, cuts the air, and your eyebrows painfully furrow when the tears collect. You answer, “Of course I love you, I— Fuck, of course I do. It’s why this hurts so much!”
“I… I know.”
His gaze is similarly wet, suddenly an ocean, but he blinks the despair away before he crushes you in a hug. Jungkook is never afraid to cry, but restraining himself is something he’s practised for the kids… and even for you, it seems.
Shit, but— you’ve told him so many times. So many times to not hold back for you. You don’t either. You don’t either, right?
“I know,” he repeats, “I— I don’t know why these things happen, I’m—”
You shake your head against his chest, sogging his clothes as you mumble, “I can’t blame you, can I? It was your past, yes, but I wasn’t part of it, and… it’s still so much.”
“For me, too… for me as well, darling—”
“I just— I think I need distance, Jungkook.”
Wait…
Wha—
That’s when the world stops spinning, frozen like his blood. The heart he has so gently guarded so far detaches from the rest of what lies beneath his ribs, and jumps into his throat, pounds in his ears.
The profound hope that he misheard you is needless, he already knows. He’s been hyper aware of your every movement and word today; he knows what you said and he knows he’ll have to let you. But…
“…What?”
The decision still leaves him stranded on an island. Away from this house and you and his children. Desolated, he as its lone habitant. And the image is surreal.
“I need to go away,” you elaborate again, digging deeper into the wound. Can he rewind the morning? No. You add, “Just until you have this sorted out with her and it’s done, and—”
“I have,” he carefully voices, convinced, so, so convinced, “there is nothing more to say.”
But you’re not with him just yet; you argue, “But she should stay for a little, shouldn’t she? I… I am not too fond of the scenario, but from an empathetic perspective, you should know about your son. Be in the loop…”
Yes, you do hate the idea. Yes, it contradicts your distaste for the image of him walking to and fro between families, providing and keeping her in his life. But, after all is said and done, his son will still be his son.
And you are only heartbroken, not heartless.
“I just…” you continue, gulping. “I can’t be here while she is. And I don’t want you to send her away already, either. Her journey seems to have been long and… she’s just trying to live.”
“Where… where do you want to go?”
“Home.”
The resolute tone you decide on hurts. Not because he’s against your family or your place back in the city, but because you seem to have thought it out already. That you want to leave. That you want to be away from him.
The woman that latches onto him the moment he crawls into bed after work; from the man who clutches your body throughout the night, wakes up delirious from your scent.
It stings. It burns.
“Just for a little,” you say, as if to cure the injury. “I… I need to be away.”
Jungkook’s throat is knotted up and dry. He almost doesn’t dare to ask, but he knows he’ll keep wondering when you’re gone. So he spits, “And then?”
“And then… I will see.”
Doesn’t matter anyway. He guesses that the wondering part won’t change, no matter what he inquires, no matter what you respond.
“…Why does this sound like a possible goodbye?”
He might faint. He doesn’t know how long he’ll have to be awake without you. Doesn’t know what’ll follow this disaster. Doesn’t know anything. Most of his life, he’s been haunted by this uncertainty, and he hates the return of it.
And you’re not saying anything; the moment gets worse as you close your eyes for a bit, staring down, unable to answer because you probably don’t know, either.
But…
“Please say something,” he urges, abandoning questions and pleas, diving straight into statements as if this could make them definitely true, “you… you will come back. You won’t leave after this.”
There’s agitation in your voice, merged with desperation when you speak again, “Jungkook, I can only think so far right now—”
“No, please…”
“What do you mean, pl—”
“I can’t lose you, no matter what.”
“But right now, I can’t take this either, Jungkook!” you snap. Perhaps it’s his big eyes throwing you off guard or the unknown future or the fresh hurt. Something in you breaks as your voice starts to vibrate, eyes watery. “I don’t want to be— another. And I can’t fully make you abandon them either, and… I still don’t know how to live with such a change and—”
And. And. And.
The list goes on. That’s the problem. It’s an overwhelming mess, a never ending string of thoughts.
As the light in your eyes dims, usually so blindingly bright on other days, Jungkook’s eyes overflow. First a single drop of a tear, then half a dozen. He blinks them away, but suddenly there’s a river across his cheek, collecting to a sea at the chin.
And you look similar.
Shattered like glass. Your broken pieces are tiny; they resemble dust. God, albeit without a single intention, Jungkook has hurt the wrong person.
Desperation at the front of his tongue, he doesn’t know what to say. Nothing more to do but to revert back to pathetic begging—
“Please… don’t go.” His voice quivers, the sigh even shakier; his soft hands, the ones that held you just last night, rub his face in anger towards himself. “It’s who I used to be… I didn’t know.”
“Yes, it’s what used to happen, b–but it doesn’t hurt any less, fuck, and…” Breathing is as hard as speaking. Your tears run again when you add, “And what if there are more? What if more of them come knocking at our door and we don’t know yet?”
His chest is rising high, falling low. Lower lip never still. You know panic is growing beneath his chest, and you want to wrap your arms around him, keep his pure heart from breaking. But what can you do?
Yours is splitting, too.
Worse when all he whispers again is, “Please don’t go.”
It’s a hopeless attempt. You know; you hear it. He’s still trying but he’s not truly expecting you to change what you decided on. Yet, you ask, “Please understand.”
He’s still not moving; but you think he understands indeed. Because he nods. Doesn’t look at you anymore. The sniffles are familiar, painful as he questions, “What about the children?”
You feared this question. The delivery of it proves harder than you thought; your tongue nearly gets tied, “I… I will leave the twins here. Travelling might be difficult with both of them when I am alone.” You look to the wall; to the little beds on the other side of the room. “Can I take Hana with me?”
You know it’s killing him as much as it is messing with you. You know what it means when he breathes in, but doesn’t argue with you as he nods again. Jeon Jungkook loves you; he loves you to every end of the universe.
And you’ll love Jeon Jungkook for the rest of your life, too, despite it all.
But this is needed.
He asks, “How long will you be away?”
“I don’t know…” you admit. “Hopefully not long.”
“I see.”
“I am sorry.”
All grand arguments end in silence or insults or apologies. There are no more words to utter. Jungkook is at a loss for hope, at the far end of a tunnel. If he could still convince you, he would; but your decision sits.
So all he manages is—
“I am, too.”
There’s a nod. Your tired eyes. You looking to the side, then to the bed, approaching it a moment later with a body falling so weightlessly. When he joins minutes later, you’re turned to the side, and he watches the back of your head, the mane falling, urging to touch it just a little.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he turns away, too.
Until you fall asleep and for the rest of the night, you don’t feel a touch on you as you do on other days; but relying on your remaining senses, you do hear the sniffle. Do register the movements next to you.
One more time for a little, approaching while.
The place is empty when Jungkook wakes up. He’s woken up three days in a row now, and he’s never wanted to — every damn time, the place would be empty.
And he can’t breathe.
Ever since she stepped over the threshold and re-entered his life and you chose the sheer opposite, he hasn’t drawn a proper breath. This isn’t how things should be. They’re switched up, plainly wrong.
The room is empty; it has been this vacant before, but the void is yawning now, tormenting. Feels like it might never end.
A couple sunrises ago, you left with a lasting, gnawing touch. Before you stepped down the porch, your palm lay in his for a minute; despite the hurt, you still seemed to want to leave remnants of what he means to you.
Your hand was warm in his; and your eyes, albeit filled with some sort of cold distance, still carried some of the warmth, too, your gaze glassy. You were pulling yourself together so well. For him, yourself, the confused child clinging to you.
Hana thought you were visiting the grandparents out of nostalgic longing. She thought she’d be away from him for a fleeting moment. She’s too young to understand the passing of time, after all.
So she didn’t complain, but she looked dissatisfied. Unwilling to embark on this little vacation. Pouted at her father, but listened to her mother.
For her, he was keeping himself whole, too — but when your fingers slipped away from his, the heat still lingered. Like a red scald, as if he’d held his palm into a flame. Perhaps that’s what set him off.
Perhaps just as much as when the hole between your bodies widened bit by bit, and you disappeared in the distance after the carriage had engulfed you. The impulse to run after you grew consistently and rapidly, but his feet were cemented to the spot, legs stiff.
When the carriage turned, however, and only then, they carried him down. There was a faint sound in the background, like the whispering breeze of autumn, and Jungkook barely understood what it was until he realised his lips were moving.
It was him, not the wind.
Him, in a quick downward spiral, bedazzled by the lunacy and the tears obscuring the world; repeating something he knew you were already too far away to hear. You wouldn’t register any of it anymore; he hoped you’d feel it somehow.
“Please, don’t leave,” it was, wasn’t it? A desperate, “Why would you leave?”
The echoes in the mansion were suddenly much more prominent. Not just of his steps; his own voice in his head had an echo, too, but it was a lot louder, pure torture. Pressed against his ears, as if he was falling from the clouds and into burning hell.
The sounds were blocked by nothing but the wind.
This has been feeling neverending ever since. So infinite.
And maybe it’s this very horrendous fear that disables his lungs; that he might end up like this, without your touch, without your smile, without the future he drew in his mind every single day. It always, always contained you.
He loves you; he’s told you so many times, but it’s never been this apparent. And it’s drying him out, the goddamn loneliness. Blocking his throat. Shit, this place he settled on for you and his family, to give you the best life possible — its vast size is backfiring.
Because—
Fuck. Fuck. What is a spacious room good for if he can’t fucking breathe?
There isn’t anybody in here to hear him panting, surviving; he forbid it. But the loneliness dawns on him again, and he chants with tears dropping on the ground, not making any particular sense, over and over again, “Don’t leave. Please. Please don’t leave—”
As if his brain got stuck here the moment you left, playing the pleas on loop to drive him insane. His own brain is driving him insane. The betrayal is beyond belief.
He’s losing his mind; he’s well aware of this. Pondering, thinking whether the empty rooms in this mansion compete with the vacancy in his mind. Maybe not.
Because the mental rooms are plenty; his hand trembles to push down any handle on his way. There’s this long corridor, leading to these rooms, and whenever he does find the courage to open one, he finds himself in a void.
And he opens them every day, all the time. When he’s asleep. When he’s eating. When he’s wandering around, downing yet another bottle. Always hoping there are scenarios where you’re still with him, in his arms, leaving the pain behind to steer towards the same eternal love you’d been targeting before you left.
But he comes out hopeless each time. And it’s cruel, how vast the corridor is. As if his mind is deceiving him, making him believe there’s a future somewhere that you’re in… but your absence says differently.
He understands; the rooms in the mansion are empty because you’re physically gone, but the ones in his mind inhabit only him because the joyful hopes faded the moment you stepped into the carriage.
Now they’re filled with darkness and fear. What if you don’t come back? What if you do, only to deliver words he doesn’t want to hear, and then to depart again?
He hears nothing but his own voice in those rooms, and it keeps convincing him of his own barely-there worth, and that he always fucks up and that people leave and that they stay away. Convincing him that this is it.
This is how his life was supposed to go. To lift him up, but then to throw him into purgatory again because somehow, this is what he deserves. Karmic payback.
The times he ever stops hearing these accusations and destructive statements is when other sounds interrupt them. Which has been rare, since he’s avoided conversations and social touch, except for when it was necessary and the village demanded it.
Luckily, this hasn’t been the case, and he’s been able to wither in peace.
There are still exceptions. He still has his children. He remembers; he tries. But his body is frail. Attempts its best to keep him a good father, like now.
Now, when it reacts to the incoherent call. It’s a quiet cry, a sign of waking up; Jungkook can’t remember arriving in his bedroom, but he knows exactly he’s here when he hears the sound.
Ah… right. He told the maid to get them to sleep and then bring them to their crib only ten minutes ago. He did, right? There’s been plenty his imagination has been conjuring, but the conversation feels real.
Even in a state like this, he doesn’t think he’d ever leave his children alone in this room, if he could prevent it. Sometimes, staff is around. Sometimes, he is. Sometimes, you are.
Were.
Right. Right. You might not return. But then again, you will, won’t you?
You love your children as much as he does; you’ve given all of you to the boys as much as you did to him and Hana. They have captured possibly bigger pieces of your heart than he has. You will return, even if just for them.
And then…
What if you take them with you? Or, what if you leave them here? What if, either way, he has to live a life without you?
These little pieces of him would remind him of you, too. They’re part of you, they’re half of you — but he’d see the entirety of you in them. He does even now as he walks over, watching Jaehyuk stir and Jaehoon weeping.
He hasn’t woken up his brother, but he surely has shot an intense ache into Jungkook’s chest.
Looks like you when you cry. Is this odd? Is it even possible, comparing such round, young features to your more defined ones? He doesn’t know, but he can’t unsee it either way.
And his hands burn and pain, his eyes on fire when he lifts him up, whispering Jaehoon’s name with a shush. There’s a change in behaviour immediately, but it’s not enough. The sobbing turns into quieter cries when he sees his father, but…
There’s something else Jungkook interprets.
Your scent is still everywhere. And for those few days, their way of feeding has been slightly different, too. They’re probably noticing the sudden shift. And yes, Jungkook offers comfort, but your absence lingers, and they understand it as well as he does.
“I’m here…” Jungkook whispers, standing in the middle of the room. For a second, Jaehoon grips the strings of his father’s white cotton shirt, but then his lips arch downwards again. “I know. But I am here, you see?”
As Jaehoon’s sorrow doesn’t lessen, Jungkook sniffles, too, lifting his head for a moment to prevent the tears from falling onto his boy. He takes a couple steps back until he plops back on the bed. Offers a hand to Jaehoon who wraps his tiny fingers around one of Jungkook’s.
Jungkook shakes his head, his sigh tired, and then opts for a nod instead as he repeats, “I know. I don’t think it’s enough either, me being here.” He gulps. “And her being away.”
His throat clogs up. He clears it, the tremble coming back to his lower lip as he asks in his son’s direction, “You miss Mama, don’t you?”
And as if aware, Jaehoon cries harder again, winding in Jungkook’s arms. He doesn’t know what to do to calm the tantrum, doesn’t know how you do what you do that he’s not able to do. He doesn’t think he’s failed as a father. He doesn’t think of himself as incompetent.
But he’s helpless without you. The two of you operated as a unit so far, as one big part of this universe. With half of it gone, he feels like he’s lacking half a brain, not quite functioning.
So he adds, “I do, too. Believe me, I miss her so much, too…” Ongoing crying. “I know.” Ongoing crying from both sides. The adult and the child, hurting the same. “I am sorry, sweetheart.”
And he’s not sure who he’s saying it to. To Jaehoon; to Jaehyuk. To Hana. To you.
To the hurting child he used to be, and the longing young adult that craved for too much. He’s apologising to everyone and over all the mistakes he’s made, all the regrets he carries with him.
And as he does, he’s not certain when his cries overshadow the ones of his son, or when the latter’s finally stop, only Jungkook’s misery still sounding. He doesn’t know how to stop this from hurting and how to nurse two children in a room without you, because you’re a piece of this—
You’re a piece of the picture. With you ripped out of it… isn’t it too lonely?
It is. God. God, the void swallows him whole.
And he doesn’t know what to do. Doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know where to go and how to bring you back; if he ran to your city now, where the two of you grew and loved, would you appreciate it or hate him more?
Wait…
Do you…
Hate him?
He doesn’t know. How could he, sitting here, breaking down, mind all empty yet filled. Cruel. This is cruel.
So cruel how he forwards his mood to his children the way he learned never to do. How he can’t breathe, can’t think. How his words lose their meaning after a while, yet stay a mantra, still true but so out of your reach.
I’m sorry.
I messed up.
I’m sorry.
Please come back.
Your seamstress is as clueless as you'd like to be.
It's probably part of her occupation, the cheerful, sweet, chatty nature, or perhaps, she's in that line because of that very characteristic of her. She's always been like this, so you shouldn't have expected anything different today.
It isn't as though the world joins you in your grief just because you're feeling it. Earth keeps moving.
Coming back home alone was hard. Hana was asleep most of the time, but the moment she woke, she sought his presence profusely.
You wonder if she noticed why he kissed her goodbye so often and told her he loved her a dozen times and gulped down the first hints of yearning with a clogged throat and damp eyes.
She probably doesn't know. His adoration was quieter than hers — because she wailed when he didn't come home, hated the surroundings she'd already seen before but forgotten.
Her father isn't around and she's angry about it.
Maybe you should've left her there. She isn’t as connected to you as she is to him, and while the twins might notice your absence, they won't quite make sense of it yet.
And you, you're stuck in this absolute consciousness that comes with adulthood, aware of everything.
Aware of where you are, who you're with, who is missing. Aware of how you won't be able to weep in your sister's arms forever; so aware that having beautiful dresses sewn won't bring you permanent satisfaction.
But everytime you think back to the last days, you break. The picture of him home alone, theories about what he might be doing, how he might be coping. Whether he's crying like you, fallen like you, feeling incomplete because he's in those rooms with only half of him.
That's how you've been feeling. You're a fraction of yourself.
After three days of solitude, Hana has learned to settle on pouting. It’s odd, the contrast between her and the town, always the same. The latter is as alive as you knew it. And Seung, the seamstress you used to frequent, is still the same amazing woman, too.
Grown, a little older, but the sheer opposite of a quiet Suhana, of a dejected you.
Your sister is holding Hana’s hand, the other tiny fingers busy with the fabric of the dark yellow dress. You’re in a cursory surface conversation with Seung, trying to be polite despite everything, asking how she’s doing, how her husband has been.
She got married years before you did, and she was always incredibly vocal about her relationship with her spouse. They’ve been a key and a lock; she’s spread hope for love amongst many other girls before.
You were one of them. And the hope bloomed, even when you were met with hurdles and thought you’d end in misery.
In all honesty, you truly thought you were an exception to the many rocky marriages. Sure, you never assumed yours would end up a constant fairytale; Jungkook and you have your days, too.
You just… held onto hope, more so when you fell for him, and you never ever thought you’d experience such a low.
Seung still tires of babbling about her husband soon; she enjoys detailing her fabulous life, but she never makes the entire talk about solely herself. So you expect it when you soon hear a question back, “Lord Jeon has also always been such a gentleman, too, though. I enjoy his company thoroughly. Is he not with you today?”
You barely manage the lazy shake of your head, but you smile to cloak the hurt covering your heart, flooding your insides. The agony is always searing; you feel it everywhere, as though a torch lit you on fire. Every damn mention of his name makes your body sink.
In this town, the people have gathered that he’s a fragment of you, that he’s right wherever you are. But not today. Today, he’s with somebody else entirely; it enrages you, and yet also reminds you of how much you miss him every sickening moment of the endless day.
But you still act as though the praise towards the wonderful man you know doesn’t drag another knife across your heart. You suppress your tears and nod, agree with her.
Of course you do. You enjoy his company, too. You’re not oblivious to your husband’s charm; he’s the heart of every conversation. The poetry in every novel after all.
“He did not join me this time,” you answer, smiling away the seconds to hide the difficulties in your home. Hana sighs, as though she’s understood that something went awry; as if she doesn’t believe it when you say, “But perhaps next time!”
Perhaps. Hopefully.
Your sister brushes the topic off with a wave, focusing on the task on hand. You welcome the diverging topic, just in time for the finishing touches on the dresses you ordered. Seung asks you to slip into them for a final inspection.
The first one is a light purple gown; you do not have a clue where you might wear it, but you enjoy the feel of it. Your sister nods in approval, compliments, “This colour suits you well. You haven’t worn it in so long.”
“I have. I wear it a lot back at home,” you say, remembering a similar shade in your mansion, unaware of where your thoughts are heading until you say, “Jungkook got me a gown in this colour once.”
She pauses for a moment. Seung fumbles at the hem of the dress, busy making it and you pretty; but your sister notices, sighs for a second before she responds, “He has a good eye, then.”
“Yes… he does.”
He likes you in almost every colour, though. He’s baptised you with the name of the rainbow many times before. Thinks every hue brings out something different in you; and that you lend it some additional meaning. Your aura and your energy mix the colours in a palette.
“To something new; to something special.”
You nearly whimper when his voice returns in your head. Despite the circumstances, all you ever remember it in is in joy. When his words are followed by a chuckle and dimples. When the bangs, not cut recently, fall into his eyes, like curtains.
You don’t think of the shaky goodbye days ago… rather, you recall the moments before the world fell apart, drenched in sweetness and grace and warmth.
It becomes difficult to stand here, to let Seung fondle with the fabric. To listen to your sister’s praises and watch Hana’s feet dangle off her seat, hitting the leg of the chair with puffy cheeks and a jutting lower lip.
The view is already too much, and you close your eyes, blending it out. Which proves hard when your husband is mentioned over and over again; of course he is. Two halves of a soul… of course he is.
It’s been like this at each visit, so nobody would expect things to change this time.
And every damn time his name falls, Hana looks up. Big eyes, akin to a doe, personifying hope and love and yearning. If… if there was a way to contact him and let her talk to him for only a minute, you wouldn’t hesitate.
In fact, leaving her there with him could’ve been an option. But you need some comfort, too, don’t you? And he might not be in the proper state to take care of anyone right now. You intensely hope he is looking after himself.
But she keeps sulking. Despising the distance as much as you fear it, asking over and over again, and your dam only breaks and overflows when you step down the podium, asking, “Do you like this?”
And she, uncaring, shrugs, asking, “Can we go back to Daddy?”
You take a deep breath. Your skin tingles, a wave of discomfort filling you head to toe. Head heavy, you yet again register the change in your throat and voice, holding back as you try to pacify her, “Soon, darling. We’re just visiting aunty and the grandparents for a little, remember?”
She does, but it doesn’t help. Somehow, it makes her pout harder. Yesterday, she was crying; now, she’s handling the bad mood differently. Maybe this is worse. You thought children forget, that they distract themselves easily, but Hana’s affection is infinite. Integral to her.
How could she forget? You know who you’re talking about. How could anybody forget about him, ever?
You tuck in one of her black locks, inquiring, “Which dress do you reckon I should get?”
Another shrug. Seung tries, “Would you like to take a look for yourself, as well?”
“Be nice, Hana,” you say, “do you want to? You can say no, too, though.”
It takes a moment until she looks up. Her eyes change when she sees the variety presented to her; as if she didn’t regard any of it since you stepped into the shop. But eventually, she says, “Alright. I will.”
She hops off the chair, small hand in Seung’s palm, walks around to take a look at her choices. Her forefinger is hooked in her mouth as she focuses, only coming out, slightly damp, when she points at something she likes.
Your seamstress approves of most of what Suhana prefers before moving to the colour, “Which one shall we pick for you?”
“I like them all,” Hana says. It’s tough to choose until it isn’t. Once she’s settled on one, staring at it with intensity, you understand she’s decided, calling for you, “Mama.”
“Yes?”
“This is Daddy’s favourite colour.”
A tender shade of sea green. She’s right, it’s his favourite. Or at least a preferred one. You guess you can’t escape him, no matter how much you try, no matter how many miles you leave between him and you.
You ask, “Do you want to take it?”
But she seems unsure all of a sudden again. The finger has dropped with her expression, and she digs the heel of her shoe into the floor, yet nodding, “Yes… I want to surprise Daddy.”
“He will love it, baby,” you say, blinking rapidly. You point to the colour she chose. “This dress then, please?”
“Certainly. Measurements?” Seung says, material already draped over her shoulder; she walks over to the measuring tape, readying herself but…
Hana has long lost her motivation again. You see the light dim with each second, and you prepare yourself to convince her to bask in the excitement a little longer. But she won’t. Instead, she declares, “I don’t want to.”
“What?” Seung voices. “It only takes a moment—”
“I don’t want to,” Hana repeats, “I want to go home.”
“The dress?”
“No.” She inhales, arms dangling at her sides, the childish whining painful when she pleads for the millionth, aching time, “I want to go back to Daddy now.”
Fucking hell, Suhana, how?
How do I take you back already?
If you could, you’d step out and curse into the world. He’s too far away. You’re too far away.
You left with a purpose, bid him goodbye to find peace within yourself. Peace with the fact that a woman is probably still sitting where you have welcomed guests so happily before. The woman that presented him yet another child, his blood and soul.
How do you explain to your daughter that returning might hurt worse than being here, and that his expression will shatter you? That he’ll fall to his knees again, remind you that nobody has ever loved a girl before like he loves you.
That nobody will ever find this much adoration again. But that then, a second later, you’ll remember that until you die, you won’t be the only one anymore?
How do you cope with this? How do you bring your child back into this home, in a mood like yours, without a solution just yet?
In that house where he’s grieving like you, you’ll hear the echoes from everywhere, and the pain will intensify. His touch might linger on you, and the walls will scream and the bed will scream and the rooms will scream.
Yell the memories you made there.
The dinners you shared. The food he fed you with his spoon. The times he’d spill soup on you in the process and laugh it off, crack a dirty joke when the tissue drew over your cleavage.
And the times he kissed you at his office door, promising he’d be in the bedroom soon; the times you still knocked an hour later because he isn’t just a good husband and father, but a good leader for his people, too.
And… and…
The bare skin on the mattress next to you. Warm, sweet, hugging you in, lips on your shoulder, your back, your ear, your body. Engulfing you. Under you, above you, with you. The whispered words and the promises.
Vows that he fulfils during the days and the nights. Raising his children with deep-sitting sentiments, turning his own pain into power and using it to bring happiness to them and to you all the damn time.
Sleepless nights, giggly days, dances in empty rooms and conversations in laughter and tears and hurdles and successes.
Every wall and bed and room will scream out the question whether you remember.
Do you remember it all? Everything you’ve become with him in all those years. Do you remember? Do you? Will you ever forget?
Everything falls. The leaves, the temperature, the warmth. Your damn heart.
And it’s then that you can’t take it anymore. Maybe because you see him in your own daughter’s eyes; maybe because she keeps trying to manifest him, as if he’s right here.
So you break. Quietly but aggressively, grabbing her hand as you say, “Enough. No dresses for you. We’re leaving.”
And you do. Suhana doesn’t like the way you pull yourself and her out of the shop. It’s not painful and you’re not violent or rushed; but maybe she hears your altered voice and sees the torment in your face, because she keeps calling for you until you’re home.
Your sister attempts her best to distract you, promising she’ll grab Hana’s gown before you leave and whatnot — but you’re lost in thoughts, still overwhelmed by a flood of memories. You don’t snap at Hana, even though she taps your wrist, asking why you’re mad and where Daddy is, and once you enter the hall in your previous house, you finally snap—
“Get yourself together!” You’re glaring. You never usually do. “I cannot fly to him. Practise patience for a while, alright?”
It shuts her up, but it does something to her expression, too. She’s tearing up, sniffling all of a sudden. Close to breaking, too, when your mother comes out to greet you, and you ask, “Could you just… could you play with her for a bit? Distract her? I just…”
“Yes,” she immediately says, offering Hana her hand, who takes it reluctantly. She’ll be a little angry at you for a few hours. Won’t want you near her. So she obliges. “Take your time, love.”
So you do. Instantly so. Your sister helps, dragging you up to your old room by your elbow, just in time before you finally break down.
She wraps her arms around you as your tears cascade, your chin on her shoulder, shaking, hands unsteady as you lower the sound of your sobs. This isn’t your first time crying here; but it’s the first time the tears blind you entirely.
Your sister lets you mourn for a while, rubbing your back, sitting at the edge of the bed as she mumbles something you can’t make sense of. She’s always been good at comforting you, but this time, she doesn’t know much about the issue itself. Unable to say much.
Instead, she asks, “This isn’t just a casual fight, is it? You had a very bad one.”
“I’m just…” you try, but she shushes you again, tells you it is alright to take your time. You gulp, then start again, “I don’t know what to do.”
“It is this serious? What happened?” She’s concerned, but curious, too. “You still don’t want to tell me?”
You shake your head against her shoulder, and she sighs. You say, “I need to figure this out with him first. Unbiased…”
“I understand. I am here, though. You can stay here or with me… Seokjin knows, so he won’t mind.”
“But… I just—”
“These things happen, love. You know it. Marriage is all compromise and patience.”
You know. Of course you know. Didn’t you have these same exact thoughts all day? You’re aware of the basic foundation of marriage, but that doesn’t mean it hurts any less.
“Does it… always work out?” you ask.
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. I have a strong feeling that he and you will.”
“…Why? How?
Maybe she’s saying it because she’s trying to lift you up. Maybe it’s part of comfort, to say things people want to hear. But your sister isn’t this type of person; you’ve appreciated her straightforward nature since the beginning of time, and if she didn’t believe in what she said, you’d consider her switched with somebody else.
Which is why you trust her words when she speaks, partly because the sincerity seeps through them from beginning to end, or because you’re well aware of this universal truth, “It’s rare… seeing somebody love like this even after years. Of course there’s always affection, but… sometimes love fades. His doesn’t. He really does feel strongly about you.”
“…He does.”
“See, you’re not doubting it. Maybe that’s enough for now.”
You would never leave such a statement open to debate. Even if a dozen women stood at your doorstep, reminding you of his lustful past and little mistakes, you’d send them away with a nonchalant wave.
Yes, the situation now differs from such a fantasy to its core, but even then, you know to trust in his heart. It’s just the future you’re scared of. The back and forth, the facts presented to you; in the form of a memory and in the form of a child.
Breath heavy and chest aching, you tell her, “I just don’t know what to do.”
“I don’t know either,” she admits, voice quieter now. “But— my first instinct would be… to tell you to go home. I think you need it. Your actual home.”
“And then what…?”
“Whatever your guts tell you to do. What are they telling you now?”
You puff out an exhale; you’re sick of crying. Your head hurts, as if devoid of oxygen. “That I am scared.”
She nods, well aware, digs further, “What else? If you think about the situation, do you see a solution at all?”
Thinking about it… thinking about it…
Properly pondering, you guess you’re not quite at the end of the road. There’s a wall in front of you, but it’s shrinking; if you give it an actual thought and look up, you might be able to climb over it. It’d just need… inhumane strength.
“Maybe… in theory,” you say. “Perhaps.”
Short pause, silence cutting the air. It’s still light outside, but the sky is grey again. No birds chirping, streets and alleys quieter. You think you hear a couple voices, a carriage passing under your window…
You miss the noise. You miss his voice.
You miss the way he sighs in the evenings, staring into a book you might have annoyed him into reading before looking up, noticing your gaze. Smiling at you, overwhelmed by love, leaning in as the novel closes and his lips open…
So your answer shoots out of you when your sister asks, “What else are you thinking?” Clear and ardent and brimming with certainty as you say—
“That I love him.”
The smile she flashes is tiny but telling. Something blooms in her eyes, as if filled with hope, and the little, unconscious gesture, manifesting in her expression, returns the longing to your heart.
A thumb wipes your tears before her hand covers yours, and with a voice so soft and gentle, she concludes, “You really do. Go back, yes?”
And you don’t have it in you to consider her wrong anymore. No matter the hurt, you don’t think you should stay any longer at all. You won’t deny that you needed the escape for a bit; but maybe this suffices.
And in hindsight, maybe you knew how this would end all along.
THE CHAPTER ISN'T OVER YET!! PLS READ 👇🏼
tumblr doesn't allow making very long posts due to the 1k block limit, so you can find the rest of the chapter and its 7k portion in this reblog! (refresh if the link isn't there yet!) <3
In the five years you’ve lived and loved here, you never truly noticed the scent of the mansion because you always returned too fast. Not that you disappeared for long this time, but you’ve rarely ever dissociated from your home like this.
Of course you’d visit the town and his and your family every now and then, but you never missed this place the way you did this time. Most of the time, he was with you anyway.
So in this sense, everything falls into your eyes much brighter. The walls, the staircase, the smell of the garden, the sky.
The maid that welcomes you into the hall bows a little when your gazes meet, reaching for the coat you’re shedding. She’s sweet, this girl, listens with big eyes when you ask, “Is he home?”
“He is not, ma’am. The lord went out a little while ago, but he should be back soon.”
“Oh. Where did he go?”
“Down to the village.”
“Alright,” you accept, nodding.
It is okay. You can wait a little; prepare whatever thoughts that you couldn’t on your journey here. Or perhaps…
Your head swerves to the side. Something stirs in the parlour on your left. Not a very noticeable presence, very distinct, small. He’s not one of yours; your babies must be somewhere upstairs, napping or playing or being taken care of for the time being.
And as much as your heart craves their warmth, to press them to your heart, you think it needs to wait. This is fitting.
“Could you take her with you?” you tell the maid, gently pulling Hana to the front by her hand and leaving her in the maid’s custody for the moment. “I will be upstairs in a little.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Hana is exhausted, eyes barely open. She slumbered away on your lap as the carriage passed villages and fields. She’s not quite conscious just yet; it’s early in the morning, too. But as she walks away, climbing the stairs, you still hear her mutter, “Where is Daddy?”
You trudge over to the parlour slowly, yet stomping enough to indicate your arrival. The boy sits in the same chair that his mother warmed a couple days ago, a coloured picture book on his legs.
You don’t think he can read just yet; you don’t know whether Jihyo taught him. But he’s immersed in the story, only noticing you properly when you sit down in front of him. He doesn’t startle, but his eyebrows still rise.
You greet, “Good morning.”
He nods but doesn’t answer. Not because he’s rude but because he’s shy. Unsure about strangers. You understand; so you grow a little softer, offer a subtle smile. Ask, “I don’t think I caught your name. What was it again?”
“It… is Minjun.”
“Oh. That fits. It means clever, you know?”
“…Mother once said this.”
You nod. It’s odd, being able to assign a name to him. Even though he is seated here in flesh and blood, conversing with you, the name makes him so much realer to you. Gives him an identity, makes your heart bleed.
You continue, “Why are you alone, Minjun?”
His voice is quiet. You nearly don’t hear him when he starts silently, almost mouthing, “I took a walk.”
“You took a walk?”
“Yes. Through the house.”
“Ah… do you like it here?”
His eyes dart around a little, taking in the interior of your place. There’s a tiny shrug before he admits, “It is very big. But pretty.”
“Mmmh. Do you miss your own home?”
“I miss it,” Minjun says. Ponders, pauses. Then, “It is smaller than this, but I like it. Mother brings flowers and spices all the time.”
“Ohhh. I would like that, too. Do you help her out?”
You know Hana likes to sometimes. Walks into the kitchen to the staff at occasions, asking to stir the soup or to taste a cake.
“Yes,” he sweetly answers. He’s melting some; opening up, matches your smile. The beam makes his eyes sparkle, and there are familiar dimples in his cheeks. “Mother has pain in her left foot. So I want to help.”
Such a lovely soul…
“That’s very kind of you,” you tell him.
“Thank you.”
The tip of his forefinger brushes along the page of his book; you don’t recognise it. Maybe it’s something Jungkook purchased over the years; he’s acquired a couple of those to read to the kids, or to at least give to them once they grow.
Hana already experienced the joy of reading, seated on his or your lap, pointing to the pictures on the paper. Looking at him, you guess he’s used to sitting alone, reading or flipping through books…
You wonder, “You like books?”
“I can’t read them, but… I like looking at the pictures.”
He’s sweet; it’s easy to soften, talking to him. But while you’re charmed, you’re hurt, too — he looks so much like him. The doe-like gaze, the arched upper lip, the cheeks and dimples and crinkles.
There are hints of his mother in his expression, and the mix of both of them pricks your heart. The direct confrontation, straight-forwardly looking at him isn’t easy for you. And the vulnerability of the last days doesn’t quite help; but you’re able to breathe it out easier.
“I see. Is it your favourite thing to do?”
“No…” he says, looks at you. “Art. I like painting.”
You blink. Back away just an inch, a heartbeat skipped. You recall a canvas coloured in by green trees and an azure blue sky. Still life and children’s eyes. Tender brush strokes and initials in the right bottom corner; two letters, easy on the tongue.
You’re not surprised. Sometimes, things are just supposed to be.
For years, you’ve watched paintings bloom in the art room above, and you guess some talents can be inherited. At times, blood is blood, and not even distance can change that.
“That fits,” you whisper.
You don’t expect him to understand, really, and you don’t urge to explain it to him. In fact, you only nod a little, relieved when he switches to a different thought and asks, “Where did you go?”
In all honesty, you didn’t think he’d remember you; you met him for mere two minutes and then crawled into locked rooms. Then again, he’s travelled far; a shocked lady stood in front of him in this very room, snapping at his mother and regarding her husband in disbelief.
Maybe he’ll remember this all too well. Different places and lustres, different people and pain. He might have engraved this into his memory already; after all, people don’t forget moments that differ so much from their usual life.
“Just home for a bit,” you answer.
“I didn’t see you here.”
“You didn’t, yes? I know.” You nod again. “I was with my mother, too. Like you were.”
His lips part a little, as if his little mind remembered that other people have mothers, too. He thinks about it, processing the information, and then wants to know, “Is it better than here?”
Better than here?
A couple days ago, you thought no place was.
This is Heaven on Earth, isn’t it? Like when you walk through the gates of infinity, greeted by a soft fog and wings at your back and a gleam in your face. It’s how you’ve felt over time.
To you, this was your favourite abode, a place of comfort. You will never love your family and your town and its scent and rivers less than you did the day before, but right where you stand is who you are.
He’s part of it. Your children are part of it. The fields, the village, the endless forests. This is who you’ve become.
A couple days ago no place proved superior. And even now, it doesn’t.
Only, right now, you feel less soothed; because he isn’t where you are. And home, no matter the ache and the disappointment and the shock, has always been where his arms stood open for you.
You’re so aware… of all the things binding your heart with this place…
Eventually, you tell the boy, “Better than here? No. I don’t think so.”
“I think everywhere is nice,” he philosophises, “I am on a journey for the first time. Thank you.”
You’re surprised; blinking again, more rapid now, you tilt your head, ask, “Thank you for what?”
His optimistic answer shoots out of him, so polite and treacly and genuine; your eyes well up the moment he speaks, but you keep the sting at bay when he says, “For giving me cake. It is my favourite now.”
And then he smiles. So bright that it breaks you. You barely considered that they probably don’t have money too often to afford such delicacies; they’re nearly omnipresent for you. At some point, they might have been for Jihyo, too. But not for him…
“Yes?” you wonder, patting his wrist just for a moment. “You can take as much of it as you want.”
If there is a possibility of lighting up further, he takes it. His eyes are gems. Excited and bright, resembling Jungkook’s. He wonders, “Really?”
“Yes, of course. Why? Do you not believe me?”
“I… I need to ask, right?”
“Yes, yes,” you confirm, “it is polite to ask, always. But they will let you have lots of it either way.”
“That is so nice! I thank you.”
Back at the orphanage, you’d see kids like him. They’d eat well there; it was a good orphanage. Your father donated when he could, and you felt somewhat connected with the people there.
You’d forward messages to your father, you’d visit for performances, and you’d play with the children whenever they tugged you into their games. They were kind, giving, didn’t expect much albeit not having much, either.
This boy… he makes you think of them. Humble, gentle, never greedy. And if pieces of your heart always belonged to the kids in that orphanage you grew to adore, how could you detest the eyes now looking at you?
You only half realise you’re tearing up again when you carefully touch his hair, waiting for him to react; he smiles when you do, so you pat his head a little, mane as soft as you already know. You preach to him, “Always stay hopeful, yes? Even when it hurts to be.”
His pupils are enormous, curious and much less timid when he throws back, “Why would it hurt?”
“That’s it,” you tell him, sniffling, “it won’t. Not in the long run. So stay this way, alright?”
“…Alright.”
It takes a moment for him to talk again; he observes you, quiet, unsure what to do. And you don’t understand why until he, in a young and blatant manner, asks, “Why are you crying?”
“Oh, I just…” you retreat your hand, wiping at the godforsaken, treacherous tears, “you remind me of someone.”
He doesn’t have an answer. You guess he’s done with the conversation. All he does is look at you in sympathy; they say children do feel deeper than anybody else. Maybe he’s shooting his empathy back at you with the way he’s looking at you.
But he stays silent, looking until another set of steps joins. When you glance to the side, you watch somebody approach who you’re still so torn about, yet insanely more eager to fix than before.
Perhaps not to fix her. But to fix the two of you.
“Good morning,” you say, and she responds in kind. You add, “Have you been alright?”
Jihyo’s fingers are fiddling, as if she’s nervous, scared of an explosion. But the dampness beneath your eyes seems to calm her in some way. She sits next to her son, offering a smile, but the slight crease between her eyebrows suggests lingering guilt.
“Yes,” she says, “and you? Are you well?”
You shrug; she already knows. Your lips lift on one side as you admit, “I have been surviving.”
Looking down to her hands, she sighs, lips closing before they part again to say, “Jungkook and I barely spoke, if you’d like to know… I didn’t even quite know where he was, but… when I did, we discussed how to proceed.”
“Yes…” you whisper, trembling a bit. “What did you conclude?”
“He… he’ll help us out when we need it. He’ll visit him or I’ll bring him here,” she touches the back of Minjun’s head, caressing his hair the way you didn’t get yourself to. You nod; this is what you expected. Prepared for. “But I will try to keep out of your lives as much as I can.”
This, however, you expected less.
“Really…?” you wonder.
Her turn to nod. She gulps, full lips pouting and curtain bangs falling into her eyes. “There is somebody out there whom I want in my life. Permanently. He has been there, and he provided when he could, just… not always enough for us all.”
“Then… then I hope we… no, Jungkook… is able to help,” you say, lowering your head. You deem your feelings valid over the days, but you still feel an inkling of shame. “I wish I could’ve done more, too. But I hope it’s still enough to make you happy.”
“Thank you…”
“And. You deserve to be loved right. You deserve things that work out.”
There’s something specific about the way you say what you say. You can’t deny it, and you understand Jihyo has noticed, too. Because when you lift your head again and meet her wide gaze, it’s filled equally with pain and surprise.
You anticipate her question before she blurts it, “…Jungkook told you?”
“He… told me enough. Nothing incredibly detailed, but as much as he thought I’d need to know.” She nods, and you gulp. “It is difficult, isn’t it? Searching for somebody who loves you as you deserve. Who doesn’t intend to hurt you.”
The tears in her eyes are immediate. They don’t escape just yet, but they swim there, as if terrified of leaving the barrier that her waterline is. She must have held this in for years; you wonder if she spoke about it to anyone at all.
Did she mention it to her current lover?
Perhaps not. Cruel; cruel how women fear such transparency, scared of judgement and resentment and disgust when they so often do not even function at all. Why does nobody hold the criminals responsible for the pain they cause?
You don’t agree with what Jihyo did to Jungkook; the curtains she had drawn back when he felt that little spark of hope with her. You might never understand the dishonesty behind her actions; but you disagree with her hurt, too.
Violence, be it mental or physical, does not belong in a household.
You put a hand on hers, covering her digits, and somehow the gesture hits her harder than your words. Her features distort, trying hard to hold back the tears until she can’t. Jihyo must have had a life you can’t even imagine. Sitting here, trudging towards hope must be overwhelming.
You say, “It’s alright. I am so sorry you experienced any of it.”
“I… I made so many mistakes. Maybe it was deserved.”
“This is what we all think at some point, no? Yes, you made mistakes. I am not saying it was something you should’ve done, but…” She looks at you with a heave of her chest. “I get the frustration. I understand.”
“Even today— I don’t even know if Jungkook would’ve been right for me. I was unfair.”
“Either way, he would’ve taken care of you, like he is now. Feelings or not, this is who he is as a person.”
It is… if you think about it hard enough, shove all the hardships aside, you doubt you could’ve married anyone more dedicated, loving, passionate…
“But he wasn’t right,” she whispers, “I don’t think. He had his own demons. My life wasn’t compatible with his.”
“A human being has demons. They belong to us, don’t you think?”
She nods. “Like he belongs to you. The two of you combat your own and the other’s demons. I wouldn’t have been strong enough to do this.” Sniffling, she parts her lips, then puffs out a ball of air. “All this time you were gone, he… I have never seen a person fade like this.”
And the worst part is that you can imagine. You faded, too — yet, the emotions you felt in your own heart couldn’t compete with the pictures conjured of his grief.
“He belongs to you, so undoubtedly,” Jihyo repeats. “I’m glad we grew apart. It helped him and me find someone for us.”
Smiling, you recall words so often uttered; warmth spreads in your chest to decrease the sadness, and you tell her, “He always says we’re soulmates in every life. I know it sounds very… novel-y. But he believes this isn’t our first life together. He says it with such conviction that it makes me believe it, too.”
“I want to agree with him because,” she shrugs her shoulders, flattening her dress over her legs, “he does not speak about you as though it is your first life together.”
“…Is that right?”
She does some vague movement with her head, mumbling something. Her son is still quiet next to her, respectfully letting the two of you talk, never daring to interrupt or ask questions. His curiosity even spikes when you move your head, pupils probably dilating when the entrance door opens.
From the open parlour, you register a presence stepping in from afar, and when the coated individual hands his jacket to the maid and bows his head a little, your heart stops.
His smile is nearly nonexistent; the one he grants the staff is subtle and fleeting. You haven’t seen it in days; but you pictured it just like this. As if he painted it into your mind, colour sticking to your brain, albeit grey-ish and faint lately.
An odd feeling courses through your veins. Your blood is hot, the heartbeat pounding in your throat and ears. And when he looks at you… when he looks at you, you are certain he sees you tremble even from over there.
His eyes are too big for him, the shade underneath too dark. You don’t know if he slept at all, or whether he survived the nights with thoughts of you preceding this… happening. So many things transpired between you, but in this very gaze, all you see is yearning.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t make a sound. Peering into the room that you sit in, he only continues watching you, eyebrows drawing closer by the second. And you pine. Pine to stand and run and fall into him.
Yet, both of you stick to your spot, unable to move an inch. Your body feels heavier. Your ears blend out all sound, sudden pressure in them, and you only barely register when Jihyo fathoms the situation and says, “I am… so sorry. For everything.”
“Don’t be…” you say. He lowers his head; gazes to the staircase; probably already seeing his daughter in front of his longing eyes. “It will be alright.”
And then, another look at you. Your decision morphs into a vow; slowly but suddenly, proper words finally form on your tongue. You need to let them out; need him to hear.
You look at Jihyo again. Repeat—
“It needs to be alright.”
Jihyo will be leaving tomorrow.
This is what she told you before she closed the conversation once and for all, drifting your attention back to her. An arm around her boy, she pulled him into her embrace, close to her heart, and when she regarded you again, she smiled.
“I think this is enough,” she said, “now that you are back, we should leave. As long as I am here, you won’t be able to resolve things with him… right?”
Remorse reflected in your pupils; you don’t know which of the many facts it represented. Perhaps that you couldn’t do more for her. Perhaps that you’d hurt yourself and him with your absence, too. And perhaps, because she wasn’t wrong.
You didn’t want to throw her out, but her approaching farewell relieved you.
“But,” you still intervened, “I don’t think I will be able to wait too long.”
Her eyes widened a little, and she fumbled, nearly standing, “I can leave now as well, if you need me to.”
“No, not… this isn’t what I meant. You can stay the night. Just…”
It took a moment. She peeked over her shoulder, probably watching his shoulder disappear. Somehow, he had broken his gaze, and was now stepping away, undoubtedly up to the children, unable to face you.
You understood. No matter the depth of the yearning, you knew he wouldn’t confront you in front of her, or step in to interject. And maybe he was fear-struck somewhere inside, thirsting for you as much as you did for him, but still careful, scared, surviving heavy breaths like you.
Jihyo turned as she understood, telling you, “You’re right. Maybe you should talk right away.”
Maybe. Maybe not.
You’re not sure now as you stand in front of the office you’ve knocked at a million times. Your guts reveal that he’s in there; somehow, your feet carried you automatically. And as you listen in, you hear him. Hear her.
You guess the babies are napping or elsewhere taken care of. You hope so, because you don’t hear them inside; you notice Hana’s voice. His voice. Gentle chuckles, quiet conversations; she’s louder than him, but the atmosphere seems serene.
Or just hushed. You don’t think he can raise his voice too much yet. You did because you spoke to your sister nearly consistently, and Hana is a chatterbox. But…
Who was your husband supposed to converse with?
You breathe in and out. You’re fearful of the pending talk, gulping and balancing on your feet, blinking and sighing. Operating at top speed, your heartbeat accelerates even more. You’re nervous, sick to your stomach, on the verge of breaking into tears.
Nothing has even started yet, but you feel hysterical.
But whatever you postpone now will await you on a worse, darker morning.
So you inhale through the nose, feeling your chest quiver, a sweaty palm curling into a fist before you knock.
Their voices quieten. His tone is soft and mellow, even hoarse when he says, “Yes? Come in.”
You do.
At an agonising pace, causing the door to creak, making him see you first before you can glance at him — eyes to the floor. They shift up only slowly, afraid of what you’ll be seeing; and when your gazes finally align, you understand why you were.
His tender, deeply dark eyes display the pining so clearly — he doesn’t hide an ounce of it.
And the innocence and love in the way he stares nearly breaks your composure. Nearly forces you to your knees. In your head, you paint a picture in which you run the minimal distance between him and you, falling into him, pulling him in and to your heart for the remainder of the day.
But you need a conversation first. Maybe after that, you’ll permit yourself to lose all inhibitions and liquify.
Hana is on his lap, pausing in the middle of what she was saying, only to ask, “Mama! Where’re my gowns?”
“They’re still downstairs. Staff might have carried them in from the carriage. Would you like to go and take a look?”
“Oh! Yes! I will be back,” she cheers, slipping off his legs to jog to the door. You’re still relatively close to it, so you watch as her favourite staff member reaches out for her hand, and you mouth, “Busy her, please.”
One nod, and then the door shuts.
It’s constantly hard to meet his eyes. Whenever you do, something in you dies and comes alive, as if he blows out an old, dulling candle and lights a new one. The flames stay burning, all the damn time.
You clear your throat, greet a little, “Hello.”
“Hello,” he responds, not bothering to hide the strain in his voice; a little as though he screamed his lungs out, or as if he didn’t speak at all. “How have you been?”
“I am alright,” you lie, not certain why; his expression doesn’t change, so you guess he doesn’t believe you. “How are you?”
Once again, honest as he admits, “I could be better.”
“…Me too.”
Now he budges. He’s more hurt by the truth than anything you might feign. He probably wishes your lie had been reality. His tongue dampens his lower lip before he bites into it for a moment. Then, he asks, “How is your family?”
It’s smalltalk, you know. But you need to start somewhere; and if you spilled your heart right away, a breakdown would follow with utmost certainty.
“They are well,” you tell him, urging closer. He’s on his desk chair, but it is far from his desk, placed in front of it to allow more space. Across from it is another chair; you guess Hana’s before she decided to be closer to him. “My sister and Seokjin were out of town just a while ago.”
“Ah. Travelling?”
You take a seat on the conveniently placed chair. He leans back a little, rubbing his palm on his clothed thigh. He’s nervous, too; you know exactly how he feels. But he’s still looking at you now; wishes to come closer. His eyes dart to your lips and to your hands sometimes.
“Yes. I think they wish to go overseas soon.”
“It has been a while since I saw them,” Jungkook remembers. His usually lovely, pleasant, lively voice is so petite right now. Vulnerable. “Cousin seems busy in his letters… But I wish they’d visit.” You nod. “And give Yuri, Hana and the twins another sibling.”
Yuri, your niece. Adores Hana; they never forget about each other.
“Yes, well.” You kiss your teeth, on the edge when he glances at your mouth again for the teeny tiniest of moments. “Their pace, right?”
“Of course.”
Short pause, broken only by the patter of the mizzle. It must have started not long ago. “…What did you do here?”
Jungkook hesitates. You’re aware there must be more than you know, and more than he’ll say. The fights you had over the years were much smaller in comparison, but you’ve seen him grovel and pout and retort to vexation and unhealthy remedies.
Even now, he looks a little pale. Parched. Still so beautiful, yet… different.
And still, he says, “Nothing much at all. Work.”
“I see. I was not too busy myself, but… I got some new dresses for Hana and me. She is very excited to show you.”
“She told me.”
You lower your head when the topic comes to an end. The burning in your chest increases; slowly but surely, you steer into the direction of what you’re supposed to do here. You start carefully, “Did you eat enough?”
He scratches behind his ear, lips and cheeks full. Maybe he doesn’t want to tell you; but he’s always been upright with you. So he answers, “I don’t think so.”
“I could… we could eat supper together tonight. Would you consider this a good idea?”
Again, that deer look. So pure, so pained. Similarly forlorn as his nod when he tells you, “Yes… I would. I— I missed it.”
“I did, as well, I—” you start.
He swallows, cautiously untangles his fingers to reach out. You let him when his fingertips touch the back of your own hand. He curls his digit around your pinky, gauging your reaction until he feels safe. Then, he lightly places your palm in his — your sigh is more telling than you intended it to be.
You’re breathless when you continue, “I think Hana missed it, as well.”
“And… I missed you.”
Your chest…
“Yes…” you say.
“I love you.”
You almost let out a whimper.
You’ve heard it again and again throughout the years. In the mornings and in the nights, in his arms as you slumbered, whispered when he moved above you. It became an anthem of sorts, a promise between the two of you.
It has never just been a sweet confession.
But right now, it makes all of your insides stir. Harder, bittersweet, dizzying and explosive when he raises your knuckles to his lips.
He doesn’t quite kiss them, but mutters against them, “I love you.” Now, a peck. Your fucking heart… “I love you. I love you. Only you.”
“I know,” you say, leaning in, both hands enveloping one of his now. “I know…”
His lips are shaking against your hands. He’s holding himself back, too; you know when he looks at you again, blinking harder, a shine of love and sadness in them. But his cheeks are still dry when he asks, “Do you feel different about me?”
“…Of course not,” you say when his face flushes, close to breaking, “I feel different and… odd about the situation, but… not about you.”
“What is it?” Skin hotter, a deep sigh; he’s trying to keep his tears in but is slowly failing. “That you feel about me?”
And before he can, you crumble first.
Maybe it’s the touch after all these days; or maybe, the words you utter next, “I love you. I still do. I might not even stop when I’m gone.” The last words move something in him, and he whispers a No to the thought, shaking his head. You continue, “You know I will always love you, Jungkook…”
You’re aware.
So painfully aware that you will love Jeon Jungkook till the day you draw your last breath. You want him to be next to you, want him to fill his lungs with the last of oxygen at the same time as you. You want him to leave when you do, meet you in the afterlife moments later.
You’re selfish for this, yes, maybe — but you want these days, months and years with him. Far until your memory starts lacking and lagging and the world turns grey; until, when the future dims, all you can still remember is him.
You lower your hand, pluck at the dress covering your legs; it’s white with light green flowers on it. The petals distract you for a moment, much softer than your heart, and a lot more serene than your mind. You focus on them — try to keep yourself steady.
“All these days, there were moments when… I wished I could do my heart a favour and simply… hate you,” you mutter. “But I love you now and I’ll love you forever and love you in the next life and… it seems that in this situation, this was the problem.”
Your pupils whip up; his own eyes look tired. Like he hasn’t slept at all. It seems as though no remedy can free his expression of the pain right now. You get it — you feel similar.
“Why was it…?” he begins, and you shrug a shoulder.
“Because it’d hurt less if I didn’t love you. But…” You sniffle when a tear rolls to your chin, and you raise your shoulder to wipe it off. “But I think I’d still rather be hurt than leave. Because…”
You press into his palm.
“Because being without you is a bigger problem.”
And whatever happens next, does so within moments.
The way his eyebrows knit together, mouth slightly open. How much affection collects in his eyes, pure hope apparent. And how his chair moves inches backwards when he lifts his body to near you impossibly, escaping your palms to cradle your face.
He towers a little over you, and you crane your neck — no, have it craned by his grip, lips so close that you feel and taste his breath. His voice is an unbearable yet delicate whisper when he repeats from days ago, “I am sorry. I am so, so sorry.”
You shake your head in his grasp. “No… neither of us were wrong, we just… we felt about it differently. Of course we did. There—there were two perspectives.”
“You are too good for me… you have always be—”
“I am n—”
“No. Fuck…” Foreheads collide, cheeks touching lightly yet enough for your tears to mix. “I really do love you.”
“I know.” Because if there is one thing in this damned world you will never doubt, it’s this. “I love you, too… I do—”
“Fuck, I have… never been so scared.”
It’s all he grants you, all you’re allowed to digest before he cuts anything you could’ve confessed in return. His lips are scorching against yours, but you welcome the heat, press yourself in, drink him in.
Despite tongueless, the kiss consumes you. His all consumes you. You sigh and wince into his mouth, moving your own and letting him move you.
The fear and impatience collide in the kiss and pour into you. He holds back, but then again, he doesn’t. There’s enough of what he isn’t saying in this touch, in this gesture.
In the way his thumb strokes the apple of your cheek, wipes the tears as he kisses you on. Tilts his head and deepens the affection. He tastes somewhat dehydrated, but he quenches his and your thirst either way.
It’s all you know for the moments he remains, lips soft, wetter by the second. He kisses you like he’s feeling you for the first time; yet, the situation is so vastly different from when he touched you in the very beginning. Sweet but painful.
All the initial doubt blooming into the love you know today, only to bring about a situation like this before yet again ceasing to wilt. You’re still here for a reason. You never found yourself gone because you’re deep in this, deep into him, and this very fact might never alter.
Not when he cries with you like this. Backing away with a sigh and pain in his eyes and devotion in his touch. And not when he finally drops to his knees instead of settling back on the chair, refusing to bring more distance between him and you than necessary.
He falls to the ground slowly, but you fall fast. Hard.
The heaviness in your heart doesn’t lighten yet, but there is a butterfly in your stomach that is reborn when he moves his head. Places his cheek on top of your legs. Remaining in your lap before you caress his uncombed hair, his hands on your hips and eyes closed as he pleads—
“I will spend my life… loving you like this.”
Jungkook has known he’d love you like this all his life ever since you hid behind the thick, unsuspicious tree all these years ago, risking damage to the white gown you’d so carefully chosen.
He knew when you closed in to him at the altar and lifted your eyes to meet his hazy ones. You appeared like a dream; you were one, too. The sunlight was a little mystical that day as it shone through the door you’d passed.
You were shrouded in this odd fog, wrapped in a light that captured your essence to the core. The surreal image was burning itself in his mind, and he knew in that very moment, from the very first second, that it’d leave a mark.
Scorching, but in a beautiful way; one that’d remind him until his last breath where he belonged. You were carving yourself into his heart, nestling into the scar.
He’s been aflame for days, and he’s turning to fine dust here in your lap; the wound you opened a couple years ago never bled this much. Back then, he perceived it as a pain that came with loving somebody too much.
With adoring their each breath until their existence becomes surreal, too, and loving them until it advances to a stage that hurts.
And he loves you so much that it hurts. He’s never wanted to rid himself of such ache; it’s been the best sting he’s ever experienced. The days that passed turned the sweet throbbing into something bitter, but he wants to sweeten it again.
So desperately.
Maybe his tears give this away.
That… that he’s known he’ll love you all his life ever since you stood behind that tree. The tree at the wedding. In truth, even before that.
When you held him in front of her grave. And when you lay in bed next to him, in a stranger home somewhere so far from yours. And before, when you walked into the cemetery and awoke him with a caressing finger against his cold skin in a colder room.
He knew. It’s crazy that he did despite the uncertainty whether you’d stay. He thought you’d already become a memory; he usually never let such pain continue, to settle this deep, so what was it about you that enabled him to fall into such an old trap Cupid’s?
But he knew; knew he’d spend his life loving you one way or another.
What can he do about it now?
Nothing. If you were to push him away now, he wouldn’t live past the loneliness.
And when he lost you a couple days ago, the misery was new, sharp. There are novels and poems written about this pain, a thousandfold, and sometimes, it seems you have read all of them. Sometimes, he peeks into the pages, reads what you read or makes you read aloud.
But he felt it properly for the first time now. Even years ago, when he assumed he’d have to tear himself from you, bid you goodbye, it didn’t feel the same. The two of you had barely touched then — but now, with his life dedicated to you…
Unknown, unbearably incessant. That’s what the pain was; was he dying? He thought he was.
But you’re here. And if you choose to stay now, it’s not because of your kindness or your willingness to stick around for the children. You’re stronger than him; you know how to carry yourself through life, even if he understands you’d die a little death without him, too.
But it’d mean he did something right. That he somehow succeeded in making you love him as you do. He considers himself lucky. It’s not given, you, here; getting to be loved by somebody like you forever.
His face in your warmth and his hands on your hips and your fingers in his hair. He’s the only person who gets to touch you like this, and it must mean that he did something right in life after all.
You’re quiet for a while. The sniffles and sobs and muffled sounds prevail for a moment, until you say—
“It’s going to need work…”
“I know.”
“I am not sure if we can go back to all we knew right away—”
“I know,” he repeats.
“—but I love you. And I am willing to work on this because… while this hurts…”
You don’t speak on, but he understands.
While this proximity hurts, the distance kills me more.
“I am ready to give anything,” Jungkook mutters. When he lifts his face, your fingers gently shift to his chin, collecting the tears gathering there, a thumb stroking his cheek. “Everything.”
“I think,” you start; your voice is shaky. The noon sun stands too high, and you’re more a silhouette than anything truly visible, but he hears the vulnerability in your words. “I think we’d grieve the chance if we let it pass now.”
He nods immediately, and you sigh. Quietly continue, “I still see you next to me in every image and in every future to come. I see you in… every damn moment I’ll still live.”
He has done something right. He must have.
“I don’t know if this will ever stop hurting,” he admits; it takes every ounce of leftover strength to confess this. “I know we can’t be sure about this much. But… I will give my all, darling, I… I promise.”
“I will, too. I just— it is why I hope you understand,” you lower your head, “when moments don’t immediately feel the way they used to. I do not know just yet what we’ll do and how we’ll do it…”
You blink, your eyelashes wet; he inhales and only puffs out the held breath when you finish, “But you’re right. We can try as much as our hearts allow.”
You paraphrased the painful truth you’re trying to convey so well — Jungkook knows.
Things have changed and they’ll recover only slowly. He’ll need to fight and you’ll need to heal, and vice versa; the two of you don’t feel differently about each other, but you’d be denying pure facts if you didn’t admit that something has shifted.
He fears what’s to come. Afraid he might fail. But you said it… you’d rather work through the ache than be without him. And he’d rather die than be without you.
The time to come might reveal just what the two of you are made of… until then…
“What is it you always say?” you then ask after a brief sniffle, a little more optimism in your voice. “You and me… in every—”
He interrupts, holding your gaze now when it meets his. Resolutely, he repeats the steady belief he’s nurtured over the years, “You and me. In every damn life.”
And if he can’t hold this promise, he won’t pledge anything to anybody anymore for the rest of his days. This vow needs to remain. It needs to bloom.
Time will tell. Maybe you’ll be able to look at him the way you used to before the flowers blossom again. Until then, he’ll need autumn to pass. He’ll need the snow to fall, the cold to come and go, the winter to offer comfort rather than darkness.
Until then, he’ll endure every drizzle and storm.
But as his pupils switch from you over to the window, he lives by at least one realisation for the moment.
That for now, the downpour has stopped.
sigh… some of you asked if things would be resolved between them, but since i ended the chapter like this :') we'll have to wait to find out. the last part is the only thing ahead, so let's see how things play out.. it's not over yet, though. more yearning to come </3
thank you so so much for encouraging me over the last months. i don't think i would've found the motivation to write this so quickly if it wasn't for your enthusiasm. you've loved these characters so much over the last almost 2 years, i can barely wrap my head around it. so yeah. i love you all, too 💕
as always, communicate with me 🥺 like, reblog, comment, send an ask… any kind of interaction is appreciated <3 okay, and now good night!! mwah
Summary: “His eyes hold unfathomable darkness that lures you in, captures your very soul, steals any air you are trying to draw. And you know without a doubt that you’re on the path to utter and irrevocable ruination.”
When your boyfriend Jungkook first suggested a threesome between him, you and his best friend, all of this was definitely not what you’d expected.
pairing: Taehyung x female reader x Jungkook
rating: 18+
genre: established relationship, pwp, fluff if you squint?, so much smut
warnings: explicit sexual content, dom!taehyung, switch!reader (but mostly sub), switch!jungkook, blindfolding, some bondage (reader gets tied up), wax play, lots of dirty talk, oral (f. & m. receiving), fingering, kinda praise kink, rough sex, messy sex, unprotected sex (you know it folks, be careful), like one spank?, light choking, breast play, cuckolding/voyeurism kinda (yes - jungkook is into watching), swearing, y/n probably can’t walk the next day and she loves it, threesome (obviously)
word count: 11.9k (this got a little out of hand, folks)
a/n: I’M SO EXCITED TO SHARE THE FIC THAT HURT ME. as i said, too much taekook content results in something like this T_T again, a biiiig thank you to @monvante for this banner that i’m so in love with and to @illneverrecover, @voiceswithoutlips & @missgeniality for being the most helpful and amazing betas, i love y’all so muchhh!! OK ‘NUFF TALKING, enjoy!!!
⁂ part of the ruin you series
MASTERLIST | WIPS
Bliss.
That’s how you would describe life with Jungkook. Being with him is always a never ending, wonderful adventure, never as exhausting as it has been with your previous partners - the fact that he understands how to take care of you astounds you, making you wonder on multiple occasions how you’d gone so wrong with your past choices.
One example of such occasions are nights when you feel like you’ve reached the end of your patience; be it about your unorganized mess that your college is, your family, or your friends - Jungkook always knows what to do to lift your mood instantly. The best aspect of his method is that he never forces you to talk, never pressures you into opening up. He’s been with you long enough to know fully well that you tend to speak about your problems as soon as you feel like you need to.
this was too hot 🥵 to handle. I mean threesome with my loves, fluffy with Kook & Lusty with Tae, damn something only in dreams I could ever see, but today I read.
Summary: You anticipated the trip to Jungkook's hometown with a thrilled yet nervous heart – and upon your arrival, your emotions prove justified: because as the days pass, you realise that gentle joy awaits just as much as ancient pain.
➳ pairing: Jungkook x reader
➳ rating: 18+
➳ genre: fwb/f2l, fake dating; angst, fluuuuuff, smut
➳ warnings: fluff fluff fluffluffulfufluf, flirting, daddy issues, arguments with his father, his dad is pretty much an ass and almost as bad as oc's mom, but his mom and brother are <3, ria <3, oc being a light in the dark, oc learns many new things, cursing, fighting, a lot of crying/tears, neglect, mental breakdown, panic and anxiety, anger, insecurities, too many mentions of nostalgia lmao, jealousy, mention of therapy, nara, christian yu lmAO, WEDDING TIME!!!, oc is so pretty (that jk loses it), alcohol/drunk stuff, more confrontations, making up, he loves loves loves her, childhood coping mechanisms; explicit sexual content: kissing, making out, oral (f. & m. receiving), teasing, eating out against the wall, bit of wall sex, drunk sex, manhandling omg, impatient koo, big dick!jk, dom!jk but this timeeee also sub!jk lowkey!!, tears of pleasure, masturbation, fingering, handjob for a bit, squirting, creampie, literally their orgasms are a MESS phew it's kinda hot lmao, moany/whiny/super turned on jk; no 'the ending' warning this time… just the whole chapter 🥺
➳ word count: 45.9k lmfao pls do still read it tho
➳ a/n: this was supposed to be 30k i can just never shut up lol sorry <3 but this chapter honestly got me good. i cried sm writing it and i love them and i never want this story to end :') i hope you love it, too. thank you for supporting me at all times <3 i can't wait to hear what you think 🤍
➳ listen to: dance me to the end of love by the civil wars (alt. version) | full collaborative playlist 🤍
SERIES MASTERPOST | TAGLIST
MASTERLIST | WIPs
It’s going to be okay — Jungkook’s hand gently clasping your thigh wants to convince you of this, you know.
But you can’t deny that the presence of the family you so long awaited is affecting you — your pulse is quickening to a heavily uncomfortable pace. You know his mom; you don’t fear his brother; but his father… his eyes are inscrutable.
They scare you to no end. There he is; the power continuously shattering your boyfriend’s heart. And Jungkook must be well conscious of your distress; because a mere moment later, he of all people, the one who's supposed to seek comfort, says—
“Angel? Breathe.”
Your eyes swerve to the side and remember to blink; you only now feel that you're jabbing crescent moons into your palm, just when you realise the sharp impact. You uncurl your fingers and nod, letting him cover the faintly scarred skin with his hand.
Sighing, you ask, “Are you okay?”
“I am,” he says, nodding, as if he’s practised and polished this answer over the years, “nervous, but… it’ll be okay.”
“Yes… I know.”
“Let’s go?”
You pull the handles on your respective sides at the same time, setting foot onto the stranger soil for the very first second in your life. You can’t quite discern your gut feeling right now, but you hope it’s not the last.
Waiting next to the car, you watch Jungkook round the vehicle, squinting your eyes; the noon sun is burning right above you. He heaves the suitcases with a faint groan and you join him right away to fetch the rucksack you brought.
Holding it between your knees, you flash his family a smile and a slight wave, awkward and unsure about what to do until his mother steps down the porch and towards you. She’s elated, and you see the same sprinkle in her eyes as in her son’s when she closes in enough for an embrace.
Her arms are comforting around you; somehow, you’re startled by it. Takes you a second to reciprocate the hug, hopefully not long enough for her to question your receptiveness. But then you put your chin on her shoulder, shutting your eyes for the briefest of seconds until you open them to a side hug between Jungkook and his brother.
In the slowly cooling weather, she feels warm, a motherly love that blasts heat to your cheeks until she lets go. “Finally a woman, huh?” she breathes, her voice so sweet and kind. “A great alternative to all the testosterone.”
“I can imagine,” you respond; the thought isn’t too much of a stranger to you. “I spent most of the week amongst men. They’re barbarians.”
She laughs, just in the moment that Junghyun, Jungkook’s brother advances towards you. He offers you his hand and a radiant smile that resembles your boyfriend’s. In fact, he does look quite a bit like his younger sibling. Lopsided smirk, fluffy dark hair, handsome features.
Not a lot older. Kind as he greets you with a, “Miss Novaura herself, yes?”
The name makes you beam, inundates you with pride. You appreciate that he doesn’t revert to Charmante as most people have done throughout your life, but sees you as what you are and what you do now. The manager of Novaura, damn it.
Yes.
Has he been keeping up with stuff?
“And Miss Novaura meets the second Jeon himself!” you respond, but as he grimaces, you bite your tongue immediately. What did you say?
“When,” he starts, overly dramatic, a little like Jungkook, yet somewhat more extroverted, “was I demoted to the second Jeon?”
“Oh, I’m…”
Jungkook clicks his tongue from the side, shoving his brother aside in the most sibling-like manner you can possibly imagine. Then, he threatens, “Don’t do this, or I’ll take her away from you guys again.”
“What’s that mean?” you ask.
“It means,” Junghyun interjects, “that everyone’s been dying to meet you. Mom and I even told Jungkook not to spill too much about you, so we can see ourselves.”
Oh, the pressure. The nervousness from the past couple of weeks skyrockets. Yet, your charming self conjures, “Then I hope I don’t disappoint.”
Jeon Junghyun speaks on, babbling something reassuring that you’re certain could warm your chest if you had the capacity to listen. But you drift off quickly as the side of your eyes follows a movement in the back: Jungkook timidly, almost fearfully nearing his father.
You’re alarmed and you can’t tell why — perhaps because you don’t truly know their situation yet. You haven’t seen them interact. But at this very moment, you’re surprised when Jungkook and his dad share a light side hug, too.
The occurrence is frigid, but somehow, you expected even more frozen behaviour. Rare glances, absolute ignorance. Your mind envisioned a world that harboured true enmity, but you don’t think that’s quite what these two have been maintaining over the years.
In some sense, it’s worse.
Because rather than pure silence, there’s a deep distance that is still disguised as a surface level of closeness in a family. Faking it might just be more difficult after all.
There’s no conversation between them. Nothing much as Jungkook comes back to his mother to give her a warm, genuine hug, a rainbow to a drizzle in comparison. As if to receive what his father didn’t provide.
You follow.
You’re not entirely keen on a too affectionate interaction between his dad and you, but you still smile when he lifts his hand, shaking it kindly. From here, as the corners of his lips raise, wrinkles around his eyes that he passed onto his next generation, he looks like a terribly nice man.
He gestures into the house and you follow, listening as he asks, “Was the journey okay?”
You nod joyfully, mustering up all kindness for somebody you know hurt someone you love for so long. After all, Jungkook has done the same for you, no matter how many times your mother shattered you.
And in the end, it’s still his dad.
“Oh, yes, pretty pleasant,” you answer, clearing your throat when you hear the formal tone in your voice. “We took turns driving. And since I fell asleep, I guess I can still seize the rest of the day… if you want to?”
You turn to Jungkook as the sentence fades out and he nods with raised, stirred eyebrows. “Yeah! It’s what we’re here for.”
His father smiles, a flat hand signalling towards the living room to invite you to rest for now. Matters seem normal so far; for a moment, you allow yourself to believe he isn’t so neglectful after all. Even with all your trust in Jungkook, you try to imagine a scenario in which he perceived his father’s distaste as something wrong.
You’re incorrect.
It doesn’t require more than a couple minutes and a bit more mingling until you recognise amidst the smalltalk that he doesn’t behave the same with his younger son as he does with Junghyun. There’s lightness in the way he converses with the latter.
Jungkook only moves around you and his mother; no particular intention to really connect with his dad. Understandably so. Their gazes barely meet.
Not even when his father’s tone drops as he approaches Jungkook, uttering a seemingly obligatory, “You alright? Is the job good?”
“Mhm,” Jungkook merely responds.
The interaction is awkward and quiet, yet too noisy for the lovely room. You focus on the homely furniture and small-town-vibed interior as you wait for the brief dialogue to conclude. You’re not at a place to intervene yet.
There are pictures of the family, yet fresher if you could judge. The ones showcasing memories are probably somewhere you can’t see yet; you’re buzzing to finally skim through his childhood pictures.
You listen in. Quiet again, conversation already at an end.
Jungkook’s fingertips graze yours, giving a short head tilt, wondering what you’re thinking about. His beam is different when he looks at you now, a much more blissful alternative to the timid words he voiced just a couple seconds ago.
But you can’t really answer when his mother emerges in the room to wave you towards the kitchen, eager to converse, yet suggesting, “If you want, you can freshen up before dinner.”
But you reject the idea kindly, flashing your best smile as you respond, “I’m excited to be here, so we can just talk a little for now. I’ll go wash my face after dinner!”
She nods slowly, politely, a the-guest-is-king-sort of gesture before you add, “How have you been?”
The family joins at the dinner table one by one; nobody interferes or barges into another’s turn. Only listens. You’re used to chaos from events and parties you used to attend, everybody dying to have the last word, to outsmart another.
This family is as patient at a conversation as you’ve witnessed in your boyfriend. They’re lively, interested; maybe there’ll be more of an ecstatic family tumult when you get used to them or when more people join. At the wedding, probably.
You’ve seen something like that with your friends, too. Especially on this vacation. You did fall into disorder quite often.
Yet, it differs from your usual experience. No discomfort. No fear of odd questions.
The Jeons aren’t out to reveal your little secrets, but to understand you as a person; so you appreciate the natural flow of the dialogue when Jungkook’s mother answers, “Just tired. The wedding preparations are tedious, and it’ll probably only get worse.”
“Yeah? You’ve been helping out a lot, yes?”
“Yes, somewhat. The bride… Gayoung, she’s close with us and relies on us a lot. And on top of that,” she shakes her head at this point; rolls her eyes as she turns on the stove, stirring and heating up some meal, “she’s getting cold feet.”
“Oh man,” Jungkook adds, chuckling a little, unsurprised, “wedding is definitely on, though. She always gets nervous. Almost missed her first day at work years ago,” he turns to you, “she’s a vet, and she was terrified of hurting the pets, but… everybody trusts her with their pets’ lives now.”
“Awh,” you voice, “I can imagine how stressful that must be. I’m pretty good at managing stuff, though, so if you need any help—”
“No way, you’re not here to work. You can do something else?” His mother looks over her shoulder, pondering. “Paint?”
“Oh, I do paint sometimes, but I’m not very good at it.”
“She is,” Jungkook argues, hand lifting to rub your back, “but she’s an even better writer.”
His father chimes in, arms folded, “Oh, I think you can get a ton of inspiration here, then. There’s a flower field nearby if you’re interes— what?”
Stopping when Jungkook interrupts with an exhale, he tilts his head at his son, and you follow his gaze, watching thick eyebrows kiss. “I already took care of that, but… way to spoil a surprise.”
Ah. You see the hostility increase with each second. You wish you could diffuse the moment; tell Jungkook to ignore everything that might irk him.
Instead, you only sneak your palm to his knee, imitating his rub to calm his nerves. He must be tense. He always must be.
“I wasn’t spoiling,” his father argues, “was just an idea.”
“Oh, it’s okay,” you intervene, patting Jungkook’s thigh. He looks at you just briefly, but it suffices for some of his muscles to relax. “I don’t know much anyway. Spoiler-free zone!”
It’s the best you can do. So you keep trying; diverge the topic to other aspects of your life when Junghyun asks about your job and the efforts connected to it. About the joys and hardships of it. About how your parents are doing — burdensome topic, yet a must to master.
Then they speak about the passage of time in the city, and how it compares to this place; how the family perceived the differences and how their current life differs from their past here.
You learn that they still feel more connected to their hometown; obvious when considering the fact that they spent most of their years here. Initially uncertain about moving, they still decided to be closer to their children and the world’s opportunities.
The city called and it kept them.
You know it kept Jungkook the most; or maybe it was you who shackled him there, too.
“Apart from the obvious differences,” you start, “I can’t comment much on it yet, but… I’ve been really interested in being here. Super nervous.”
His mother coos, scrunching her nose the way he does, assures that there’s no need to be nervous; that this wedding might end up being the kindest you have ever been to. Adds, “Speaking of. Brought a pretty dress?”
“Oh, of course,” you say; your toes curl in excitement. “I’d show you right now, but I promised to keep it more or less a secret from Jungkook.” You wiggle your eyebrows at him. “He’s seen it, but not me wearing it.”
“Ah. Is it that pretty?”
“It’s pretty amazing.”
She steps closer as the dish simmers, playing with a couple strands hanging in Jungkook’s eyes. His lips twitch upwards, and his cheeks colour in a blush when she says, “Well, knowing this guy, you’re out to give my boy half a nervous breakdown, I see.”
“I’m trying to, really.”
Your answer is light-hearted, but a mere moment late. You can’t help but wonder what she means by knowing this guy. Then again, you presume a mother usually witnesses her children’s lives; watches them fall in and out of love.
You don’t like how the realisation makes you feel, but you smile it away either way.
And it doesn’t help when Junghyun seems to catch onto her statement, too, saying, “By the way… I’ve heard that at the wedding, we—”
But the interruption is sharp. Unnatural, abrupt, his mother’s voice strange when she interjects, “Ah. Listen. Let’s serve dinner, and we can talk more when we eat. A hand?”
You don’t know what it’s about, but you attempt your best to not be nosy. You can’t even guess it, so it’s probably easiest to let it go. To only stand up to help a little, Jungkook and you handing things around until you’re seated again.
She still scolds Junghyun silently, eyes wide when she sits next to him; perhaps it’s a surprise for Jungkook or for you.
You won’t spoil it. Focus on the food.
And despite the early tension, you survive dinner, albeit occasionally cut by things Jungkook’s father remarks and by Jungkook’s responses of retaliation. Like—
“Honestly, you not liking these is a perk,” Junghyun comments when Jungkooks puts the green beans aside, snatching them immediately.
His father is quick to deduce, “Didn’t you love them?”
Jungkook’s smirk is immediate, accompanied by a shrug and a click of his tongue, and a somewhat passive aggressive, “Yes. Fifteen years ago, though.”
It’s odd, the mixture of anger and fear. He reveals his agitation in his short answers, but he never extends them to something that might provoke a bigger fight.
His father then says, “I’ve never seen you put them aside.”
To which Jungkook mutters, “Should’ve looked more then, right.”
“That’s unnecessary.”
“Okay.”
Tense. Quiet. Gulping.
But you get it over with, breathe and touch through it all until the plates are cleared, stuffed in the dishwasher, the clock ticking. Jungkook leads you to the porch that his family greeted you at earlier. You intertwine your fingers deeper, hoping for some solace between the irate words exchanged.
His shoulders stand slightly higher than usual, eyes a little unfocused. You squeeze his palm, and he laughs when you bump your shoulder against his. Tapping his foot against the porch, he says, “This is where we were having a barbeque this summer. Remember when I called you?”
As if you could forget. Those calls got you through messy, forsaken summer days. He lets go of your hand to tug you into his side, tight in his embrace, and your voice grows a pitch when you answer, “Yeah. You were drunk.”
“I was.”
“And you still called me. Burned your finger, right?”
He scoffs. “I barely remember that. I just remember seeing you on the video call and… missing you really bad.”
You glance into his face, opting him to do the same. Eyes half on his lips, half on his pupils, staring to and fro, you ask, “You don’t miss me now, though, right?”
“Hm… I don’t hope I’ll ever need to again.” As he presses into your arm, you cuddle in. He nods towards the small front yard, “They were playing Linkin Park here. And way back, when I was like seventeen, I’d smoke here sometimes.”
Your eyes blow wide; you can’t imagine his gentle fingers holding a cigarette between them, but then again, you kind of can. He laughs at your surprise before he continues, “I know. Rebellious phase. It was stupid, because Mom would smell it right away and then ground me.”
“Damn, Kook.”
He nods, lifting a shoulder as if to say my bad, and then kisses your temple. Asks, “You feeling good?”
“Yeah. I really like it here so far.”
“Good.”
“Are you?”
“Yeah. It’s okay.”
“Good,” you echo, just for him to do it, too.
“Good. I think we cou—”
Pause.
Because the feast of interruptions continues still. A sudden, shrill call of his name reverberates across the streets, and you flinch, following the sound on the right before detecting somebody walking up to you.
You haven’t seen her yet, but she’s glowing; hair open behind her, just the top half held at the back with a butterfly claw clip. The breeze swirls her bangs, and just from the exhilaration in her voice, you can tell who it is.
Jungkook lights up equally when he squints his eyes and recognises her, loosening his grip around you as he exclaims, “Hey!”
“Helloooo!”
And then he lets you go. You watch the endearments unfold. He says, “Didn’t expect you here today.”
“Me neither,” she says, and he laughs; you join in, already curious. “I was going to binge some show, but Junghyun texted saying you’d arrived.”
She catches up with a somewhat heavy breath, widening her arms when Jungkook steps down from the porch and engulfs her in a firm, heart-warming hug. Loving, decades old.
They oscillate on the spot, and she rubs his back until they let go. She doesn’t waste a minute until her eyes drift to you; they’re so expressive, dark yet glimmering. They prove your assumption when you see her joy towards you immediately.
The moment begins a little awkwardly as the stranger approaches you with uncertainty about what to say, but then she asks, “Is it okay if I hug you, too?”
You giggle. Goodness.
“Gosh, sure!”
And you’re delighted to the bone. Her touch is warm, inviting. They all are. You’re not used to it; why does it make you sentimental? You don’t know her. You’ve never spoken to her. Why the clump in your throat?
Weird.
“Ria,” she introduces, “I’ve heard so much about you. Really, it’s a common thing to say, but I’ve been really excited like… man, why did you come so late when he was sooo whipped in the summer already and—”
Your face heats up impossibly; this thought of a passed summer that called upon a million unknown emotions and words and encounters and yearning… you might never get over it.
Jungkook gives her a playful whack on her clothed arm, eliciting a prolonged Owhhh. You lift a protective arm over her to jest back, and she gasps, infinitely pleased. It helps her open up more, because it seems that she doesn’t need more than this to suggest, “Can I take her?”
Wrinkles form on his forehead as he raises his eyebrows in confusion, and she, nearly jumping at her spot, explains, “Show her around a bit. We’re having dinner soon and then I won’t be able to move, so…”
Jungkook blinks, unsure, looking between her and you until you urge, “It’s okay. You drove most of the time, too, so try and rest a bit.”
Your reassurance helps; either way, you don’t think you would’ve gotten to much more today anyway, no matter how much you hoped to seize the evening. You’re beat from the last day and the terrible night and the tiring journey and the filling meal.
Taking a walk is all you can imagine to do right now.
Maybe he’s on the same wavelength as you, because the nods come slowly but surely. “Sure. Go. I’ll come later to bring her back.”
Ria places a sweet hand on your back, urging you forward and speaking back, “Gotta make sure I don’t kidnap her, what?”
Her house is nearby. The first of the conversation goes by similarly as it did in Jungkook’s house, but the moment she announces the arrival at her own home, your calm demeanour changes to a rather terrified one.
She’s not going to…
No.
Because she promises, “I’m not taking you inside, no worries. I wouldn’t overwhelm you like this.”
Your chest relaxes. You guess meeting one family officially, as if you’re being evaluated for marriage, might suffice. While sure her family’s as lovely as the other, you don’t want the overstimulation.
So instead of urging you inside, she takes you to the small cottage next to her house. Their property is a little bigger, the area spacier. You soon find out that the little house she’s taking you to isn’t some guest thing, but houses dozens of farm animals.
You didn’t think there was something to the cliché you heard about small towns; yet, the reality is much more endearing. How oddly cheerful the animals seem, even though you know the fantasy is just a fabrication of your mind.
You don’t know what they’re thinking or feeling.
One of the hens clucks as Ria picks it up, looking at you with big eyes as she says, “I thought you guys would come early in the night and then just sleep. I didn’t know you’d arrive so much earlier.”
“Oh yeah!” you say, hands in the back pockets of your jeans, “We left the hotel at noon.”
“That’s crazy.”
She bends, letting the hen go, and the little thing instantly rushes away. You flinch, stepping back. You’ve never done this before; you try to keep your cool, but you’re so inexperienced, mesmerised by your surroundings.
This place is so different, so much quieter, more serene. You understand the nostalgic vibe of romance movies set in towns like this. You’re suddenly thrown into The Notebook and into Footloose. Into everything that evokes warmth.
“What is?” you ask.
“Just. It’s so nice to meet you. We have so many guys here, so it’s cool to be with a girl for once.” She takes a deep breath. “And I love Kookie and I trust his judgement. So when he told me about you, I told him to get you here right away. It took you so long.”
Her tone is frisky, but you feel bad. Not quite because you let her wait, but because of why you waited yourself. Because of the breaks and pauses and the split hearts that you needed time for to sew again.
The weeks of insecurity and then the trials of life.
Something in the pit of your stomach stirs at the memories; you can’t believe you’re standing where he fell for you first, despite the distance. Where he reached for you through the rain and the clouds and the stars, and called to listen to your tears and your pleas to return.
You can’t believe it. In fact, yes, you believe it as little as her.
“I get it…” you say, “we have quite a few guys in our group, too.” You wait, watching her nod as she inspects the last of chickens running into the cottage. Then you ask, “What did he tell you about me?”
“What he told me? Mmmh. I mean, it’s difficult to say. He spoke of you highly, but I think his main focus was on not hurting either of you. Very, very worried about how things might play out.”
Yeah… yeah, it sounds like him.
You don’t answer; shift your eyes to the grassy ground. You hear her voice lift a pitch as she says, “Man, too many guys is simply too much, though, seriously. And then having to deal with Kook all the time must be so exhausting, too.”
Laughter erupts out of you, and you shake your head, “I mean, he’s a brat sometimes. But he’s the best man I know.”
“He is a good guy, yeah? I’m so glad.” She nods again, affirmative and positively confirming. “He’s always been. It sucks sometimes that he lives so far away.”
“I’m sorry,” you say, but she shrugs her shoulders, waves off your concerns. “I take it you’re not interested in living in the city?”
Her eyes narrow when she looks into the distance, met with the lowering sun as if it entails the entirety of her beloved town. It’s probably part of it, though; the one sun she’s known all her life, despite the same star rising and setting everywhere in your vast world.
“Not really,” she says, “I like it here… Even though so many left.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes. Some people I knew…”
You can imagine. Two faces flash into your mind, at least. Not that you like half of the thought; but it’s automatic, and so is your statement, “I feel like I know at least two.”
She seems surprised. Tilts her head, blinking, hands on her hips. “Really?”
“Yeah, well…” You avert your eyes, fearing an abundance of transparency. “Jungkook and Nara.”
“Oh.” Ria’s blinking fastens. She didn’t expect this; neither did you. But in some sense, it was inevitable, dropping Nara’s name here. “You met Nara, huh?”
“You say it so… weirdly.”
Her hands lift and she immediately works on objecting to your assumptions, “No, I mean. She’s nice! I liked her growing up. I just wouldn’t have mentioned her unprompted. There’s no need…” She studies your face. “He doesn’t either, you know? Talks about you mostly.”
You don’t know what to say. You gathered this much; but a very strange feeling in your chest presses against your heart, and you can’t quite decipher why. You shove it aside as best as you can, and then breathe it out, thankfully admitting, “That’s relieving.”
“There’s no need to worry. I think he and you will have a good time here and bond more than ever.”
You nod. You don’t feel like responding; not because you don’t like her or don’t want to. Your throat is tied, and you can’t really think of or form a productive thought. So you just keep nodding, smiling until a hen pops out again.
Ria, pushing away a stray strand of her dark hair, points to the little, excited animal, wondering, “Hey, have you ever held a chicken?”
“No!” Ah. Good tactic to distract you, considering how many times you mentioned this minor wish in the past weeks. “But I want to! Told Jungkook like a hundred times.”
“Okay,” she waves you closer and you dare to approach, hoping to neither hurt the hen nor yourself. You have absolutely no clue about these things. “Come here then. It’s not hard.”
It’s not. In fact, the process sounds logical, facile; but your hands are shaking, and often enough, animals seem to understand negative emotions when targeted. But Ria proves a good teacher.
Shows you to near the hen calmly, moving slowly to not startle her. She instructs you to soften your voice as much as possible, kindly noting that you’re soft-spoken enough to not worry about it. And then, once close enough, she demonstrates placing a hand around the tiny body, securing the wings to prevent flapping.
You imitate. Or try to, at least. It doesn’t work right away, your nervousness intruding; but at some point, you manage. You use your other hand to support the body, lift the hen gently. Hold it close to your body to give her a sense of security, much as Ria lectured.
Ria is patient, amazing, despite having done this probably a thousand and million times. Adjusting to your lack of knowledge, praising you, acknowledging your effort.
Her giggle is mellifluously sweet as she watches and hears you gasp; she applauds, but stops right away when she detects the third presence amongst you.
She calls, “Ah! You’re finally here.”
Your eyes follow hers, heart lighting up as you hold up the chicken carefully and nearly shout in uninhibited excitement, “Kook, look!”
His hands are in his jeans’ pockets; his walk idle. One of his eyes is squinting shut until he steps into the shadow, a tender smile playing around his lips before you realise that it looks… sad. Doesn’t reach as far. No crinkles around his eyes.
“Aren’t you the cutest, munchkin?” he responds before dropping into a crouch next to you. He seems brighter upon seeing your face, but you still keep wondering… What just happened in the house?
You don’t know. You don’t want to ask yet either.
So you only set the hen down, lowering her until she’s balanced and waddling — waddling? — away. You wrap your arms around him, providing a flicker of warmth. You don’t know what made his face fall like this, but you want to at least attempt to lift his chin again.
God. What a start to the first day. Is it odd to feel scared?
“Wanna go?” he asks, a thumb brushing the corner of your lip.
You hum, “I’m getting tired, yeah…”
“Then we can go and rest? And sleep if you want to.”
It’s early… but laying down and staring at the ceiling doesn’t sound too bad right now. Maybe he needs it, too. So you agree, pressing Ria to your heart once more and promising to return to her.
She’ll be at the wedding, too. You guess you’ll see everyone multiple times anyway; but as rude as it may sound, the thought of warming into this man’s body doesn’t allow you to bother with the world right now.
His steps are slow as you walk to the house. Eyes drooping. He might not notice; he’s been here so many times. But his presence, combined with the things you see, make your heart swell.
Maybe because you want to be there for him; maybe because you still can’t believe you’re here. But you perceive everything as if for the first time.
The cosy garden and the flower beds. A small-town house sitting on a quiet, tree-lined street. It’s more on the simple side, painted in warm hues, a light beige. Charming. You remember everything being charming.
The snug living room, the tender, partly wooden and partly modern kitchen, the clearly old and handmade dishes. A fireplace. Wooden floors.
You haven’t seen the rooms yet, but as he leads you upstairs, you imagine him doing the same this summer as he approached his bed. He walked these same steps, a narrow and short hallway, opening the door to an inviting childhood bedroom with you present in his device.
Yearning.
But the man from the summer isn’t all you see. In fact, the place reminds of time travel; you soon recognise just how signature Jungkook everything is.
Because the moment you enter, you see him in everything. Like, in the soft quilts on his bed; he wouldn’t use them today, but you imagine a shy Jungkook and you imagine big eyes, small hands pulling the sheets over his body to cuddle into a warm night.
The window overlooks the backyard; the sunlight filters through the sheer curtains. It’s still just the middle of the evening. But you find it hard to want to leave this simple comfort. Lived-in, sweet.
Reminiscent of a youth.
Like a soft tune of a ballad. You don’t know what it is that makes you feel this way.
The cosiness? The pictures on shelves? The slightly tilted roof of the room? Or the posters reminding of a world a decade ago. It hasn’t been this long, if you think about it, but to you, all of this still tells a story.
“What’s this?” you ask, opening a random drawer and grazing rolled up paper, large, stowed away.
“Posters, I think? I haven’t seen or opened them in ages. Maybe we can—”
He pulls and rolls them out, glancing for a bare moment before he undos the action with a sudden bright red on his cheeks. You try to catch a glimpse, “What?”
He doesn’t answer, so you take the poster from him, only needing to open it halfway through to see a pretty face, followed by a swimsuit and a snatched body. Ah. Is this…
“Victoria’s Secret?”
“Shut up,” he instructs, and you hold yourself back, watching him, blinking until—
You puff out some air, nearly spitting as you laugh, teasing, “You were that type of guy, yeah?”
“Shut up,” he repeats, prying it out of your hands before he throws it into a corner. “I had this up for like two weeks. Forget it.”
“Never threw it away, though.”
“Never thought of it.”
He scratches the back of his head, a tilted smirk on his face, and you can’t help but want to keep annoying him. But he needs far more than this right now, and you’re not here to get on his nerves. So you walk up to him until determined arms wrap around his waist, kissing his chin.
“You okay?” you ask.
“Well…” He’s quieter than he’s been in the last few days and it disheartens you. Somehow fatigued, eyes halfway closed. “You know.”
You do know. Or perhaps, you don’t, but you can well imagine.
You’re not sure how he took all of this day in, day out for so many years, but you understand the weight of the situation a lot better now. Of course your mind would be rewired if you hurt this much all the time.
Whatever you’re seeing now is a fraction of what he experienced.
“It’s going to be okay,” you remind him again.
“Yeah.” He sniffles. “Hey. I have a little surprise for you tomorrow. It was spoiled a bit, but you’re right.” A peck to your nose. “You don’t know anything yet. But you’ll like it, I think.”
You don’t doubt it; you guess it helps, not being aware of much at all. Waiting for the surprise.
But then again…
When you look at him again, excitement flickering in those tired eyes of his and a hand pushing against the small of your back lightly, you think that you know a couple things at least.
“Okay. Hold on. You’re definitely going too fast!”
“This is too fast? You should’ve seen Junghyun and me racing years ago.”
You lower your head in an attempt to hide it from the wind, seeking his sweater; it’s impossible from this angle. You’re at the front, surviving between his arms as he navigates the bicycle recklessly.
The wind slaps your face, cooler this noon than yesterday. The bike writhes on the road, and you yell out, “Man, I’ll die!”
“Baby!” he exclaims back.
His laugh is louder than the gust as you hold onto his moving thighs and then realise it’s of no help. You shift your hands to the front of the cycle, wondering when it’ll hit an unforeseen rock and tip over.
“Hey,” he tries again when you only scream back, “have you never been on a bike before?”
“Of course I have!” You resist the urge to add a curse. He’ll kill the two of you. The streets are steep, probably a hill, going downwards. “Just never two people at once.”
“I did it a lot! With friends, and mostly with Gureum.”
Gureum… his dog. You have yet to meet him.
“Gureum?” you repeat.
“Yeah! He’d sit in the basket and… and enjoy the wind. Eyes closed.” He pants between cycling. “I told you, no?”
But your thoughts are elsewhere, chin dropping to your clavicles as if not looking could save you. “Fucking hell—”
“Okay. Okay…”
The bike stops abruptly, and you yelp, shutting your eyes tight and preparing yourself to die. But death doesn’t come; a tap to your hip does. His fingers hold you, calming you, words the opposite as he orders, “Alright. Get off my bike. You can walk the rest of the distance.”
Between the sniffling and the reclaiming of control of your trembling legs, you register the surprising command, and mumble, “What?”
“You heard me, sweetheart. I’ll wait at the flower field.”
You dare a look over your shoulder. His expression is serious, an eyebrow cocking. You want to retort something snarky, tell him you’ll stay on if he just slows down, for the love of God; but instead, you look ahead, and decode the view immediately.
The grass is high and the place wide. You’re right where the field begins, the road more narrow here, only really enough for cyclists and walkers. You roll your eyes, getting off as you tell him, “You’re terrible. We’re already here.”
He laughs, dropping the bike to the side carelessly before he reaches for your messed up hair. Fixes at least the front of it, flattening it in the back. You’re glad there’s no mirror around.
Then, he proceeds to grab your hand, a finger pointing to the place and says, “Look around.”
You do. It’s widely open and empty. A decent amount of flowers; you imagine a plethora of them in the summer and the spring. Now that fall is in full effect and it’s a little colder here than on your coastal vacation, you reckon that this isn’t usually all how the field looks.
But it’s beautiful. In the far, far back, you see the forest expand. Slightest traces of autumn foliage. The leaves will fall and entirely bare the trees soon.
“This is so pretty,” you say.
“Right?”
“Was this the surprise?”
“I mean,” he cards his fingers through his hair, but as he grabs the willow wicker from the larger cycle basket, the mane is blown back into his sight just a moment later, “yeah. But the actual surprise is a bit further down the field. Come.”
He guides the way, and you put your all into deciphering what he might be hinting at, only for him to say, “Don’t look so hard. You will see it in a moment anyway.”
The laugh he elicits is sweet, a thumb touching the back of your hand. Your shoulders drop in relaxation, and you shift your attention to the grass and the flowers, trying not to stomp on any of those that are still left for this fall.
A couple feet forward, you tell him, “You know I still need to meet Gureum.”
“I know. He was with Ria since we can’t really take care of him when we’re away.”
“You could take him to the city.”
“I’d do anything to be able to. But Gureum is… a free dog. He wouldn’t enjoy life in a smaller apartment after running around for so long.”
Ah… You feel the opposite still; jumped from a large cage into a homey, sheltered cube happily. But you get it; the freedom here doesn’t compare to a crowded city, does it?
“But,” Jungkook continues, “Ria said she’d bring him over this noon, so he should be there when we get home.”
“Damn. Why am I more excited about this than necessary?”
“Oh, you should be. I am, too… he’s my old boy.”
The oxymoron grants you a smile; to a parent, a baby stays a baby. Most of the time, at least. Jungkook feels something for Gureum, and even a stranger, lost and unknowing, could piece this bit together within a heartbeat.
“He’s old?” you wonder.
“He’s twenty years old. A bit slower now but… the same amount of love in his heart.”
One shall learn how to love and be kind from Jeon Jungkook. Then again, he’d be an excellent example, but a bad teacher. Wouldn’t know what to say. Wouldn’t be able to really pick out what makes him so pure-hearted.
He just is… He just is.
“I can’t fucking wait,” you say, inspirited.
The sight changes along with his expressions as you walk down the field. From happiness to a smile to excitement and then contentment. The flowers mostly disappear, giving way to something you don’t really recognise.
Orderly rows, bright green leaves and… more plants? As you inbreathe the air, however, you swear you recognise the sweet and fresh scent. Even from here, it’s distinct and special.
And when you trudge closer, finally glancing down, you understand.
Jungkook…
He took you strawberry picking.
You see them low on the ground, clustered, ripe and red. Pretty. Enough to warrant a dozen adjectives; yet, you only whisper, “Wow.”
He waits… then waits more. Lets your eyes scan the area and the fruits, permits you to take in what he probably reckons you’ve never seen before in this form. And he’s right — you haven’t.
“You like it?” he questions. “I was unsure, like… maybe you’re underwhelmed?”
Your head turns towards him at light speed. “What? I’m not. I’ve never seen anything like this before,” you confirm, repeating your thoughts, “I am definitely not underwhelmed. This is… this is something my younger self craved.”
“Oh— Really? How so?”
You hum. Think back to late nights in the back of your bed, a room larger than what you needed, yet smaller than your imagination. Smaller than your heart.
“I read stories,” you tell him, “fairy tales. Watching tales of love in the countryside. We don’t have these places in the city, do we?”
Jungkook’s hand, on your back a second ago, travels up to the back of your neck, touching it gently. “I guess you’d have to find a farm.” He stares ahead where you do, still standing there, unmoving. Then, “Angel?”
“Yeah.”
“You said you went on a field trip to a farm, right?”
“I… can only really remember once in school. Kids were shitty.” You spoke about this once; last month, he promised you’d see Ria’s farm, too. Funny that she actually did show you. “And my parents weren’t really interested in that stuff. Which I do kinda get because many city people aren’t.”
“Mhm, I can understand.” He shuffles his feet, presumably a little sad for you, regarding the long row of strawberries stretching to his right. You’re about to crouch and try without a clue what to do when he, instead of commenting on things much more, asks, “Okay, so. Wanna pick strawberries?”
“Yes!” You rub your hands, taking a step forward, but pausing again; you could start anywhere. “Will you show me how?”
“Of course.” He hums, looking for an easy spot with an accumulation of easy-to-pick fruits; then, he lifts his jeans by a couple inches and lowers his body. “Look. You can crouch or kneel.”
You give your clothes a lookover. Just some everyday jeans; they should be able to take some dirt. In actuality, though, you might’ve joined him on the ground anyway. So you do, kneeling with your hands on your thighs, obediently listening.
“You look so cute.” He chuckles, the back of his fingers barely grazing your cheek for a moment. As he sniffles, his chin nods towards the plants, hands reaching for them. “So. You gently pull the leaves aside and just pick the strawberries. Avoid those that aren’t red, though, okay?”
His pinky touches parts of an unripe strawberry still in the ground, and he explains, “You’ll know that one’s ripe when it comes off easily. Like this,” he tugs at it, “isn’t ripe. Won’t come off so well. Mmmh. Let’s try this one.”
You follow his movements until he settles for a particularly pretty and seemingly juice berry; with ease, he plucks it off by grasping the stem and twisting a little, and says, “See? You could eat this one right now. But… basket?” You shove it towards him and he throws the berry inside. “We’ll wash it before that.”
It’s quiet and sweet here as he works on explaining the process to you. An atmosphere you haven’t ever witnessed anywhere before. It’s probably different in the spring, but you’re alone here; even if someone’s around somewhere, you can’t see them from where you sit.
And it helps you focus: on how concentrated he looks, lower lip pouting, crouching easily with his sweater sleeves rolled up. It’s unusual how his tattooed hand works on the plants. Your first imagination of such a task always involves straw hats and dungarees.
“Try it, too,” he then instructs.
He puts a gentle palm on your back as you get up from kneeling, now crouching as he is, and cast about for a couple good pieces. Whenever you think you’ve found one, you seek confirmation in his eyes, repeating, “Is this okay?”
And he always promises, “You’re doing well. Look,” he inspects one of your choices, “picking the best even.”
“You’ll have to eat mine, then.”
“Sure will. I knew you’d be so good at this.”
You’re surprised; you never saw yourself doing this, even though you yearned for a life so different than the one you lived. Until you stepped off his bicycle twenty minutes ago, you had never come up with such an idea. All the more reason to be thankful to him.
But you do wonder why he’d perceive something like this far before you did, so you ask, “Really? Why?”
He uttered the words so casually, pupils fixated on the basket; he might not have noticed how immediately you reacted. Because he hums now, looking at you with immense eyes, matter-of-factly spelling out, “Because you’re gentle. This called for you.”
Because you’re gentle. Because you’re gentle.
The reasoning, so clear to him, repeats in your mind. It’s not as obvious to you; it’s been a while since you thought of your qualities, and in the last months, being gentle often meant the same to you as quietly enduring.
So you’re touched, silenced by the lump in your throat; such an easy sentence, but so filled with knowledge about a person that only truly occurs with the purest of affections.
As you stare at him, you feel the fondness spreading over your countenance as much as the leaves tickling your ankle; you hold the current strawberry delicately as you conclude, “That’s why you brought me here, yeah?”
“That too.”
Oh.
“What else?”
“You can’t do this every day,” he argues, “I want to show you new places and things.”
You graze the vulnerable skin of the strawberries collecting in the basket, watching it fill enough to feed a couple people. Grabbing it, you lift your body with a smile. For a minute, your knee aches from the crouching, and your brain gathers the sensations into one to create another core memory.
Lost for words, you merely tell him, “Thank you, Kook, I…” You heave the basket to your chest, touching his hand as he rises, too. “How do you even come up with all this?”
“How I come up with it? Hmm… I guess you make it easy to do.” He laughs, and you follow, reading your mind as he voices the same thought flashing through your brain. “I know I’ll be so nostalgic about this someday. In ten years, maybe.”
Cheeks hot despite the autumn wind, you register the butterflies immediately. Right under the basket, underneath your skin, like a swarm awaking from metamorphosis. The fact that he thinks ahead like this, paints a distant future with you… wanting you for this long drives you insane.
Jungkook’s voice always lacks uncertainty when it comes to you.
Mellow when he speaks to you, gentle even when he asks, “More?”
“Mmmh… yes. Can do a few more. And it’s fun.” So you do; picking and plucking until you can barely carry the basket anymore, already wondering what to do with the bunch until you pop the idea, “Can we eat some of these?”
“Now?”
“Yeah.”
“Of course. Gotta wash them, though.”
Which isn’t as easy as it sounds. It takes you a good moment to find a water tap on the wide field; one only crosses your way when you travel back to where the bike stands, proving as dysfunctioning and broken.
And only once you’ve reached nearly the end of the field and already detect the narrow path that you cycled along from afar, your luck strikes. You wash a handful of your harvest and place them neatly at the top of the rest, right above a handkerchief Jungkook whipped out from his pocket.
The grass isn’t high everywhere; you find an ideal spot for a brief, spontaneous picnic, pleasant and comfortable; a fluffy blanket of nature. You watch ladybugs and ants crawl over blades of grass; not too much more, considering the season.
Jungkook works through the content of the basket, soon holding a piece to your mouth, “Take this,” he says, pushing it through your parted lips; waits until you’ve chewn most of it. “And?”
The initial taste is good, but the aftertaste dramatically makes your world quiver. Whatever you’ve known about food and fruits so far must have been a hoax, because you can’t fake the way your eyes widen and your voice raises in pitch, delighted as you say, “This is… so damn good.”
“Right?”
“They don’t taste like this in the city!”
“Yeah,” Jungkook chooses a smaller one from the collection, throwing it into his mouth as a whole, “these are fresh. No bullshit berries.”
“No bullshit berries indeed. So good.”
“You picked good ones!”
“But this is a curse, too!” you exclaim, urging a laugh out of him that he transforms into a kiss to your temple, observing as you munch the strawberries as though encountering them for the first time. And you pout as you say, “ Keep me from eating them all. I want to take the rest home.”
“Sure, don’t worry. We can put them somewhere and take them back on the last day.”
“Hm? Oh. No, I meant today. Home, your house…” You realise your mistake. “Sorry.”
Only, he doesn’t deem it a mistake for a moment. He didn’t think you’d feel this cosy this fast — but it was what he’d hoped and opted for, so it’s a win either way. His family as your home, him as your home.
He thinks, you finally do feel at home. It took you years of endurance, didn’t it?
“Home, yeah?” he mutters. “An apology is the last thing I’d want, angel. You’re home, alright.”
You wish you had an equally meaningful answer; whatever you might babble now, you don’t think you could do justice to the soft tone he settled on. You can’t even outdo his gaze, so round, eyes so big on his otherwise clear-cut face.
What you can do is smile. Draw closer until your shoulders touch. About to taste the strawberry-flavoured, red tinted lips before a sudden motion drowns your plans.
The bunny flits over your feet; you’re sure it jumps onto yours for a moment and then uses them to push itself off into the grass, journeying on. The yelp it elicits out of you merges with the startled sound Jungkook emits.
His elbow lightly hits the side of your breast, and you pull your legs into your chest as self-defence. But it’s gone as fast as it appeared, and barely a second later, you’re watching it hop away, little ears disappearing in the distance.
“Well,” Jungkook breathes, “at least that’s normal. I’ll tell you about my snake encounters later some day.”
A hand on your chest, you exclaim, “Oh my God. You know what?” You calm down your lowkey panting, hand falling back into your lap, “Maybe you were right. We’re home for sure.”
“Oh… yeah?”
“Yeah! Totally looked like you… thought we were back home.”
Jungkook laughs out, head throwing back, and then, amidst his giggle, he throws a “Shut up” at you. The tackle nearly pushes you to the ground before his lips attack your face all over; making out on a countryside field wasn’t on your bucket list, but you sure as hell will add it only to tick it off.
His tongue really does taste like strawberries. His lips are sweet; the hand on your waist careful yet explorative. If the grass wasn’t this cruel, tickling all over your body, you’d probably remain here for the next hour.
Let him strip you bare. Kiss you into the earth. Nobody’s here; you don’t think you’ve ever fantasised of such a moment before, but suddenly, you don’t mind loving him right here.
But maybe he’s fostering the same thoughts as you, pulling back with a little groan when the blades prick his cheeks and closed eyes. Endurance isn’t easy right now; and you have a lot planned for the rest of the day anyway.
So you pull yourself together, and nod when he finally asks, “Wanna go?”
Somehow, it takes you a little longer to get home than it did to reach the field. Perhaps because he’s cycling uphill now, or maybe because the sun is at its zenith, warming the colder day. The comfort makes you want to stay in this moment, have his voice laughing next to your ear.
On a bike swaying when he loses focus, rolling dangerously to tease you on purpose.
And when you get back to his house, you’re greeted with yet another surprise. It’s fluffy and sweet and white like a cloud, living up to its name. A tongue sticks out, tail wiggling, right at the door when Jungkook opens it.
Gureum is small, smiling as far as you’re aware of a dog’s joy. You once heard that upon seeing their owner, the same hormone floods their tiny bodies as a human’s when they fall in love. Gureum must feel much like you do when Jungkook comes home.
You understand.
Understand when Gureum jumps up to Jungkook’s legs, licking his human’s face when your boyfriend picks him up. Jungkook’s voice changes so much that you barely recognise it; you’ve never heard him talk like this. Higher, lovelier, slurred to imitate the language babies speak.
The affection is unfiltered and crystal clear.
Jungkook’s smile brightens until it reaches its maximum, bunny teeth flashing, the laugh erupting so deeply from his chest. Authentic. Eyes nearly closed as he calls Gureum’s name, plays with his face, as if communicating with a child.
Twenty years, and he still thinks of him as his baby. Sometimes, all golden stays.
“Baby,” he says after a while once Gureum has stopped licking his face, introducing, “this is my Gureum.”
You set the basket down next to the door, reaching a careful hand to Gureum’s head; but he’s cooperative. Lets you easily. “Hi Gureum,” you whisper, “nice to finally meet you. You’re so cute!”
“He’s a little sick these days, but,” Jungkook gazes down again, kissing Gureum’s ears. “He gets through it so well, doesn’t he? Yes, he does.”
The laugh is real. The affection is real. Tender and deep-rooted. He smooches him again, and then puts a cheek to his warm fur. You’ve never seen him like this. You’ve never fallen deeper.
“I missed you so much, too, buddy,” he says, “so, so much.”
You swear you see Gureum cuddling into Jungkook’s chest. Doesn’t move even when you’ve settled in the living room, resting from the journey. You’d drafted plans for the rest of today, but it doesn’t seem they’ll separate, and you don’t want them to.
You can wait. Things can wait.
You sit by Jungkook’s side as he pets him, his head soon on your shoulder, one hand in the white fur, the other holding yours. It’s how you remain for a bit.
In hindsight, albeit never having plucked strawberries before, today wasn’t some grand adventure across the world. You didn’t strike a deal at work or fight off some paparazzi hiding in an unexpecting corner. And you didn’t climb a mountain.
But you guess that’s what you craved all your life. Somehow, this is better than any crazy escapade.
The serenity that comes with a mundane moment. A love that consumes you and a love that helps you commit the most casual of acts to memory.
Maybe this is enough. An old couch lightly creaking as you move; a cloud blinking as you caress its head. Surprises to help you experience saccharine afternoons.
You remain for a bit, and then remain a little longer.
Ria came through the door not too long after you’d returned, ready for the evening plans. She’d promised to accompany the two of you to the centre of the town, giving you a tour of the most important and ancient of places.
You learned about the town’s only drapery seamstress and the best flower shop. Much as it so occurs in 70s and 80s movies, you met the son of a mechanic. He told you he’d be inheriting the company one day, and that it was okay because he never intended to leave anyway.
Ria’s eyes suspiciously widened as she spoke to him, and she lingered for a moment longer than you did after your farewell. The guy had forgotten that there was work to do by the time she finally bid him goodbye.
Jungkook’s eyes squinted at the sight, but not even he could hide his endeared smile. Pressed into Ria’s shoulder with a teasing hum.
You rewarded yourself for the day’s many steps with some soft serve in front of the city hall, talking and delivering anecdotes until the sun started setting.
As the evening concludes, you’re the last to appear at dinner. His family is already sitting here, politely waiting and sweetly welcoming once you’ve washed up and hopped into the dining room with a vibrant smile.
You’re in a good mood. Evidently so; the scent of strawberries and the taste of his mouth still linger, and you’re still coming down from the high when you chime, “I’m sorry for being late.”
“Don’t worry about it at all,” his mother assures, “we just sat down.”
“I really wanted to help, though.”
It’s true. His mother has been nothing but the ultimate host. You wanted to prove productive and useful, but then Eun had called to check in on you and delayed your plans.
“Hmm, you know what?” his mother utters, pouring you some Jjamppong. “The wedding isn’t until one, so we could get up earlier and make strawberry jam in the morning? If you’d like.”
The wedding has been in the back of your mind constantly, slowly sneaking to the forefront with an intense nervousness. You’re timid because of how it’ll turn out, how people will perceive you, if they’ll talk to you. How Jungkook will look at you.
How much love might spread; how much certain people might tone down their resentment.
Learning yet another skill such as making jam might just be the best distraction. So you nod wildly, only interrupted when Jungkook asks, “Can I join, too?”
But you change the movements of your head to a shake, jesting about quality time and whatnot until he surrenders, “Alright. Way to shut out the boyfriend and son, I see you.”
“Speaking of food,” you say, pausing, slurping a big bite of noodles; they’re spicier than you’re used to from city restaurants. Better, too. You point your chopsticks to your dinner. “May I have the recipe?”
As his father and brother indulge in their food, acting as quiet listeners, his mother answers, “I’m sure Jungkook has it. I’m offended he never cooked it for you, since they had it a lot growing up.”
“Offended indeed. You learned this?”
“Oh, this?” Jungkook’s eyebrows, hitherto sporting a crease between them — a telltale sign of a well-eating Jeon — relax. “Yeah! I was learning when I was like, what, fifteen?” He seeks approval from his mother, who soon nods. “I fully butchered it when I tried it for the first time.”
Junghyun chuckles. “Even I remember.”
“Yeah, you refused to help!” Jungkook complains, whining when Junghyun hits his brother’s elbow with his own. “And I burned my wrist and had the wound for ages. Couldn’t do much in P.E.”
Much as yesterday, it seems his father hasn’t learned; because as you feared, it’s only now when he melts and intervenes. You almost surmise he’s provoking on purpose when he queries, “When you were fifteen when? I can’t remember any wounds.”
Jungkook scoffs. “Are you telling me I’m making it up again?”
“No, I’m just saying I don’t remember.”
“That’s because you were at work and didn’t pick up my many calls. Mom was sick that week… It's why I wanted to cook and learn at all.” He nods towards his brother. “Junghyun remembers because he went to a friend and then rushed home to bring me to the hospital. None of it sounds familiar to you, does it?”
Jungkook lists and narrates the happening with a flat voice, as if recalling items still left to purchase for tomorrow’s meal. He’s stirring his soup and his father is stirring everyone else’s, uncaring as he responds, “I didn’t know.”
“It’s fine. You probably didn’t care.”
“Nonsense.”
Another, “As much as the last years,” added to the mix, you opt for his hand under the table again, but he pulls away. You’re left dumbfounded, looking at him in surprise. This has never happened before; he’s never been upset in such a way.
As if to signal, “It’s fine. It’s whatever. Let me deal with this.”
But he can’t deal with it; you see the beginning signs of a rising chest and a decreasing appetite. Nobody just plays with the content of such a rich soup for this long; least of all a foodie like him. He’s busy looking at it, propping his elbow on the table.
You stare for a little longer, and then turn back to your food.
It sounds like it’s over. And it’s quiet; maybe you could interrupt with something else, change the course of the conversation. But his father isn’t done yet.
No. You notice everybody else’s irritation when he opens his mouth to speak again. They sigh, forming a line with their lips when he emits a question that leaves even you in disbelief, “Why are you saying this?”
“Come on,” his mother tries, wanting to ease the tension, but Jungkook is faster.
“What? I mean, I don’t know?” he starts, once again an equal amount of fear and annoyance in his voice. “I barely ever hear from you, Dad.” With each word, he grows more daring, at the end of his capacities when he eventually curses, “We live in the same city, for fuck’s sake—”
“Jungkook—” Junghyun interrupts.
“What? It’s true. Even the last hundred times, Mom visited alone. Could’ve at least come over and said Hi to my girlfriend.”
“I’m here now and saying Hi, though,” you try, weakly smiling.
“And he’s here, too. How grand of him.”
Fuck.
“Stop the attitude,” his father warns, “you could’ve come over plenty of times, too.”
“Are you hearing yourself? News flash, I did. I tried to talk to you, too. If I was still fourteen, I’d still be apologising. Oh, or is that what you want? Is it what you want?”
“What are you talking ab—”
“I’m talking about how I really wanted to tell you about a shit ton of things. Like when Nara and I broke up,” amidst the already tense moment, your heart pains for a second, “or when I graduated. Or when I was having a really fucking hard time this summer and needed somebody and then when I fell in love and needed to tell somebody, and… where are you all the time anyway? Who fucking knows — I don’t!”
It worsens and worsens. Crashes and burns; every word splits the air in the room. You don’t know how to save the moment anymore; maybe you’re not supposed to. You can only lend him courage. Perhaps he’s supposed to finally say all this.
But it’s hard to listen.
Because as the waterfall of grief cascades, you hear Jungkook’s voice quiver. He’s about to break. Right here, in front of everybody, you’re about to witness the woe this man inflicted on him all his life.
And you see it; see parts of this very torture when his father reveals who he’s become over the decade. The one Jungkook described to you; empty of empathy and understanding.
Because again, he renders you in shock when he speaks again. Fucking nasty, nitpicking and focusing on only one aspect, attacking somebody’s pride.
“Get a grip over yourself! You graduated in arts — you didn’t conquer the world. And you hold a grudge when—”
“I hold a grudge? I do? You’re the fucking one who shunned a kid because of a mistake and—”
“I do not want to hear about this. Not again.”
As their voices grow, so does your heartbeat. The anxiety is unbearable; you can barely imagine the one spreading through Jungkook’s chest. His face is red, neck hot, veins about to pop. If you could, you’d slap your hands over your ears.
But you can’t listen away; can’t ignore the panic, either.
“Please, stop,” you say, moving, but Jungkook frees himself of your grip again, stands. You attempt again, “Stop it, baby.”
But he won’t listen, mind somewhere else entirely.
“You won’t blame me for shit you did years ago, you can’t—” his father insists, but…
“Oh, fuck off.”
“Watch your mo—”
“Or wha—”
His father’s face, similarly scarlet as his son’s, grows a shade darker at the shameless counter, and his large hand lifts in slow motion for you. Comes down with a thump, intending to slap the wooden table, but hitting the edge of his small kimchi bowl again.
It flies up inches into the air before suddenly rolling off the table, aligning with you and soon falling onto your lower arm with a painful impact. It topples down onto your knee before it meets the ground and shatters into a handful of pieces.
You gasp and shriek, more out of surprise than pain; but Jungkook’s reaction is immediate. He bolts towards you, protecting you from whatever danger might be left. Pulls you off your seat and away from the shards as dead silence befalls the room.
It’s filled with your shaky breaths and the way his mother and brother shove their chairs back, hands reaching for you. Jungkook keeps you out of their reach. Looks at his father for a couple seconds; then to the kimchi on the ground; then back to him.
You can’t see him properly until you move to glance at him, wanting to keep his anger low, but… you don’t think you can do much anymore.
The fire in his eyes is blue.
And his voice is strained but furious when he finalises through gritted teeth, “You are fucking insane.”
This time, the man doesn’t answer. You hear his wife utter something as if scolding him before she speaks up and offers to clean up the mess. But Jungkook shakes his head, “No need. He can do it.”
Then, turning to his father, he repeats, “You’re fucking insane. You’re a terrible parent and we all know and only you can’t admit it to yourself. I just didn’t think you’d develop into a terrible person, too.”
Still long fingers around your wrist, he moves you towards the stairs, rounding off the fight with one more, “Don’t fucking get near me or her, do you understand? Fuck.”
So many words exchanged, but it was the stupid kimchi covering your pyjamas to make him topple over the edge. You feel guilty, but you don’t. It’s the man downstairs that has so fucking much to reflect on.
God. You wanted this vacation to relax Jungkook, to soothe you, to turn the first painful half of the year into something glorious.
But…
Then again, didn’t you expect this? Weren’t you scared of this?
Didn’t you fear the exact manner in which he now leads you to his room, in which the slamming of the door rings in your ears, his hands in his hair?
He’s let you go and stranded in his room. It’s odd, the way you stand here, clothes dirty and the grief dirtier.
You walk towards him cautiously, watching him shiver, and reach for his wrists in turn this time. It’s a featherlight touch, but you feel the tremble underneath your fingers. And you instantly notice when he starts coming undone. When his lips shake, too.
Even with his head lowered, you recognise the wet waterline, and how it takes a handful more heavy breaths until you hear the first sob. You hug him. You hug him right away. Hold him close and closer.
You make a weak attempt at pulling him to the bed, but he’s already in the process of breaking down, his body getting heavier, falling. The carpet offers solace as his knees suddenly hit the ground. His arms hold onto your hips and his face buries in your chest.
When his breathing turns irregular, so does yours; you feel like the world is splitting and the sky crashing down.
His leg comes in touch with your messed up clothes, and when he looks up into your eyes, he’s already crying. A trail of tears courses down his cheeks as his pupils suddenly shake, looking for something, asking you, “Did he hurt you, baby?”
“Kook…”
“Let me see, you must be hurt, you— you were just wearing these thin ass slippers without socks, right? The fucking bowl shattered and…”
“I’m okay, Kookie. I’m not hurt, I promise.”
“No, but… it fell on you, it must— did it bruise your knee?” he continues hectically, inspecting you, never seeing anything. He cradles your face, still crying and sniffling, shoving his pain aside to make sure, “Please tell me if anything hurts, ‘kay? I will get something, I’ll— dunno, fucking smash his fucking face, I’ll—”
His mind is going haywire. A proper downward spiral, and you don’t know how to stop it. What the fuck— what the fuck…
“Jungkook— Jungkook, please,” you try, lowering his hand, but he won’t stop searching for signs of injury. “Baby, please.”
“Why is he like this? I just… man, I am trying, angel.” His voice falls at the last word; your heart fractures at the same time as it tries to keep his intact. “I am trying so hard in life for him to like me, and you… you’re here, so I thought he’d behave and instead—”
“I know. It’s okay.”
It’s not, but you can’t say it. Can’t say how much the meaning behind your stained clothes hurts. How much it connects to what the weeping man in your arms feels; how he looked forward to this, planning ahead, a surprise for everyday without anticipating such ruin.
And he’s as clueless as you. More broken than you ever anticipated. Resembling the burst dish one floor beneath you, holding you like an anchor, crying into your chest.
He keeps repeating the same things as you repeat yours, soon mumbling his words of trying and trying and constantly trying. Of wanting to be loved. Attempting to understand if it’s too much to ask for. Is it?
Why can’t he love me?
And you whisper back, He loves you. He does.
It’s easy, falling into such misery. There were moments not too far in the past where you were on the receiving end of such pain, and he was your life vest. You don’t know if you’re keeping him above the surface as well as he did, because you keep susurrating the hopeful mantra to him.
But he keeps believing—
“No… no, he never fucking did. Wh—who treats someone like this?”
“Some people forget, you know… how to show affection. Sometimes, they deem their pride more important. It says nothing about you.” You lift his chin, heartbroken upon detecting his reddened eyes. “Everyone else in this stupid world loves you.”
“Your mother doesn’t either…”
“My mother? The woman who hates literally everyone?” You smile, trying to make him imitate it, but he doesn’t. You brush his cheeks and then his hair. “I do. I love you. I knew who you were even when I was unbiased.”
“Didn’t you… hate me, too?”
Once again, you try a faint smile. Not for him to join in, but because you’re reminded of a foolish friendship; it had already long bloomed into more when you’d finally named it one.
“Not for a second,” you say.
Break in discussion. He’s still shedding tears, snivelling. Stays frozen like this, all of him unable to move except for his lips. They mutter, “I don’t ever want you to get hurt. He can do whatever the fuck he wants with me, but…”
“Yeah. I’m okay. We’re okay.”
“I love you,” he maffles weakly, “I love you. I love you.”
“I know. I love you, too.”
You feel as though offering solace to a child. As if he’s shrunk into what he used to be, in the very room he used to sulk. The trauma still belongs to a kid, and when hurt, he’ll turn him into one, too.
You hate it. Hate that his sorrow still belongs to such a young heart. That he never processed it.
Before you came here, you spoke about it. And once you’re back in the city, you’ll have to figure things out further; the time constraints just before you drove away didn’t allow you to take much into consideration.
You can only cry now, can’t you? Detest the dampness in your own eyes. Stay right here until some sign occurs, lifting you up from the ground.
And it does fifteen minutes later.
The knock is gentle, just two of them, and you tell Jungkook to wait, that you’d be back in a minute. As you stand, his back is bent, his head lowered. As if he’s sleepwalking or slowly fainting.
You shut your eyes for a second; then open them again.
Behind the door, his mother awaits. In her soft hands, she’s balancing a tray holding some food. She lifts it towards you, tells you, “The two of you barely ate.”
Upon a closer look, you realise that her eyes are swollen, too. The view nearly forces you to tear up again, your face seethingly hot. You want to hug her. Want to tell her you’re sorry. Instead, you only touch her shoulder, and mutter a grateful thank you.
“It’s okay.”
She sounds so pained. You wonder if she said something to her husband. Reprimanded him, cried for his son, grieved a childhood and life that could’ve been.
But she doesn’t say any of it, and neither do you mention it. You only agree, “It will be. Are we still making jam tomorrow?”
“Yes. Tell Jungkook he can come if he wants to.”
“Yeah… I was thinking that, too.” You stare down to your food, never noticing how she peeks past your shoulder. Sees her son unmoving on the floor; she knows she can’t do more than you are right now. So she only nods when you repeat, “Thank you so much.”
You wish her a good night, bringing the food to where your boyfriend sits. Put it down in front of him.
“Sit upright, baby?” you ask him, crushed by the sight of swollen cheeks and red-rimmed eyes. His lips are parted, his breathing still stagnant; he only stares at his food until you push the tray closer to him and say, an attempt at a smile, “Let’s eat a bit. Mother-in-law brought it for us.”
No smile back, but a sniffle. The crying subsides just a bit as a shaking hand grabs the spoon, slurping the soup before he can even think of the noodles. He eats a little, slowly, surely. You help when he needs it, feed him a bite, encourage him to one more.
Every other minute, he cries again. You wipe the tears away, try to make him eat more.
His father fucked him up. You knew about the issues and demons Jungkook combatted. Of course his mentality suffered; of course there are parts of him that might never heal… But you never quite understood the full effect.
His father fucked him up good; got him so bad. Parts of both of them are so ultimately ruptured, aren’t they?
Whenever he winds down, you eat in silence, right there on the ground on top of the old carpet. When he can’t swallow anymore, still some left in his bowl — Jungkook barely ever doesn’t finish his food — you move up to the bed with him.
You kiss his hair repeatedly, as if it could heal him just a little, to even the tiniest percentage. You don’t know how much of an effective bandage you are to him, but you know you’re doing at least something.
Because he whispers another I love you before the gut-wrenching sounds of his sobs have finally faded out, still echoing in the room. His tiny, shrunk voice says, “I’m looking forward to tomorrow with you.”
And somehow, it pains you even more. The hopeful tone; the wish for a day to not hurt.
“Me too, baby,” you say, “it’s nobody but us, okay?”
“Yeah… yeah.”
And that’s it. It’s all you can do for now; understanding the heavy heart the night cursed you with.
But as you drift away, you keep pleading. Pleading and pleading and pleading for a better tomorrow without getting a promise back.
To your chagrin but least of your surprise, Jungkook doesn’t join your jam-making session the next morning.
When you stirred awake for a little bit, eyes still sleep-drunk and body falling, your phone flashed seven thirty in the morning. Not ready to start the day yet and doubting anybody else had gotten out of bed, you cuddled into his body, and he, while deep in his slumber, must still have noticed.
Pulled you in more, smacking his lips and sighing a little, a warm hand at the back of your head. Secured in his embrace, you fell asleep again.
Only to awake two hours later without him by your side. You’re already washed up and somewhat sobered up from sleep, and you’ve looked on the first and ground floor. You can’t find him.
His mother informed you that she and her husband would be leaving to join the wedding earlier, to help out with the preparations and make sure the plans all sit. You offered your help, but she claimed they’d be okay, and that you can still use the morning after the jam lesson to rest.
Perhaps Jungkook has embarked on a journey then, using this time to do something in the early morning.
Once you’ve walked into the kitchen, greeting his mother with a smile and a good morning, you ask, “Nervous for the wedding?”
“Mmmh, kind of,” she answers, locking the phone she held, putting it aside to sip her tea, “but it should be good since we took care of most of the stuff pretty well. It’ll be wonderful. Except the damn Wedding March — we couldn’t settle on any song but this.”
“I can’t wait. I bet it’ll be beautiful.” You take a seat in front of her, hearing the sounds of the TV and quiet conversations. Among the voices, you recognise two, but his is neither of them. You’re not interested in joining. So you look at her, scratching your temple as you inquire instead, “Where’s Kook gone?”
Her forefinger points downwards, another blow to the tea and another swig. “Basement. I brought him some coffee, but he seemed busy and quiet, so I left him there. But,” her voice grows louder, enthusiastic, “you can go! Maybe he’ll be okay with that?”
Hmm…
“What did he go down for?” you ask.
“I think he was looking for something.” Now, she lowers her tone again, lower arms on the table. “He also just… did that sometimes when he was younger, or after a fight.”
After a fight.
Like the breakdown last night. You understand.
You should probably walk down and check — but then again, this has seemingly been a coping mechanism ever since he was younger. So perhaps, you need to let him be for a little; give him a chance to entangle his thoughts and regain some peace.
You repeat your decision to her and she nods in understanding, throwing a glance to a huge jar on the kitchen counter. You’re ready to deliver an answer before she even asks, “Want to help out then?”
“Sure!”
The process is a patient one. Reminds you of when Jungkook told you how to pick the strawberries yesterday; gently, sweetly, with a tender touch and an even more delicate voice.
Jungkook’s mother takes the fruits out of the jar with care, explains to you to mash them and cook the jam with absolute soothing composure. The minutes pass so serenely that you imagine preparing meals with her on a cold winter evening, pleasing your soul to ensure not only a good night’s sleep but lasting quiet of the soul, too.
You add the sugar and lemon juice to your mix, stirring and boiling the delicatesse before you put it in sterilised jars. She shows you how to sterilise them at all; you didn’t think or know that such a step was necessary at all.
The making of it doesn’t take too long; forty-five minutes tops. As you scanned the internet just before entering the kitchen almost an hour ago, it said it takes barely half an hour. But she demonstrated it all to you slowly, unrushed.
You’re thankful.
“Have you ever made jam before?” she asks as you admire your creation.
You shake your head. “No… I don’t think I’ve tried such a thing at all. It’s fun making things on your own. I mean, I do like to cook sometimes, but I’m nowhere on Jungkook’s level, I don’t think.”
She chuckles, nodding as if to confirm. Then clarifies, “Yes, he’s enjoyed being involved in the kitchen ever since he was a teen. Especially before he left town and realised he’d have to cook on his own.”
You giggle with her, like with a friend or a trusted figure. It’s so consoling, talking to her. Fun, smiles intact, still present when she asks, “How are the two of you doing? I mean, you did move in together quite fast, so I’m just wondering.”
Yes; she doesn’t need to spell it out. You get it — you’ve heard about this.
So-called relationship experts claim that taking decisions in the honeymoon phase isn’t too healthy, warping your sense of reality and perception of the other person. You don’t disagree, but you guess in this case…
“Honestly, it’s been good,” you respond. “We have a couple heated evenings where we argue about stuff, but… it’s been healing. And he offered to move in when I really needed it.”
“Yes, Jungkook told me.” Oh. “You weren’t at a very good place before. Please don’t mind.” You shake your head in reassurance, urging her to go on. It’s his mother; it’s fine to tell her if any of you is struggling. “I’m glad you’re there for each other because he wasn’t at a good place either.”
You nearly don’t dare to ask; in a way, she might know her son better than you know your boyfriend. Maybe; maybe not. You fear a disheartening answer when you ask, “Do you think he is now?”
But she, careful as ever, tells you honestly, “It’ll probably take time to get over things, but— it’ll be okay. Things seem a little better, though, if you want my neutral POV.”
“Ah… okay. That helps.” You play with the white-dotted red band around the jar. Your mind circles around a million questions that only she might be able to answer; yet, cautiously, all you query is, “Do you ever… have you ever spoken to him? Or his dad? About all the things…”
You reckon that if he’s talked about the two of you before, he probably mentioned spilling his secrets to you, too. At least from your perspective, it’s obvious that he entrusts her with his heart.
And once again, she affirms, “I have. Often. Even before the two of you came. It’s why I told you to take your time getting here.”
Ah… Makes sense now. So that’s why you had to roam the hotel until noon a couple days before. You sigh.
She continues, “It just doesn’t end well most of the time, so… And I’m not a good talker. I don’t know what to say anymore after so many years. Both want me on their side, though Jungkook never persists on it.”
She’s so wrong. Both she and him.
Jungkook has told you for months that he’s bad with words; yet, he comes in with every word ever written by any bard, singing poetry to you and bandaging your heart when needed.
You remember…
I’m not good with words, baby. And I don’t know how to ever properly verbalise something like this.
You sigh again. Tell her, “I understand. I also wouldn’t expect you to go against either of them.”
“Sure. But… It's difficult sometimes. Seeing how broken some of our bonds are.”
You’ve used and formed this word so many times before. Broken. For him, for you, for the world. Hearing somebody else share these sentiments and confirm your fears hurts.
And you’re out of words, wishing for a higher power to grant you a curing skill. If you could lift somebody’s burden with a single touch, just the way you’re reaching out for her hand now, you’d be busy circling the globe at all times.
“I’m so sorry,” is all, however, you can offer.
You hate how helpless she is. You urge to say something more, to hug her and promise that the world always regains its colours at some point. But you remain like this, watching the jam in the jars; hearing her say—
“You know. Jungkook has my number. I don’t know how much you and your mother still talk, but… you can talk to me, too, if you ever need to. I mean, I’m a mother.” She laughs at this part, raising a shoulder to her chin in pride, “And you’re part of him, so you can be part of us, too.”
Your eyes, locked onto the jar until now, flit up to her, and you blink to keep them dry, admitting without another thought, “I might actually cry.”
“Oh. Awh,” she voices, lifting her hand from underneath yours to cover it again. “Don’t. I didn’t mean to be all kitsch. I meant it.”
Gathering your prior thoughts into words, you puff out a breath, sporting a reprimanding look as you say, “You’re so wrong. You and your son, you always know what to say.”
Teeth flash again as she grins; she looks so innocent and pure. “Well, where do you think he got it from?”
Shit…
“Thank you…” you mutter, body already twitching, yearning to bolt forwards until you finally dare to ask, “Okay. May I… Can I hug you?”
“My goodness, love. You don’t need to ask! C’mere.”
You instantly tear up when she pulls you in. Last time you met, she left a fleeting touch. You barely knew her then; in some way, you don’t know her much now, either. But this… this is impactful.
The way she presses you into her; her chin on your shoulder. The slight pat and then the following rub up and down your shoulder blade. So warm; so salving.
One or two more pats, with a little more impact this time, she gently moves you back by your arms again, sucking in a breath as she suggests, “Alright. Wedding time, yes? We should start getting ready.”
“Yes. But…” You hesitate, wonder how much you can interfere. But then you diminish your mental concerns, and simply utter, “If you don’t mind. May I suggest something?”
You walk down the steps to the basement.
The light is on; other than what mainstream movies might suggest, they’ve set up the interior of the basement prettily. The few furniture — a table and a couch chair, as well as a couple common chairs — is a light beige, the wallpapers light, flowery.
He’s in the middle of the room, on the ground despite the many options to sit, sifting through pictures and objects lying around him. When he detects you, he flinches a bit, eyes big, moving suspiciously as if to hide something.
But you guess he’s just startled; and once he catches himself, he calls your name, wishing a sweet, “Morning, baby. Sorry for leaving the bed.”
“Oh, hey. It’s your house, you can do whatever you like. Besides, your mom and I had the time of our lives.”
He smiles brightly. You love, love, the wrinkles around his eyes. “Made some groundbreaking jam, yes?”
“You’ll see when you taste it.” You walk closer, recognising photo albums and frames. Yet, you ask, “What are you doing?”
“Uhmmm, just looking through old stuff.”
The pictures are flipped, upside down from where you stand, so you round his body, legs folded on the floor. You come to a kneel, and just when you’re close enough, you see the pure sugar spilled in front of him.
It’s in the form of fat baby cheeks. An open, surprised mouth. Then, in form of a photograph of a toddler crying. The same tremendous eyes and the same curve of his upper lip. A tilted smirk on one of them, just the one you know.
They’re adorable. You dissolve at the sight; at seeing him in a red vest, holding a half chewn corndog, tiny fingers forming a peace sign, and an unsure expression as if he’s seeing the world for the first time.
He does this often. Zone off like this.
Not rarely do you tease that he’s trudging through his first life, but he often refutes your theory with an immediate expression of shock. Chuckles back that it never feels like he’s loving you for the first time.
“Why are you looking at these, Kook?” you ask, hands on his shoulder before you settle your chin on one of them, cheek to cheek.
“Just so. I knew there was a picture of my cousin somewhere, too. Look.” He shoves aside some of the photographs on top, fishing out a very old one. “This is her. Gayoung.”
A lovely girl next to him, clearly older. They’re both holding car toys; he’s busy indulging in it, laughing, not noticing the flashing of the camera. But she’s staring right into it, caught off guard, eyebrows high and mouth open.
“I can’t believe she’s getting married today,” Jungkook says. “She’s like a daughter to my parents, but… I didn’t get to talk that much with her anymore when she grew into an adult. Was more with Ria. And then I moved, too. But… it’s still crazy. I still remember her as a young but older sister.”
“Of course. Time’s pace of passing is pretty strange. Very fast.”
“Yeah…”
He throws it back into the pile, shutting two of the handful of photo albums. Humming, he flips a couple pages of a third album; your eyes follow as he combs through them. You almost don’t notice when he pauses, and when you do, you understand why.
It’s another old picture, Jungkook tiny, mouth wide open to say something as he points towards the camera slash photographer. And he’s in the arms of somebody who’s undeniably his father. The man looks more like Junghyun than Jungkook.
But they seem happy here. His big hands are firm on Jungkook’s body, holding him lovingly and smiling at him with even further tenderness.
Jungkook remains on it for only a split second, but you get it.
You replay his mother’s words in your mind, and suddenly, you remember; a revelation clears up like a sunny day after a fog, and God… you remember.
And still, you act like you don’t. Like you haven’t understood that he’s here to reminisce about a life when things were still okay; when he still felt loved. Reliving moments when shit hurt less. Of course he’s here; it makes sense, so directly after a fight.
He seeks comfort in moments he barely remembers to escape the pain he recently suffered.
You’re out of damn words. This shouldn’t be happening to anybody.
You hug him from behind, arms around his chest. Attempting to ease his possibly disturbed soul, you ask, “Hey. Do you know that you’re the sweetest being alive? These pictures cause cavities. Good that you kept them from me.”
“Oh, yeah?” He turns his head slightly, lips grazing your nose, warm breath falling on it. “Coming from my munchkin herself.”
“I mean it! You’re so cute. And look at these cheeks,” your finger gestures towards a chubby baby, “they’re still so soft, by the way.”
You press your face against his, squishing his scarred cheek, and he states under a laugh, “You’re too much.”
“Too much of a fool for you, yes.”
He clicks his tongue, though playfully. You hear in his voice and see in his beam that he’s delighted, flattered, loving and loved. You ask, “Are you feeling okay now?”
To your relief, he nods. “I’m feeling better, I guess. Looking forward to the wedding. And your dress!”
“Oh, I am, too. I was going to show it to your mom just before, but… I want you to be the first to see it.”
“And then you say I’m not the luckiest man alive.”
“I just said Ashton Kutcher is. Mila Kunis is pretty cool.”
“Shut up.”
You pause, watch him tidy up; after a minute, you tell him, “You should’ve joined when we made the jam. Could’ve been fun, too.”
“Yeah… I mean I thought about it, but. Then I was like, maybe it’d be good for her to get to know you, like, unfiltered. She’s always careful not to be weird around me.”
“Ah. That’s kinda sweet, though.”
“Isn’t it?”
You nod against his cheek; then, drum lightly against his chest, a peck to his ear, getting to your feet a second later as you ask, “So… are you coming up? It’s a little after eleven. We should probably get ready soon.”
“Yeah, I’ll be up in some. You should go first, though. I’ll need a bit less time.”
You’re already taking steps towards the staircase leading up, but you can’t refrain from throwing one last tease, “You sure? Not sure with your skincare routine. Have you even eaten?”
“Yes, I did. Don’t be a brat.”
You lift your lips to a last provoking, tight-lipped smile before you ascend to his room. The dress is still almost flawless between your clothes. You heavily worried about damage in the few days you travelled, but aside from a few spots that need to be ironed out, it’s as gorgeous as ever.
Flattening out the creases with a borrowed iron, you soon rummage in your suitcase for the curling iron and the rest of your make up. You look at the mess scattered on Jungkook’s table, wondering where to start.
Make up, probably.
Okay. you have one, two chances max to try what you want to achieve. The goal is to remain casual, natural and humble; considering your dress, you cannot overdo it. You don’t want to look excessively over the top. Want to keep your essence under the make up.
So you keep it lowkey, pretty much content with the results before you slip into the dress.
And when you look into the mirror, you nearly squeal. You don’t struggle with your appearance. But while you’ve largely been satisfied with how you look, you did occasionally find things to possibly improve.
Normal. Doesn’t everyone deem certain spots flaws, regardless of whether they actually are?
But today… today you’re sparkling. You’re happy; in love with what you accomplished.
If you could, you’d immediately rush down to him again, show you the results. But it seems you don’t need to — because half a minute later, you make out his voice outside. He’s talking to his brother, laughing about something; seems the rest of the family is leaving. The door shuts just before you hear him moving up the stairs with quick steps.
And… when he finally opens the ajar door to his own room, his body locks at the spot, as if somebody screwed his feet into the wooden floor.
The reaction is easily imagined; most often seen on TV. You didn’t know how real it was, but then again, clichés always have an origin in real life, don’t they?
You’re surprised, a little shy by how he looks at you. And how he looks in general — black trousers hugging his snatched waist and well-formed hips. The white dress shirt is still in progress, collars up, suit jacket not yet on.
And he’s olding something in his hand that you can’t recognise.
He looks breathtaking and mesmerising, despite missing half of the preparation still. Fuck… fuck, fuck, fuck.
Does he feel the same about you? Probably.
Because he curses, “What the fuck.”
Like a statement, not a question. You touch the silky soft material of your dress, widening your eyes as your quiet voice asks, “What?”
“What are you even?”
You burst out into a brief, fleeting laugh at the question, repeating, “What I am?”
“Like, a fairy or something. Shit, it’s as if I’m getting married.”
Another near-squeak falls out of you. But you can’t blame him this time; you chose this attire carefully.
The sheer chiffon fabric, light and airy, sparkling; it called your name the moment you saw it. Floor length, lavender, spilling to the floor like a waterfall; a spicy slit on the side that Jungkook’s eyes remained on for just a tiny heartbeat longer, you know.
And off-the-shoulder sleeves; most of the back bare.
Sheepishly, you ask, “So you like it?”
“Like, I—” he starts, yet stops. He blows a raspberry. “You’re so pretty. You’re the prettiest. Oh my God,” he exclaims, dramatically touching his forehead, “I need to keep other’s eyes off you. Look at you!”
You laugh out loud, a hand on his wrist to keep your balance, no other productive response in your bright pink entangled mind than, “Babe—”
“No, seriously. Okay, I concur. It was right for me to wait to see you in the dress. Getting a heart attack as we speak.”
Your cheeks still glow brightly when you wiggle a finger at him, disappointed that there is no reality show camera pointing at you to hear you say, “If your boyfriend doesn’t react like this, girl, you don’t want him.”
You instinctively move to the buttons of his sleeve, helping out, resisting the urge to give in and fix his collar, too. You want to see the end result so badly, but he’s still missing the tie and the jacket.
So you settle on merely touching the buttons over his chest, nodding as if approving before you say, “You already look so good, too. You know, maybe it’s you who should hide behind me today. What if some middle school girl crushing on you jumps you?”
He chuckles. “They can try.”
“They? Well, shit.”
“I’m kidding.” He lowers his chin, bringing your knuckles to his rosy lips, kissing one or two of them. “Hide me, then.”
“Mhm… Do you need help getting ready? With the tie or something?”
“Oh, it’s okay. You can lean back for a bit, tell me a story or something? I shouldn’t take too long.”
It’s a ritual of sorts. Sometimes, when you wait for the other on a date or dinner night, the faster one acts as the night’s entertainer. Sings songs or tells stories or plays DJ or serves the latest, hottest work tea.
You tell him, “Okay. But before I do,” your hand wanders down to his; it’s stubbornly closed around an object, dangling on his side. You uncurl his fingers. “What’s that you got there?”
“Oh, I…” He comes to life, as if he forgot that he was holding it at all. He lifts it between your faces, straightening his palm, and presents you something incredibly sparkly and nostalgic. “It’s part of the reason I went down at all. With my mom’s permission since she wore it at her prom…”
Damn it. Both of them deceived you.
“You were looking for it?” He nods; your heartbeat accelerates as you urge, “And…”
“And I got it for you.”
Words, you notice, are only your specialty when you’re jotting them down and narrating a story from within your mind. When it comes to answering to the grand gestures he always makes you fall in love with, you’re such a zero.
Odd, considering how he, in contrast, has claimed over and over again that he’s not as eloquent as he’d like to be. But you’ve long figured out that if he was to preach the truths he holds in his heart to an audience, the stage would drown in a flood of tears within minutes.
You reach for the shiny, pearly, flowery accessory. It’s rose-gold, a little vintage, clearly older, and so strikingly beautiful. It looks like…
“A comb… for me,” you say. Not the one to untangle your hair. The decorative type; fancy and gorgeous. He nods again, lets you take it between your fingers. “Why?”
“Just,” a shrug of his shoulder, “I wanted to give you a little something to remind you of this place and the love you got here. Besides, it’d look so pretty on you.”
A reminder that you’re loved. You wonder — who thinks of these things? Does anyone else in this universe heat up their girl’s chest like your boyfriend does?
They can tell you what they want; you’re the luckiest being alive. And in return, you want to love him as much as nobody has ever loved before.
You whisper, “Thank you, Kook… Your mom is okay with this?” Another enthusiastic nod of confirmation. “Thank you so much. I— I wish you could see yourself the same way.” You squeeze it in your hand to feel it properly, then open it again. “This is so pretty.”
“It’ll suit you.”
“Yes?” Softly, you hand it back to him, turning to the mirror, with him right behind you. “Do you want to put it in?”
“Ah… I can try.”
“Right there?” You point to the back of your head; to the braid in your loose half updo. “Near the hair pins I used. The comb might hide them well, too.”
And he does his best. Regards your hairdo focused, eyebrows knitting in concentration, so gentle with it. No getting stuck, no intentional tugging.
“Wait,” he then says, tapping his trouser’s pocket, and then fishes out his phone for a picture. He shows it to you; the accessory sits there perfectly, not crooked or ruining a single wisp of hair. “How’s that?”
“You did it so well. Thank you, Koo.” You face him again, smile bright and endless. “Your turn?”
“Yes.” He rubs his hands, looking around. “Let’s get this over with. Give me feedback, okay? And tell me a story?”
You take a seat at the edge of his bed prettily, coming up with a short tale about personified instruments and what they’d symbolise. The guitar for the heart and the love in it, the drums for thunder and the excited pulse of the soul.
“The flute for the breeze and dreams?” Jungkook adds.
And you urge in a thrilled tone, “And the violin for the rain and longing. They’d learn from each other, right?” You sigh. “I’ll think about the piano, too. Can’t figure it out yet… it could be a lot.”
Jungkook nods, distracted and interrupting the story when he asks for brief comments on his progress. Barely any feedback, though; praises largely.
You watch as he slips into the rest of his clothing and gels his hair back — it’s grown quite a bit since the press conference in September. You get to your feet, amped up when he finally claps and rubs his hands in anticipation a bit later, announcing that he’s ready to leave.
And you’re still euphoric when you jump into your car, letting him drive through the streets he knows much better. His fingers wander to the passenger seat every now and then; minutes after the last scolding, you keep reminding him to keep his hands on the wheel.
I want to kiss you so bad, but your damn make up won’t let me today, huh?
A tease here, a flirt there.
You feel like you could do anything. The sky's the limit. And it soon proves that the statement has never rang truer, even if in a vastly different context now.
Because once you reach the wedding — your metaphorical sky —, Ria is already standing at the parking lot, waving the moment she spots the two of you stepping out of the car. From afar, you already see the wedding’s venue; a lake in the back, a huge tent and a field at the front.
The parking lot right next to it, but still a couple minutes of a trek away.
Ria’s parents indulge Jungkook in a conversation about something you barely register right away, and she gestures towards herself, hugging and greeting you with an odd half-smile.
“You look so pretty,” she says, and you beam benignly, returning the compliment.
She’s rocking a dark blue dress, sleeveless, her hair in a loose bun. Wavy strands frame her face. But somehow, she looks demotivated. Worried to the slightest, though still mostly cheerful. So you ask, “Are you okay?”
“Yeah! I just wanted to tell you something. But don’t freak out, okay?”
Well, shit. Doesn’t start as you imagined, does it? You glimpse over to Jungkook. He’s laughing from the heart, button nose crunched; why is she not telling him, too?
Your chest feels tighter; the usual human response to a menacing statement such as hers. You upright yourself, take a deep breath, ground yourself as you encourage, “Yes? I won’t. What’s up?”
“Well… we’re in this town and like, people know each other. And since we’re all in a very close circle here, I just wanted to say that,” her face changes; she kind of grimaces, as if apologetic for something, “Nara came, too.”
Ah.
Ah…
The sky's the limit, and you reached it, and now you’re kind of crashing.
Well. You never thought about this; but it makes perfect sense, doesn’t it? Of course she’d be here. She was part of this town and Jungkook’s life for so many years, so naturally, she’d be familiar with his relatives, too.
Besides, even if she hadn’t been with him… Didn’t Jungkook and Ria already establish with you just yesterday, when you were inhaling your ice cream, that this small town strives on familiarity?
Meetings at the town hall, the shop owners’ affection for most of their year-long customers. The Stars Hollow vibe you already recognised.
Ahhh…
So that’s what Junghyun might have been trying to tell you on the first day, too. You remember his mother interrupting.
How annoying. You did not want to feel annoyed. Maybe it would’ve been better if Ria hadn’t told you; if you’d bumped into Nara randomly and suffered the temporary heart attack. Or perhaps, you wouldn’t have seen her at all…
Come on. Unrealistic.
Fuck, you feel childish. There shouldn’t be any burning in your chest or an uncomfortable warmth in your cheek. You shouldn’t be feeling the urge to run over to Jungkook, to actually hide him behind you.
To rush to his ear, whisper your worries, make him promise that he only loves you and won’t ride into the sunset with her.
Delusional, paranoid concerns that you wouldn’t entertain on any normal, sane day; then again, the news Ria delivered wasn’t going to leave you unbothered anyway. This whole thing around exes really sucks.
“I… I shouldn’t spiral, though, right?” you answer, your voice a little weaker. Ria immediately nods, though still not relaxing the wrinkle between her eyebrows. “I mean, of course she’d be here. This is her place, she was born here and…”
Ria takes your hands in hers, assures, “I promise you it’s nothing too bad, okay? Nara and Jungkook have been here at the same time before and literally nothing happened.”
What? When?
“When?” you echo.
“Uh, like last summer? He only came down for a couple days, though. College exams and stuff.”
Ah… you wouldn’t even know. Back then, you’d only encountered him once, at the blurry frat party that you spent in locked rooms and on tiled roofs. When you sang together and spilled your hearts to each other.
For the very first time.
Whatever he did before or after that… how would you know?
Only, you feel even sicker at the thought that after that party, and after he allegedly met Nara here again without anything literally happening, he still linked with her back in the city. Still shared his nights and sheets with her.
Does this count as nothing happening? What if the time here evoked something? What if it happens again?
Fuck, what if it happens again?
“I’m going to panic,” you tell Ria.
“What? No,” she exclaims, though instantly lowering her voice, rubbing your arm soothingly, “it’s okay, I promise. He didn’t even think of it. Either that or he doesn’t care ‘cause he didn’t mention her once.”
“But now I might keep thinking about it.”
“Seriously. Fuck, I feel bad for saying it—”
“No… no, it’s okay. You should’ve.”
“Okay, look. It’s honestly fine. She’s nice, she won’t do anything shady; not if she knows about y’all.” Another caressing touch to your shoulder. “I just wanted to warn you. Please don’t feel startled. I’m here, okay? I’ll smash his nose if anything happens.”
She looks to the side. The other conversation has seemingly ended, too, and you swallow as Ria’s parents wave her over. She says, “Okay. Gotta go, but I’ll meet you guys inside and reserve seats, okay? There’s just limited assigned seating.”
She pats your coat-clad arm, and then walks away.
Well. Okay.
You guess you’ll have to get over this one way or another. You focus on your clothing. Focus on how you look, how Jungkook looks. The weather, the tent many many feet away. Your boyfriend’s gaze on you as he walks back to you, offering his hand.
He pauses when he sees you, asking, “Is everything okay?”
“Hm?” you hum. “Yes. Just nervous, I think.”
“Me too.” He flashes the sweetest grin known to mankind, genuinely excited, childlike joy. Tilts his head at you. “You seriously look so fucking pretty. Like really, really.”
You smile.
Okay…
It should be alright. Jeon Jungkook is so in love with you; damn it, he even peels your oranges for you when you don’t feel like doing it. You need to trust the process; need to hold onto your excitement.
Okay.
You glance at the event warming up in the far. Halfway through, people have gathered, standing on the grass or the man-made path. There’s still a bit of time; so naturally, they’re still busying themselves with conversations.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
You’ve met her before. This isn’t different.
You look down to where his and your fingers intertwine; put particular attention to the way he holds you. Firmly, as if protecting and loving and keeping you close at the same time.
His smile lifts your spirits a little, the wind enclosing your mind and easing it. You nod only slightly, telling yourself it’ll all be good — and then, let him tug you towards the wedding.
The wedding is as bustling as you expected. It’s bright, colourful, flowers draped over the place in abundance. Even before you enter it, the huge tent leaves you breathless, gasping.
They put so much effort into this; it’s clear as day. Jungkook’s mother isn’t around, but the moment you lay your eyes on her again, you’ll praise her for what she helped mount. Somehow, the beauty nearly makes you forget that you’re among pure strangers.
But that at least one familiar face is roaming here somewhere.
You take a deep breath.
All these people know each other. They probably grew up together, know the ins and outs of the town, have gathered at weddings and funerals and school events. You don’t know how well you’ll be able to integrate, but you do hope for their support.
It’s not too much to ask, you reckon.
At least not when Jungkook pulls at your hand and the two of you into certain directions, coming to a stand multiple times when he sees a person or two calling him to them. Some are old school friends; some adults he knew when he was a child.
Candy store owners. Somebody who sold him his first scooter. Or a pal he used to share his banana milk with.
The sentiments are clearly there and they bask in them, but none of them ever forgets about you. Jungkook introduces you, tugs you into his side, enskies you with praise. And they respond with kindness and interest; tell you he’s mentioned you before.
You remember. Jungkook told you how his friends spoke about you or saw you on TV, eager to meet you — they react according to the excitement he foretold, and you reciprocate it with ease. Very sweet.
Yet, it seems that even in a small town, or especially in a small town, enmity runs just as deep as affection. Some people remember friendships, others still resent rotten memories.
You soon meet the first one of the latter kind.
He’s standing near the entrance of the spacious tent; you glance inside, unsuspecting, not a single familiar face in sight. You don’t notice him until Jungkook does, coming to a stand, walk interrupted as the guy exclaims, “Jeon Jungkook! My goodness, Jungkook—”
You meet thick eyebrows, long-ish dark hair, full lips. He’s handsome, his smile bright.
And his voice is mellow and sweet, and at certain tones, it reminds you of Jimin’s; then again, some syllables come out much deeper. You don’t know who he is; of the pictures Jungkook has shown you, he wasn’t in any of them.
“Hey,” Jungkook greets, somewhat distant. You don’t think standing here is his first choice, but your boyfriend is as polite as can be. Even waves towards the guy, and tells you, “This is Christian. Barom, but he lives in Australia now, so.”
“Hi,” you reach out a hand, “nice to meet you.”
The accent is heavy and somehow cursive when he responds, “Likewise.”
Jungkook is definitely not delighted about him. Follows the touch of your hands, then your gaze up to Christian’s face. You notice it before Jungkook can probably even think of it: the odd look the stranger throws at you.
Up and down. Smile telling. Uncomfortable.
And when Jungkook suddenly does catch it, he intervenes, “You came all the way from Sydney?”
“Yep. And you came over from the city?”
“Yeah,” Jungkook answers. You barely register it, but you’re certain he’s been pushing you behind him inch by inch; but you remain at your spot. You can deal with this. “We were on vacation before, but I was gonna come anyway.”
“Nice. And wait, sorry, you were…?”
You recall never introducing yourself; but you’re positive he’s figured out your relationship to Jungkook just by the steadfast grip around your palm. But Jungkook still officially voices your name and informs him, “My girlfriend.”
Christian must be seeing or hearing something you aren’t — strange since it was him who asked — but he laughs, teasing, “You’re being defensive.”
“I’m not. I literally just told you she’s my girlfriend.”
“Lucky. You look pretty together.”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
You have not a single clue what’s going on. Jungkook is never really rude, so there must be something about this Barom or Christian — he’s never mentioned him before.
Then again, you guess growing up in a tight space comes with all sorts of relationships. Christian is probably the sort that never earns a mention until actually met with the person themselves.
It’s funny though — in some way, the rejection seems one-sided. As if Jungkook is still holding something against him and Christian remains uncaring; while it might not be a universal truth, you’ve experienced that those utterly calm are often the ones at fault.
And Jungkook isn’t an angry human being. He’s kind. Patient. Needs a reason to be mad.
Christian doesn’t take the hint when he smiles, a heavily tattooed hand patting Jungkook on his shoulder as he suggests, “See you later then? Let’s take a picture or get a drink afterwards.”
Jungkook only stalls for the tiniest seconds, but you know him — he’s probably already made up his mind. You look between the men, baffled by the nearly visible bolts shooting from one pair of eyes to the other.
“Sure,” Jungkook eventually says, your hand still in his, and works on moving to the coat check and then to the chairs without adding anything else.
You don’t inquire yet what this was about as you walk, catching glimpses of the priest, of the stranger guests and of the people lingering at the front of the tent. You’re busy gauging Jungkook’s eyebrows, observing as they relax more the further he gets away from the guy.
And neither do you need to pop the question when you’ve settled somewhere in the middle-ish, you on his right side, Ria on the other. Next to her, her parents that you briefly met when you brought her home yesterday.
Previously turned on her seat, she now uprights her body, hooking her arm with Jungkook’s as she whispers to him, yet clearly enough for you to hear, “Was that Yu Barom?”
Jungkook nods. “Christian Yu now. Yup.”
“Right.”
They nod, understanding each other wordlessly, but you’re still floating in between a couple theories and the actual sentiments. So you lean in; you’ve become one of the gossipers at a wedding, you guess.
“Okay,” you start; the two of them stare at you with the same big puppy eyes. “You don’t seem to like him.”
“Oh, we don’t,” Jungkook bluntly admits.
“Why?”
Jungkook smacks his lips. Eyes drift to the roof of the tent, the polyester fabric swaying in the gust. Then, they shift to his cousin, presumably seeking approval, because she shrugs her shoulders, gesturing with her hand and says, “Oh, go ahead.”
So he explains, “His little cousin was a constant problem for Ria. Same age… harassed her and all. Constant flirting and phone calls and didn’t take the hint, just an uncomfortable dude in general.” He pauses, shaking his head. “I had to threaten him for him to get lost. And Christian didn’t like that.”
Okay, now you definitely feel like somebody indulging in tittle-tattle. Some more and you’ll be one of the aunties. Your mouth gradually opens as he speaks, and you emphasise, “No way.”
“It’s true— the guy was on a break from college for just a month and decided to argue with a fifteen-year-old.”
“What? Did you get into a fight with him?”
“Nah.” He pauses when a group of random three girls in green dresses walks along the aisle, even though they’re barely facing you, sending a perfumed breeze towards you. Then, “Not a physical one. But it was a bit messy. Didn’t like that night.”
“Me neither,” Ria confirms.
Of course he didn’t like it.
He’s largely non-confrontational. You’ve learned this much in the time you’ve known him, and have given the fact utmost sense ever since he revealed his innermost fears. Jungkook keeps quiet; he dreads repetitions of a direful past.
Yet, initiating and risking a conflict for his baby cousin increases the respect you harbour for him.
People are cruel; but Jeon Jungkook is good-hearted to his core, no matter how flawed.
You touch the back of his hand, caressing it when he says, “Stay with me tonight, okay? And if you can’t, then do come to me when he nears you.”
“Okay.”
His eyes meet yours, concerned but also suspiciously fiery when he states, “Because like, I really didn’t like how he was looking at you.”
Ah…
“Hm?”
“You didn’t notice?” he asks, his voice higher, thick eyebrows closing into each other again. You lift a thumb, clearing the crease and his stress. “I almost plucked his eyes out.”
Of course you noticed. You just didn’t think it irritated Jungkook to this point.
“Oh— Kook—”
“No seriously,” he stresses, turning his hand to get ahold of two of your fingers, “guy was sweet half his life and then tried stuff with so many girls. I wouldn’t be surprised if he approached you again, so please stay away from him, okay?”
“Yes, baby. But I wouldn’t let him do shit anyway. Don’t worry.” You nudge his shoulder. “And don’t be jealous. Have you seen yourself?”
He rolls his eyes at the accusation, but there’s a sliver of a smile on his face and relief in his gaze. You guess hearing you say it does wonders to him; sometimes, you truly praise the connection between you, based on a clear foundation of trust and communication.
Well… at least now.
“I’m not jealous,” he insists, “it was just gross how he looked at you. Fuck this. Not with my girl.”
You can’t help but break into a chuckle, way too loud for your row. You slap a hand over your mouth, careful not to ruin the lipstick, and nearly give into the urge to release his pout. But it’s too sweet — it can linger for a second.
Removing your hand, you near him until your mouth grazes his, assuring, “I love you,” before you peck his lips curtly. He still looks a little grumpy, though. Your man. “It’s okay, baby.”
The grip around your hand intensifies. It doesn’t seem it will vanish for the rest of the night. You sure hope it doesn’t.
And you’re immensely grateful for the luck you’re enjoying. Not only because of this place’s beauty and the palm holding onto yours — but you haven’t seen Nara either. In fact, you become hyper aware of how much you’ve been thinking of her.
Like; what is she wearing? How is she doing? Is she thinking about Jungkook; expecting him here; feeling a sort of way? Is she imagining his smile and how she saw it in this very town so many times, dedicated to her?
And did Christian ever flirt with her, too? Did it irritate Jungkook?
You’ve been thinking it all dead.
Unnecessarily so if Jungkook hasn’t even mentioned her, never sought her out. Instead, he’s busy protecting his girl from past bullies.
In all honesty, you’ll probably cross ways with her still. The guest list isn’t endless; the place vast but not infinite.
But for now, you forget about her, trashing all thoughts and possibilities. Shake your head. Breathe it out. Relieve your chest.
You diverge into conversations about anything and everything, reminiscing about yesterday and the places you saw. Listen into stories Ria and Jungkook tell: about injuries, about pleasant nights and about the fights they had.
Ria was like the sister Jungkook never had; Junghyun was a good older brother, but when seeking another opinion, she was on speed dial. Sometimes, growing up in a certain environment makes all the difference — hearing a girl’s thoughts at all times might have made Jungkook the way he is.
Thoughtful, respectful. You have encountered sexism a million times — not to mention just minutes ago, checked out so shamelessly — but you don’t think Jungkook has such a notion even in any crevice of his heart.
You’re fond and happy when they laugh together; her crinkles match his. Their laugh contagious.
It still echoes and fades, slowly and lovingly when the tent quietens. All heads turn, but you don’t see much from here. Maybe a couple moving bodies at the entrance. Someone coughs, interrupting the silence and lowering their head, and the moment allows you a peek at the sensation.
The bride is waiting, holding a bouquet. Her father is touching her veil to fix it despite having nothing to fix; but she doesn’t notice.
Gayoung is glancing ahead, breathing in. Everyone’s eyes remain on her, but your head turns to follow her eyes. The groom is already standing there in a standard groomesque position, hands folded, upright like a post.
He looks insanely nervous. His shiny boot taps the ground, lips parting and unparting. And he’s blinking; then forming a circle with his mouth, releasing the pent-up tension.
She hasn’t moved yet. The ceremony is yet to begin.
But even before all that, as people indulge in the sight and wait for their eternity to start, Jungkook has already mimicked your turn, fingers still intertwined. When he speaks, you flinch; you didn’t notice his voice this close.
He’s looking at the groom, too, before he settles his gaze on you. Stares with affection in his gems that bursts your heart, splinters your ribs and implodes your chest. You know he’ll say something to fade out the entire crowd before he actually says it.
“Can I tell you something mainstream?”
You hum, “Hm?”
He regards your digits, plays with them. “If you ever choose to marry me…” Your heart stops. “I’ll look just as tense as him.”
“Would you… want to marry me one day?”
“It’s just a thing people do, right?” he questions. “Whether it’s like this or in any other way— I’ll spend my life with you anyhow.”
I’ll spend my life with you.
Not a question. Not a need.
But a confession. A goal. A plan.
You don’t get to answer when the first tunes of a guitar play. It’s a song you recognise; paints a smile onto your face. The melody is soft, slow, so gentle. They didn’t choose an orchestral track or the usual Wedding March after all.
It’s a song.
Jungkook’s eyes blow wide, and he immediately seeks yours. Mutters into your ear, “Do I know this?”
“You probably do.”
“Wait—” He listens in. Pupils roll up as he ponders. Then, “Didn’t someone sing this in the lobby this week?”
Almost. It’s why it delights you so. You already had half an idea back then, and you managed to somehow incorporate it into this wedding without really being part of these people.
“Yoongi played it on the guitar,” you clarify, “I suggested it to your mom this morning. I guess she liked it enough to forward the request so spontaneously.”
“You did? Then she must’ve…”
You can’t decipher what he’s thinking. His stare is fixated on the passing bride, her slow steps, the beam she wears as she nears whom she’s decided to be the rest of her life.
You can’t peep into his brain, but you notice when he tilts his head. See the tiny gap between his lips and the way he catches the groom blink away tears the moment you do, because Jungkook smiles at just the same moment as you do.
Gayoung lowers her head when she comes to a stand in front of his still-fiancé, and then delivers the most magnificent, most mesmerising grin. She’s happy, you know. You don’t think you’ve seen this intensity of joy a lot of times in your life.
You recognised it when Jungkook woke up still in your bed after the blue night. When he opened up to you, vowed to stay, brought you to his home. When you announced to the world that you’d be his to remain, that you’d do what you enjoy.
When you got home that evening, and he kissed you right against the door, deemed you crazy, deemed you his.
You haven’t seen this very happiness much in your life, but you’ve seen it in him. And you’ve felt it in your chest. Growing, blossoming, never wilting.
The couple at the front speaks its vows like a song. The words are melodic, poetic, and you’re almost entirely sure that they’re not rehearsed. It’s all real. The love in them and the memories in them, accompanied by the liquid bliss swimming in his and her waterline.
No, you haven’t experienced this too many times before. You’ve felt it. He’s felt it.
And you don’t need to know much more than this; don’t need to know what he’s thinking to understand what he means when he says—
“This… this is it.”
THE CHAPTER ISN'T OVER YET!! PLS READ 👇🏼
1k block limit as always!! you can read the second half of the chapter in this reblog!! the reblog begins with a new scene <3
regarding: colour me in — we're getting cmi13 done and ready, finally 🎨🤍
dropping next Friday, September 27th, 8pm EST. might shift to Saturday in case i need more time to edit.
the chapter's name is cmi: the starry night; it's going to be around 40k long (there was no way to make it shorter lol and i've known for months :')) the word count is crazy intimidating, but i didn't want to take any moment off the chapter. please don't be scared of the number though; take your time reading it, i promise it'll be worth it <3 but if you'd desperately have me rather split it, pls lmk <3
i guess we're diving into the first parts of the 'new' angst(s). i cried a lot writing this chapter – not only because of the angst itself, but also because of the sheer love i feel for them? i've been overwhelmed with affection lmao but yeah, i think you guys will love this chapter so much bc i do, too 🥺
everyone gather for this one, okay 🥺 your presence here is always crucial to keep going with this series, and since i never know what you think if you don't lmk, i'd loooove it if you told me what you think about the chapter 🥺
Summary: Growing singer Jeon Jungkook is as charismatic as he is self-absored – that is, until he meets you. Caught in a web of secrets, he finds a riddle in you he urges to solve; even ready to turn the spotlight towards you until nothing remains… but regret.
➳ pairing: Jungkook x reader
➳ rating: 18+
➳ genre: strangers to lovers (or something); angst, bits of fluff, smut!!
➳ warnings: do not fall for this jk i repeat do not f– 🚨 he's kinda hot though; (not so) silent yearning, flirting, a shit ton of sexual tension, sexual fantasies, some jealousy from his side, he is very VERY attracted to her, mystery, oc is a big question mark, full jk pov!, difficult past(s), (mention of) sexual harassment, mentioned past death of a side character, crying, fear, manipulation, confrontation and fighting, aggression, cursing, cocky and selfish kook, overthinking, secrets and revelations, explicit sexual content: kissing, fingering, teasing, drunk shenanigans, sooo much lust, big dick jk, dom jk, oc is odd, oral (f. receiving), spit stuff, handjob, manhandling, orgasm delay, lip ring…, light choking, bit of hair pulling, a spank or two, some cum tasting mmmh, ass stuff, protected sex, rough sex, various positions, masturbation;
➳ wc: 32.3k
➳ a/n: MHMMM, it's finally time!! i experimented with the trope a little; def not a professional when it comes to this genre, but i tried my best. both oc and jk are odd in this one, and you might be on either's side and hate either of them, i can't say :'D very curious tho, so come and drop a message to lmk what you think. let it aaaall out :P <3
➳ listen to the Entertainer playlist! 🖤
TAGLIST | MASTERLIST | WIPs
Jungkook has always wanted an audience to perceive him.
Not just to perceive him, in fact. To worship him.
Jungkook doesn’t consider himself a bad person. Spoiled, a little selfish, but not necessarily bad. He enjoys attention, no matter how temporary or who the giver of it. Feasts on it like an incubus.
What’s wrong with that? Nothing.
Or.
Maybe there is. Maybe he’s coming on too strong.
Because you’re not part of his audience, sitting over there, middle row, middle spot, with your eyes lowered to the notebook. And when you do look up, there’s nothing but indifference in your eyes.
It irks him. Maybe he is a little narcissistic, and maybe he can’t quite deny it after all — but as part of his future team, you should at least fake a smile, right? Display a certain amount of enthusiasm, the joy of working with aspiring artists.
But no.
You’re occupied, scribbling into your notebook. Jungkook, cognisant of the fact that he hasn’t issued much of significance today, understands that you cannot be taking notes of his words. And he also understands that… if that is true…
You’re not granting him as much fascination as he’s used to.
General admiration thrown into the same bucket as his unwavering talent — that he’s well aware of — might just be the reason he climbed up so high in no time. Sometimes, gentle livestreams and vlogs do the trick — locals have found reasons to adore him already.
At times, a good song and strong vocals aren’t necessary to woo people.
Jungkook, however, is insatiable — that’s what keeps him pondering at times. That it’s just the locals, and on an international scale, there’s still much to achieve.
But he’s not a quitter, he’s a conqueror.
And he’ll reach that mind-boggling status of a well-known, global icon, name flowing as naturally through the seam of people’s lips as a still-lying, tranquil lake.
Jungkook knows it’s cocky of him to praise himself to the skies and to rely on his resolute hopes so much. He knows life backfires sometimes, and that endeavours don’t always pay off. He only started as an insignificant city boy, too.
Survived the cruelty of elementary and middle school; shared a room with his brother, relying on him until he grew and learned to finally rule over high school; every single soul at his beck and call. Then, trudged through college before any of where he’s standing even existed.
But he’s here now. And people acknowledge it.
Except you.
And it throws him off his balance. Which is probably why he shortens the end of his speech, close to slurring distracted syllables before he realises he’s forgotten a prepared sentence or two.
No matter; the relevant and main message should have been delivered by now.
So he leans back in a chair in the back, flashing a captivating smile and waits for the applause. Somewhat proud when the praise needs a moment to cease for his manager to reclaim the mic, freeing the metaphorical stage, much in the form of a simple pult, for the CEO of the company.
Taehyung is savvy of how to regain control over a stage; Jungkook doesn’t know whether he fucked up his final remarks, but Taehyung summarises his ideas well. But the clapping does say a lot.
And between those raising their hands to appreciate Jungkook’s speech, you were, too. He knows because he looked directly at you; still is. And when your eyes drift to his, the two of you hold each other’s gazes for at least a couple seconds longer than the others.
And your smile, while present, is somewhat tight-lipped, a bit awkward but confident, too. Odd, as well; hard to explain, but as though you know what you want. As though you have your priorities set straight and cannot be swayed by anything the world might throw at you.
He doesn’t have a word for it. Poised? Self-reliant? Fearless? Can a single look even say this much or is he being delusional?
But this can’t be true, honestly. Nobody is this unperturbed or passive. He’ll find out.
Your stare aligns with his a couple more times over the next minutes, staying there before continuing the journey over the crowd. Jungkook’s eyebrows twitch just a little whenever your eyes pierce into his, so tantalising and deep, big sweet ires, but so conniving at the same time.
He doesn’t know your name, but he’s sure that it defines intrigue.
And maybe, just perhaps, it might serve as the synonym for drop fucking dead gorgeous, too.
When Taehyung leads you to Jungkook’s stuffy studio, the latter hears your voice through the open door several seconds before you come in. Or actually, it’s not quite his studio.
More like a collective office that a couple of the newcomers use. Jungkook has been part of this crew a little longer, but he needs the additional success, more prosperity; he’s been told to yield more results to earn his very own four walls. Carrying his signature flavour.
But it’s okay. For now, this suffices…
The stench of coffee and the sound of the AC. The pot and plants that always rest in some corner of the room, courtesy of Taehyung who insists on some colour in the grey-white, small room. Jungkook has gotten used to it all.
Which is why it’s strange, seeing your splendour enter the small space, delighted by whatever Taehyung might be explaining. Your grin is the widest Jungkook has seen since yesterday.
He didn’t get to meet you properly yet, so he can’t say where your humour lies. Nobody introduced you, despite your new position as his very own, personal work partner. A second manager, here to guide and aid him when Taehyung can’t; and apparently, you’ve found some charm in Taehyung that you didn’t see in Jungkook during the stupid meeting.
Not that Jungkook would ever dare to doubt his friend’s appeal, but you’ve stormed into his life like a present, and so silently, too; and he wanted to be the one to open it. To reveal it.
Not Taehyung. Even if it’s his job.
Okay. Calm down. Jungkook sighs. That again.
A motherly blanket of praises and fatherly pats of pride. That’s what’s gotten his head so riled up. He was coddled too much as a child. Made felt special. That’s over now, Jeon, you’re in an industry filled to the brim with competition.
Chill chill chill.
But now?
With that alluring smile staring up at Taehyung, only hints of it left when your eyes move to Jungkook. Fuck.
But Jungkook’s stance remains steadfast and self-assured when he greets, “Hi there. Welcome at last, huh?”
Jungkook notices when your mind snaps out of the conversation with Taehyung and into the one he started; a gentle hand frees your face off your hair to enable a proper view to it. The other is still dug deep in the pocket of your leather jacket, covering parts of the white top underneath.
Semi-long, silver earrings rest right below your ear, against your neck when you tilt your head a little; your expression so respectful and inviting when you smile. Jungkook inhales you in that one split moment, details stinging into the eye without much effort.
And perhaps he’d observe more, appreciate your stunning, obvious beauty and elegance further; but time passes as it does before you finally utter your very first sentence to him, “Hi. Didn’t think I’d ever be saying this, but… thank you for having me.”
That’s sweet.
Your words are reminiscent of the adoration his fans grant him, but your expression is as cool as a refreshing autumn wind. The perfect balance, possibly.
Jungkook gestures to a small couch in the back, right next to the door, but you raise a rejecting hand, claiming, “Been sitting all day observing Taehyung. Need to walk a bit.”
And you do. Deliver a last farewell nod to Taehyung who waves a little, gripping the handle and locking you in the room with the younger man nearly drooling over you.
The hand hidden in the jacket before has emerged, arms loosely folded as you take in the interior of the studio, allowing no more insight into your thoughts than, “Nice.”
Jungkook hums in distracted agreement, standing at the wall, watching you roam around the humble space in small steps. It’s odd, being in here with you; the atmosphere fizzles, a little less like electricity, just a bit more than carbonic acid.
But the moment was to arrive anyway; you’ll be a close link to Jungkook from now on. Of course you need to familiarise yourself with his space, too. So far, you seem to have an opinion on it already.
“Easy to trigger claustrophobia, but,” you walk through the open door to the darker recording room, tapping the mic for a moment, “cosy, too. Very cool equipment.”
“Yeah. I agree.” Pause, eyes dropping to your fingers grazing the stand of the mic. Then, “I would’ve come to you today… or yesterday for that matter, but things were so chaotic and—”
“Oh, don’t worry,” you assure, waving his concerns off, “I could see people rushing around and preparing the moment I got here. I’m probably not the main concern right now among everybody.”
“Nah, that’s not it. We have a great team here.” You step out again, hands folding behind your back until you’re leaning against the wall opposite of him, mirroring his stance. “I’m sorry you arrived at such a stressful time, though.”
“Not your fault. I decided so myself fully knowing you were in the middle of something.”
Ah. So you’ve seen his interviews, read the news. You came here with sufficient knowledge about him, alright.
“Really though,” you continue, blinking slowly, “I’m just glad to be here at all.”
Ah. Yes — about that.
“What brought you to our company anyway?” Jungkook asks, coating his voice in sugar to decrease the risk of unintentional and prying rudeness. “I mean — it’s been a while since somebody joined the main team, is all.”
“Oh. What brought me here…” You slide down the wall just a few inches, staring at your feet before you meet his eyes again. Something flashes in them for a miniscule second, albeit too brief to be caught and analysed. Then, you say, “Sentiments?”
Jungkook gathers words of confusion the moment you utter yours, a question already on his tongue. Has he been here long enough to evoke sentiments in his followers? Or do you veil a whole different connection to this company than he might understand?
Who knows. It doesn’t feel too deep, at least, when you speak again, elaborating when his eyes reveal his bedazzlement before he can, “I mean, I like your work.”
Okay. So much he interpreted; and he must admit — the feeling of pride is a thoroughly unique one.
“I think you’ve been deserving of your growth, and I just,” you speak, shrugging your shoulders, digging one heel into the solid ground, “I could never stop thinking of what I’d say or do if I was here or how I’d try to help, even though I’m not a true musical genius like you.”
This is so excitingly new.
How poised you remain as you talk about your fascination for him; how carefully you choose your words. He’s met fans before, but he doesn’t think any of them has ever practised such control over themselves.
And harbouring such emotions for a tiny little celebrity like him while simultaneously treating him like a human being is an art you’ve well mastered. Despite Jungkook’s urge to feel loved and worshipped to a dependent degree, you’re an incredibly attractive change in pace.
Ugh.
Dependent degree.
Although, he does wonder what you’d be like if you fawned over him.
Jungkook contains the fantasy; suppresses his sigh.
“So,” he starts, “you’re here because you’re a fan.”
“Mmmh. Kind of. My friends started it and then pulled me into this. Honestly, at first I couldn’t imagine ever getting into your stuff.”
Your gaze moved down to your trainers a mere moment ago; whether to hide your expression or give into a habit, Jungkook can’t say. But the honesty surprises him; even stings a little as he voices, “Oh?”
Your head shoots up, lips forming a circle before you imitate, “Oh. Wait. That was… pretty rude.” You seek confirmation or denial in Jungkook’s eyes, and when his slightly wrinkled forehead, tight-lipped smile reveals the answer, you immediately opt for an apology, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“How did you mean it then?”
“Just that.” You fiddle in your position, bringing your digits to waist level. Then, you laugh; a rhythmic sound. “Okay, don’t hate me, but. I was one to judge a book by its cover, and you had this young adult too-confident-too-sly something about you. But your music’s surprisingly sentimental.”
Jungkook halts for a moment, moving his head to side-eye you; producing a hoarse Uhhh before he admits, “I’m not sure whether you’re complimenting me or fully destroying me.”
Another lovely laugh. “I am complimenting you. To be fully transparent, I was probably, uh, biased? Because my friend. They have a knack for usually pulling very questionable men, so I probably just didn’t entirely trust their intuition.”
“Fair enough. I guess?” Jungkook matches the softness of your giggle, nodding towards you, “And now you do?”
“Mmmh, well, we’ll see.”
Jungkook must be stupid. Of course you won’t be able to deduce much from the first meeting yet; perhaps the flirting needs to slow down for just now. You seem the patient kind; much like now, letting the quick silence prevail without much struggle.
No sign of awkwardness surrounds your aura; only a hint of… suspicion? Flashing into your eyes when you let them move through the room again, freezing right next to Jungkook’s head. You’re not looking at him, but at something past him; but you don’t question nor voice anything.
Merely return to his stare with a smile, and he uses the moment to pour some courteous manners into the mix, asking, “Do you want something to drink? Coffee, water? A Red Bull?”
But you immediately raise a hand, shaking your head, “Oh, it’s okay. I’ve already got caffeine flowing there instead of blood,” you slide a finger along your arm, indicating a vein under your layers, “I just mainly came to say hi and to introduce myself. And to ask if I can help anyhow.”
“Ah… well, uh,” Jungkook halts mid-sentence, throwing a look around as though he’s searching for something to appear before he concludes, “don’t think so. I was in the middle of some production work, but don’t think I need much.”
“I see. Okay! Then I’ll leave yo—”
“But,” Jungkook intervenes immediately, adamant on keeping you around. Maybe he can wrap up work earlier today? Bring you home? Probably not — not on Taehyung’s watch. “Maybe you can tell me what you think once I’m done?
“Of course. It’d be my pleasure.”
“Would have an excuse for your company, too, then.”
The laugh that follows is so subtle that Jungkook barely hears it. It doesn’t leave your throat, stuck in there, just a tiny sound reminiscent of amused bafflement.
Jungkook knows his way around words — understands what his utterances and implications usually apply. But somehow, not too many people have been the calmer ones in the room; aside from his superiors at work, not having the upper hand is new to him.
So you set a fuse loose in him; destroy a nerve in his brain, changing up his communication habits. Because he certainly did not mean to say this out loud. And not in such a sense either.
He adds quickly, “I mean, it gets lonely here.”
“Right…” you concur, albeit weakly and with somewhat… entertained mystery in your eyes? He can’t say. It’s as though you’re wearing your face as a mask, undecipherable. “I get it. Even though your studio is cosy enough to enjoy your own company at times, right?”
“Not mine. But we’ll work on that.”
He cards his fingers through his hair, aware that he is probably more than an open book right now; his usual perfect poker face does not work with you.
Why?
Weird.
“Got a couple things here that are mine, though. Yoongi and the others allowed me,” he adds.
“Ah… Like…”
Surprisingly enough, you take another look through the tiny room, possibly trying to detect something you didn’t see before. Regarding details. Then, you settle next to his head once again… and once Jungkook moves his eyes off you for the first time since you came in, he sees what you see.
Which is to say, nothing much out of the ordinary. In fact, the most trivial thing in the room.
“Like that?” you voice, pushing yourself off the wall to near his relaxed body. The scent of your perfume wafts through the room before you’re close enough; tenderly grazing his senses. “What’s that?”
Focus.
Your finger points to the object next to him, hanging at a nail at the wall; dark blue with white letters on it. Pretty mundane, pretty basic design.
“Just… a cap I bought back in college.”
You read out the name, pronouncing it perfectly, yet slowing down as if you’re learning a new foreign term. The sudden inquiry is strange, too: you don’t seem as truly curious about it as your question did; perhaps you’re playing for some time with him, too?
He wouldn’t hate it if you did.
“Do you know that one?” he questions.
You nod; a main hint as to why you wanted to know, yet indicating that the knowledge wasn’t of much significance. You say, “Isn’t it a popular one? I had a few friends who went there.”
“Hm… yeah, I mean. I guess it’s a known one. I got a degree there in broadcasting and entertainment like… four years ago.”
You exhale a barely audible puff of air before you whisper-murmur the most infinitesimal, petite, “Damn,” underscored with one indecipherable tilt of your head. He can’t see your eyes too well, so the reaction remains as transparent as you have been thus far.
Until he raises a thick eyebrow, confusion hidden in a somewhat relaxed yet awkward smile as he wonders, “What?”
“Hm? Oh, nothing, just. It’s impressive how much you’ve achieved in just four years, right?”
“…Well. If you say it like that, it does sound pretty neat.”
The bubble of pride expands alongside his ego; right beneath his chest. Somehow, the feeling changes his posture, makes him feel bigger.
Perhaps you notice what your praise elicits; perhaps you’ve already fathomed his persona that he usually doesn’t dare to reveal this fast. But whatever he conceals with his fans, lies in front of you with an open access.
You make it easy to feel comfortable; he doesn’t need to know you too long to acknowledge this much.
“I graduated not too long ago, too. Three years?”
“Oh… then look at you,” Jungkook compliments, using the moment as an excuse to examine you further; head to toe and back. Your legs are crossed, upper body and face confident, but the position somehow delicate. Hm. “You’re quite awesome, too, don’t you think?”
“I mean— took a while to get here.”
“Right. So what have you been doing during this time since graduation?”
Whatever distraction you have found in the cap seems to break as you silently forage your brain for a response; possibly attempting not to divulge too much. And your answer is accordingly hesitant, though never dubious.
“Saving up? Preparing for life, I guess. And waiting for a good opportunity.”
For what? Do you usually keep your statements in fragments?
He prods, “To do what?”
“Well, to do,” you gesture to the wall in front of you, albeit clearly hinting to the situation, “this. Hoping to change everyone’s lives around here.”
You smile wide, the joke obvious as can be, but Jungkook can’t help but think that you might not be too far off. Unique minds alter brain chemistries; there’s something unforgettable and magnetising about them, and Jungkook steadfastly believes his intuition that you might just be one of them.
For the first time ever, he murmurs your name, delighted by how easily it melts on his tongue. It falls out breathier than he intended to, but when you tilt your head, the intrigue in your pupils inexplicably matches his tone.
He adds to your name, eyelids drooping just a bit, “So… you’ll turn out a long awaited surprise, huh?”
And you, against all expectations, lean in for just a minimal, not too inconsequential moment, hands back in your jacket. It’s a playful, harmless motion as you move back on your heels, then steady yourself again, bodies and faces still far away. You could’ve just as well given him a pat on his shoulder.
But there’s something in the way you look at him, tempted and ominous at the same time. He can’t say what you’re thinking because every feature in your face implies something different.
Even more so confusing what methods for success you came into this company with when you finally say, no pretext or further clarifications, “I really do hope so.”
“Do you come here a lot?”
Everywhere he goes, the lights are bright.
The white walls in the rooms of the company building reflect the sun in the summer and maintain a sense of optimism in the winter. They’re what Jungkook imagines waiting halls before Heaven to look like.
Then the fluorescent vibrancy in his apartment. And the sunlit sky, albeit cold in this winter, giving way to the planetary system’s star through the floating, parting clouds.
Even this modern art museum with its complex design, winding staircases, glass walls and high ceiling. It lets through an abundance of light, unaware of the balance Jungkook usually craves.
Dark and light — a healthy mix.
It’s why he cherishes the comfort of the recording studio so much. Its dim walls and the silence, so unlike the hallways outside of it. Or why he prefers his apartment unlit, often merely allowing the few lava lamps to illuminate his rooms.
But again… it’s only a balance he usually craves.
Today, he doesn’t mind the brilliance.
Because you’re part of it.
Clad in a beige long-sleeved cotton top, slight turtleneck included. It doesn’t fully cover your neck, still revealing a mole similar to his. It’s tucked into your light brown skirt; your legs are covered in sheer tights, crossed. A gentle hand holds the strap of your bag. Light academia at its finest; somewhat soothing, and somewhat radiant.
You look at him with an initially neutral expression, surprised that someone spoke to you, but more relaxed when you realise it’s him.
“Oh,” you voice; the faintest autumn-tinted smile tugs at your lips. “Hey! I, uh…” Your gaze flits to the painting in front of you, then back to him. “Not at all actually. Which… surprising.”
You gesture towards him before you grant him more of your silky voice, asking, “Do you? Come here much?”
Your eyes are indecipherable to him, cheeks dusted in natural make up. All the damn time, you sport this relaxed, unbreakable mask, and he can’t quite guess what you might be thinking about.
It’s so easy with anyone else. You’re like a scene from BBC’s Sherlock, embodying Irene Adler’s mystery.
But maybe your guard can be broken, too.
“Not really,” he admits, “only when pretty people are around.”
A weak attempt, but it makes your eyebrow cock in amusement. He knows you are, because the hint of mischief that scurries over your face resembles his own.
“Ah, and you happen to know when pretty people are around. Or did you follow me here?” you, however, ask.
It’s an obvious inquiry, but weirdly enough, he didn’t expect it. You exhibit the first sign of a proper, humane emotion. Delivering three quick blinks, voice quiet, suspicion swims in your eyes, slightly irritated.
Or even… scared?
You can’t truly be.
So he backtracks, slightly angling his head. He sighs — hiding how much his lungs crave a breath of air. He doesn’t want to scare you off just yet.
“No,” he defends, “of course not. I was just joking.”
“So… I’m not pretty?”
Oh. Oh?
Perhaps he misinterpreted your expression. Perhaps you’re merely a good actress; messing with him as he is with you. The smirk suggests this much, at least.
Perplexed, he holds his breath before letting out a choked laugh; the head tilt and click of his tongue carry a sliver of scolding before he admits, “That’s pretty frustrating, I won’t lie.”
“I’m just kidding, too. It’s a big exhibition. I expected a familiar face here.”
Why is there something so devilish about you?
He can’t say; maybe he doesn’t need to. Maybe it’s enough to join the game, to be just as cocky and see how you react.
Perhaps he’s being selfish and too certain of himself, and in the worst case, he might just be imagining the tension buzzing between you like sparks off an electric fence. But does he have anything to lose, really?
Barely ever.
“Then,” he begins, “is it a good face?”
“All the art around us and you want me to admire you, huh?”
“…The art won’t be mad if you do.”
Jungkook is bold, he’ll admit. He hasn’t always been — he remembers a time spent in the back of classes, preferring to eat lunch alone. Did college tug him out of his shell? Was it senior year?
Then again — did that one kill the timidness in his heart or rather the last shred of humanity?
Maybe his cold matches yours, too. Is that why he feels so drawn to you?
Because you’re as bold as him; you don’t sugarcoat words and thoughts. And Jungkook appreciates the honesty, the ingredient to actual success — even if it’s achingly direct.
Like now.
You uncross your legs; your hips move in an elegant curve, and Jungkook attempts his best to keep his eyes off the arcs of your body. Focuses as you say, “You shouldn’t be flirting with a coworker, Mister Jeon.”
“Wait. I thought we were warming up to each other. Don’t demote me from Jungkook to Mister Jeon now.” You chuckle; that’s something, right? “Besides, I was just conversing. We need to spend all our time together now, so better get along, right?”
Right. Right; of course he’s right.
But… what is that?
It lingers for the faintest of moments, just a glimpse of an unspoken feeling, gone with the next blink. In this crowd of unsuspecting visitors you’re the closest to him physically, but your thoughts are miles and centuries away.
“Maybe you’re right,” you still say, as if whooshing away all unwelcome sentiments, “then I should not… dodge your conversation, right?”
“Sure.”
“Behave, though.”
He’s so confused — but not deep in this enough to question it. So he merely shrugs his shoulder before he responds, “I have been. I can converse, alright.”
“Right.”
“Like… first of all,” he steps closer, raising a hand, gesturing for you to walk on as new admirers of the modern piece approach, “tell me, have we met before? Feels like I’ve seen you somewhere.”
You halt in your steps, but immediately resume to the stroll when a stranger nearly bumps into you. “You’re doing it again.”
He’s honestly not. The aura surrounding you like an ominous fog is omnipresent and eerie, yet… you carry a sense of familiarity. But you’re a presence too distinct to ever forget.
Which doesn’t help his case.
“Yeah,” he still agrees before potentially embarrassing himself, kissing his teeth, “sorry. I’ll stop.”
“Why are you the textbook definition of a fuckboy, honestly.”
“Fuckbo—”
“Nevermind.”
If he wasn’t well acquainted with this little game, he would’ve missed your subtle, nearly veiled intent to tease. But he’s done this a million times before — hence, catches the faint twitch of your gorgeous lips immediately.
You’re enjoying this. So he should join… right?
Yet.
You’re not being entirely insincere. In fact, he hates how he picks up on the note of truth in your velvety voice.
Trimmed nails scratch the back of his head, and he barely notices when the two of you halt in front of another piece. Distracted, he doesn’t bear the art any mind, instead asking, “You really think of me that way?”
You shrug a shoulder. Nonchalance a constant feature, but so natural, even somewhat gentle, that he can’t help but feel drawn to you. “A little.”
“Well, shit.”
“Don’t overthink it. Enjoy the art.”
“Sure.”
Reluctantly, he glances to the canvas. It’s a mess of hues; a random arrangement of spontaneous emotions. Resembles the masterpieces he used to create in Microsoft Paint, back when his legs would still dangle off the chair.
“Then,” he starts, nodding towards the painting, “what do you see in this?”
You hesitate. Or maybe it’s not hesitation — more like… a thinking pause. Sometimes, when Jungkook notices a whirring mind, he sees a steaming brain through a skull. Working at full blast.
But somehow, he only sees a calm ocean as he observes you gather your thoughts. Everything about you is gentle, but wrapped in dark mystery. How much mental training does it require to become this inscrutable?
When you finally speak, you’re saying similarly strange things.
“I see… colours.” Right. Stating the obvious. Jungkook chuckles, delivering a head tilt. “And am wondering how the painter got to create this at all. I mean, this looks so meaningless at first, doesn’t it?”
“And it’s not, yeah?”
“We’re fast to think that. Most of the time, there must have been a trigger, or a thought about something, no matter how small. Something might have been bothering him. This is—” A soft hand gestures towards the painting. “Such a chaotic mind.”
Interesting…
“Is this what you usually think about all day?” Jungkook wonders.
You scoff. “I’m just a person, too. I think about a lot of random things.”
“Ohhh. Like what?”
“Like… seeing all the green in this exhibit made me realise how this colour makes me cry.”
Jungkook takes a haphazard look around. Now that you say it — there’s no hint of a nature theme, but the abundance of green is striking now. It’s as calm as you. No wonder you’d immerse yourself in a showcase such as this.
You continue, as if tracing and reading his mind like an open novel, “It’s soothing, right? And unique. These earthly things sometimes make me feel like not all of us are deserving of seeing such beauty. Like it should be reserved for those who earn it.”
Earn it? How?
Jungkook can’t see your thoughts as clearly as you’re apparently capable of doing, but he has an inkling of what you might mean. Truly dazzling souls merit the stunning bloom of the world, right?
And then…
If that’s what it is.
He wonders — do you think he deserves to see the colour green? Or is it already over if he has to ask? Perhaps, should he be perceiving it as grey right now? He doesn’t know.
He doesn’t know how you think of him — doesn’t know anything about you at all. You’re a tough nut to crack.
“Hmm… that’s a way to think about it,” he says.
“Only because it’s the same for people. And I’ve had this thought about humans a lot… I…” You hesitate, blink, and then grant him your stare. “I knew someone who was the colour green. Not everyone deserved them, either.”
Poetic minds carry a certain pain in their eyes.
He’s been seeing it in yours. He just doesn’t know how to handle it. So he doesn’t.
Instead, he asks, “What else are you thinking about?”
“Uhmmm,” you voice, straightening your back a little, as if waking up from a dream — nightmare? “I’ve been thinking about trying that, too. Painting, I mean. It doesn’t have to mean anything or be good. Just a great way to capture something that resonates with what I feel.”
Every word you’ve uttered today was otherworldly. You didn’t talk like that when you were in his office, or at the meeting. Your soul is somewhat free-floating here, and he doesn’t understand why.
And it’s a behaviour he usually strays away from. The vulnerable ones can be dangerous.
But somehow… you’re too strong of a magnet.
One who shrugs all the mystery away — and he sighs in despair. Maybe it’s not time to find out what you feel just yet. What resonates with you — even though he’s dying to hear it.
He inquires, “Are you always this open?”
“No. Not at all.” Of course not. Rhetoric question — he knows this much. “But I like thinking out loud sometimes.”
“I’m glad to be a sounding board then.”
“Yeah. I was also thinking how I appreciate that I met you here.” Pause. Oh? What a surprise. Out of the blue, too. Strokes his ego, though. And then, unexpectedly again, “You wanna go to the museum restaurant?”
Jungkook has barely seen half of the exhibition yet. But just for today, he couldn’t care less.
Perhaps it’s enough for now, sitting in this overpriced restaurant, watching you from afar as you inspect your nails calmly. You’re not busy on your phone like the rest of the crowd — entertained by the same media that he’s part of.
Maybe he can be a bigger part of their lives one day — be the one flitting over their screens, the one they adore. The one they worship.
But you don’t seem to indulge in those mind-numbing devices for now. You might be an addition to his team, but privately, you float in your own world. Distracted by the thoughts you won’t disclose.
Your hands retreat, arms crossing on the table and lips curling into a smile once he strolls back to you. Satisfied, he informs you, “One cake with the coffee. As the lady suggested.”
“Oh,” you make, “don’t you want one?”
“I do.”
“So…” You stall, and he waits until it clicks, your head tilting in understanding. “Are we sharing?”
Jungkook lifts a thumb, pointing over his shoulder, back to the register, “Those chocolate cakes are sweet as heck. I’ve got a sweet tooth, but believe that it’ll be enough for the two of us.”
You laugh — a sweet, disarming chuckle before you breathe an, “Alright.”
Jungkook doesn’t know you well enough to feel any skip in his heart; yet, you stir something else in his mind. It’s always people like you who intrigue him the most — those who veil themselves in a coat of secrets.
He sighs.
“That was fast,” you note, eyes at a point behind him.
And he understands when the waitress arrives a couple moments later, two perfectly prepared lattes and a mouth-watering chocolate fudge slice. You thank her with a gentle smile, tuck a hair behind your ear, fingertips grazing the dangling earring.
And he watches.
Watches as you nod towards him, urging him, “Start then.”
Observes your smile as he signals you to start instead. And he gazes at you as your delicate digits reach for the fork, tearing off a piece, wrapping your lips around the utensil.
And then… God.
He feels his guts twist; hears all background noise fade; blood rushing away from his head, through his body as you slowly relish the sweetness and then drag your tongue over the fork. Licking away the leftover chocolate.
Jungkook swears it happens in slow motion. And witnessing your elegance at snail's pace… makes him sick.
When your eyelashes flutter, gape lifting to meet his, the sounds around him come alive again — as does he. He averts his stare from your mouth, covered in the same colour as the coffee, but you notice.
You see him looking. And it makes you… smile? Shit.
But you don’t boast your effect; only digress as you say, “Well… tastes as fancy as it looks. Try it.”
You’re as relaxed with him as you can be. But you always are; with everyone. He craves that bit that’s only reserved for him — then again, maybe he’s too zealous too fast. He hasn’t known you for long.
But making you smile must be an achievement. If only… you didn’t think of him like…
He nods, and then leans over the table ever-so-slightly. His knees brush against yours, a soft but deliberate move. He places an elbow on the table, grasping the fork, close to you. If he lifted his hand, he could touch your cheek.
He wishes he could.
His eyes meet yours through his bangs, the cake’s taste irrelevant to your presence. And when his ego doesn’t let him relax, he finally asks, almost as if insulted, “Do you actually perceive me as a fuckboy?”
The question catches you off guard. You hesitate, furrowing your eyebrows, and then giggle before questioning back, “Jungkook… it’s bothering you this much? Mmmh. How would you like to be perceived?”
“Just. As a decent guy who wants to get to know you. And I know you know.” You blink, but he doesn’t buy it. So he elaborates, “I’ve been trying to make clear that I find you lovely. And somewhat attractive.”
People usually display a flicker of glimmer in their eyes upon hearing such praise. But you don’t quite budge; in fact, your eyes remain the same, if not a little darker. Why?
Yet, you cock an eyebrow, sporting a teasing, playful tone, “Somewhat, hm?”
He shakes his head, clicks his tongue. “You’re pretty and I think you know,” he blurts, “and I don’t want to screw up right away.”
Is it the habit of never failing? The urge to solve an enigma? The chance to dive into you until you’re bared to him? Why are you so interesting to him?
You’re just a person.
Maybe it’s just the unsettling need to discover what you’re hiding — it won’t let him rest in peace. There’s something about you that screams to him to unravel. Makes him want you more.
He doesn’t know what it is. Doesn’t know if you’re even from the same world as him — even though you seem to have crossed his realm before. No matter what it is; Jungkook merely understands for now that he wants to take off your layers.
Wants to be the colour green for you.
“Ah—” you voice.
“In fact, I’m not supposed to hang out here with you.”
“…How come?”
“I should be with Tae,” he admits. Maybe he’s revealing more to you than he should — maybe he should adjust to your level of secrecy and wait. But this is frustrating him. “He dragged me here, so I could get inspiration from all sides.”
You listen; perhaps not quite loving the idea of seeing him in such a way?
Fuck. Maybe it really was a mistake. No turning back now, though.
“He said artists find motivation in art, too, and I do like to paint, so…” He looks at his cup, still left to be tried from, and then stares up from the cream leaf that the barista formed in his coffee. “I didn’t wanna come here, though. I already have an idea of what I want to do.”
“And…” you start, still not addressing the issue on hand; choosing to talk about something else for now, “he doesn’t like what you’ve come up with?”
“I don’t know. He doesn’t know about it yet.”
You take a sip of your coffee, softly smacking your lips once to relish the taste. You’re living proof that subtle gestures can make a mind race. Then you say, “Maybe you should introduce it to him then.”
“I will. Just… mmh, need a better grasp on it.” He throws a nod towards you. “I can’t wait to show you either.”
Another sip of the seething liquid.
If the gentle hint of him being bent on your presence flatters you anyhow — stirs anything in you at all — you don’t let it show. Are you, by chance, used to being swarmed from all sides?
Are his advances kindergarten to you?
You don’t budge as he waits for you to respond, setting the cup back on your saucer before you inquire, “Where is Taehyung, anyway then?”
“Uh, I’m sure he’s going around admiring the art?” Jungkook guesses, head reflexively moving to the side, as if his friend and co-worker could materialise out of thin air. “He enjoys it even more than I do.”
“And you separated from him because…”
Because Jungkook ascended a spiral staircase. Because he turned right and halted in front of the second instead of the first room. Because he recognised the familiar curves and edges, as intriguing as ever, from this far distance.
And told Taehyung to continue without him; that Jungkook was going to explore a different corner of the museum.
He tilts his head; his left eyebrow raises just a twitch, fingertips tapping the hot surface of the coffee cup. And then, charisma gathered in the middle of his pupils, he tells you—
“Because I found you.”
There it is.
The slightest of reactions.
Your eyes widen barely an inch, but he sees it. How your lips part a bit, even though you should’ve expected his answer after the conversations hitherto shared. Hm…
“So you did follow me,” you say.
He can’t say if you’re joking or not. But all of a sudden, he wonders if he’s creeped you out. He opted for flirting so clearly, but… maybe you interpreted it vastly differently.
But he keeps himself relaxed; not faltering now when you aren’t either. Answers, “If you want to call it that. I call it finding you and then sticking with you. You’re interesting, Miss Manager.”
You smile.
Genuinely, thoroughly, wholeheartedly.
The beam reveals more than any word could’ve today — that humanity slumbers somewhere in the crevices of your heart. Your eyes suggest it as much as your stance on art did.
Whatever might have scarred you in life, behind all that ache, you hide a delicate soul.
Green, green, green.
And your cryptic worry, uttered a moment later, doesn’t bring him down from his sense of victory. No. Not now.
“Yeah?” You cross your legs, letting out a breathy sigh. “Then I sincerely hope that doesn’t change.”
[6:43PM] Jeon Jungkook: i’ve been thinking about something. and of you
For a bedroom as sparsely decorated and light-coloured as Jungkook’s, he should be surrounded by a brilliant glow. And usually, he is.
The windows occupy half of the wall, the bedsheets a perfect white; had he texted you a couple hours prior, he would’ve found himself in the gleam of a pale blue late winter sky. But if he’d tapped your name on his device earlier, he would’ve indulged in a whole different mood, too.
Wouldn’t have given into fatigued, delirious fantasies. Daydreaming about the curves of your lips and about the single strands of hair kissing your cheeks. Or the way you love exposing your neck, as if to taunt him.
It’s right there, but you can’t touch it, Jeon.
And…
And the mounds of your chest, slivers of it visible whenever you put on those heaven sent dresses. Their cuts are almost as deep as the ones damaging Jungkook’s brain. And not much for the sake of his sanity, the thirst isn’t quenched just yet.
Crossed legs badly hidden under your see-through tights. The movement of your hips when you walk into his studio, placing yet another gruesome schedule onto his desk. Your scent when you lean into him, pointing to another meeting he barely recalls.
You… you…
If Jungkook hadn’t already cleaned up the sloppy mess previously covering his knuckles, trickling down his thighs, he’d possibly give into the urge to sneak his fingers back to where he craves them to linger.
No, you made that mess.
Of his sheets, of him. And you never needed to be here in the first place.
Jungkook is no fool — unlike many of his friends, he doesn’t deny the way his body winds. He knows what he wants; and right now, he hungers for you. Wants you to eliminate the drought on his tongue; wants you to replace it with some taste instead.
“Fuuuuck.”
The word drags into the emptiness of the room, filling the silence that someone else should be lifting. But you’re not here, and you’re not answering. Not yet, at least. Has it been seconds or minutes?
Too long, is all he knows.
His digits are cleaned thoroughly, but he can’t shake the persisting feeling of sheer, dirty lust as they reach his phone again. Lighting up the screen, then curling inwards in frustration.
He repeats the desperate attempt of manifestation a couple times until he throws the device aside, nearly missing the mid-air vibrations, indicating the long-awaited message. Jungkook’s heart falls out of his ribcage and squeezes his guts; your name elicits far more than it should.
And he feels just a little guilty.
Because he doesn’t deny himself any pleasure — so he knows this isn’t love. This isn’t starving for emotionality. Not for sentiments. What you pull out might be his ugliest, beastliest side; his mind is filled with images of you that he shouldn’t be having.
You’re so respected. So tender and kind. Intriguing, a riddle, but inhabiting secrets probably far darker than his thoughts. So he feels odd about the wanton desire; feels guilty.
But just for a bit. Just a little.
The message you sent back is too humble, too innocent. Sometimes he reckons you’re aware of your power, and sometimes he assumes you think of yourself as… ordinary.
But you’re not. And he wants to show you.
Just one touch, please.
“Fuck, shut up, you creep,” Jungkook whispers to himself, scolding his treacherous mind before he reads again.
[6:52PM] You: Oh? Why would you be thinking about me? Of all people?
Should he wait? You did, too.
Or should he make as crystal clear as he can muster that he’s been waiting for you?
Screw it.
[6:53PM] Jeon Jungkook: what else should I be thinking of?
Your next response is immediate — you’re online. Waiting for him to answer.
Good.
[6:53PM] You: Your music?
[6:53PM] Jeon Jungkook: my music doesn’t talk to me as much as you do these days
He smirks. Keeps the beam plastered to his face until the waiting becomes a little too long. Message on read, you leave the chat room empty of you and full of a nervy Jungkook. He opts out of it the same second, keen on patience before it fades again, bit by bit.
Because then, the thoughts flood in.
Are you rolling your eyes? Throwing the phone into a corner of your couch? Has he fucked up before anything could start?
But it’s been going so well. You talk to him every single day. Ever since the museum, the two of you have been orbiting each other; partly due to work, partly because he’s caught you smiling, too.
Your words are too sickeningly often accompanied by a soft touch of yours against his shoulders; against his arms. Sometimes, you brush his back, his eyes wide awake, the smile timid yet crushingly losing against your confident gaze.
All this must mean something.
“Nah. Fuck it,” he mutters again, sighing over his own constant use of curses. “Come back.”
[6:55PM] Jeon Jungkook: actually… I did come up with one tune. It’s just a skeleton of a song tbh, but I need a sounding board.
It takes another one minute for you to come back, and Jungkook angles his legs, relying on the movements of his body to ease the impatience. But then—
[6:56PM] You: Oh, and?
[6:56PM] You: Sorry, I had to step away for a sec
Sigh of relief. Even though embarrassment annoyingly adds itself to the mix, an uninvited guest.
[6:57PM] Jeon Jungkook: …do you wanna come to the studio?
[6:57PM] You: Right now? It’s like…
[6:57PM] You: 7pm
Unconsciously, Jungkook shrugs his shoulders, unbothered to the bone, just craving, craving, craving…
[6:57PM] Jeon Jungkook: a true artist never rests.
[6:57PM] Jeon Jungkook: and I’d rather die than stop hustling for my passion
As the next message appears at the bottom of the screen, Jungkook can’t help but bite into his lower lip with a certain pride. He nods as if he caught his prey, trapping it between his fangs.
[6:58PM] You: 😂LOL. now that, I admire, mister Jeon :)
[6:58PM] You: I’ll finish my wine and be on my way
Oh.
Are you tipsy? Maybe he’s reading too much into it, but the emoji seems so unlike you; yet, you somehow manage to capture the core of what and who you are in the rest of the message. Six coherent words. That’s all it takes.
Goddamn.
You’re so thoroughly you.
[6:59PM] Jeon Jungkook: wait. really?
And that’s it. You disappear.
Perhaps you’re joking; perhaps you’re messing with him. The sun has already set; and he doesn’t think he’s ever stayed with you much longer than dusk before.
If he met you in the evening, or on other nights, would you make more sense than you usually do? Are you the type to unravel when the world quiets down? Or the one to blend with the darkness more, drawing back further?
If there’s pure truth in what you just said, devoid of all mockery you could revert to… he might find out. And it seems you’re in the right mood today, earnest with your intentions when he feels his phone vibrate against his thick thigh again, making him flinch.
[7:11PM] You: Yes? I’m already dressed. Get your ass up
Oh shit.
Despite your order, his limbs still shut down. His muscles and bones melt into the bed, a fleeting image of your sly smirk crossing his mind and an assured voice surrounding his eardrums.
And if he didn’t overthink each of your movements; didn’t fantasise about the possible rise and fall of your voice, he would’ve discarded his phone and gotten dressed a lot earlier.
How embarrassing.
The fact that his mind doesn’t want to categorise this as a crush, no matter how much he asks. That his body responds to you like that, superficial and intrigued.
Embarrassing. He should focus on more important things.
Yet, he can’t be bothered with the intruding sentiment, shame shoved aside and trampled under his feet as his car turns into a parking lot, perfectly in front of the building’s entrance. Your form is crystal clear in the dark; not even the shadows and lack of light can hide your silhouette.
The radar sensor beeps when he creeps too close to the hood of the car behind him, and he mumbles a curse, averting his eyes from your unmoving self to focus on proper parking. Letting the roaring engine die.
Your shoulders are slightly raised when he approaches you at the door. One hand is stuffed in the pocket of your thin, baby pink coat, the other curled into a fist, possibly resisting the urge to enter the building and combat the cold.
You could’ve waited inside, too. Unless…
Maybe you’re excited to see him, too.
You smile, lips reaching far up; he tries his hardest to believe he’s right. Takes the gesture as a good omen, and the hair pulled up in a loose bun as a sign of hurry. You look domestic, comfortable in your skin, no matter who’s around.
But somewhere between the comfort and the softness, there’s that everlingering intrigue, too. And… some timidness. Showing in the crossed legs his eyes drift over, up to the short skirt barely visible underneath the coat.
And your face… so natural. More than usual. Mascara only? He doesn’t know.
All he knows is that he needs to say something.
“Hey.”
“Hi,” you throw back, tilting your head in tease, “where were you? Took you long enough to get here.”
He steps closer; fiddling with his jacket’s pocket, fishing for the keys. And his proximity changes something about you so subtly, a miniscule movement. Hand digging deeper into your coat.
You’re on guard for some reason. And he can’t help but admit he’s on guard with you, too, albeit in a less physical and more mental way. The unfathomable, dichotomous sensation of wanting you near, wanting you far is killing him.
What are you hiding?
If he could, he’d speak it out loud.
“I had to freshen up,” he finally responds, “I honestly didn’t expect you to say yes.”
Your body might be in protection mode, but your voice is as composed, even somewhat amused, as always, “Well.” You shrug your shoulders. “I don’t see why. But I’m here now, and honestly… a little cold?” Nodding towards the door, “Should we go inside?”
“Yeah. Sorry.”
He sniffles, fishing for the chip to unlock the door. For an ephemeral second right before walking inside, your breath lingers incredibly close to his own, grazing his lip ring. “Don’t forget to dress warm this season.”
Near enough for his fingers to succumb to the impulse and sidle to you, skimming your thigh so featherlightly. He thinks he hears the sharp inhale you suck in. His skin tickles, the shiver icy on his body. He watches you smirk, lowering your head; his fingertips insist on the vicinity just for the tiniest seconds before he says,
“Okay. Let's go inside before you catch a cold, silly.”
But the bitter frost permeates the hallways of the company in the same ruthless manner. Perhaps somebody’s still lingering around in the daunting dark. Revising steps in the mirrored practice rooms or hovering above lyrics and tunes, neck bent and back tired.
But the building isn’t heated; and it shows in your rather quick steps, an arm wrapped around your chest to rub the layers above your arm. The guarded demeanour doesn’t match your usual confidence; aside from the hollow hallways, it seems that you’re scared of more than just the cold.
He doesn’t point it out. And he doesn’t stare for too long.
If he did, you might realise.
Instead, he saunters to the elevator with you in tow, delighted about the light that never changes in the small rectangular space. You let your hand drop to your purse, lazily toying with its zip, and turn your head to observe the closing doors.
And Jungkook observes you.
The glow of your cheeks in the bright beam, half of your face devoid of the hair tucked behind your ear. As you breathe in, your lips split a fraction, and their gentle, soft curves mesmerise him for a moment too long.
It’s difficult and cruel, being around you. Haunting, agonising, aggravating.
And when your eyes align with his again, sparkling a little in line with your tender smile, Jungkook realises that he’s been holding his breath. Because it escapes between the seam of his mouth in a sudden push, his knees nearly buckling.
He resists the urge to bite into his fist, instead disguising his thoughts when he covers his mouth, teeth digging into his plump, lower lips.
“So,” he quickly adds, leaving no space for you to question his eccentricity, but you initiate another convo in the same tiny second, “It’s…”
You pause, withholding your statement in order to listen to his. But he shakes his head, lifting a hand to sign for you to continue. So you say, “It’s a little scary here at night.”
Okay. Not that tough of a topic.
“Right?” he confirms. “I always imagine getting here and hearing a hum that’s not really there.”
“Uh…” You blink in disbelief, lifting your eyebrows, but when he shrugs your confusion away, your hesitation marker turns into a chuckle. “Why the hell would you say that?”
“It’s just something I imagine. It’s terrifying, but my mind goes places, and I never ask it to.”
“Well, it’s a mean thing of your mind to do.” The ding of the elevator distracts you, and when you step out, your thoughts remain at an afar spot. Kept inside your pretty little head until you whisper, “And? Have you ever heard it, then?”
“Hm? The hum?” You nod, and he suppresses the snicker your curious, cocked eyebrow nearly elicits. “No. Only myself. Humming helps me control my breathing, so I do it to practise.”
“Weird. It’s so different from how I’d imagine you.”
Huh. Seems he’s not the only one sketching your entire being to keep himself awake at night.
“How would you?” he asks.
“As a rockstar?”
“Oh?” That’s new. “As a future RnB slash pop sensation I find this officially peculiar. Why a rockstar?”
You cock an eyebrow; either digesting the confident prophecy or pondering his question. The crooked smile matches his own signature smirk a little, and you puff out a breath before your sombre yet sparkling eyes wander an inch further down, right to his mouth.
Your eyelashes are endless, on their way to brush those delicate apples of your cheeks — in reality, it’s an impossible fantasy written in novels and poems, but it’s exactly how it looks. Exactly how much your curious gaze drops.
Only, the tingling sensation in his chest soon subsides, freeing a path to the realisation that he’s yet again misunderstanding. Because you’re not drawn by his lips, but rather considering a response.
He sighs in subtle disappointment when you point to the shiny metal encircling his lower lip, telling him, “Gotta be the piercing.”
“Ah. Ahhh. Well. First off, this is a very stereotypical assumption.” You shrug your shoulders in amusement, watching him cram for his chip until he halts in front of his studio, keeping you in his vision. “And secondly.”
The lock of the door clicks as he swipes the chip across the reader, defined knuckles paling a bit when he pushes the handle down. He raises his chin by a fraction, pulling out the most-assured smile, and asks, “Do you like it?”
And you, composed as ever, respond, “It suits you. I always wonder how comfortable these are, though.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, like. Do they have a metal taste? Do you ever get hyper aware of them and then get annoyed and want them off? Are they… cold?”
He laughs. There’s something endearing about how your voice quietens further the more your curiosity grows. You’re not quite looking at him, pupils focused on a random spot, hands expressive as you vocalise your thoughts.
“Let’s see,” he mutters, jacket thrown over a chair, “sometimes and, again, sometimes. It feels a bit cold right now because it’s cold outside. I mean…”
He rubs the chill off his tattooed arm, fingers diving under the short sleeves of his white, oversized t-shirt. Attempts never faltering, he leans into you in intrigue, parting his lips before running his tongue over the jewellery.
“Do you just. Wanna touch it and find out for yourself?”
You blink, frozen in place.
The room isn’t too spacious; Jungkook will get his very own studio, name tag and all once he reaches a clear peak. For once, he’s glad about the crowded room, girded by a guitar on the wall, chairs standing side by side, a little couch leaning against the back of the wall.
As ever, he can’t decipher your mood; as ever, you’re still quick to answer, “I… no. It’s okay.”
Why don’t you want him?
Goddamn it.
“Okay,” he simply utters, shrugging his vexation away. “Let’s get started then.”
The excitement in his tone dips, seemingly aloof, but as he walks into the dark square of silence, reaching for the headphones he placed right here mere hours ago, wordless curses dangle off the tip of his tongue.
He makes sure you don’t see the clench of his jaw or the fast and steady fall of his ego, but you’re shoving back the chair and adjusting anyway. Crossing tight-clad legs as you place your coat on your lap, throwing your mane to one side to free that damned neck.
It must be on purpose.
He waits for you to settle, the headphones on the table in front of you enveloping your head. They look way too big on you, and Jungkook can’t decide whether to tut at his anguish or swoon at your stellar being.
Jungkook uses his headphones to communicate through the glass, raising a thumb to ask, “Ready?” You nod, matching his gestures with your own. “Be honest, how professional do I look?”
Carding the fine hair back, he pushes a hand into the pocket of his pants, taking a stand in front of the boom microphone. He mimes a typical grimace of an immersed artist, letting out an immediate, sweet chuckle that you chime in joyfully.
You lean in, long earrings brushing your jaw, pressing down the button for the talkback mic to assure through the intercom, “You look like a born star.”
He rolls his eyes, playfully clicking his tongue, “Ahhh, that’s a nice yet basic thing to say, but. I’ll take it.”
“Why did you go in there anyway? Weren’t you just going to show me a song?”
“Adlibs, baby. I’m still missing those.” He adjusts the headphones again, clearing his throat, almost in position. “But I didn’t warm up my voice, so I’ll need to re-record them anyway.”
“And still you’re straining your voice because…?”
“We’re here to impress you, so let me.”
Your finger lifts off the button, but the movement of your lips suggests to him undoubtedly what your teasing self might be mumbling.
Oh damn. Sorry then, boss.
You raise your hands in defeat until you detect his beguiled smile, raising your eyebrows in a clear question that he answers with two words; a simple title of a song, not as glorious as the tune itself but hopefully as memorable.
Eyes scurrying across the now opened laptop screen, you search for the instrumental until you stumble upon it. 3:54 minutes of what Jungkook prays to be blasted everywhere in a couple week’s time before the big concert, chiming in his ears.
The initial guitar riff drowns the room in a mixture of intriguing anticipation and uncurbed sentiments immediately. Jungkook’s eyes dart to your face, attempting to decode a reaction. And when you notice, hands on the headphones, you nod approvingly.
Most of his vocals are already recorded to perfection; a silky voice laments about a lost time with purity. Jungkook largely listens in, searching for wonky bits or moments to be re-tackled. Of course, he will need to discuss the details with Taehyung tomorrow, but whenever the passion burns the hottest, he can’t help but add an adlib here and there.
As he sings, his eyes reflexively close, and for a couple dozen seconds, the melodic current pulls him towards a bigger ocean; the sense of freedom and possibility is astonishing. There’s a certain ardour he feels towards music that nothing will ever be able to elicit.
Do you feel the same?
As somebody spending day in, day out surrounded by musicians, does that phenomenon make your heart surge, too?
Maybe.
When he looks at you again, it’s at least something fervent he detects in your gaze. A bit like the longing he feels. Intense fondness, or perhaps, even zoning out — until you’re barely blinking anymore.
Your features relax a little more as the song proceeds, bit by bit, the calmest when the ending notes arrive. Jungkook observes you; freezes at his spot. The change from the built-up chorus to the suddenly calm ending, instruments dying, are as forgotten as the last touches… because you, behind the glass, are much more interesting.
Just staring. Looking at the screen, its brightness reflecting in your pupils. When you blink again, most of the preceding smile is gone, something indecipherable in your eyes.
He doesn’t know whether you actually enjoyed the entire thing or became consumed by memories he doesn’t know of. Some the song might have drawn out but shouldn’t have. There’s… a past in your stare.
He knows because much like the vast existing humanity, he’s been tending to faraway memories for years, too.
And he wants to know about yours.
Gently, Jungkook grasps the headphones covering his ears, the mane victim to the impact before his fingers fix it again. He frees his eyes off his strands, never directing them away from you, and when he opens the door to the small room you drifted off in, you look up.
Your emerging smile is unsuspecting and polite as always, and you deliver a tilt of your head. Jungkook could sign the previous oddness off as just this, or a sinking into arts just as he does sometimes.
But what’s enough is enough; brushing questions off his mind has become tedious.
So he rolls back the second chair next to you to take a seat, placing his arm on the one of the furniture before folding his fingers; leaning in, asking, “You okay?”
You react with a soft nod, a tender hum, “Yeah! I was listening.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course.”
“You zoned out.”
“Which is a good thing, I promise.”
Jungkook looks for a moment. Waits for you to break or admit that the truth you display might not be as pure as you think; waits for his instinct to wind up correct.
But when you do nothing of that sort, eyes a resolute and solid statement, he sighs. Tongues at the lip ring for a moment before he clears his throat and questions, “Good thing, yeah? What else do you think?”
“It… goes deep,” you confess, an impressed declaration in your expressions, “what are you talking about in that one? I mean, I know, but… it sounds so personal.”
“More or less? I’ve spent most of the last few years dedicating myself to this job. The training, the late night sessions, the failure and lost time. I wanted to depict those hardships.” He nods, emphasising his points. “I want this song to help me look back one day…”
He shrugs his shoulders, thumbs slowly circling around each other, “And comfort my older self that despite the hectic life, things are okay.”
“I see.”
Your tone is neutral, but your chest rises and falls a little too slowly. Your sorrow is quiet. He closes the distance further, nudging your arm, “Hey. Did you not like it?”
“I did,” you defend, honesty and reassurance in your voice, “I do. You have an amazing voice, come on, what’s not to like. And the sound is incredible. Should you manage to release it, it will be celebrated a lot.”
“I will manage to release it,” he says with furrowed eyebrows, resisting the urge to touch your elbow again, but settling on simply calling your name instead, “you’re part of my team. Let’s be optimistic.”
“I am. Teamwork makes the dream work. Etcetera.”
“Right,” Jungkook breathes, word close to a yawn. He throws his body back in the cushioned chair, manspreading as much as the space allows; stretches his arms until his muscles crack. “Ahhh… I really want this to be good.”
His gaze falls to the darkening laptop, soon giving way to pitch darkness, potentially to some screensaver. The title of the song remains still in the opened audio file, and he smacks his lips, blinking only when you voice an approving, “Mhmmm.”
His head darts to you the moment you deliver a subtle nod towards the computer, deducting, “You really strive to be big.”
Well, yeah. That’s been the plan. Always, always.
“Shouldn’t I?” he argues. “It’s a dream.”
“It’s good to have dreams.”
“That’s right. Mine is to… Stand on a bigger stage. I think I’ve reached a solid group, but I think if I keep working hard and with the right team, I can make it?”
“This determined, yeah?”
“Yeah,” he responds with a hint of obvious self-evidence, slight confusion shadowing his mind — have you never wanted something so badly? “The audience’s eyes glued to me. Don’t you have a dream?”
Another deep inhale of air, chest working hard, as if you’re breathing out fatigue. He prepares for another vague answer that might leave him guessing; and albeit clearly seeing the usual curtain veiling your true thoughts, what you say next makes his ears perk up.
“Honestly. I’ll allow dreams again once I’ve moved on. That’s all I want.”
What?
Did you actually want to say that? Was it on purpose? A slip of the tongue?
Because it seems so unlike you. Reveals too much. He doesn’t think you’ve exposed your innermost thoughts like this before, even if still not quite transparent.
“…From what?” The previously relinquished distance dies when he inches closer again, digits sneaking close to your knee. A fingertip floats over your tights. “Hey. Is something bothering you?”
“Ugh,” you say; the sliver of sadness seamlessly transitions into an expression of nonchalance when you wave your concerns off so quickly. “Young adult stuff.”
Nevertheless, you speak on. The biggest development in this friendship between the two of you yet. “I once had a friend that moved away. We were pretty close, and now she’s far away. Which sucks.”
“I’m sorry.”
That’s it.
Jungkook offers to listen, but he doesn’t necessarily deem himself the most expressive guy when it comes to emotions like these; even if he so deeply wishes to read your thoughts. Music is different; speaking to an audience is, too. Articulating gratitude isn’t as difficult as extinguishing someone else’s grief.
And while not quite confronted with anguish, he houses demons that still haunt his nights; he can barely obliterate them.
Maybe he doesn’t need to.
Maybe he can comfort you in the only way he’s ever known. The stupid, selfish way; offering relief and distraction in the most sinful manner.
“Listen…” Jungkook starts, but in all honesty — there isn’t much to say.
Only to crave. To look.
At the curve of your lips. The distance between them. The bare wrist needing to be held, tired eyes wanting to replace the sorrow with something else.
Is he an asshole for wanting to annihilate your heavy breaths of dejection and replace them with sighs of his name instead?
He doesn’t know. He barely hears his thoughts. Only the blood rushing to his ears, and then away from his head, down his body.
Fuck.
The levitating finger drops an inch; you gasp almost inaudibly when the tip touches your knee, skin separated by the tights only. Jungkook loves fashion choices like these, but hates the hurdle right now.
His warm palm opens, placing right above your knee, approaching the meat of your thigh. He knows you’re not breathing because he can’t hear the exhales; and when his eyes, hooded and possibly insane, flit up to you, he recognises the change in your pupils.
You gulp; and then finally push out some air again. Your hand moves to his inked wrist, touching lightly, unsure what to do. But when you don’t resist, his other arm lifts, touch moving to your face, holding it.
The world spins, moving like an earthquake as his mouth draws nearer. You let out a miniscule sound that punches him in the guts; sweet and pure.
He wants to shatter and wreck you so bad; wants you to feel the same poison you’ve fed him. Irresistible, deadly.
But just as the metal of his jewellery grazes your lips, the softness and warmth radiating towards him, your breath shakes. Your face budges enough for his upper lip to feel a brush against yours, but that’s all he gets.
Because you retreat without giving in. And he doesn’t know why.
He clenches his jaw. God fucking hell. What’s your problem?
The sense of failure overwhelms him. Failure. Failure.
That’s not the term his mind should conjure. He knows the moral compass hides somewhere in his dark heart; he knows. Yet, he can never give into it. Is he a bad person? He doesn’t know.
Control was never his domain, after all.
But he keeps those intrusive thoughts inside, intending to not scare you off more than he already might have. So he accepts the dodging of the kiss, moving back, immediately leaving you safe from his touch.
And then, he says, “Uhm— I’m sorry.”
You don’t answer, still catching your breath, back to the heavy sighs that he was going to help shove back. Once again, he tries, “Honestly, I apologise, I just…”
“No, no. Please, don’t be sorry,” you reassure, slightly touching his shoulder. A wave of relief washes over him. “I’m just. Not in the right mindset for it yet. But I’m flattered, really.”
“Okay.” He nods. His eyes drop to his fingers; he still feels your heat on his skin, basks in it for a moment. But when the awkward silence lingers, he suggests, “Then. Let’s call it a night and I’ll see you tomorrow?”
Jungkook rises from his seat, still unable to wrap his head around what happens — or almost happened. Maybe another time. Grabbing your coat from behind you, he helps you into it, avoiding your eyes, trying not to showcase his frustration.
Uncertain what to say, he reverts back to small talk, stating, “Thanks for still coming so late. You really do like the song, yeah?”
“Jungkook… it’s honestly very good.”
You smile; there’s something about your honesty. About the way you say his name. And how hopeful you truly seem for him. How much you seem to mean it when you say—
“If there’s anyone who can manage to wrap the world around their finger, it’ll be you, Jungkook.”
“Alright. I think I have an answer to your question now.”
You down the sip of red wine with a delicate smack of your lips, blinking at the change in topic. The evening has followed a pleasant pace so far, conversations well balanced; even though you still carry a sense of caution that Jungkook sees no reason behind.
Perhaps it’s the fact that after weeks of subtle, flirty undertones and advancing attempts you’ve taken the seat on his couch as he’s imagined for so long now. Maybe he still exudes something that screams for caution; maybe that’s just who you are.
Jungkook, for one, is just glad to receive any kind of recognition from you. But he’d be a fool to not insert all his effort into tonight, from the food to the type of drinks and conversations. He knows where he needs to be and he wants you to want it, too.
“What question?” you ask.
It’s just.
Despite the lightness with which you carry your talks, some of your movements feel off, detached from your body. Not quite matching the grace your face portrays; just that one hint. The one hiding in your fingers, tapping the dark screen of the phone resting on your thigh.
As if you’re waiting for a call or something to happen that Jungkook isn’t aware of. Who knows. Nothing has happened in the last hour, so this might be an unconscious gesture reasoned in nothing but an absent or distracted mind.
Yeah.
You’re probably not even aware of it and he’s just overthinking it.
He takes a breath, inhaling the aroma of the almost finished wine, “What I’d do if I could spend a day in a virtual reality.”
“Wait, does the Wembley Stadium doesn’t count anymore?”
Jungkook smirks, dismissing his own prior answer with a click of his tongue. “C’mon. Does it really? You can ask literally any artist ever and that’s what they’ll say.”
You ponder his response, pursing your lips in thought, and then shrug one shoulder. Nodding along, you acknowledge, “Right. So what is it then?”
“I’d just.” He sucks air through his teeth sharply, leaning back with a signature smack of his lips. “Get into a reality in which this damn song is already finished and mixed and ready to be released.”
This song referring to the concoction of sounds he showed you earlier, yet to be concretised and burnished to what he truly envisions. It’s the only song left that shackles him to the studio; at the upcoming concert, he’ll just sing the demo version as a sneak peak if needed. What a source of stress.
But you don’t see it as much of a struggle; you’ve told him a dozen times that hard work justifies a slip-up. That the progress on his album balances out the artist’s block.
Possibly why you laugh his worry off without mocking it, merely throwing back, “I’m disappointed.”
Oh?
“Why?”
“Just because — the Wembley answer was better.”
Unexpected and sudden — much like the snicker you elicit, throwing his head back just a little. Concurring, he sighs, “Okay, okay. What about you then?” He cocks an eyebrow. “You didn’t tell me what you’d do.”
“You didn’t ask,” you remind him, already slurring your speech a bit, though still remaining a stable and solid stance, “dunno. You want the sappy or the basic answer?”
“Is the sappy one a tear-jerker? Sounds like it.”
“For sure.”
“Then the basic one. Don’t dig being sad.”
“Thought so,” you answer, and Jungkook holds back from prodding again this time, despite wondering what image he gets across, “alright. I’d do things I’m unsure of in real life. Like bungee jumping.”
“Oh? Kinda did not expect this.”
“No?”
“Just having a hard time imagining somebody as calm as you jumping off a building. Or yelling.”
You roll your eyes. “Anyway. I’d love to go, but I’m too scared of the risks. Like, rope stuff. Don’t want to be jumping for the last time.”
“Okay, yeah, but,” Jungkook starts, hesitating, “I mean, you could say that about anything. You leave your apartment and get hit by a car and then you’d be going out for the last time.”
You begin shaking your head mid-sentence, already drawing a breath, ready to disagree. Then, “That’s a bad comparison. These things are a once in a lifetime experience.”
“I’m just saying! Why hold back from things that excite you.”
“…Maybe you’re right.”
Jungkook’s proud nod and hum are reciprocated with a soft smile, fleeting when you roll your eyes back to your phone briefly. Absent-mindedly, you drag a fingertip across the device’s side as Jungkook follows your movements.
Yet, unsure what you might be harbouring in this pretty head of yours, he doesn’t ponder but asks, “What was the sappy thing?”
It’s as if you live multiple lives, hiding them in your innermost parts; because once he finishes his question, your sparkle returns, and you smirk a little, suddenly leaning forward.
Wordlessly, you fish a tissue out of the square, wooden box, puzzling him for a second until he understands right before you clarify, “For the upcoming tears.”
His titter is immediate, a reflex. You might be relaxed as a calm river, but your humour does shine through among your other million traits. He shakes his head in rejection, smile still plastered to his lips, and watches you lean back again, clearing your throat.
“Mhh, I’d say,” you muse, “I’d try to get into a simulation of Heaven. Try to meet those I miss.”
“Oh… damn.”
“Yeah.”
“…I don’t know what to say.”
But despite the dumbstruck silence, his mind does conjure prompt associations. Like when the two of you sat in his studio just two weeks ago, you engrossed in his music yet somehow dissociated from reality.
You spoke about lost and faraway people back then, too. And he didn’t ask then, either.
In the depths of his mind, he wants to believe that you’re trying to lead him somewhere, fishing for his hand but never quite reaching it. Drawing back right before pleading for help; or perhaps wanting to make him understand a thought he can’t fathom in the way you form it.
The pattern is repetitive, loud — but he knows you’ll retract the moment he does lean into you, offering his ear to your worries and thoughts.
He can’t win.
“That’s okay,” you say, making up for his lack of proper empathy, and that’s where you leave it. Not hesitating, not indicating another hint to lead to your mind.
Yet, he clears his throat quietly, licking drying lips, and asks in attempt to grip the truth, your whatever-truth, “And, who’d be there? Do you want to talk about that?”
“Mmmmh,” you hum, pondering, before you treat him with the same disappointment he’s suffered throughout the last weeks, “no. I think I’m good.”
Unbelievable, and truthfully, frustrating.
Are you playing this side of yours? Is it an act? Are two sides of you fighting within you?
“Okay,” he simply responds, clearly agitated but unsure whether you notice. You’re looking at your phone again. He sighs. “And… Do you believe in that stuff? Heaven, Hell, stuff like that.”
You shrug a bare shoulder. “Dunno. I like to think there’s something, but then again I don’t.”
“How so?”
“The way I see it, it’s kinda simple,” you explain matter-of-factly, “some people are good enough to deserve a place in Heaven once they’re gone. And some people are terrible enough to burn for eternity.”
Coming from your sweet mouth, uttered in an equally soft tone, the sentence feels jarring. Jungkook has had these thoughts before; he’d be a hypocrite to judge you for yours, recalling moments when he wondered where he’s destined to land once he’s left this realm.
And somehow, it was never the prettier option.
Still, he utters, disguising his own past pondering, “Wow. That’s dark.”
“It’s true. There’s some serious crime in the world.”
Agreed. Perhaps, compared to the extreme sins, he can be forgiven. Right? Maybe…
“Yeah,” Jungkook accords, “then, why did you say that sometimes you don’t like believing in it?”
“I mean, if there’s actually something like Hell, and I happen to fuck up throughout life… I don’t wanna end up there.”
It’s like you’re mirroring his thoughts.
Even if he never quite thought about it to such an extent. Even though his idea of the afterlife built on what he’s already done, and not what he’s still going to do.
But your words give a subtle hope that redemption is possible. Who knows. Who really knows.
Perhaps it’s easiest to stray away from these thoughts and focus on you at this very moment. Even if it’s you triggering innermost fears; he doesn’t quite have a clue how you do it.
No matter. He’ll focus on you. Altruism might be the first step to vindication. Karma points. Karma points.
“Valid,” he says kindly, “can’t imagine you fucking up, though.”
“How would you know?”
“The company grapevine whispered a lil something about you.”
“Ahhh—”
“Good things! Other than that, I just think. Don’t know.” A small gap, well-hidden so far, grows in the back of his mind, tiptoeing to the very front of his mind. Before he’s thought it through, he blurts, “I’ll be honest with you.”
Your ears perk up, eyes suddenly wide.
What was that?
Okay. Whatever. Can’t stop his speech now, “Uhm, I’ll be honest and say that I’m not the best person I know. Like, I’m aware of that. It’s why sometimes, I don’t really understand how people can be as genuine as you.”
…Has he said too much? Or not enough? Because he could swear your face deflates, expression dimming, as if you expected something else.
And all you say is, “I understand.”
A flicker of slight panic creeps into his overthinking head, not usually a trademark of his personality. But you look dispirited, even if just for a second. He tries further.
“And from what I’ve seen, you go through life gently. The way you do anything is how you do everything, right?”
“Hmmm,” you voice again, pupils hidden until you look up. And when you do, he breathes a sigh of relief; deep and obvious, and he doesn’t care if you notice. Smiling sweetly, you tell him, “You said that really well.”
The way you say it is riddled with woe, but within a second, your eyebrows relax, mouth forming an authentic grin. Displaying real emotions suits you better than the mask of the frigid ice queen you keep plastered to your face; you look different right now.
Vulnerable.
And it makes him want you more.
Does it have something to do with the warm light he chose for this room? No. It doesn’t shine brightly enough to really illuminate your face that much. With the intensity lowered beforehand, some of your features hide in the dark when you lower your head a little.
And it’s not the decent amount of alcohol the two of you slurped.
It’s the usual, mysterious shimmer in your eyes, begging to take off more of your mental layers. The fragility behind the pretence of invincible strength. No doubt, you’re still a textbook definition of a femme fatale.
Still, there’s some sweet urge to surrender, visible in your stance. A fragrance luring him in. Warm skin close to his; calling for his fingers.
And he’s at your beck and call, ready and motivated; giving into your wanting eyes — or is that his own desire he’s confusing? — and leaning in. A little more with each tiny moment, advancing until the tips of your noses meet.
Your warmth consumes him; your breathing quickens, resulting in fitful exhales that he takes in with vigour, much drowning in his own head until you gasp and he realises—
“Sorry,” he mumbles, not yet retracting. His hand touches your knee, carefully but with intention. Waiting, he asks, “Is that okay for you?”
“…I’m not sure.”
Your answer takes a seat on his ego and weighs it down. Harsh, sudden, perhaps not unexpected but definitely breaking a string of patience within him. But consent is consent; he understands. He’s grown now.
Yet…
“Fuck,” he whispers under a faint sigh, dejected and confused.
And you hear it. Bambi-eyed, you ask, “What?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.”
He’d lie if he suppressed the disappointment. Working towards you for weeks was supposed to end in realising his fantasies into a palpable, actual feeling, with a side achievement of a deeper connection.
You don’t seem to want to provide it; he understands, but the agitation courses through him like a fire burning up a forest. The trees are his nerves; alight with different emotions. You’re fumbling with the soft cotton of your winter dress, and he averts his eyes.
Shutting them for a moment, he ponders his options; does he continue the awkward conversation? Or perhaps, ask you for your opinion straightforwardly? Maybe, after all this while, it wouldn’t be so stupid to swap a penny for your thoughts.
And his mouth opens, but it seems you’re faster. Crushing his questions and uncertainties when he hears you gulp, witness to another change of mind as your knee shifts forward. His eyes open rapidly, and when he looks at you again, you’ve moved closer.
Your leg touches his thigh; your eyelids half fallen, lips an inch apart and fingers hesitating, yet advancing towards him. Hope sparks and sparkles in him anew, and he suppresses the cheeky, triumphant smile.
He feels like an asshole. Oh, he feels so selfish — but he can’t be the only one. He cannot possibly be the first or last to give into deepest desires out of self-interest.
Carefully, he matches your pace, moving into your direction much like you are drawing into his. His hand lifts to your arm, and you suck in a breath as he touches your skin, your chest rising and falling deeply.
And his eyes observe. The motion drives him crazy. He wants to pilot his touch to this spot, wrap his palm around your mounds, desperate to feel your nipples perk up under his skin, your mouth fall wider.
Should he? Maybe, maybe—
Not yet.
Instead, he draws an invisible line with his fingertips, up your arm and to your shoulders until he reaches your neck. The sound you let out is so tiny he barely hears it, and you tilt your head to the other side, giving him free reign over your skin.
A spark lights up under his finger, as if he’s touched a defective bulb. He wonders if you feel the same flame when he charges for your jawline, tracing it for a moment before he moves to your seething hot cheek.
You’re burning up.
So he asks in a quiet, gravelly voice, somehow much lower than usual, “Are you okay?”
Your eyebrows are furrowed, and he starts to worry again; but maybe that’s just the same tension unleashing that he’s felt, too. The temptation runs deep; he could scream it out of his lungs and it wouldn’t be enough.
Relieved as you nod, he mimics the movement, whispering an, “Okay,” before he then dips forward, exhaling close to your neck hotly and… leaves a small kiss right there. He doesn’t know about you, but if you did that to him, he’d possibly faint.
One more kiss, and suddenly, your hand is on his knee. His head spins. Must be the alcohol. Must be you.
And you’re probably in no better state, judging the hot cheeks and the slight sway of your body. Must be the wine. Must be him.
And when his lips graze your jaw, your fingers curl in, clawing onto his knee, and his inner voice celebrates, “Jackpot.”
But not really. He’s going with the flow, exploring your preferences, but this needs to be the night of your life. His mind and ego want you to perceive it that way. So what should he do? What do you like?
Are you one to push him into the bed, holding his shoulders down? Straddling him keenly, pouncing on him, eyes rolled back?
Or do you give away all the power you usually emanate; hands bound with a tie, legs struggling between a rope, screams muffled under a gag? Do you wind and go crazy when somebody has their way with you, edging and then overstimulating, refusing a touch and then slapping your ass wound…
Should he let your siren eyes tempt him into submission or will you be the one drilled into his mattress with a hand around your neck and a trail of black mixed with tears under your eyes?
He doesn’t know. Because you’ve disguised all of you; hidden your mind behind a mask of absolute neutrality, hard to decipher. He can usually read women so easily. They lick their lower lips when they want him under them, and quiver when vice versa.
He’d oblige to either for you. So what does it matter in the end, anyway?
No, it doesn’t.
His tongue that lashes out, however, does matter. Tasting your skin as it drags over your chin and then to your mouth. Insane when he reaches your lower lip and you sigh, then back to your neck, blowing, teasing, still not kissing you… touching your thigh, moving inwards…
“What do you want me to do?” he asks.
And this time, while still a little quiet, you finally say, “More. You can do more.”
“Yeah?”
You nod as if starved, relieved when his hands leave your leg and venture further in. It’s hidden under your dress, but somehow, not seeing your full glory just yet, but observing your reactions to his movements, stirs his thoughts. If any were left, that is.
The touch to your panties is light, tender as he reaches the hem, driving a finger underneath it in exploration. You don’t say much, but he sees the zeal in your eyes, murmuring a little, “Mhm…”
And when he finally presses against the fabric slowly dampening, lightly as he rolls his digits right where your skin so incredibly softens… you moan. You moan.
It doesn’t sound the way he imagined. But it kind of does. He doesn’t remember what he imagined — doesn’t know much at all. Just that he wanted this sound to echo within his walls. For him to be the one to drag it out. Not for anybody else, but him.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Okay. What if he does… this…
Thought so.
Sometimes, human beings have a fantasy unmatched, don’t they? Able to form and reform expressions on people they know that they have never seen. For example, he can imagine what you look like when you cry. Or when you’re mad. Or…
He knew you’d press your lips together, along with your eyebrows, muffling your sound once he sought out your clit and pressed against it. And not because he’s seen other women contort their faces like this; no… it’s an entirely new sensation with you.
You don’t compare to anyone. Nobody compares to you. Nobody, ever.
Sick of watching the invisible movement under your dress, he lets his eyes wander to yours, and you notice, do as he does. Eyes hooded, staring at him as if drunk — possibly, probably drunk.
Just once, he gapes down again, trying to adjust without crushing your knees with his. Comes closer. Then looks back at you. Absolutely astonished by the coloured lips drying up. Seeing your tongue peak behind your upper teeth, pushing against them.
Then you’re blinking, several times, not rapidly, but enough to indicate that you’re losing yourself, too. And then there’s some melancholy behind your gaze; he can’t say where it derives from… you seem to be coming out of a room that you kept dark for long enough.
He can’t say whether he’s further dimming the light in that room or lightening it up — and as he advances, gauging your reactions, he inwardly hopes it’s the latter.
So inwardly. So desperately.
Patience only persists for a moment; Jungkook barely believes in it. People always break. And he does when you lean forward as he drags his finger between your pussy lips, still over the clothing. You balance your weight with your arms, holding yourself up.
And then…
You so tantalisingly, softly, quietly, whisper his name.
Okay.
The snap was expected. The sigh he lets out was expected. And the way his lips finally crash against yours, making you almost fall back onto the sofa was expected, too.
But your taste… Why did he know you’d be as sweet as a cliché, like a perfume made edible? Matches your mystery and your elegance.
And the mellow, yet wanting sounds fit every move he makes. Like the moan-sigh combination when his bold hand wraps around the bun you’ve arranged your hair into. How you breathe into the kiss when he tilts your head a little, and then proceeds to loosen up said bun.
Releases it. Lets your hair fall. Pulls you in, pausing the make-out in the process, and then diving back in with a greed he’s never been met with before.
And as he kisses you, his index finger still dips into the uncharted territory below, ruining your panties some more as he soaks them; fucking loving how you whimper as a result.
No… this is ruining him just as much.
So he draws back from your body, attempting and probably failing not to look at you like an animal glaring down at his prey, ready to devour. He’s never seen this expression himself, but one or two girls have uttered quiet, “Oh-oh,” in such moments before — do you see the danger, too?
Or is he being cocky? But it’s not his fault. You make him cocky because he can never fucking say what you think! Of course he’d need the mental praise to himself — your opinion on him is too difficult to decipher.
He’ll keep the energy up. Make you shrink in his hold.
Hands under your ass, he lifts your lower body a little, amused by your wide eyes and how you wonder, “What are you d—”
Silencing the moment he uses his palms’ position to grab the hem of your panties and pull them down your legs. Over them and then on the other side of the table. The two of you won’t need those tonight.
“What does it look like that I’m doing?” he teases, smirk effective and permanent.
He likes that about himself. Maybe you’ll do, too. If not, then you at least do like how his fingers, impatient, find their way back home again, not before lifting your dress to your hips until you’re bared to him the way he’s craved.
And he pauses.
Oh, this treasure…
“You…” he starts, moving two ring-clad fingers between your folds. Testing the waters. “I’m not letting you go anywhere tonight. You’re staying right here…” He leans forwards, body on body, whispering against your lips. “Trapped under me.”
You want to answer, he thinks. Your eyebrows relax for a second, an inebriated smile playing around your mouth. If he knows you well enough, he’d guess you’re urging to dive back into your witty remarks.
But none of it is possible just yet. Because when he caresses your pussy again, increasing the pace without being too unreasonably fast, you bite your lip. He urges you to release it with his tongue. And when you do, his finger plunges in; as deeply as it can. So easily, too.
He kisses your clavicles the moment your nails get ahold of his arms, wiggling underneath him, but still caged in. And he sees the built-up frustration; how you kept yourself at bay, but can barely do it now. How you yearn for just one or two more right touches here and there before…
But before he can, he stops. Immediately, unexpectedly for you. Once again, mean, but…
“You’ll thank me later,” he utters — and with those four measly words, something awakens in you that was hidden for just the last ten minutes.
“Oh? You… you’re confident like this.”
“Of course I am.”
“Jungkook…” you say in such frustration that he thinks you’ll beg some more. But you don’t. Instead, you shake your head and say. “Men rarely manage to…”
“This isn’t rare. I’m not giving you rare, ‘kay?”
“I…”
“How…” he readjusts your body, pulling you down the couch, shifting until his knee keeps your legs apart. “How fucking insulting.”
Do you hear any of this anymore? Because your eyes are closed again. Hands still holding on; and… and body winding in order for your cunt to shift closer to him, suddenly rubbing against his knee.
It’s all you can get at the moment since his hands are so far out of reach. And the satisfaction of knowing that you’ll strive for anything at all is cosmic.
“You’re ruining my jeans,” he mocks, clicking his tongue as if to reprimand.
“Then…” You hook a finger into one of his jeans’ loops, pulling and then releasing again. “Take them off, coward.”
You don’t have to tell him twice. They say that if you have waited for so long, what’s ten more minutes? But no more. Not another second.
So he obliges immediately as he mutters, “‘Kay,” offering a helping hand when you work on his shirt. Off and to the ground. Pants off and to the back of the couch. He already knows he’ll be finding them all scattered the next morning.
But that’s the problem of just that next-morning-self.
Boxers still on, he returns to give you another initial taste of what’s to explode. The dress moves up from your hip as he slides it over your skin, stopping right under the mounds he’s still so curious about.
He needs to keep this balanced. Rush as much as might be appropriate, but not too much to make things embarrassing. This… the way he leans down again, opening your legs, erection grinding against your pussy and offering the bare minimum… this is good enough for now…
Or maybe not. Because merely a couple seconds later, you halt mid-moan, letting out breathy words that he struggles to understand until you repeat, “Is that… all you’ll be doing tonight?”
“Hmmm, you want more?”
“I— I don’t know.” Pause, a gulp when he presses his clothed length between your cunt. “Are you going to tell me your secrets if I say yes?”
His secrets?
You must be kidding. He has been an open book to you, chasing you around; if anything, he needs to unravel your mind.
But for that, he needs to play along. So he feigns the same mystery you emanate, teasing, “What do you wanna know?”
And you don’t hesitate. “Everything.”
…Hmm…
You’ve never seemed as interested as you are now. Never dove into his thoughts and the dim heart like now. If he agreed now, would you blurt out something specific? Questions that you formed when he wasn’t paying attention?
No idea. Maybe that’s something to worry about later. Pillowtalk. The morning after talk. Just anything… just not now.
He removes the obstacles currently standing between the two of you. The cushion standing against the back of the couch, constantly falling into your face. He throws it on the ground, so you don’t have to keep swatting it away.
Then, the dress covering your body. He gives a sign of wanting to proceed, and you play along, lifting yourself, chasing his lips as your outfit follows the cushion. And then, the phone right underneath the small of your back, having snuck there, undetected until you yelp, “Oh!”
“What?”
“Cold. Don’t know how it got there.”
He fishes out the device, watching it light up, a notification at the top that he can’t decode and that he doesn’t pay any mind to. Puts it on the coffee table. Then… last but not least… the uncertain atmosphere.
He says, “You want to know everything? Then make a list. I’ll tell you if I feel like it… deal?”
“You’re so…”
“You gotta make me. No other way out, baby.”
An answer lies on your tongue, ready to disrupt the moment. He knows because you look distracted all of a sudden, possibly still thinking about the same thing you did before, dissociating as he sat next to you, wine in hand.
It’s probably about work. Or about Taehyung — God, nobody at work but Jungkook would know, but you mention that guy all the time.
But tonight is not the night to think of others. So he shakes your upcoming inquiries away, giving you no time to think about it further as he, thirsty and impatient, picks you up and off the couch.
Right into his lap. Right onto his cock.
Still a layer between the two of you, watching you grind immediately. For a moment, you put him under your spell, urging him to stay right there and not move away until he’s shot buckets of cum into his boxers.
But…
But he’d rather do it in you, with you, because of truly you.
So he wastes no second as he executes his former plan, large hands sprawling over your ass before he stands with willpower and strength. He throws you a couple inches into the air, making you adjust, and then moves.
Away from the couch, stepping onto the clothes on the floor, careful not to stumble and hurt the two of you. The way to the bedroom seems endless, and you so naked… so… so his for the night. Like what, he still needs to wait those couple square metres?
Fuck, how…
No. It must be a primal instinct that hankers him to give up already, having made it halfway through the room and almost to his bedroom when he suddenly stops. Pinning you against a random free spot at the wall, right under a silent clock.
“What are you…?”
Your voice is trembling, for some reason so incredibly small. For the first time since you lay beneath him on the couch, he sees your eyes properly, and they flit back to the couch as if you’re looking where you just departed from — and then back to him.
“What are you looking for?” he whispers. Tantalisingly, he brings his fingers to your chin, pinching it lightly as he raises your head. “Hm? I’m here. Do you want to go back? Missing the couch? Wall might not be as comfortable, huh…”
“No… that’s not a problem. I’m just… surprised by the change.”
You do look surprised. A little cheekier again as your tone rises, your head falling to the side, lips smiling as if to distract him from something bigger. As if there’s anything bigger in existence right now than you.
“It was just sudden,” you conclude.
“Is that bad?”
“Not at all. I’m just curious.”
He doesn’t need to ask what about. He sees it in this expecting gaze of yours that you want to read and decrypt his next steps. And you can have them.
Because he lets you go, making you fall silently on your feet, kissing you once before he falls to his knees. You groan when he grabs your leg, placing it on his shoulder, restless when his lips charge for your open folds.
He offers you, “Curious, huh? No need,” before kissing your clit, adding another, “Just indulge in it… no need to use your pretty brain today,” and then attaching his mouth and tongue to your dripping pussy.
Digging his large nose into you, tickling your nub, he swirls his tongue around, slurping you up like his favourite drink. Holy fuck, you taste good. He could eat you up, down you in one like a shot. Stay right here all night.
You get ahold of a patch of his hair, but don’t pull — somehow, he wishes you would. Instead, you seem to focus on your body, trying not to fall, keeping it upright. You’re winding, your leg moving, and he soon wraps an arm around your thigh to keep you from stirring too much.
And with the other, he targets your cunt, mouth moving up to make space for the digits to easily, effortlessly slide into you. You gasp, just a bit louder when the metal touches your hot sex, calling his name — and for possibly the first time, he hears you curse, “Fuck. Fuck, I’m— I’m going to pass out.”
Oh my God.
If he could lick you to unconsciousness, he’d feel shocked and proud at once. He wants to see you become weightless, wants to catch you in his arms, and then bring you to his bedroom, still delirious, and fuck your brain out of you.
He wants you so bad. He wants to fuck you so fucking badly. His cock aches, godfuckingdamn.
As he rolls his tongue, lips kissing yours, moving his head left and right as he makes out with your pussy, he almost pulls all the way through. Nearly gives into your body language, nose moving over your clit, fingers pumping in and out, breathing into your pussy hotly.
But he has other plans. He wants to see your damn tears; wants you to unleash all your desperation. So, just when your sounds change, less pauses between them, high-pitched, heavy breathing, he stops.
Draws back, watching you press your ass into the wall, head suddenly hanging low. You whisper, “No…” as he looks up in satisfaction, waiting for you to say more.
You’re out of breath, exhaling through half gritted teeth, a palm on his chest as he rises again. You declare, “I’m going to blueball you, too.”
But the adrenaline has poured buckets of confidence over Jungkook already, and he’s drenched in it as much as in your scent, cocking an eyebrow as he challenges, “You can try.”
“I’m gonna suck your dick so fucking slow.”
“Do it,” he keeps the mask up, wondering how much of the effect you saw upon gracing him with such a provocative image, “let’s see if you make it this far. Might just fuck you into space before that, you know?”
He lets out an unsteady breath, a strand of your hair swaying upon impact. His hand taps at your thigh, testing whether you’ve closed your legs again; and as he realises that you haven’t, much to his pleasure, he palms your pussy, heel of his hand pressing against your clit.
“You’re trying to set me off, because you know you can, right?” he questions, for a split moment distracted by the teeth gnawing at your lower lip. “Smart of you. You are truly smart, babe… but you’re also mine tonight. So don’t play games.”
A slap lands on your vulnerable pussy, and he understands your frustration as you open your mouth, the lower lip previously captive rolling back into place. Soft and gorgeous.
No matter the fading distance, there’s still something inexplicable in the air, as if he can’t really separate a dream from reality. As if he needs evidence that this isn’t yet another figment of his imagination; the ones he’s awoken from several times, underwear threatening to burst.
The hand just torturing your cunt wanders up your body and settles around your neck, like a chain or a necklace or a motherfucking leash. He feels home here, just like this. With your fingers on his wrist, gulping under his touch.
Pinned firmly against the wall, he looks down to where you’re dripping and he’s standing tall, gripping the ever-twitching length that is begging for more. Begging for relief. He’s doing this to himself — because his body is burning up, as if scorched by sun flares.
He’s doing this to the both of you.
The kiss underneath your ear as he leans in. And the still harmless yet sinful touch between his tip and your folds. How he holds the shaft firmly, leading the head between your pussy lips, teasing until just an inch intrudes your awaiting hole.
He moans the moment you do, moving, fucking just the first of the tip into you; scrambling his own thoughts as he says, “God, I could just slide in… you’re so, so wet.”
“What… why say this if you won’t do it?”
Guess you’ve figured him out well enough. Guess that’s the cockiness you implied when you called him a fuckboy in that stupid museum. Or how you kept a safe distance — because thinking about it, maybe Jungkook could be someone to break somebody’s heart.
No. He knows he is. But…
He shakes the thought off his brain, returning to this very moment where you’re waiting for his answer, a heart made of steel. You won’t let him hurt you; you know better than that. You could dodge him easily.
Mentally, at least. Physically, you’re under his mercy.
So he uses this weakness, muttering under his breath, “I will, I will… but not here. We can do better than here.”
Wasn’t this just a pit stop after all? What he’s seeking is still waiting in his bedroom, soft sheets spread over the cold mattress, waiting for a body to warm it up. Or two.
Already hot and bothered, Jungkook lets you go entirely; and the next minute happens in a blur, as though he’s struggling with recognising his own apartment. Suddenly self-conscious about everything and nothing at once.
With you in his grip, he walks along the dark, small corridor; then past the paintings, through the door, into a well-managed, tidy bedroom until he’s sat your ass down. It happens within the tiniest moment — he could narrate how you got here but he can barely recall it.
Dick at the same height as your mouth, he wraps his hand around it. You don’t initiate anything of what you promised, looking into his eyes with a question; he knows you want to avenge yourself and provide the same vanity, but you’d rather skip to the best part.
He wants to, too.
So he doesn’t ram his cock into your mouth, hitting the farthest spot until you gag. Instead, he relishes the image mentally and quietly, fantasising about the warmth of your spit, about the tongue swirling around.
And then… then he goes a step further and imagines the even extended pleasure if he dug into your pussy now, maximising whatever your mouth could make him feel.
Are his thoughts too straight-forward? If he spelled them out like this, one by one, would you find him weird? Too eager? Obsessed?
Maybe he should slow down. Just a bit.
Which is why he holds his shaft closer to you, still surprised when you don’t open up, hints of the past confusion alternating with your confident, mysterious, teasing self. It’s weird to witness. But your eyes are still hazy at least. You don’t seem to want to stop.
God. He can’t figure it out. Not figuring out is agitating even in this moment.
But… good energies. Good energies. All the pent-up frustration needs to be morphed into sheer craze. He can do that.
“Spit on it,” he orders.
You only hum. Something in your gaze changes again, eyelids fluttering, as if awoken from trance. But you’re willing. Immediately mimicking him as you bring a thumb to a mole on the protruding veins. Tracing them, all the way back to his balls until you touch them just lightly, but enough for him to nearly lose his shit.
“Fuck, I said,” he reprimands, though delighted by the sudden rapture, “spit on it.”
You nod as if carrying out a task given by your manager; perhaps used to the last days and weeks when he’d command you around. Ask for another meeting, or for your opinion on a song, or just to keep him company to keep him productive.
Or, to keep you close to him. Lost in thoughts. Many thoughts. And even though none of them became a reality in that room, none of the equipment shoved aside to sit you on the desk, this… this right here is more than enough.
You suck in your cheeks, collecting spit, and when you lean forward… you make such a mess. Spitting onto the tip, a string still connecting your lips and his dick, leftover saliva dripping down your chin and then on your tits.
The view is… worth diamonds.
Do you even know?
“Okay,” he utters, no real direction in his mind, no real sentence to utter. “Okay.”
But you’re equipped with ideas, immediately getting onto the trail you left, spreading the spit over his cock, down to the base. The tip and the slit glisten, traces of precum mixing with your drool, but it’s not enough to cover his length all over.
So he mutters a mental, “More,” to himself, tapping your lips until you open, sticking two of his fingers in and pressing against your tongue. Lubricating his digits, he rolls them over your tongue, far enough to nearly make you gag until he draws back.
Watching you work on him rolls a wave of satisfaction over him. He’s proud, enduring like this. Because judging from the creature you are, as if jumped out of dark mythology, he truly expected to give up way earlier.
But he remains steadfast; eager to not explode until he’s filled you up first. Drawn out your own highs.
“Sweetheart, aren’t you a good one?” Jungkook praises, helping you out with whatever his fingers gathered in your mouth. Then, grabs your wrist, pushing you away, hovering above you with a, “Turn around.”
You gulp again. Then shift back on his bed, sighing as you feel the soft silk underneath your skin, kissing and hugging your body. The sight is gorgeous, with you fleeing to the back of the mattress, obliging so easily. Prey.
And…
“Holy fuck.”
Holy fuck, how you look when you finally get into position. Ass up, upper body down. And the arms over your head? What in the world.
Okay… okay…
Wait. You’re saying something.
His knees dig into the mattress, hand unconsciously pumping his cock — he doesn’t even know when he started — as he moves closer, over your body. Kisses your shoulder, bringing his ear close to hear before, “Huh? What’d you say?”
“I’m already so spent.”
“Ah… do you want to stop?”
“No… you made me feel spent. But you’re not done, are you?”
Pause. Bright smirk. Then, “Of course not. Does it feel like it?” Another kiss to your shoulder, wet this time. “Condom or not?”
“Oh.” Seems you hadn’t even thought about this yet. Kind of nice. “I’m… I use an IUD. Have you… slept with many people lately?”
No answer yet. He thinks. Thinks back to the several weeks since he met you. Should he say it? Would you back away if he did? Years ago, there’d be no debate about it — he wouldn’t have told you. Kept it to himself.
Perhaps there’s still a part of him that’d dodge your question, but he somehow feels like you’d see through him. Hear the insincerity.
Fuck, is that selfish? Maybe. Doesn’t he already know that he is? But he’s not bad; and people are selfish.
So a second later, he truthfully admits, “Once. Two or so weeks ago. Nothing special though, just dumb, drunk shit. Some girl from a club. And I tested after.”
As soon as the sentence finishes, he wonders if you deem yourself just another one of those. But… in all honesty. She was a one night stand whose sounds, name, dirty talk did nothing to him.
All he could imagine was you. Perhaps not out of loyalty, but surely out of curiosity.
He can’t fathom his thoughts into feelings yet; he still wouldn’t describe his attitude towards you as falling in love or anything. That’d be too far stretched. But he thought about it — that maybe he liked you too much.
Yet, his heart remained empty; but his body never did. He feels bad; and still, he won’t deny whatever his skin and mind whisper to him.
Other than that, he could probably declare with quite a firm certainty that you don’t feel any different about him. You can’t be.
So maybe this is good enough for now.
“But know what?” he says, voice lower, repeating his thoughts. “Could only imagine what it’d be like if it was you. This pussy,” strokes his cock along your cunt, “and this body,” touches the small of your back, “these thoughts got me going. And you’re so much better in reality.”
“Mmmh,” is all you utter, nearly hiding your face in the pillow before you say, “maybe… maybe we can still use a condom then.”
Shit. Expected it.
But okay. Okay.
Where are the condoms again… bedside table? No. He used the last one ages ago, before he knew you. He gets up; walks to the closet; somewhere near his socks, there must be a new pack. A moment to think.
For a second, he looks back at you. You’re still the same, only with the ass having dropped again, losing balance and energy. And maybe, you’re still drunk, too — probably, because even he still feels the world spin, careful not to close his eyes for too long.
Okay. One… no, two foils out. As he turns back to you, nearing you, his head is just a little calmer than a minute again, and he wonders… were all the thoughts his own? The past half an hour or however much passed, didn’t he spiral more and more?
Did you notice? He shakes his head. Who cares?
Not him, not right now. He keeps telling himself that with a goddess waiting in front of him on all fours, he probably doesn’t need to worry about anything unless there’s a reason to. You’ve been cooperative and the night has been successful, minus the strange gazes you keep throwing at him periodically.
“Alright, baby. Up you come,” he mumbles, bringing your ass back to his crotch. His hands are already trained and incredibly skilled; doing work on the condom doesn’t take him more than a couple seconds. “I should tell you now.”
You pause. Suck in some breath, as if expecting something in particular. You agree with an unmatched thirst for knowledge, “…Tell me.”
“I don’t tend to go easy. If you need me to be, you’ll have to tell me. ‘Kay?”
“I… I can take a lot more than you think.”
Fuck. He’ll wreck your shit. “Perfect. You’re honestly a good one, huh? Such a good girl for real, no— no, you’re the best.”
Is he just saying whatever now? Perhaps he should stop boring you and get to it. Right? Please, the goddamn, blood-filled tower down there is desperately imploring him to.
He collects spit like you did before, targeting your glinting pussy, one blob right onto it. Then, he brings his fingers back to where they love to be, distributing the filth between your folds. And then, two fingers into the tightening hole.
Right before moving north, between your ass cheeks, thumb rolling over your other clenching hole.
And you tense immediately, without saying a word, taking it quietly. Then… then he finally starts.
Brings the annoying rubber to your soaked pussy, poking for a second before he gets serious and eventually dips in. The free hand raises your ass some more, and he shifts forwards, your butt backwards, helping him get in further.
He hears the reaction. Hears the almost-screech in a second, nails biting into the pillow over your head. You hold onto it for dear life as he slowly bottoms out, your sporadic breathing and high-pitched moans mingling with his own bursts of lust.
Deep creases appear between his eyebrows, lips bitten sore, and once his waist has finally connected with your ass, he takes a deep, long inhale. Watches your face disappear deeper into the pillow, sounds muffled.
Enjoys it for a moment before he starts moving slowly. Out, in. Concentrating before he might spill too early. Beads of sweat shimmer on his forehead, dampening the hanging strands of hair. You feel good. Too fucking good—
He wants to go off right away. But… focus.
“How’s that?” he asks.
“Stop… stop talking.”
Oh. Bold. But a good sign, isn’t it? If you wanted him to stop, you’d say it. So he keeps going… dares just a little more, courageous, encouraged by your cooperation. Explores your ass and what lies between the cheeks more, groaning before he says, “You stop that.”
His hand reaches for your wrists, keeping you from tearing his pillow and leading your fingers to where his touched your ass before. You keep your touch there, unmoving until he says, “Keep them apart.”
And you seem to understand. His thumb returns to your unoccupied hole as his cock impales your pussy whole, still going at a tormenting pace. Thick and soaked, he’s splitting you in two; maybe that’s why the slow plunges are such a plague. Because both of you know there could be more.
Pulling your ass cheeks apart, you remain with your face in the sheets, arms trembling as he circles your hole again. He doesn’t know if you’re into this; doesn’t know if you’ll protest. So far, he’s been pretty obvious with his intentions, and he’s sure you must understand this one, too.
And you’re not fearful; if something bothered you, you wouldn’t hesitate to voice your displeasure. So he spits one more time, right onto his thumb, using the lubrication to carefully, curiously dip the tip of his thumb into your ass.
You yelp immediately; as your hole tightens around the little bit of his thumb, your pussy narrows around his cock, too, and he nearly loses it. Nearly drools onto your back as his mouth drops open, blinking rapidly for a second.
God, your body reacts with such intensity. Still, he makes sure, “Too much?”
And you, candidly, reply, “I don’t know. I… think so.”
“Okay. Then I’ll sto—”
“No. No, wait… I want to— I want to know what it’s like.”
Thought so. He knew that underneath all the chic charade, you crave just as much as he does. And if it’s him that you long for, then what even stands between him and the rocket shooting his ego to the sky?
This feels good. Really good… not just physically. You lift his spirits.
Ready with an exhale, he dares his thumb deeper, letting more of it disappear in you. Out of all the women he’s ever been with, not more than a handful has been willing to venture into this part of sexual desire. Most of them can’t stand the discomfort, and some of them don’t feel any particular way about it.
But you lay open to him in every way possible. An open book for once; easy to read, as if calculating how you wind, planning how to sound, guiding him fearlessly.
Soon, he’s adjusting his thrusts to your moans, and you’re adjusting your moans to his thrusts. Synchronised, the two of you groan and cry out together, and he makes sure to keep you filled to the brim, reducing the pauses between the shoves bit by bit.
Until…
“Hey,” he whispers, waiting for you to react, but as he pumps into you, slowly yet balls-deep, you don’t do anything much but scream into the pillow. So he just continues, “How much do you think you can take, baby?”
“I… I’m—”
You’re attempting your best, but you’re tongue-tied. With each push, he catapults your body forwards, but your mind is long lost in the stratosphere. With gritted teeth and a rising, heavily breathing, golden chest, he leans in close to you, hand snaking under you and around your neck as he retries, “So?”
“I don’t know,” you blurt, and as you raise your head and look back at him, he sees a sight to behold — mascara underneath your eyes, lipstick smeared, a quivering chin. He’s fucking you so good; he must be, because you soon add, “Just do an—and I’ll let you know.”
“Good idea. Very good idea.”
He’s fucking you good. But it’s not all he’s got; not all he’s wanted for days and weeks.
No. If he unleashed all he’s been fabricating in his mind, he’d drench your cheeks in tears. And now that you permitted him to, he might just go ahead, right?
Right.
Which is why the next steps come easy to him, naturally, as if you pressed a button he’s been waiting to smash. A big, red one, like the ones in games urging you to not touch or you’d lose. But by God, right now, he’s not losing.
If he looked into his reflection in the dark window, he’d see a winner through and through.
A fiery rage courses through his burning veins. A face contorting when he lets you go, only to move his fingers back, wrapping them around the back of your neck. Shoving you into the mattress, ramming his cock into you, once more keeping the familiar pace and then—
And then he closes his eyes. Matches an expression to your yelps. Drives into your deepest core and picks up speed until, all of a sudden, it turns jarring.
Jungkook doesn’t get enough. He doesn’t know if he ever will; damn the approaching end of this. There shouldn’t be one; he should be capable of ruining you forever. Maybe he will be.
For now, he directs his thoughts fully on how you feel and how you sound, uncaring about the jagged breathing that burns up his chest. Leaning forward, he attempts twice until he catches your ears, nibbling at your earlobe.
At first, he doesn’t know if you register the touch, given that he’s occupying you with far crazier sensations. But then you reach out a hand, panting into the pillow, grabbing a patch of his hair.
And he, fired up and insane, leans back, gripping your wrist, removing it from his mane and pinning it to your back instead. Your face moves to the side, not muffled by the pillow anymore, and you gasp for air before you beg, “Please, I’m about to—”
That’s all you get, because he soon interrupts with a cheeky, “You can hold on for a bit longer,” pausing on purpose. He wants to see you when you come. Wants to wipe more of your make up across your face. Wants to kiss the colour of your lipstick onto his own lips.
Letting your orgasm fade, he waits, just a couple seconds, allowing you to catch your breath until your eyebrows furrow. You blink repeatedly, then looking up into his eyes, and it’s all he needs to feel his patience dissipate again.
Jungkook gets into a new position, leaving one knee deep in the mattress while angling the other leg, planting its foot on the sheets. He keeps his cock from falling out, leading the tip and the shaft back in before he resumes to fuck you wound.
Your arm is still hostage to his grip, the nails of your other hand gripping the sheet for dear life. It’s gorgeous, the view from where Jungkook looks down at his meal. Crazy how you purr and whine when he leans in, touching your swollen clit, electrifying you. And he keeps looking at you.
At the upper body waving a white flag, too weak to keep yourself upright anymore. And then, the ass in the air staying firmly at its place, his dick aiding you, the flesh of your cheeks wobbling with each thrust, like an ocean wave. Whenever it collides with his hips, the slaps resound temptingly, and Jungkook soon mimics it by letting his hand fall hard on your ass.
You mewl, calling out his name twice, the second cry half uttered, half of the Jungkook omitted. And when you catch the tiniest of your breaths, still working with drying lungs, you say, “L-let me come, please—”
“Wait,” he says again, still sadistic, still masochistic, absolutely out of his mind before an idea lights up his mind. “This isn’t it yet.”
The finger working on your nub was an evil tactic, he’s got to admit. Perhaps he led you to believe something he’s not ready to give you yet, and once you seem to realise, you let out a sob.
And he’s positively delighted once he stops. Lowers his head to look at you. Sees the dark, smeared mascara on his pillow when he digs his fingers in your hair, pulling your head back as he says, “I know. You thought we were done, right? We’re not done, though.”
“Wha—”
He lets his body fall onto the mattress, right next to you, and pulls you in, back against his chest. Hand under your tits, pressing against them, moving them up and down before pinching your nipple once.
“I said,” he repeats, probably unnecessarily, because he doesn’t think you actually demand an answer, “I’m not done. Understand?”
And as expected, you don’t nod or answer. You only push your body further into his, and he reckons that’s a mighty sufficient implication already.
As you lay sideways with a breath as heavy as his, his exhales hot against your ear, you let out sounds reminiscent of marathon runners. You’re exhausted, sweaty, and so is he — but neither of you are finished, and he’d be damned if he permitted the night to end like this.
Diligently, he throws your quivering leg over his; your impish remarks have lessened since he took over, and in turn, his own insolent emotions are reigning supremely. He leads his submerged, rock-hard, twitching cock to your battered cunt, pushing in so easily he thinks he’s dreaming.
It’s like putting a key into its lock.
“Ahh, fuck.” It’s hard to fully bottom out in this position, but he can touch you so much better now. He lets his hands explore your bare body, fondling with your tits, kissing your ear and jaw. “Hold tight. You’re doing so good for me, sweetheart.”
It’s cruel, he knows; the gentle praises as he wreaks havoc down there. He crosses your wrists against your tummy, holding them tight, and you close to him. Fucks you dumb and stupid as you wail in his arms. Moves to your clit and gives it pleasant, gentle rubs, so opposite from the rest of his ministrations.
And the pressure builds. His balls, hard as steel, prepare to shoot their load into you, his cock impossibly stiff, but… but…
You haven’t come yet. And this position won’t do. Can’t do, won’t do, he needs to see you.
So he echoes, “Won’t do,” as he gets up again, keeping the previous position short lived. Doesn’t stay away for too long before he’s on his knees, pulling your legs apart, after the briefest interruptions deep inside again before he leans into you.
And then, everything happens crazy fast.
How he keeps you from wrapping your arms around him; instead, capturing your wrists once again, raising them next to your head. How he moves to kiss you for the first time after quite a while, intertwining your tongues, moaning hard as he feels his high approach.
The fast pace changes a little as he loses his mind and focus, one of the strokes stopping as he almost pulls out, and then plunges in again. Your fingers curl in, nails sharp enough to dig into the digits that hold you, and he cries out in delight, letting a breathy chuckle fall.
He says, “Alright, yeah. Next time… we’re tying you up. Love how you whine.” He lets one hand go, gripping your face again and you move your touch to his shoulder immediately, gasping. “You always p-play the mysterious girl, huh? But you’re so pathetic right now.”
The inhibitions are out the window. The overthinking, too. Whatever he thought might make you run away from him has long exited his mind, because he’s got you right here, under his control, nearing the end.
There’s no going back. No return to his yearning, because you’ve satisfied it so thoroughly.
Time to give it all back to you. One last time before he submerges himself in all his glorious egotism.
“There we go,” he says as he watches your expressions change. You open your mouth but don’t say anything. He doesn’t know what your orgasm feels like, but he knows you’re going through it. “Let it all out. Cream my cock, I fucking dare you.”
He’s saying whatever now, he knows. But he doesn’t have the capacity to think much as creases appear on your forehead and between your eyebrows, tongue mingling with his for a short moment when he goes in for another kiss, barely succeeding.
You’re trembling, lifting your hips as much as the weight above you allows, wanting more friction, more of a touch inside your pussy, on your clit, everywhere. And then, when you do come… when he brings the stars from the sky into your eyes…
Yours roll back into your head. Throwing it back, giving him access to your neck. Lips still apart, and he uses it to push a finger into your mouth, on top of your tongue. And fuck… how your pussy constricts. How it tightens so fucking much.
He’d be lying if he said it didn’t affect him.
So much so that his head spins; and as he feels himself getting dizzy, he buries his face in the pillow next to your head before moving it to kiss your shoulder. Barely looks at you anymore; doesn’t care, it’s his high now, he wants to fucking come, and that’s it.
Finally, finally he’s gotten to this point.
Will he hate himself for these thoughts later? Is this too over the top? He doesn’t know and he doesn’t care, doesn’t care.
His thoughts are occupied, alright, don’t need another string of questions to intervene. His attention remains resolutely on his movements, vigorous, rhythmic, your sounds perfectly matching each of his strokes.
And your hands, the poor little palms, unsure where to settle. This isn’t new; across this broad back of his, every girl’s touch wanders like this. Your nails scratch the small of his back, then up his spine, across the muscles of his shoulder blades.
The fact that you’re a goner as much as him, giving yourself to him is probably the last of reassurances he needs — as if any more were required. Because still panting into your skin, eyes shut tight, he works towards the peak of his sanity, exhausted but eager as he relishes the wet tightness of your pussy; surrounding him just right, still clenching, unclenching from your orgasm.
And then—
“Ohhh, fuck,” he whispers.
His voice is shaking uncontrollably; he barely recognises it. Which… must mean this is new, right? Experience be damned, apparently you spark off phenomena nobody has ever acquainted him with before.
And oh, how you make it worse once he finally emerges again, as if catching his breath after holding it underwater for too long. Your eyes are hooded as he gets on his knees over your body, caging your hips in between his legs. Gripping one of your tits, you nibble your lower lip for a second before letting out laboured breathing, nose flaring.
It’s all he needs. All that’s left when he rips off the condom and envelops his filthy cock with his veiny hand, stroking immediately and hard. Close to the end as he rushes to ask, “Where do you want it?”
You understand what he’s asking, and nod, back to yourself when you utter mysteriously, “Anywhere but inside…” Okay. No time to ask why not — but he wouldn’t have anyway. He obliges, giving his all, one more second left before you tell him just in time, “Here.”
Your palm rubs across your skin, moving over your tits and your stomach. So he’s quick to opt away from your face and redirect his aim to where you pointed, moaning out a couple last, broken vocals before he finally spills.
Milky white, multiple blotches scattered over your skin, like a modern art painting. He’d rather draw these all day than be stuck with you in a museum restaurant, staring from afar, wishing he could reach out under the goddamn public table.
Going until he’s empty, he senses a relief unknown to him thus far, mind suddenly vacant. Once again, the ocean; he feels like the ocean. Like the water as it stills and calms after a thunderous storm. You lifted the waves of his sea high above and have now turned him into a lazy, peaceful lake.
God, he should fuck you more often; you make him a poet.
Okay. Okay, where was he?
When did he unfocus? Dizzy all of a sudden. He puffs out a breath. Then takes another look at you. Watches as you spread the sticky substance over your mounds, touching your nipple, so indecently messy.
The smirk is unintentional but inevitable, reaching far as he shakes his head at you. You smile back wordlessly, and he lets his fingertip run over his cum, too, bringing it to your lips as he asks, “Taste?”
You don’t answer. Thinking for the barest second before you scoff, stretching out your tongue before he puts the finger on it; closing your eyes, sucking it clean. He groans at the feeling; luckily, he’ll be immobile for the foreseeable future, or he’d bend you over again.
“Okay. That should be enough for now,” he breathes, letting himself fall next to you. “I promise I’m a lot more energised on other days. But…” He turns towards you, pinching your chin, bringing your face close. “God, did you take me out there. I’m beat.”
He doesn’t kiss you; only drops back, still filling his lungs with new oxygen. Pity — he still wants you, but his muscles are aching. Eyes shutting.
Then opening again when he hears you laugh, right before you say, “You don’t need to prove your endurance to me. I’ve got a pretty good idea of it now. Besides— let’s be honest. I didn’t do much.”
“Oh, you did more than enough, sweetheart,” Jungkook retorts with a snicker, giving his eyes some relief. He sighs, and then adds, “Your existence did it for me already. Wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.”
He shoves his arm under his head, the other untidily covering the two of you with the blanket; whatever. He’ll wash it tomorrow. For now, the two of you should probably get some rest. Although—
Did you say you wanted to stay? He didn’t catch it if you did. Perhaps he’s also just inattentive; suddenly remembers that he still has a long way to go socially, remembering that permission is courtesy. Selfish, selfish, selfish.
“Uhm,” he starts; this is awkward. He doesn’t do this often — not many stay overnight anyway. Strangely, he didn’t question it with you; maybe because he wants you to. “Do you want me to bring you home?”
“In all honesty, I… I don’t think you can drive tonight. We’re both not sober yet, so I’ll just leave in the morning. Need to be in the office by noon.”
“Ah? Why?”
“Meeting with Tae. I forgot that he wanted to go through a few organisational things for the upcoming concert.”
Concert preparations. Organisational things. The company.
Jungkook forgot about it all. Responsibilities still exist. Of course, he needs to be in the office tomorrow afternoon, too. This is his dream, his goal, everybody’s eyes on him, the biggest source of entertainment in the country.
Feels so stupid, forgetting you’ll leave at some point. That he can’t flip you over again all day tomorrow, that you’ll be occupied somewhere else, with someone else. Jungkook grits his teeth.
“You wanna come over again tomorrow night?” he asks.
And all of a sudden, despite the last hour, you seem lost in thoughts again. Probably tired, but he can’t help but overthink. You don’t answer immediately, keeping him on the edge, and as he thinks you’ve fallen asleep, he looks over, seeing your eyes open when you say, “Don’t know. Might have a couple things to tend to.”
Ah… okay. Sure.
Where’s your mind right now, he wonders?
Maybe circling around work. Maybe your urge to go is as little as his? All these things, they don’t sound too delightful right now, do they?
Concert preparations. Organisational things. The company. Tae.
When did you start using his nickname like this? Weird. Didn’t know the two of you were so close. Then again, does it matter? No. He shakes his head.
Shakes it slowly, making sure you don’t notice, sighing again before he breaks into a smile. It’s okay. You’re next to him. Not next to Taehyung. His friend. You’re covered in him. So he doesn’t let another’s name fog his brain, instead seeking peace and succeeding until—
“Don’t worry, another time,” you say, following up with a goosebump-inducing, “I’ll stick around until my feet tingle.”
Somewhere… at some point in his life… under probably not the best circumstances—
Wait.
as always, tumblr hates content creators and has a 1k block limit. which is why you can read the rest of the story in this reblog hehe we're almost at the end (refresh if you started reading before i reblogged with the rest of the story!) <3
Jungkook’s door only opens for you when there’s a barter: a trade of lust and haze. But today you knock for something more, as intriguing as it is frightening – and you hope it doesn’t close his door forever.
➳ contents & warnings: artist/fuckboy!JK, annoying parents, endearing friends, lots of smut and fluff, misunderstandings; and more chapter specific warnings! | 18+
➳ current word count: 339.8k
➳ status: ongoing
➳ cmi’s mood: still with you and my you by Jungkook | collaborative playlist 🎶
Summary: Strange how just one look into his alluring eyes makes you cave into all his wishes. Especially when they include something you never saw yourself doing with him.
➳ pairing: Jungkook x reader
➳ rating: 18+
➳ genre: fwb/f2l, fake dating, partly college!au; some angst, mostly fluff and smut
➳ warnings: sexual tension, fuckboy!jk, the after-sex convo broke my heart a bit…, jk can’t stop looking at her and he’s so damn cute </3; explicit sexual content: oh god jk is a demon and so hot, dom & big dick jk, use of sex toys, tying up (with jogger strings ??), teasing/edging, fingering, oral (f. rec.), manhandling, he LOVES her tiddies, multiple orgasms, a bit of choking, a bit of degradation, dirty talk, rough (but also soft) unprotected sex (condoms are a thing, don’t forget), praise, aftercare and cuddling; they’re not in love NO not at all
➳ word count: 7.2k
➳ a/n: i know this is mostly just smut, but it hurt a little to write it tbh :’) since it’s a drabble, it’s not that important to the story, but it adds depth to the characters. those who aren’t reading the series, feel free to read it as a stand-alone! and as always let me know what you guys think – a little message under the post or in my inbox makes me float !! okay and now bye i love you <3
➳ listen to:heavenly by cigarettes after sex | full collaborative playlist 🤍
SERIES MASTERPOST | TAGLIST
MASTERLIST | WIPs
“You… really did it.”
“I really did.” Jungkook’s smile is wider than the gaping hole of speechlessness in your mind. He looks proud; inexplicably enthusiastic as he adds, “I told you I would!”
I’m rereading CMI and I’m gonna start this chapter 😍there’s so much details I don’t remember very well but this story is so captivating 😭 I just can’t believe how you write so beautifully 💜 you’re the best 🫶🏻
Genre/Tags: boss!JK x assistant!reader; idiot strangers to lovers; slow slow burn; k-drama feels; angst, drama, fluff, smut
Chapter (Series) Warnings: foul/explicit language; alcohol consumption & passing out, unhealthy coping mechanisms; family drama; minor injuries; power dynamics (JK starts off as a jerk); work-related anxiety, feelings of helplessness, insecurities; mentions of childhood traumatic experiences, nightmares; sexual harassment, attempted assault; mention of past experience of domestic violence (PLS PLS BE CAREFUL WHEN READING); arts, business/property devt, and book talk that’s probably inaccurate; commitment issues & emotionally constipated characters; cold and detached JK; sexual content (making out - I know, finally) (18+)
Chapter Word count: 23.5k
Series Masterlist
Status: Ongoing
Series summary: Working for Jungkook isn’t the same as working for Hoseok. For starters, Jungkook doesn’t smile, he doesn’t appreciate you, and he gives you too much work. It doesn’t help that he’s incredibly handsome and has women at his beck and call. But as the tension grows, it becomes impossible to resist him. You’ve dedicated yourself to your job for 8 years so when you finally decide to put yourself first, he asks you to reconsider. And while you know that leaving is difficult, you learn that when it comes to Jungkook, staying is always so much harder.
Playlist 🎶: on the way home
A/N: Hiii so this was quite the wait! We have come to the climax of the story and I'm both excited and terrified to share this with you. I have nothing more to say other than see you on the other side! 🤭🤭
And as always, my biggest thanks to @wonwoonlight 🥰
PS. If I can’t tag you, pls fix your settings!
Whenever Jungkook creates some distance between you and him, you often understand it. It’s his default, you think, and after learning about the pain he harbors from his childhood, you’ve come to accept it. You expect it, even.
Recently though, he hasn’t been doing much of it. He often moves closer; sometimes, he lets you do it. Tonight, it’s both - he stands near you, he holds you, and he lets you slowly close the distance until you’re just a breath away. And for a brief moment, you think that he’d eliminate it altogether.
But you’re not in some fantasy world, so when he pulls away, you’re reminded of who you are and who he is and that sliver of hope goes up in flames.
“I—” he mumbles.
“I should go,” you interject, turning away so as not to see any more of the rejection in his eyes. “Have a good evening, Mr. Jeon.”
You grab your bag then rush outside, exhaling the breath you were holding in and letting the shame fill you up as fast as the elevator reaches the first floor. You want to run to rid yourself of the embarrassment, maybe be irresponsible for once and get drunk just to forget. Maybe when you wake up in the morning, you’ll find out it was all a dream - you didn’t actually want to kiss your boss, you didn’t actually think he’d kiss you back, and he didn’t actually pull away, as if it stung him to touch you, as if it hurt him to try.
But the thought doesn’t last long.
You get on a bus and convince yourself that staying sober tonight is a better option than reporting hungover to work tomorrow. You’ll feel embarrassed either way, but might as well be more professional about it, considering that what you’d almost done - and all the things you thought about - was nothing but that. You settle for just cup noodles for dinner; you don’t deserve anything nicer than that tonight.
Sleep doesn’t come until past one later in the evening. You spend much of your time tossing and turning, trying hard to erase the image of Jungkook so close to you.
But nothing works. All you see are his lips. All you can hear is his breathing. All you can smell is him.
You wake up four hours later, exhausted and incredibly anxious for the day. You want it to be over already, and you half think of calling in sick but you know that’ll be too obvious. It could set off alarm bells to Jungkook and he might call and ask how you are, and that’s something you can’t deal with either. So you power through and nap in the car, not wanting to converse with Mr. Ri because you might tell him everything should he ask the right questions.
Your plan of action is to engage with Jungkook as little as you can, in any way that’s possible. You play around with things in his kitchen and make sure you have your back turned when he exits from his gym. The energy drink and glass of water are on the counter and you sense him lingering before he finally walks to his bedroom. You let some time pass before going to his closet to prepare his accessories for the day, then head back out, cooking his omelet as slowly as you can.
The clearing of his throat lets you know he’s done, and you glance at him before placing the dishes on the table.
This isn’t the routine. You always fix his necktie once he shows up. It’s reflex for you, and you know that’s what he’s come to expect as well.
But you can’t bring yourself to do that right now. It’s basically like re-enacting what happened last night and you can’t promise yourself that you won’t want to kiss him again when he’s that close. You can’t look him in the eyes, you can’t take in his scent, you can’t hear his breathing without remembering how he felt like. You know you can’t have it again, so you won’t even torture yourself even more than you already are.
His tie is slightly off and it disturbs you. He doesn’t move but he doesn’t ask you to fix it.
You sigh to yourself. He’ll live.
You eat quickly and it’s a contrast to him picking on his food. You’re tempted to ask if the dish isn’t to his liking, but you told yourself not to start conversations or engage in anything outside of work matters, and you’ll stick to that for as long as possible.
“___.”
“Mr. Jeon, I’ve prepared your notes for today’s meetings,” you state before he could say anything more. “And I’m meeting with the marketing team about the additional promotional materials you wanted. Is there anything else you wish to add to the ones we talked about?”
“None for now. They can go ahead with my initial request,” he responds, his voice too soft than what you’re used to, but you don’t dare look up and meet his eyes.
You ask a few more questions and he responds accordingly. The silence is deafening and though you miss the playful banter that has become part of your mornings, you know you can’t get into that right now. Somehow, this is when you can’t act like everything’s normal. Your stupid mistake and foolish assumption is where you draw the line. You just hope the day ends quickly enough before you give in.
Both of you head down to the car. Before going inside, you hear Jungkook ask Mr. Ri how he looks and if his tie is fixed, and you internally smack your head for being so petty about this. You didn’t think that something seemingly trivial about your daily routine with him would affect you this much, as if it somehow threw things off-balance just because you were so afraid to be close. You realize now that you would look forward to those few seconds because that was the only time you had a reason to touch him.
But he’s everything you can’t desire and given that you almost crossed a line, you know you’re gonna have to slowly pull back. Not just with regards to your feelings but in everything, as you take a peek of your personal phone and see an email notification about an upcoming book launch from Rkive Publishing. You subscribed to their mailing list right after you met their director, and you’ve been sitting on his email address and the application letter you have yet to submit.
Since that encounter, you’ve been occasionally looking at other job opportunities in different fields. You realize that nothing much excites you. There’s not much you think is worth slaving your way for in this corporate jungle, and that while you’re currently part of that machine, the only thing that got you going these past eight years was the debt you had to pay.
You had your reasons to stay but being at this point when you’re ready to let that go, you’re realizing that there wasn’t much else about the job that got you truly excited. Sure, it was also the people, but they’re why you couldn’t leave. It wasn’t until the planning for the Arts Center that you felt you could truly be invested in a project and have impact on it, too; it just so happens that the man behind it is the reason why you have to step away. You know it’s the only way you could finally choose yourself and pursue what you want. At 31, you owe it to yourself to do that.
Your thoughts are disrupted when the familiar building comes into view, and you exit the car and head to your floor, trailing Jungkook this time instead of walking by his side as what you’ve come to do. You can tell that he notices the distance but you don’t want to address it. Being terrible at any form of confrontation, you don’t really want to acknowledge anything that happened. You’ll deal with him if he brings it up, and for all the times that you screwed up, you wish to the heavens that Jungkook lets this one go.
You head to your desk while he heads to his. You make him his coffee then ask him to sign some documents. You focus on his hands as he flips through the pages, preferring to look at those instead of his face. But it’s those fingers that pressed against you last night, and you shake your head at the memory, even if all you want is to feel them again.
You retrieve the papers, your heart stopping when he doesn’t let them go right away. Your eyes widen and you still don’t look at him, even as you anticipate him to say something.
“___.”
“Mr. Min asked to meet with you after lunch,” you cut him off again before he could say more.
“I know. That email was sent to you and me.”
“Yes, sir. I was just making sure.”
He lets go of the papers now and you bow before quickly heading out. You just know he had his eyebrows scrunched at you. He’s probably trying to make sense of how jittery you seem and though he may know why, you’re not sure if he knows why.
You get through the morning in one piece. You attend your meeting while Jungkook attends his own with his father. You grab a quick lunch with Do-hyun, whose narration of her love life takes up the whole half hour, then you return to your tasks once you finish.
Hyper-focused on the file you’re reviewing, Yoongi’s usually unenthusiastic greeting catches you off guard, causing your lips to miss the hot tea that you’re about to drink. You jerk, spilling all of it on you. You subsequently hit the saucer that’s on the edge of the table; it falls on the floor and breaks.
“Fuck!” You whisper yell, as you feel the drink pool on your skirt.
“Shit, is it burning?” Yoongi asks worriedly.
He immediately rushes to your side and grabs some paper towels from the cabinet, placing them on your lap and on the floor.
“Don’t move so you don’t spread the broken pieces,” he instructs. “Are you hurt?”
“No. I’m just uncomfortable,” you groan, with your knees awkwardly touching each other and your thighs squeezed to keep the liquid from spreading.
You’re at least in a black skirt but you know the stain will still be visible. That’s the least of your problems though, as Jungkook arrives from his meeting and heads to you with a folder, only to find Yoongi kneeling on the floor next to you. Jungkook’s eyes widen, seemingly scandalized at what this looks like, and they flit from you to his friend, whose calm face quickly turns into one of panic.
“She spilled her tea and the saucer broke,” Yoongi explains, raising the soiled paper towels as evidence. He tells you to move back so he can place them over the shards while Jungkook looks on intently. “Are you good? Do you have spare clothes?” Yoongi asks you.
“Uh, ye-yeah,” you manage to say, hating how frozen you seem to be. With the tea having been absorbed, you grab your bag from your cabinet, the one you’ve started to keep and bring with you during trips in case you get stranded again, then throw the towels in the trash bin. “I’ll just go get changed.”
You scurry towards the washroom and leave the men alone, knowing that Yoongi will hold the fort for both of you.
Back inside, Jungkook eyes Yoongi as he calls for maintenance to clean up the mess.
“She spilled her tea and the saucer broke,” Yoongi says again. “She couldn’t move and I just cleaned up.”
“I heard you the first time,” Jungkook states.
“Just making sure, so your mind doesn’t think of whatever it thinks about,” Yoongi shrugs. “But is she okay? She seems a bit out of it.”
“I don’t know,” Jungkook looks away. “Don’t you usually know those things?”
“Well, I assume that since you’ve gotten closer, you would know. Unless it’s about you… Were you mean to her again?”
Yoongi’s unusual scowl is one that Jungkook is secretly terrified of but he acts unaffected, merely shaking his head in response and to dismiss the assumption. He’ll admit that his friend’s statement is quite bittersweet, though. Yes, you and Jungkook have both gotten closer and there hasn’t been an incident in months where you could’ve had a reason to be down because of him.
Unless last night counts, which is something he’s still wrapping his head around.
He thinks back to that moment right by your desk. You were so close. And he was so close to doing something more than just holding onto your waist. He saw you eye his lips and he did the same but the realization of where you both were - in a semi-open space in the office - reminded him of his limits. Sure, it was after-hours and no one would have any reason to be on the floor at that time, but it still felt too exposed and he didn’t want either of you to be put in such a compromising position, even if every part of his body was aching to kiss you.
He wouldn’t have known you were talking about him if it weren’t for the way you held him close and that unfamiliar look of yearning in your eyes. At that moment, he let himself hope that he’s who you wanted, even if he’s also the same man you believed wouldn’t cross his boundaries for you.
Even then, you had been so bold, so honest. He wished he was as brave and as capable to express his desires as you were. He never thought you’d feel anything for him - him, the one who made your life miserable for weeks, the one who treated you unfairly because you made him feel - and want - things he couldn’t understand and control. Your calm and warm nature made him think he wasn’t anyone special. He dismissed whatever part of him that thought otherwise because he couldn’t hope for something he couldn’t have.
But last night, the way you looked at him also made him feel like all he desired was within reach, like you were within his grasp. Your lips were everything he wanted all over him. Your soft breaths were what he wanted to take in. You were all he wanted to taste and touch and hear, and he’d been so, so close to crossing a line that he said he wouldn’t because he was afraid it would push you away and that’s the last thing he wants to do.
He was overwhelmed but he was just as scared, believing that there’s no turning back if something had happened. He almost stepped over the line but pulled back just as quickly, and now it seems that that’s what’s keeping you at a distance. Because as you return to your desk, you merely bow at him then go through the folder of documents he’d given you.
“Yoongi and I will just meet for an hour,” he says. “Please be ready with the Arts Center opening event budget that I’ll go through with Hoseok later.”
“That’s noted, sir.”
Jungkook sighs in disappointment as you don’t spare him a glance. He just wants to see those eyes again, the ones that yearned for him last night, the ones that asked him - almost challenged him - to get closer. But he’d been the coward who let you go, and now he doesn’t know how to turn back from this.
He enters his room then turns around to face Yoongi.
“I feel so much and I don’t know what to do.”
“I know,” his friend hums, feeling relieved that Jungkook can now acknowledge something he’d known for a while now. But Yoongi also knows that it’s not that simple, and while he knows of the possibility that you feel the same, reciprocated feelings don’t always mean happy endings. “Just don’t… just don’t hurt her,” he adds.
“Why do I feel like whatever I do, it’s what I’ll end up doing anyway?”
“She’ll know when you mean it and when you don’t. And you know what helps?”
“What?”
“Letting her know that hurting her isn’t what you want to do. You’ve got a lot to say, Jungkook, I know it,” Yoongi remarks. “Just be brave enough to say them.”
Yoongi’s words linger in Jungkook’s mind for the rest of the day, especially during the times that he peeks through the window to get a glimpse of you. You seem determined not to look his way, as you don’t even attempt to look at his direction all afternoon. There is a lot he’s got to say, he just doesn’t know what they are or how to say them. It’s always been that way when it comes to you - he feels so much, but he's unable to let you know.
Despite your avoidance all day, he feels your absence even more when you leave at 6PM, on the dot, without sparing him a glance. He could run after you and ask to talk. He wouldn’t know how to start that conversation though, but if it would bring you to finally look at him or say his name, then it would be enough.
He just wants to know what last night meant for you. And if it means what he hopes it does, then maybe it isn’t about turning back but moving forward. He knows it will be complicated, but he wants to figure it out with you. He’ll choose the path where he gets to be around you, close to you. Always.
Jungkook pulls out the bottle of whiskey he keeps in his drawer to momentarily drown out these thoughts. For some, liquor gives them courage. For him, he drinks it because he’s afraid to be brave.
As he replays the way you looked at him last night, he wonders to himself what he’s more scared of - never having you close enough, or losing you completely.
The three films you watch in the cinema that Saturday afternoon are a good distraction to all the thoughts in your head. You occasionally do this because watching other people’s lives play out in film gives you something to ponder about. Sometimes, you let it inspire you to live differently. Other times, it allows you a peek into a life much more exciting than the one you have. In some instances, it gives you a sense of relief that yours is uneventful, lacking in drama and intrigue.
At this moment, you’re not quite sure what you want out of it other than to forget. What exactly, you’re not sure. Is it the way you felt when Jungkook held you? Is it the way he seemed to want more and then nothing at all? Or is it the hope you had that you’d found someone you were willing to give a bit of yourself to, only for the glass to shatter because that’s not what you do - you don’t desire for things not meant for you; you don’t open yourself to heartbreak like that.
Jungkook has always made you feel a lot of things. This time is no different. But this time it also means more. You could lose him completely or have something with him that could be beautiful. One would hurt right away and the other could hurt you down the road. You don’t know which one you’re willing to suffer through.
Suddenly you wish you didn’t get to this point at all. You could’ve left when you had the chance. You could’ve let him not mean to you this much.
You continue to wallow in the sadness. You eat dinner at a ramen place before going home and settling in bed with your best friends on video call. You tell them about the past two days and narrate your moments with Jungkook during the team building that you left out when you spoke to them about it. Looking at them through the screen, you see a mix of understanding and frustration on their faces.
“Why are you avoiding him, hun?” Soomin asks, her eyes soft and comforting.
“Because I’m so embarrassed,” you groan, burying your face on the pillow. “I was so… shameless. I don’t even know what got into me. He just looked at me and I… lost all sense. Who was I to assume that moment would end well? That he’d reciprocate that honesty?”
“And you think not talking about it will rid you of that embarrassment?” She wonders.
“No. But it’s at least better than facing it,” you frown. “I’m not good with words nor feelings. And I’m sure that neither is he. I’m just trying to be professional now because I obviously wasn’t.”
You leave out your fears about meeting his eyes and hearing what he has to say. Even if he returns whatever you feel, there’s so much burden tied to that and you don’t think you’re ready for it. You don’t think you’re ready for any of this.
“It doesn’t seem sustainable though,” Soomin points out. “You’re together all the time. You’ve created a routine and a dynamic that you’ve gotten so used to. It takes more effort to avoid the whole thing, don’t you think?”
“I guess but… we’re all busy with the Arts Center opening. And I plan on tending my resignation right after,” you explain. “There’s no time to talk about feelings. I’ll just let it die down. It’s stupid to have them in the first place.”
The prolonged silence prompts you to turn towards her. “You don’t agree with me, do you?”
“I just don’t think it’s stupid to be feeling what you’re feeling,” Soomin replies. “You spend so much time together. You’re bound to form some attachment and develop affection for him, regardless of how things started. I mean, through all the late-nights and early mornings and stresses and comfort in between, there’s something only two of you share and understand. That’s not stupid. That’s how connections are formed, hun.”
Attachment. Connection. They terrify you but they’re things that you desire as well. You don’t know how deep they are when it comes to Jungkook and you don’t know if they’re something he feels towards you, too.
“Maybe you’re just trying to convince yourself that it isn’t that serious,” she adds. “Maybe it’s because you know that it is, and you don’t know if it’s worth pursuing, if it’s worth finding out if he returns it and if being with him is something that can happen.”
You look away, knowing the truth in her words. You turn to Jimin, who’s been unusually quiet all evening.
“What do you think Jimin?” You ask him. “I mean, it’s one thing to feel something and another to act on it and risk everything for it, right?”
“There’s always something you risk once you acknowledge what you feel for another person,” he says after pondering about it. “For me, acting on it just depends on two things. Is it good for me, and is it good for them? In your case, it’s something to really think about. You’re you and he’s him. And you know what I mean. You’ve been wanting to walk away from this company for years, ___. You wanna be something outside of it. How does being with your boss help with that?”
Jimin’s words remind you of something else you’ve been yearning for - that search for who you are outside of your work, outside of all the years you spent working for this family that have become a core part of who you are. For people like you who have to work extra hard for the things you have, it becomes natural for your job to define you as a means of survival. It doesn’t give you power nor influence; it just gives you a means to get to the next day and to give back to the one person who sacrificed everything for you.
As the years went by, it became more difficult to pull away. This family trusts you, and your confidence has only ever increased as an employee of this company, but not as a professional. You’ve been wanting to learn who you are without the burdens you carry, without the need to constantly prove yourself to the people who helped make you, and Jungkook ties you to all this. Whether it’s pursuing him or working for him, you’re afraid you’ll never be brave enough to do things on your own.
You weren’t supposed to be this attached. You weren’t supposed to be this invested. You weren’t supposed to want to be wanted back.
But Jungkook made you care. He made you feel. He made you be brave. And he’s now the one you have to pull away from.
“You’re right,” you sigh. “Maybe in a way, I needed this to happen. I needed this… moment to remind me that I have to leave and I can’t let him be another reason for me to stay, not when I feel what I feel, and not when I don’t know if he feels the same way.”
“What if he does, though?” Soomin asks. “And what if he asks you to stay?”
“Thinking about it now, I hope he doesn’t,” you say. “It’d be much easier for me if he just lets me go. I can finally walk away from all this. And I can get over what I feel.”
“Is that what you really want?” Soomin adds.
You nod in response. “At least I know I’ll be happy outside of working for the company. Who knows what having him in my life would bring me?”
The book cafe in Mapo district boasts of an elegant yet comfortable design. It has three levels that consist of a library and working spaces, but it’s on the first floor that you find yourself in, tucked in one of the corner tables at the back with your iced coffee and fruit tart.
You listen in awe as the author reads excerpts from her newly released book, which she narrates with vigor and emotion. She answers questions about her purpose for writing this specific story, the inspiration for the characters, and interesting things like who she’d cast if it were to become a movie and what the playlist would sound like. It’s the first book launch you’ve ever been to, and despite not being an avid reader, you have a feeling that it won’t be your last.
There’s something about the storytelling and the process of creating something that captivates you. There’s not much of that in your world. It’s all numbers and profits. It’s soulless, if you’re being honest. It doesn’t give you time to feel or live in the moment or actually bask in the work that you do. You’re there to support, to assist, and while that used to be something you were proud of, the past year has made you think that it’s truly time to move on from it. It’s made you desensitized to things like joy and hope and love, which prompts you to realize that those are what have been missing. Working on the Arts Center gave you a taste of it. You’ve come to the point where you want to know how those truly feel like, and the job has hindered you from fully finding it out.
All your emotions for Jungkook take a backseat the more you think about what your life could be, especially while you watch Namjoon gather what seems to be his team, as he congratulates them for a successful launch. They’re all in casual clothes, looking relaxed, relieved, and fulfilled as the event comes to a close and several people approach the author and ask her to sign their books. You can imagine the stress leading up to all this, but there’s satisfaction in putting together something this intimate and meaningful.
“You made it,” the man with the soft smile says, the child-like innocence of his face, a contrast to his very masculine build. “I’m glad those newsletters and email invites work.”
“I think they’re the only ones I actually read,” you say, earning you a brighter smile from him. “But honestly though, it helps that a book cafe is something I wouldn’t mind being in on a Sunday morning.”
“Exactly!” Namjoon beams. “It’s easy to make it a part of your weekend. Whether it translates to immediate sales isn’t the whole point, although that’s great, don’t get me wrong. But as long as there’s foot traffic and increased interest, then it’s a success. Our launches have been gaining traction on social media. And the—shit, sorry. I’m rambling again,” he chuckles. “I doubt you came here with the intention of listening to me talk about what we do and stuff.”
“Oh, I don’t mind at all,” you assure him. “I don’t actually go to things like this but I thought it might be a good way to have a feel of what it’s like working for your company without inconveniencing you. I mean, I haven’t applied yet but I just wanted to see if this is something I’d enjoy doing.”
“And?” He asks in anticipation.
“It kind of is,” you admit. “I don’t know. There’s just something so personal about it.”
“There really is,” Namjoon nods.
His face turns serious now, something that happens when he’s about to go on a speech about whatever it is he feels strongly about. He’s expressive and it’s quite captivating, which is refreshing in a colleague, you realize.
Sitting across from you in your little nook in the cafe, he talks about the journey of this whole process, how he reached out to the author who turned out was trying to contact him as well. He was hoping to publish one of her manuscripts that was shared to him by a friend, but she offered this one instead, a very personal story that she trusted his company would do justice.
“I sat the whole team down and told them what this means for her as an author and as a person, and what that in turn could mean to the readers,” he continues. “There’s so much responsibility but the return is worth more than you could imagine. Of course, it’s not always easy. We have a relatively small team for the amount of things that we have to do but it works. Communication is smooth, accountability is shared, and we build our trust and respect in each other that way. I think that makes it even more worth it in the end.”
“You’re really trying to lure me in, aren’t you?” You laugh.
“Pretty much,” he chuckles. “I just think our meetings are serendipitous. There were two people who were supposed to take on the role but they backed out last minute - on both cases, I see you the next day. The universe probably has plans.”
“It probably does,” you nod, slowly believing him. “The only reason why I haven’t applied yet is because this is all so new to me and I may not be what you’re looking for.”
“But it could be that we’re what you’re looking for,” he counters. “Even if the industry is new to you, if it’s a place you’re comfortable in and that you think will help you grow professionally, then you become what we need. It’s give and take, really. Your approach to the work impacts how you do it. Yes, it’s still a job but it also means a lot more.”
“You’re very good at this,” you say, feeling more at ease as you speak with him, a stranger who has no idea what you’re going through but is somehow saying the exact things you need to hear. “I just have a timeline I’m working around. My company has an important thing coming up in several weeks and I don’t want to leave before then. It’s also why I’ve been delaying applying.”
“Hey, if we see that we’re a good fit for each other, then we can work around your timeline,” he says. “To help with that, maybe we can chat more casually to relieve you of the pressure. I have some things to return to the office not far from here and you can tell me a bit about the work that you do. What do you think?”
It’s a suggestion you take up, so you both start walking a few streets down to a mid-rise building, a structure that sits amidst cozy cafes and small parks.
The Rkive Publishing office is spacious. Instead of solo desks, there are large tables so there are more opportunities for collaborations, but there are small meeting rooms and private spaces as well. There are floor-to-ceiling windows, shelves that are lined with hundreds of books, and quirky art pieces that give the place a unique yet personal touch. It’s leagues different from what you’re used to, and as you appreciate the way the sunlight makes the whole place glow, you start to think that Namjoon may be right - this might just be what you’re looking for.
You disclose who you work for then tell him your functions, narrate how a usual day looks like, and mention the types of people you usually engage with. But you share how you’ve felt lost in the chaos of everything and that you’ve been trying to find purpose in it but have been unable to.
Namjoon purses his lips, attempting to hide a smile, but you call him out on it.
“I’m just trying not to get too excited,” he reasons, giving in and chuckling now. “We need organization, a sense of urgency, a kind of professionalism that someone of your caliber could bring. I don’t want to get my hopes up and yes, there’s a process, but I hope you give us a chance.”
It’s easy to think that this man has no idea what he’s saying, but he’s been talking about going with his gut feeling all morning - he’s said as much that following his heart and doing what feels right for him allowed him to turn the company into what it is right now. Maybe meeting the first time was just a coincidence, but the pull of the universe - of you to this environment and him to you - is just too strong that you can’t help but think that maybe this is the next step for you. For all the challenges you went through all these years, maybe you deserve something a little more smooth sailing this time.
You don’t make any promises but you do assure him that you’ll send him an email. There are obviously other pressing matters that you have to deal with but this has been a good distraction, one that you allow to preoccupy you for the rest of the day.
After saying goodbye, you walk around the neighborhood and spend the afternoon by the river where you wonder about the people surrounding you.
What dilemmas are they facing? What heartbreaks are they trying to move on from? What new adventure are they preparing for? Or maybe, who are they trying to forget? Who’s waiting at home for them? Are they watching the sunset because they know it’s beautiful or because they’ve forgotten that it is?
You let out a breath once the sun has dipped and the sky has turned a dark shade of blue. You feel a mix of awe at its beauty and disappointment because the day has come to an end. You once more have to face the person you’ve been trying not to think about all weekend.
Giving yourself a pep talk, you go to bed that night with the plan of continuing what you did last Friday, which is avoiding any moments and any chances of talking about what happened. If Jungkook brings it up, then you’ll just have to face it and ask him to forget about that night and then deal with the consequences after. But there’s no way that you’ll say anything first; you’ll ride this out for as long as you can.
Avoiding talking to Jungkook about non-work matters - which is really what you only intended to do - is much more difficult when you have to pretend you don’t care about him.
That Monday morning, you stop yourself from asking how he’s doing after spotting the empty whiskey bottle and beer cans in his kitchen bin. While you give him the usual hangover remedy, you stop short of suggesting that he get some rest or buying him his favorite lunch dish.
During the meeting that you accompany him to in the afternoon, you watch him helplessly as his father hounds him with questions about the other projects, adding even more pressure than what he’s currently under, and you look away when he tries to meet your eyes. You used to send him encouragement through your gentle nods and soft smiles but you’re scared you’ll fall into your feelings once again if you do them, knowing that any sign of him needing you is all it would take for you to give in and talk to him, maybe comfort him.
You’ve become so weak for him, you realize that now. His detachment used to put you off and frustrate you, but knowing him the way you do, it’s what makes you want to be there for him; it’s what makes you want to assure him that you’re just there.
But you aren’t, because you’re pushing him away. You’re making him go through his confusion and stress and exhaustion all on his own because you’re a coward, too. You’re scared of your own feelings. You’re scared of them being rejected and you’re scared of them being returned. You didn’t realize just how much you are because you never actually felt something this deeply for anyone, and that terrifies you even more.
Watching him from your desk as he pores through documents on his laptop is hard, too. You’re done for the day but he’s said earlier that he’ll be staying late to finish a few things because there are many distractions at his place. You want to tell him they can wait, that he’ll need to rest and regain his energy for the week ahead, or that some fresh air could help clear his mind.
But you don’t. Instead, you pack your things and head out, knowing that much as it’s your decision to force this distance between both of you, it’s still something you wish you didn’t have to do. You don’t know how long you can sustain it, but somehow you know that once he gives in, so will you, and so all this might as well just be useless or even worse for you.
Mr. Ri picks up on the change the next morning, as he asks if you and Jungkook had an argument on the way to his penthouse.
“There was no argument, ” you answer. “There’s just a lot on my mind and he’s a big part of that. I just… I just don't know how to deal with things, you know?”
“Things like what?” Mr. Ri asks.
“Feelings,” you sigh. “I mean, you said they can’t be helped. And you’re right, I can’t. That’s my big problem right now.”
“Oh, ___,” he says, softly smiling through the rear view mirror.
You can tell he’s trying to comfort you, something he’s told you before he’s unsure how to do. You brush him off, saying you’ll figure it out, and he assures you that you could talk to him and that maybe, you need to just let it out to someone who knows what you’re battling against. You express your appreciation then inhale deeply once you arrive at Jungkook’s building.
The clanking sound of plates surprises you when you enter the penthouse. You walk cautiously towards the kitchen and find Jungkook already dressed in his work attire, placing the basket of toasted bread in the middle of the dining table where you spot the two plates with eggs in each. You wonder if you’re late, given that he’d gone ahead and made breakfast for both of you already.
“You’re on time,” he says after seeing you check your watch. “I was just up early. I couldn’t really sleep. I think I have too much on my mind.”
“I still could have made this for you,” you say so softly, Jungkook almost misses it.
“I didn’t mind,” he answers, wanting to say more, like that he thought it would be nice to make something for you for a change, or that he hopes you could see the effort.
But he keeps them to himself, just like the many other things that he doesn’t feel ready to verbalize. He hasn’t stopped thinking about you since Thursday night, and he thinks that the distance you’re creating has made his desire even stronger, but so has the fear.
He spent the weekend downing alcohol and then boxing for hours to get rid of the hangover. The lemon ginger tea he made didn’t really work. He placed the bandage on his beat-up knuckles incorrectly, not like how perfectly you’d done it once. And the chicken noodle soup he ordered when he wasn’t feeling well last night didn’t taste as good as yours.
His mornings aren’t the same without the briefest touch from you from fixing his tie, or from the casual conversations during breakfast or in the car. There’s not much of your voice or your laughter that he hears, and definitely none of your smile that always encouraged him, that always assured him. This continues for the rest of the day, as he barely feels your presence unless he asks for it. And even then, it almost feels like you’re not there at all.
He feels so lost without you, unable to focus and function properly without your guidance and your care. He doesn’t know how or when he’s allowed himself to need you this much but it all feels so new yet familiar. All he wants is to be near you again but he admits that seeing you consistently pull away hurts him more than anything.
It’s why that Wednesday, he settles for only minimal glances at you in the car, why he conducts his morning meeting in a cafe instead, why he has the blinds on in his room all afternoon, and why he stays to work late and informs you that he’ll go straight to the Arts Center the next day so he’ll just meet you in the office.
He does all those so he’s forced to be around you less, so he doesn’t look up from his desk to find out that you don’t look his way anymore, so that it’s less difficult when you don’t do your usual routine with him. He at least won’t feel as bad when you don’t ask how he’s feeling if you don’t see him look terrible in the morning after not being able to sleep, or when you don’t fix his necktie for the fifth time this past week if he’s not around you in the first place.
You’ve been going out of your way to avoid him and if he had a bit more courage, he’d probably be able to ask what Thursday night was about and if you’d really wanted to kiss him like he did.
But he’s afraid of two things - that you’d ask him to forget all of it, or that you’d both have to figure out how to move forward if the feelings are indeed mutual. There are so many things that could go wrong but just as many that could go right - he’s scared to hurt you either way. And like he’s always said, he doesn’t know how to handle all of this; he doesn’t know how to talk about what he feels.
Thursday morning comes and while you’re relieved that you don’t have to tiptoe around Jungkook again in his own apartment and feel suffocated by the tension, you won’t lie and say that you deeply felt his absence. You also won’t deny that seeing him walk towards his office without sparing you a glance hurt you a little. You know him enough that he’s probably giving you the space that you’ve insisted on, but still, a part of you wonders if he’s just accepted it, too.
And when you hand him his notes for his late afternoon meeting then when he leaves for the CEO’s office without a look of acknowledgment, you worry that he’s become impatient, that he’ll keep pulling away for as long as you are, and that you’ll be so far apart that you’ll start to wonder if you’d come close to him at all.
But you did this, you remind yourself. You’d been the one to get close, to expect, and then to detach because you were so afraid of what would happen next, and what that would mean for you. He’s probably the last thread you’re holding onto, connecting you to this world that you’ve been planning on leaving for so long. Maybe you’re also scared that if he asked you to stay, you would, and the last thing you want is for him to be the reason why you can’t let go, and then resent him for it.
You sigh in your seat as the various thoughts plague your mind. You decide to go to the pantry for a cup of tea, knowing you have some time before Jungkook’s meeting with his father is scheduled to end.
The support team’s office is unnervingly quiet at 7PM with only Mr. Ri around, shaking his leg against the chair while browsing on his desktop. He greets you when you enter and then joins you to make his cup of coffee - his fourth for the day, he says - before you both head out the pantry and sit by the meeting table.
There aren’t any words said as you both blow away the steam from your respective hot drinks, merely letting the tranquility of the evening envelop the two of you. A few minutes pass and Mr. Ri finally looks up and asks why you’re still here, to which you reply that you wanted to be around when Jungkook’s meeting finishes in case he needs you to do something.
“There’s no need to drop me home,” you tell him. “I can manage on my own.”
“You know Jungkook won’t like that,” Mr. Ri responds. “He has strict instructions to drive for you whenever you stay out late. I can’t and won’t disobey those orders.”
You know this, which is why you sit in silence with your hands on your lap as if you’re being scolded, and you nod.
“Okay,” you say softly.
“He’s worried, you know?” Mr. Ri says after a while. “He’s been asking me how you’re doing, as if you’re not at the point in your relationship where he can directly talk to you. But I’ve actually been worried about him this past week. He stays up late to work, then goes home to work out. He’s not himself lately, always out of it and just… sad.”
“Did he… did he say anything else? About us, specifically?”
“He didn’t tell me if anything happened but I’m guessing something did, something serious enough that you’d avoid him for days and personal enough that he won’t confront you about it.”
Your face falls, guilt painting it, something Mr. Ri picks up.
“It’s about your feelings, isn’t it?” He asks. “You like him and you can no longer deny it.”
You nod in confirmation, unable to verbalize the words that your heart has been screaming for weeks.
“Is it so hard to admit? Is it so hard to talk about?” The older man asks. “I mean, he doesn’t tell me anything but I’ve known that man his whole life, ___. I’ll bet a lot and say that he feels the same way about you. Why are you both putting all your effort into avoiding each other instead of talking it out?”
“Because you know us, Mr. Ri. We’re the worst at these things,” you shake your head, choosing to disregard his statement that Jungkook may be reciprocating the feelings, knowing you’re not ready to think about it. “And you know this, too. It’s not just about what I feel. It’s about who he is and who I am and what those imply. It’s this complicated situation that I wouldn’t even be in if I just… if I was just strong enough to leave the first time. Or the second time.”
“Hey, you know it wasn’t about that,” he says. “You were always strong. You held on even when things were difficult—”
“Yeah, I just held on and now I’m here, caught in between liking my boss and wanting to stay away from him, from his family,” you groan in frustration.
But you utter the thoughts that you only rarely entertain, only because they’re what held you back all those years ago.
“Am I being selfish, for wanting to leave after everything?” You ask. “They’ve been so good to me. And now that I crossed the line and fell for their son, I want to let everything go.”
“Is that really why you want to resign? Because you like Jungkook?”
“No… it isn’t just about that,” you sigh. “Or it is. A big part of it, but also not. I… you know I’ve been thinking about this since the whole thing with Mrs. Byun happened, and that was six years ago. But then CEO Jeon asked me to help Hoseok and I stayed. And it was even more important for him that I be there for Jungkook. And I am but now what? How can I continue knowing that I like him? And how can I find myself and learn who I am outside of this when I’m here, when this is all I’ve ever known and all I’ve ever given myself to? They’ll always be good to me. I feel selfish by staying, but I also feel that way if I leave.”
“None of that makes you selfish, ___. You always had a reason to leave and you could have, but there was also always gonna be a reason for you to stay,” he says. “But they were their reasons, not yours. Whether you stay despite what you feel for Jungkook or leave to find yourself and seek the happiness you deserve, you’re not being selfish.”
You look at the man whom you’ve known for years and he sees in your eyes a woman who’s just asking for any kind of comfort, of any kind of assurance because no else is around to do that.
“We do what we can at every moment, and we can live with our choices if we know they’re the best one we can make at that time,” he continues. “Whatever it is you decide to do, I hope you do it for you. You’re the only person you have to look out for.”
Right outside the door, Jungkook remains unmoving as he processes everything he’d heard, while you continue to talk inside, completely oblivious to how you’ve rendered him paralyzed.
Jungkook’s meeting with his father ended much sooner than he expected. They merely discussed some happenings with the Board and the lunch that they’ll be hosting on Saturday to welcome some of their family’s long-time friends who are flying in from Europe.
He headed to the support office immediately to tell Mr. Ri that he plans to go home soon but hadn’t known you were there as well. But then again, you and their trusted aide - who’s been his father’s chauffeur, bodyguard, and personal assistant for decades - spend a lot of time together, so it didn’t feel off to Jungkook that you’d both be talking. He’s asked the older man to look out for you, too, especially with regards to things that he feels isn’t really his place.
Jungkook didn’t hear much at first, initially deciding to just walk back to his office and call, but once he heard Mr. Ri asking you about resigning, he stopped in his tracks. He felt foolish to be listening in on a conversation he’s not a part of, especially since it’s also because of him.
It should’ve delighted him to hear you say that you like him. Jungkook could’ve only dreamt up that reality and it still feels surreal. You didn’t have a reason to lie and the fact that he isn’t the only one seemingly overwhelmed by his own feelings should be a good thing.
But that also seems to be your reason for wanting to leave, and the thought breaks his heart in ways he can’t explain. You’ve apparently been planning on leaving for years but never got around to do so. If you stayed when his father asked you to, would you do the same if he asked? And he believes that up until last week, your relationship had become the most comfortable it’s ever been. You seem happy here, but why did it also seem like you just wanted to get away?
The thoughts make his head hurt, and while a part of him wishes he hadn’t heard anything, he at least knows you plan on leaving. And that’s something he absolutely cannot bear.
The sounds of the chairs being fixed disrupt his thoughts. When he hears Mr. Ri suggest that you should start packing up, Jungkook quietly walks back to his office and nonchalantly calls the older man to inform him that he plans on staying up late and that he should drop you home already. If Mr. Ri notices the odd tone of his voice, he doesn’t say anything. He merely expresses his confirmation and not long after, Jungkook hears some shuffling outside his closed door.
“Is there anything you need from me before I leave, Mr. Jeon?” You call out, the walls in between both of you feeling higher and thicker than ever before.
He knows that you know that he no longer asks you to do anything at this hour, and he comforts himself by thinking that it’s your way of letting him know that you’re still there. But the thought is short-lived, as he once again plays the conversation he’d overheard in his mind.
“There’s none,” he says pointedly. “You may leave.”
It takes a while but he eventually hears you walk out. Jungkook feels himself breathe for the first time in the last 15 minutes, before he feels suffocated once again.
Maybe pulling away last week when he’d been so close gave you the idea that he didn’t want you at all, and maybe that had affected you more than he expected. Maybe him, creating more distance that you’d initiated, made you think that that’s what he wanted after all that. Perhaps his being a coward in facing his own feelings had pushed you away, too, and if you’re scared of what you feel for him, maybe letting you know that he feels the same way is what will make you stay. He could be the happiness you’re searching for, Jungkook convinces himself. He could be what you want and need.
And he already knows that you’re all that for him. Whatever rules he created for himself and the limits he imposed are all pointless if he doesn’t have you around at the end of it. If his life after all this doesn’t have you in it, there’s no happiness for him. A new job for you could take you anywhere, maybe far away from where he is; it could lead you to someone, someone who isn’t him.
He hates that an overheard conversation about you resigning is what will take for him to finally be honest about what he feels for you. And that potentially losing you by his side is the push he needs to let you know that he wants you, that he wants everything with you, and that he hopes you want the same.
It’s 9:30 PM by the time he enters the car, his head hazy from the two glasses of whiskey he had. Mr. Ri calls him out on another night of him drinking in the office and orders him to get straight to bed like he’d done a few times before when Jungkook had been too stressed and too stubborn to rest. He merely nods though but he follows through, skipping dinner then mindlessly taking a shower before falling asleep in bed after finishing a bottle of beer.
The ringing of the alarm causes Jungkook to grunt and turn off his phone for the peace and quiet that he needs, given the throbbing of his head. But in the silence, he hears the soft knocks on his door, so consistent that he decides to just open it and ask the person on the other side to stop.
But of course, it’s you, and the way you quickly turn your head away reminds him that he’s got nothing but his sweatpants on and he’s too sleepy for anything else to register.
“It’s 7AM, Mr. Jeon. You have an executive meeting at 8,” you tell him, voice so soft and so far away.
“Fuck,” he groans, rubbing his temples to massage the pain away. “I’ll just take a shower. Don’t make breakfast anymore. We leave in 20 minutes.”
“Noted, sir,” you say, then walk back towards the kitchen.
It’s 15 minutes later when his bedroom door opens and he nervously walks over to you. Unable to still remove the image of his half-naked form in your mind, you focus your gaze elsewhere, but he forces it on him when he asks you to fix his necktie, the first time he’d ever done so.
“I was rushing,” he explains.
You nod and head to him, hating how your hands slightly shake at feeling so close to him again. You can feel his breath as you watch the rise and fall of his chest. He probably feels as anxious as you, perhaps no longer used to this routine after you stopped it days ago. But you manage without sparing him a glance, keeping your distance and your eyes focused on anything else but him from the walk down to the car and throughout the ride to work.
It’s difficult for you to look at him, not only because you’re ashamed but because you’re afraid of what you’ll see. Maybe his eyes will tell of his acceptance of this new dynamic. Maybe they’ll reflect anger and frustration at how you’ve disrupted his routine. Or maybe they’ll show sadness - which is what you’re most terrified of - because that’s your weakness. Any time he looks like he needs comfort or he needs you, you know you’d give in, you know you’d want to be there even if you’ve spent the past week staying as far away as possible.
You know you don’t have much time left here. The Arts Center opens over a month from now and you’ve decided to tender your resignation soon after. You know you should be savoring whatever moments you have with him and perhaps that’s what saddens you the most because you don’t know what will come after.
Your happiness isn’t here, and staying to find out if it’s with him isn’t worth it, not when there’s baggage you carry; not when your own past and insecurities weigh you down.
Arriving in the office, you rush to your desk then walk to his room to give him the notes he needs for the meeting. You turn towards him slowly when he calls you, your name in his voice suddenly sounding foreign.
“Can you prepare me lemon ginger tea? Please?”
His voice is soft, as if he feels burdensome for making such a request. You want to give in so badly and ask how he’s feeling. But you stop yourself. It’s not the place nor time.
You accompany his tea with pastries, your own request for him to have breakfast, and you get your own, in response to him instructing you to do so. You see from your periphery that he’s trying to catch your attention as the meeting starts, but with this, you hold back. You don’t want to see what you now know would be sadness in his eyes.
Jungkook has entered the deepest nook of your heart, you realize. You don’t know how you let him get there, and you don’t know how to push him out.
“Another night of drinking, huh?” Hoseok’s unusually somber voice disrupts Jungkook’s thoughts as he zones out during lunch. “The Arts Center getting you that stressed and anxious?”
Jungkook looks at his cousin questioningly.
“I know how you look when you’re tired and this isn’t it,” Hoseok responds. “You’re hungover.”
“I’m fine,” Jungkook huffs, not wanting to get into this with a man who would know when he’s lying.
“You should be, Kook. There’s a lot going on these next few weeks and we need you at your best. Your team has worked so hard for the Arts Center,” Hoseok reminds him. “So trust them. And don’t let them down.”
As always, his words hit Jungkook where they should. Whatever’s going on in his personal life - even if it involves you, his assistant - he has to be professional first, and that means making sure that everything is ready for the launch in six weeks. There’s a lot he has to meet and prepare for, and he doesn’t know how you’re able to do it. You may be distancing yourself from him but you’re still able to focus and carry out your tasks accordingly. You’ll be fine without him, he thinks. But if you’ll go on thinking that he doesn’t feel the same way about you, he knows he’ll regret it. He knows he’ll regret it even more if he doesn’t ask you to stay.
“You don’t have to worry about me,” Jungkook assures his cousin. “I’ve been out of it but I’ll get my shit together.”
“Good. I don’t have to remind you that there’s a lot riding on this. But ___ is there to help. I’m here, too. You’ve got people who believe in you, okay?” Hoseok smiles, a slice of comfort that Jungkook didn’t know he needed. “It’s gonna be okay.”
Jungkook nods and heads back to his office after a full morning has passed, tricking himself into thinking that things will indeed be okay. He just needs to find the courage to face you, finally talk to you, ask you about that night, and tell you what he feels.
But even getting you alone proves to be difficult, as you have your own lunch plans that he didn’t want to interfere with, and your own deadlines that he set that he knows you’ll make sure to meet.
Jungkook gets caught up in the afternoon in another meeting with some of the Board members who came to visit. Biting his lip in frustration, he manages to not lose his mind as he sits through it, merely hoping to the heavens that you haven’t left yet despite the late hour.
He speed walks down the hallway once he gets to his floor and almost panics when he sees your work space empty. But he spots your unfinished cup of coffee and he knows you won’t leave without cleaning up. He briefly sighs in relief when he hears shuffling from inside his room, walking closer to find you standing by his desk, with your back facing the door. You place a folder on his tray for signatures and a bound manual for review, then turn around and jerk in surprise when you see him standing there.
“I didn’t know your meeting had ended, sir,” you say, the formality grating his ears. All he wants is to hear you speak to him casually again, for you to call him by his name once more.
“It just did,” he hums. “I didn’t know if you were still here. I wanted to see you before you could leave.”
His words catch you off-guard but you try to look unaffected.
“Is there anything else you need me to do, sir?” You ask, knowing that he’s past giving you work at this hour on a Friday, but you’re too nervous to think of what else he needs you for.
“No. I…” he stutters. “You, uh, you’ve been avoiding me,” he manages to say, his eyes pleading for you to look at him.
But still, you don’t.
“I’m with you everyday, Mr. Jeon,” you insist, your tone cold. “I can’t possibly be avoiding you.”
“You haven’t looked at me all week.”
As if in reflex, you glance at him, then shift your eyes on the couch to your left.
“That doesn’t count,” he says, his voice oozing in desperation for you to just spare him some time, something you’ve never heard before.
So you give in, as you slowly meet his eyes, and you’re reminded why you didn’t want to do it in the first place. They’re so sullen. Tired, it seems, but just lacking in light. They were always so expressive, even when they’re angry, and even more when they’re sad.
“I just…” you start, knowing that with all that’s happened and with all the stress and pressure he has to endure, you can’t be another one in his list to have to try to figure out. You at least owe it to him to be honest.
You look at the door, suddenly conscious of who might wander in your area, and Jungkook takes your cue, closing it once you nod.
“So, why have you been avoiding me?” He asks again, his voice gaining a bit of life now that you’ve given him a chance to talk.
“I was just ashamed,” you admit, looking away as the scene from last week plays in your mind again. “I said things I shouldn’t have and they made you uncomfortable and—”
“How do you know that?” He interjects.
“Because you pulled away!” You say too loudly, lowering your head in embarrassment at the clear frustration you’re expressing. “I thought you wanted to… uh…”
“Kiss you,” he finishes, earning him the slightest of nods from you.
“But you didn’t and I just felt so embarrassed,” you say, your lips quivering now at how much you’re saying, at how much you’re baring yourself to him, unsure if he’ll do the same. “That was completely out of line.”
“You weren’t wrong though,” he almost whispers as he slowly walks towards you. “About what I wanted to do. You seemed to want that, too, but we were out there and I… I was scared that if I’d done anything you weren’t ready for, then I’d push you away. I still did anyway. Because you’ve spent the entire week avoiding me, talking to me formally, not fixing my tie…”
You stop the giggle that you almost let out, but you can’t help your tiny smile as he whines about what you’ve been purposely doing.
“I just didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know how to face you after that,” you explain, knowing there’s so much more to say but that you’ll start with this. “But you avoided me, too,” you suddenly pout.
“What did you expect me to do?” He exclaims. “You did it first! You know I’m not good with these things.”
“Neither am I.”
Jungkook controls himself from kissing the frown off your face and instead, he walks closer. He gets to appreciate you now as he shamelessly eyes your form, the pastel-colored long sleeved blouse tucked inside your white skirt making his heart race.
He spots your shy smile as you try to turn away, and he steps closer, wanting to see more.
“You still aren’t gonna look at me?” He asks, the soft desperation in his voice prompting you to be bold again.
“I can’t. I might lose my mind,” you admit, groaning right after at your own honesty.
“I’d quite like that,” he hums. “I… I was actually losing my mind all week. It didn’t feel right to have you feel so far away. I wanted to fix things but I didn’t know how.”
“That makes both of us,” you sigh, allowing yourself to finally gaze at him in his black suit, the classic look taking your breath away every time. “But I guess it’s the same with me. I didn’t know how badly I wanted you close until you weren’t anymore.”
You hesitatingly reach out your hand, an attempt to let him know that close is what you want him to be, but also to see for yourself if this is real, if he really is just breaths away from you, and if he could be even closer.
“I’m not pulling away this time,” he assures you, his boyish smile sending your mind in a frenzy.
Your fingers graze his chest, the way it quickly rises and falls telling you that his heart is probably racing as fast as yours. You fiddle with the neck of his tie before pulling it to bring him closer. He follows your lead, stepping forward and meeting your eyes, seeming like he doesn’t want his off of you.
“So uh, are you losing your mind now?” He whispers teasingly.
The way he utters the words with such yearning is a contrast to the shy look on his face. It’s a side of him you’re not ready for, but it’s one you’re thoroughly enjoying. It’s also pushing you to be even more shameless, as you nod and take his hand this time, placing it on your waist so you could feel his touch again. He’s gentle, trailing his fingers up and down your sides.
“I am,” you manage to say, and you wish he could tell by the way you’re panting that his effect on you is way beyond your control now, and that it’s something you want to embrace. You mirror his smile, soft and warm yet full of desire.
He makes his move, placing his hand on your cheek as he eliminates whatever distance is left. And he stands there, just one breath away.
“You have no idea how much I’ve been thinking about that night, wishing I’d done things differently,” he heaves, his eyes flitting to your lips constantly, “wishing I had been brave enough to do what I’ve been wanting to do for so long.”
You lick your lips in tandem with his, and once you feel him thumb your cheek, it’s all over for you. With a whisper of his name, you hold your breath, and the next thing you feel is his mouth on yours.
He kisses you deeply, expressing just how much he’s been wanting to do this. You smile as you return his desire, suddenly feeling like you’re floating, as if he’s some dream that you’re able to reach, like he’s that beautiful thing that’s tangible, that you can touch, that you can taste.
You moan once his tongue gains entrance, entangling with yours and dominating you immediately until he’s all you can breathe in. He cups your face, directing it where he wants, while his one hand trails down your back to knead your ass, as if to keep himself steady as he loses himself in you. Your breathing quickens even more as the pleasure rises, and with your fingers palming his chest and gripping his collar, he pushes you against his table.
He cages you and keeps you in place while he devours your lips, and you feel him all over you just as you wanted. You’re hypnotized by his scent, by his warm breath, and by the large hands that now grip your waist and lift you to sit on the edge of his desk.
Your mind is hazy, high on the drug that is his kiss, lust-filled and passionate and relentless. You yearn for him even more the longer you taste him, feel him, and there’s no part of you that wants this to end. Your moans push him to kiss you harder, leaving you a whimpering mess and with a mind that's truly unable to think a single thought outside of this trance-like feeling. His arms now wrap around you, and his hands, seemingly desperate to touch every part of you that he can, trail up and down your back, as if to caress you, as if to say that he won’t stop, that he won’t let you go.
Finally needing air, he removes his lips from yours only to travel to the most sensitive parts of you - on the shell of your ear that his tongue grazes repeatedly, and on your neck that he licks and sucks vigorously. You feel the chills all over your body, and you grind against him to try to satiate that growing need of yours, as you start to feel the dampness in your underwear. His hardening length makes you want everything he can give you, rules and boundaries be damned.
This isn’t like you but you’ve never felt this much pleasure and desire in all your life. Nothing could’ve prepared you for the ecstasy that kissing and feeling him would give. You feel his desperation and desire for you, as he grunts and moans your name, aching to feel more, to do more. You want to live in this moment, and then live it everyday, just take him in and take everything and give him everything.
But you should’ve known that some things are too good to be true. And much as you hope and imagine for things to turn out a certain way in belief that you deserve good things in this world, they don’t. Those don’t happen to people like you. There’s always something underneath it all, as the fantasy shatters like a glass ceiling breaking at his words.
“Stay, ___. Don’t leave,” he hums against you, the tip of his nose gliding against your neck as he takes in your scent. “Please don’t resign. I can’t… I—”
You feel frozen as you process what he’s said. “Wha-what?” You manage to ask, your mind slowly waking up now.
His lips take a pause at devouring your skin and he faces you, his chest heaving and his eyes glassy and pleading as he repeats his words.
“Don’t leave, ___. Don’t resign. Stay with me. I need you next to me.”
“Where is this coming from?” You demand, your heart racing now for a different reason, your anxiety building at how he could’ve known of your plans. You pull away to get a better look at him, with guilt now painting his eyes.
“I… I overheard you and Mr. Ri talking last night,” he admits shamefully. “I didn’t mean to. I was going to just walk away but you talked about leaving and what you feel about me and I just… I froze. I don’t want you to go anywhere, ___. I need you here.”
The silence drags on as you let his words settle, words you thought you wanted to hear. But not like this, you realize. This isn’t how you imagined he’d tell you he wants to be with you.
He attempts to cup your cheek again but you pull yourself back, the rejection breaking him this time.
“You knew I wanted to kiss you last week,” you start, your voice shaking as the pieces fit together. “You knew yet you pulled away. You let a whole week pass with this distance, with no attempt from you to talk to me about it, or to even tell me what you feel but then you learn last night, after listening to a conversation you had no part in, that I like you. And tonight, you kiss me because suddenly you need me? Because you want me to stay next to you?”
“I—” Jungkook starts, unable to say anything as you put it the way you do.
He’s wanted you for so long and always had reasons to keep his distance. He tried to gain the courage to talk to you this week, even as you avoided him, but he didn’t. There was just so much fear, so much worry about what he should do, about you asking him to forget about it, about possibly pushing you away even more. He didn’t intend for things to happen this way but for you to think that he’s only doing this in an attempt to keep you from resigning is all kinds of wrong, even if in hindsight, that’s exactly what it looks like. He could’ve said something earlier, he could’ve told you what he felt, and he would’ve been brave enough if he really wanted to.
“You knew how I felt and you kissed me so I’d stay,” you repeat. “You hate change and me leaving will change everything for you and this… this is how you make sure I don’t.”
Stepping down from the desk, you realize how much you’d lost yourself in him, with your skirt bunched up and your blouse all creased. You fix yourself, suddenly ashamed, and suddenly unsure where you stand. It took so much of you to admit what you felt for him and now it seems that he hadn’t been into you the way that you thought.
You want him with you, but he wants you here, that’s the difference.
“I… want you,” Jungkook says, the words suddenly hard for him to say, as he gets choked up at the distance you’re creating. “I guess I always have. I just couldn’t do anything because I had to be professional and there were boundaries I couldn’t cross. But I couldn’t help it. Those don’t matter to me anymore. Only you do.”
His pleading eyes ask you to believe him, to understand him this time. But your silence and the way you look at him in disappointment tell him it’s not something you’re able to do.
“I never thought you’d feel the same way,” he continues. “And now I know that you do and that just means we can figure it out, right? Staying means we get to be together everyday. We… we get to have this everyday. Don’t you… don’t you want that?”
This is when you realize that much as you want to believe in his sincerity, it’s hard when he thinks of you as a necessity. You make his life easier. You’re his assistant, after all. And that makes you unsure if he only wants you because he needs you, or if they’re just the same thing to him.
He didn’t even ask you why you wanted to leave. Maybe that should tell you enough.
“___, please. I just want to be with you.”
It’s also at this moment when you realize just how much you’ve fallen for him. You’d feared that if he asked you to stay, you would, and that means putting another person’s needs ahead of yours again, just like what you’ve done all these years. Staying would mean that you’d be unable to find yourself outside of all this, and you’ve given up too much not to choose your own happiness this time, even if it means saying goodbye to the person who also makes you happy.
Finding what little strength you have in you, you turn to him. “I don’t want to stay, Jungkook,” you say, your heart breaking as you utter the words, even more when you ask him to forget about everything that happened tonight. “We can’t do this. I can’t do this with you. Not like this. I’m so sorry.”
With your smashed heart in your hands, you do the hard thing and walk out the door, leaving in your wake a man whose broken pieces that you’ve put together all shattered once again.
Walking down the block to get to the bus stop feels like a marathon, as the street feels so long with the heavy burden you’re carrying weighing you down too much. But you manage to get there, only to decide that you’d much rather spend the ride home on your own. You turn to a street to hail a cab then realize once you get in one that it was the spot where Jungkook had seen you, drenched under the rain with a sprained ankle.
He healed parts of you that night, with his quiet assurance that you didn’t have to go through your struggles on your own. You’d hold on to that thought months later, though you’re unsure about now - much as things hurt at this moment, all you want is to be alone.
You get off two stops early and mindlessly walk towards the convenience store, thinking that some snacks for dinner would do. You don’t really feel like eating but your body’s needs are greater than your own desire to eat. Walking down the aisles, you decide you’re only good for some cup noodles tonight. You don’t even deserve boiled eggs that you suddenly craved, nor honey chips, and you definitely don’t deserve dessert after what you allowed to happen earlier.
You stop your movements once you realize you’re sitting on the same spot where you and Jungkook had eaten when he drove you home that night he took you to the park. It had been a terrible evening after that incident with your ex, but Jungkook was the protective one who helped shoulder all the anger that you were too exhausted to feel. He was a reliable and comforting presence, familiar yet new with his warmth. During the occasional moments in the weekend after when your mind would go to that night, you’d think of Jungkook and how he made you feel safe.
It feels too much, so you take your noodles and finish them on the bench outside. You walk home after, letting the crisp evening air envelop you as your mind replays what happened.
You don’t think you’ve ever wanted to feel someone the way you wanted to feel him, but you suppose that’s why it hurts as much as it does. You wanted him to want you as much as you did, and you were perhaps foolish to think he’d have the same reasons as you. Maybe you were really just stupid for feeling anything in the first place, knowing your place in his world. You’re everything convenient and easy and familiar and despite the week of walking on eggshells around him, you gave in so quickly. He knew what to do when it came to you.
And maybe that’s on you. You allowed yourself to feel so much for a man whose life is so intertwined with yours that it’s hard to know what’s real. Yet you know that despite all that, your desire for him is still too strong. It’s why you had to leave right away.
Another moment of him pleading for you to not resign and you might’ve given in again. Another second of hearing him ask you to be with him and you would’ve believed him - that there was sincerity in all that, that he’d be with you regardless if you stayed in the company or not. Now you’re left with the thought that the convenience was what he wanted, that as he crossed the line, it was all or nothing for him. And that you’d be the weak one, willing to give up what else you could be outside of all this just for him.
Perhaps you’re also asking for too much. He’s used to a life without much consequences to his actions. There’s a lot he doesn’t know, especially what you had to endure and give up to be here and what you want out of life now that you’re old enough to take control of it. Maybe for him, asking you to stay was that declaration and proof of his feelings; doing so took so much out of him already that thinking of what life would be like without being with you everyday was too hard of a reality to accept or work around.
You’re too out of it that you don’t realize that you’ve been standing outside your door. You’re thankful for the weekend at least. You’ll spend half of it in bed, and the other half preparing yourself for how you’ll face him again, and how you’ll finally say goodbye.
You enter and sigh at the warmth inside. Dropping your bag on the floor, you stand by your tiny dining table and take a bite off the apple you find in your fridge. You gaze at your shelf, the one filled with photos of your family and friends and a few more of different sceneries that you took using the disposable camera that Jungkook had gifted you for your birthday. It’s another reminder of how much a part of your life he’s become, how, of all the people in the world, he’d been the one to show you that capturing moments is a gift you shouldn’t take for granted.
You often wondered what moments he liked to capture. He doesn’t have photos in his penthouse other than those of structures and buildings that are artistically taken. There are framed old blueprints and historical pieces but nothing of him and the people in his life.
Maybe he doesn’t have good enough memories he wants to keep. For a short moment, you wished that the times he shared with you are ones he’d like to hold onto. But maybe the idea would hurt more - you’ll just be a memory like he would be to you.
You always wanted to keep only good ones of him, but the sight of him rooted in his spot and in shock as you turned him down is far from something you want to remember. He’s something you didn’t know you wanted, but he stands between you and the life you’ve always wished for yourself - one where you get to decide, to be free, to be happy.
He’ll let you go and forget all this, you think to yourself. You’ll be the one who walked away. And he’ll be the one who didn’t run after you.
Jungkook is stunned as he watches your retreating form. The sounds of your heels against the marble floor disappear as he remains unmoving from his spot in his room where he’d kissed you just moments earlier. You felt and tasted just like he imagined, and the moment his lips touched yours, he knew he’d want to keep kissing you over and over again.
It was the first time in a long time that he allowed himself to be honest about how he felt, giddy emotions included. It felt freeing to be able to admit all of that to you after all these months of denying it and walking around eggshells when it came to you. He’d been sure, after last night, that you felt the same way, even more when he felt how your body reacted and how your heart raced, aching for him as much as his heart was yearning for you.
You sounded hypnotizing, too. The way you’d moaned his name ignited something in him that none of the women he’d slept with had ever done before, and he knows it’s because he’d never felt anything genuine for them. They were good for the moment but he knew, especially the instance that he felt you close, that he wanted you for more than that. He wanted the soft touches and the gentle whispers, the longing looks and the intertwined hands. He wanted more than he thought he would, but during his most vulnerable state, he uttered the words he’d been dying to say since last night when he learned of your plans.
He asked you to stay. He told you he needs you, that he wants to be with you.
They sounded like pleas and maybe that’s what they were. From the deepest and coldest nooks of his heart, he was pleading for you to not leave. He’d finally admitted what he’d been so scared to accept, but all his words did were hurt you.
You insisted that all he cared about was the convenience of being together everyday, that you staying meant he’d get to keep all that was familiar. And he doesn’t know what would be taken away from you if you did.
You wanted him, too, didn’t you? Wasn’t that enough? And wasn’t being with him all that mattered?
Sure, there’d be complications, but those are things he knows you’d both be able to face, they’re things you can navigate around and figure out together because this isn't just a one-time, spur-of-the-moment type of thing. He wants all of you, everything with you, whatever it takes.
He hadn’t realized it until that second he held you in his arms. And then again when you pulled away, looked at him with glassy eyes, and told him you couldn’t stay.
He’d been too hurt to run after you. He didn’t know what to say then. How would he, when you’re the one who couldn’t commit to what you felt by staying around? He felt that betrayal, of that feeling of inadequacy, of his feelings for you not being enough. He bared his emotions to you after being so scared of doing so, and then you crushed his heart just like that, with his broken pieces that you’d just put together, scattered on the floor.
This isn’t like him. It’s been a long time since he’s allowed himself to feel so much for another person, to care for them, to want them in a way that scares him. But you showed him a life where it was possible to open himself up again, to find out what happiness could feel like this time, and in that same breath, you took it all away.
He’s not sure where to go from here. But he decides he’ll think about that tomorrow. Tonight, he just wants to forget. Tonight, he just wants to wallow in his sadness, erase the memory of your touch and the feel of your mouth against his, and let it all go.
Jungkook instructs Mr. Ri to go home. He’ll drive himself, he insists. There’s just no one right now he wants to be around.
He drinks a glass of whiskey for the road and manages to get home in one piece. He settles on the couch as he finishes another half bottle, then chugs down a few cans of beer after. The image of you gets blurry. His mouth numbs and he starts forgetting your taste on his lips, too.
His head falls on the pillow and his hand mindlessly reaches out. There’s no heartbeat that he feels; he’s forgotten how fast yours was already. The sound of your laughter and then of your moans is replaced with a buzzing in his ear as his mind starts to fall away.
The warmth of your body is gone but somehow he feels hot, so hot but he can’t get his clothes off. He struggles a little, his fingers aren’t doing their job so he gives up instead, curls into the corner of the couch, and for the briefest moment, he sees your smile so clearly. And then his mind drifts away completely, taking his confusion and yearning for you along with it.
At least for now, there’s not much of you he remembers. But somewhere deep inside, he knows that’ll all change when he wakes up in the morning and searches for you, knowing you won’t be around to tell him that everything is gonna be okay.
Hoseok massages his temple as his sixth call to his cousin in the last half hour remains unanswered.
“He’s still not picking up,” he groans, the unusual feeling of annoyance bubbling inside him at Jungkook’s irresponsibility.
It’s Saturday morning and some friends of their family flew from Europe last night for lunch at the Jeons’ estate. This gathering was scheduled in time for their grandfather’s death anniversary today, and it’s an event that Mr. Jeon was adamant that Jungkook and Hoseok attend as their respective families’ representatives and as heirs of the company. Those friends had been there when their grandfather built Jeon Corporation from the ground up, and welcoming them is a sign of respect for that friendship and for the memory of the man they’re celebrating today.
Jungkook had informed Mr. Ri that he’ll be driving himself to the estate and promised to be there before 11 AM, as what his father had requested. It’s half past that and he’s still nowhere to be found. He hasn’t been picking up his phone and his friends claim they don’t know where he is. Knowing how important today is, Hoseok wanted to accompany Mr. Ri in going to the younger man’s apartment to pick him up and find out why he’s late. When the elder Jeon asks, which he will, Hoseok would at least have a reason to give. It just better be a good one.
They both arrive at the building and are informed that Jungkook’s cars are still in their respective slots. He’s not in any of the amenities and the guards report that they haven’t seen him since he arrived on his own last night. He may not be a fan of these types of events but Jungkook always shows up. He knows what today means for their family; if not for his father, then at least for his grandfather, a man he respected and looked up to. If, for some reason, he failed to wake up, then he must be in a bad condition, and Hoseok either has to scold his cousin, or cover for him.
With no one answering the door, Mr. Ri uses his access and enters. It’s dark and quiet inside, with the blinds all closed. When he and Hoseok find Jungkook passed out on the couch with an empty whiskey bottle and beer cans on the floor, it’s the same moment that Mr. Ri’s phone rings, and it’s your name that lights up the screen.
“Hi, Mr. Ri,” you groggily say. “I’m sorry I missed your calls. I had a late night and just woke up. Is everything okay?”
“I’m not sure,” he sighs, as he watches Hoseok pull Jungkook from his cowering form in an attempt to get him to wake up.
“What do you mean?” You ask, standing from your bed now, suddenly awake.
“I was calling to ask if you knew where Jungkook was. Their family gathering is today and he was supposed to be at his parents’ house 30 minutes ago but he wasn’t. He wasn’t picking up our calls either.”
“Oh, I… I don’t know where he is,” you say softly, the mention of his name reminding you of what transpired last night, the image of Jungkook’s dejected look appearing in your mind. You worry about him though, wondering what time he got home. “Have you found him? Is he okay?”
“Hoseok and I are at his apartment and he’s passed out drunk,” Mr. Ri states, as Jungkook finally opens his eyes and mumbles some words that the older man has to walk closer to hear. “What happened last night, ___? Why is he calling your name? And why is he asking for you to come back?”
It shouldn’t come as a surprise to you that Jungkook had spent last night drinking his feelings away. You know enough from your time with him that it’s what he does when he’s stressed or mad or frustrated, and then he wakes up the next morning and hits the gym to deal with his hangover. There’s none of that today, apparently, and you stop yourself from instructing Mr. Ri to prepare him some lemon ginger tea.
“What happened last night, ___?” He repeats. “Did you fight?”
“We…” you start, knowing that if there’s anyone who has to know about last night, it’s the man on the other end of the phone. “We, uh… we kissed. And then he asked me not to resign then I pulled away.”
Walking towards the kitchen to hand Hoseok a glass of water, Mr. Ri asks if you’d told Jungkook of your plans, stating that he hadn’t told him about it.
“He overheard us talking last Thursday,” you respond. “He knew what I felt about him, kissed me, then asked me to stay. He said he didn’t want me to go, that he wanted to be with me, and that we could be together everyday. It didn’t feel right,” you continue, your voice shaking now as you recall the conversation. “It wasn’t supposed to happen that way. We were supposed to talk about it. He wasn’t supposed to use my feelings against me like that.”
“Did you tell him why you’re planning on leaving?”
“No… He just went on about needing me to be with him and I… I couldn’t bear it,” you say, feeling the tears dance around your eyes. “You told me that I could always leave but even then, I’d always have a reason to stay but it would be their reason, not mine. I finally built the courage to decide on this because you know I need this. I don’t want him to be my reason this time. Or else I’ll never be able to let all of it go.”
“I know,” Mr. Ri sighs, knowing more than anyone what you mean.
He’ll never be brave like you, but he understands that burden, that desire to just be free; he knows what it’s like to be held back even if it’s your own decision. Because at the end of the day, you’ll always think you have a debt to be paid. He knows he does, but he’ll always believe that you don’t. Surviving was always enough.
“But I think he has to know, ___,” he continues. “He wouldn’t let himself go through this kind of suffering if you don’t mean that much to him. You have to tell him the truth. And I mean everything. You owe it to yourself, too. I know he means a lot to you but you can’t move forward in any way, with or without him, if you’ll just keep him in the dark.”
You let Mr. Ri’s words settle. You told yourself the moment you entered the company that you won’t let your past define you, including your relationship with this family. You’ll work hard and everyone else will know you for that, and not for any other reason. You also knew that you’d spend every second of being here trying to prove to yourself that you’re capable, despite the irony that you were the one defining your time here based on your past that you just somehow couldn’t run away from.
You weren’t supposed to feel anything for Jungkook. You could’ve gone on with your plan of resigning without feeling bad that you were leaving him behind. And even in that alternative reality where he’d ask you to stay, it would’ve been easy to say no. What makes this difficult is that you started to care. You got scared that if he asked you, you would stay. And now that he did, you have to be stronger than your desire to be with him.
Leaving would be hard, but staying would be much harder.
You wish it was easy to make him understand. But you suppose without him knowing the truth, he wouldn’t be able to.
So you give Mr. Ri permission.
“I don’t know how to tell him,” you say. “You would. Make him understand. Maybe he’ll let me go. Maybe he’ll still come after me. And maybe he’ll forgive me, too.”
Mr. Ri hums and drops the call. He returns to the living room where Jungkook is now seated upright on the couch, downing his second glass of water and taking medicine to deal with the hangover. The blinds are now up, causing him to squint his eyes. At least he looks alive now.
“That was ___,” Mr. Ri says. “She was wondering how you were.”
“Did you tell her I look terrible?”Jungkook asks bitterly.
“I did. She also told me what happened.”
“What… happened?” Hoseok wonders. “Did you have a big fight?”
Knowing he has no way out of this, Jungkook tells the truth. “We, uh, we kissed,” he answers, earning him a gasp from his cousin, who clarifies that while he’s not that surprised, he’s curious as to why both of you aren’t together right now.
“___ plans on resigning. He asked her not to,” Mr. Ri answers. “But you… you have to let her go, Jungkook. She needs to learn who she is and what she can do without anything holding her back.”
“If that’s her reason, then she has to know that she can keep learning who she is and what she can do here, with me,” Jungkook insists, slowly gaining clarity, as all the words he couldn’t say last night suddenly come out so easily. “There’s so much she can do. If what we feel for each other is the issue and that means she can’t directly work for me, then there are other departments where she’d fit well in. This isn’t just about convenience for me. I want to see her everyday but having her around means I get to make sure she’s taken care of, that she’s treated well.”
“And then what? She’ll feel indebted to you because of that?” Mr. Ri counters. “This is more than just developing her skills or building her career, Jungkook. This is about being someone outside of this company. It’s about doing something without feeling like she constantly has to prove that she deserves what she has.”
“And she does. Who does she have to prove anything to? We’re beyond that. Everyone knows she’s capable.”
“She has to prove it to herself. It may be hard for you to understand but she… she won’t get to accept all that she is until she’s ridden herself of the burden she carries. For as long as she works for your family, she’ll always feel it.”
The words feel a little too personal, Jungkook thinks, as Mr. Ri talks about your insecurities as if he’d seen you live them, and perhaps he has. The older man witnessed those first few turbulent weeks, and having known you since you started working here through the CEO, perhaps Mr. Ri had seen how your spirit broke a little because of Jungkook.
But still, something about the way Mr. Ri looks sullenly at him says that there’s more to what the older man had seen, as if he himself is pleading for Jungkook to let you go this way, as if the care runs deep and the words carry so much more emotion.
“She needs this, Jungkook,” Mr. Ri continues. “She’s planned on leaving a few times before but her gratitude towards your family always pulled her back. If you really care about her, you won’t let that happen this time. If you want to be with her, you’ll have to do it without her being here. Regardless of what she feels for you, she needs this more. You can let her go without really letting her go, you have to know that.”
It all feels too much and Jungkook’s mind is filled with so many questions. What do you owe his family? How does proving yourself have anything to do with leaving the company? How does he fit into all this? What do you need time away for? And how can he be with you at the end of it? Would you still want that, given that he didn’t even ask you why?
“How are you sure that’s what she needs?” Jungkook asks, curiosity getting the best of him.
“I’ve known her for 20 years, Jungkook,” Mr. Ri sighs. “I know it’s what she believes.”
Jungkook may still be dealing with a hangover, but he knows his ears didn’t betray him. Twenty years, that’s how long you’ve known the man he trusts with his life, the man his father trusts with his family’s life.
The tale is an open secret. Ri Byung-hun was a kid who grew up in the streets. He tried to steal from Jungkook’s grandfather, whose construction business then was slowly taking off. The elder man took pity on the young teen and sent him to school, and Byung-hun showed his gratitude by working for the family, eventually becoming Jungkook’s father’s chauffeur, bodyguard, and closest confidant all in one. The loyalty goes both ways, and it’s stood the test of time.
Jungkook doesn’t know all the details but he knows enough. What he doesn’t know is who you are in Mr. Ri’s life, and why Jungkook hadn’t heard of you before.
“How do you know ___?” Jungkook finally manages to ask. “Who is she to you?”
“I know ___ because of her mother. And over 20 years ago, Cho Hye-soo was your father’s assistant.”
“She— what?”
Jungkook can’t hide his shock, and neither can Hoseok, who looks just as surprised about the truth as he is. His cousin would’ve been in his early teens at that time, and as it was when it came to their family’s children, training to become company heirs starts early, but they don’t get immersed until during their late teenage years.
“I… I know Mrs. Cho,” Hoseok says. “I’ve met her several times but I… I never knew. They never said anything.”
“It wasn’t something they wanted people to know,” Mr. Ri explains. “Other than both of your parents, I’m the only other person who does. Too much time has passed for people to make the connection. It was just better that no one knew.”
“What else did they not want people to know?” Jungkook asks. “What did ___ and her mom do? What… what do they owe our family?”
The elder man knew that at some point, Jungkook was going to have to learn the truth. He just didn’t think it would have to be under these conditions, and that he’d be the one telling the young man about how your lives are intertwined, that whatever pain you both carried growing up, those would always lead you back to each other.
“Your father and Hye-soo were no different to how you and ___ are,” Mr. Ri starts. “He’d just been appointed President and he was under a lot of pressure - from your grandfather, the Board, the rest of your family… He was always stressed and it didn’t help that he was a perfectionist, just like you. That obviously affected your family, but it also affected those who worked for him, especially Hye-soo, who felt that she had a lot to prove.”
She didn’t have a Seoul education but she was smart and resourceful, incredibly hardworking and devoted, something you inherited from her, the elder man shares. The similarities are striking, and Jungkook braces himself, hoping that they end there.
“She always had to work overtime, including weekends, and that took a lot of time away from being with ___. Hye-soo would leave her daughter in the library where her friend worked, and that seemed to be enough. But of course, it wasn’t easy, especially with a partner who lost his job and started drinking to cope.”
As Mr. Ri continues, Jungkook starts to fear something else, and so he asks.
“Did… did he hurt them?”
“He yelled a lot,” Mr. Ri answers. “I’d hear it sometimes during breaks when she’s on the phone with him and it crushed me every time. Hye-soo wouldn’t say much, just that he was a good guy who just didn’t know how to deal with hardships. She never justified his actions until of course, that piece of shit started hitting her.”
Jungkook’s heart breaks at the words, unable to imagine growing up in a household like that - feeling afraid, unsafe, and unfree.
“Hye-soo assured me that Kang-ho never hurt ___. She was good at that, at protecting her child. One time, she was called to work on a Saturday and that didn’t go well with him, but she… she always puts her daughter first, and that meant work would always be her priority because it’s what pays the bills and what sends her to school,” Mr. Ri narrates, his eyes growing more dejected by the second as he recalls those times.
“She was rushing and couldn’t properly conceal the bruise on her face. She was worried that’s why she took ___ with her. Hye-soo kept crying as your father asked her what happened. She apologized for being late and for bringing her daughter to work, and she asked to stay in the office for the night until she figured out where they could go. I had never seen her break down like that,” he says, his voice shaking now. “And I won’t forget how scared ___ looked. She was just 10 years old then, clinging to her mother and not wanting to let her go. We were all strangers to her but somehow, she knew that we were there to protect them.”
The silence goes on, as both men take in Mr. Ri’s words, but it’s Hoseok who asks what happened after, and eventually, what got you here.
“Mr. and Mrs. Jeon didn’t hesitate to help,” the older man shares. “They had Hye-soo and ___ stay at the staff house in their estate for a few nights until they got a new place to stay. I helped them get their stuff after Kang-ho figured out what was happening and ran. The police had a warrant for his arrest but they couldn’t find him for days.”
Turning to Jungkook, he adds, “your parents paid for all the legal and medical fees. Because Kang-ho knew they were helping, you all had to go away until he was found. Hye-soo and ___ went to Busan where he couldn’t trace them; your parents stayed in one of their houses in Gwangju while you and your brother were in Gwacheon.” Mr. Ri sighs at the memory as he recalls those days. “The reason why you were in that cabin was so they could protect you. I know you held a grudge against them for years because you thought they just left you there but they couldn’t stay with you, Jungkook. You were all in danger and they had to keep you and Jeong-sik safe.”
Jungkook looks back at that night when everything changed for him. Things already weren’t going well with his brother; the three-year gap and the way they were always compared kept them from getting along. His parents knew that, yet they still left him with Jeong-sik, who abandoned him in the woods when they played hide-and-seek. That’s where Jungkook was left alone, lost and scared under the rain, the thunder roaring as he yelled for someone to come. He’s always lived with that fear, always carried that memory of anger and blame within him that transformed into a habit of just pushing people away, of keeping them out because that was better to accept than the knowledge that people he trusted left him on his own.
But there’s a reason, he learns now, one that his parents kept from him to protect you and your mother, too. It’s all too much, but he thinks now that maybe there’s a reason why you were so patient with him, why you didn’t judge him that night at the guest house, why you somehow understood what he was so scared of. He doesn’t know if you know that the night at the cabin had anything to do with what you and your mother went through, but regardless, maybe that’s why he always felt so strongly about you. The connection he was yearning for was always there, it’s tied to something, and he realizes it’s tied to your shared past.
“Did the police find the man?” Jungkook asks now, his headache somehow worsening from all the things he’s learning. But he just wants to know that you weren’t even more hurt, that there was a way that his parents kept you safe.
“I did,” Mr. Ri responds. “I still had contact with people in the streets, and I left Gwacheon once I got a call that they knew where he was staying. I hunted him down and I handed him over… with a bloodied face and a few broken bones. They charged him for domestic violence and a few other crimes, including drug possession that would keep him in prison for years, long enough for Hye-soo and ___ to recover.”
“And what about you? Were you charged?” Jungkook wonders.
“No, I claimed self-defense and I—”
“But it wasn’t, was it?” Jungkook counters, knowing there’s more to what Mr. Ri is saying.
“It wasn’t,” the old man admits, turning away as he says the words. “I could’ve done more but I… I couldn’t lose myself to the anger even if it was all I felt. I knew Hye-soo wouldn’t have forgiven me if I did.”
“You loved her, didn’t you?” Jungkook says, dawning on him now that everything Mr. Ri had done was so he could protect your mother and you. He realizes that all the times that the elder man looked out for you was because he was looking out for someone he truly cared about, someone who mattered the most to the person who mattered the most to him.
“I did,” Mr. Ri sighs. “I still do.”
Jungkook recalls the night during the team building and the elder man’s words, about the woman he’d loved for so long, and that moving on from her meant expending all that love to those he cares about, and now Jungkook knows that he was referring to you.
“Did she know? And did she love you back?”
“She… she asked me to move to Busan with her and ___,” Mr. Ri answers, his eyes faraway as memories of that conversation come rushing back, how he’d wanted to just run away and build a life he never thought he could have with the woman he’d fallen so hard for, but how he had to make the hardest decision then, knowing it was going to haunt him for the rest of his life.
“Why didn’t you?” Jungkook wonders.
“I owe everything I have to your family, Jungkook,” Mr. Ri explains. “They gave me a second chance. Your grandfather got me off the streets, your father taught me everything I know, they… they had my records cleaned. They did it when I was a kid and they did it again when I was an adult. The only way I could ever pay them back was through my loyalty. I couldn’t leave, not after everything they’ve done for me.”
“But you loved her. She was your second chance,” Jungkook argues.
“And that love caused me to commit a crime I shouldn’t have. I was going to pay for it one way or another,” Mr. Ri responds. “That’s how I chose to do it, by letting her go, knowing that I’d be able to look after her and ___ better that way. Your father would protect me, and I would protect them. That’s… that’s how things go.”
It’s a tragic love story, Jungkook thinks. Two people who feel so much having to let each other go, their own pasts pushing them towards opposite directions. Decisions were made and that pulled them apart. He supposes that reciprocated feelings aren’t always enough.
“What happened after that?” Hoseok asks now, wanting to know as well how you and your mother managed, and if there’s any more danger that you face.
“They stayed in Busan for a few years. They only returned to Daegu after they learned that Kang-ho died in prison after acquiring some respiratory disease,” Mr. Ri replies. “Mr. and Mrs. Jeon helped with the move, too. They had me check on Hye-soo and ___ almost every month, just to make sure they were doing well. It was hard, of course. Hye-soo wasn’t earning the same as she was so she took another job just to keep ___ in a good school. Mr. Jeon knew that, so he kept offering to pay for her education but Hye-soo always turned him down. That continued until she got to college, and knowing that her mom won’t accept help again, ___ was the one who decided to take the offer. They paid for her tuition, and she eventually got an internship in the company. She took the job offer, too, and she’s just been working hard ever since, thinking that she has everything to prove.”
“Why does my father think he can buy people’s loyalty just like that?” Jungkook shakes his head in disbelief. “It traps people… it gives them no option.”
“I know it may seem that way but your father knows how important loyalty is, and it’s something that he gives, too. He trusts me just as much I trust him,” Mr. Ri defends. “But when it comes to Hye-soo and ___, it isn’t about loyalty but guilt. He blames himself for what happened to them. Even if it was all Kang-ho’s fault, your father always believed that if he hadn’t been so demanding, things wouldn’t have escalated. It was all the overtime, all the unfair requests that took Hye-soo’s time from her partner, from her daughter. He carries that guilt with him and how he treated her. In a way, I think that was his wake-up call. Work stopped consuming him after. He became considerate of his staff, asking about their families and how they’re doing. He tried to make it up to you and your brother but that seemed to be the hardest thing for him; he didn’t know how to get your trust back.”
“But wasnt ___ choosing to work here about loyalty? She stayed every time he asked her to. She wouldn’t have if she felt indebted to our family,” Jungkook remarks, not wanting to delve into his own relationship with his father.
“She wanted to repay them just so her mom would stop carrying that burden,” Mr. Ri says. “They were able to get away and build a new life where they were safe because of your parents and for ___, that always meant everything. She planned to work for them, but even a part of her felt that all the opportunities she was given was out of kindness. She always felt she didn’t deserve it but your parents also think they can’t ever make it up to her and her mother enough.”
At the silence, he continues. “People are complicated that way, I guess. We all have our own burdens to carry, our own past to deal with, our own actions to make peace with and accept. We make decisions based on what we think is best and just hope we don’t regret them in the future. But we also make them as a way to take control of our own lives. Even if I regret letting Hye-soo go, I at least did it knowing that I’ll either have another chance at being with her, or that someone else will. And someone did, and I know for a fact that he loves her and ___ with all of him.”
“In that sense, maybe resigning is ___’s way of taking control of her life this time, don’t you think?” Hoseok turns to Jungkook, understanding where you’re coming from now, as he knows the feeling of not having to constantly prove yourself to others. “She finally wants to let that burden go, to live as she wishes without feeling like she doesn’t deserve what she has, even if it means not being next to you the way she wants to. If you make her stay, how do you think she can move on from all this? How can you be sure she’s happy?”
Jungkook takes a deep breath, knowing it’s not enough to process everything he’s learned this morning. There’s that past he didn’t know he shared with you, there’s his relationship with his father that he doesn’t know how to mend, there’s his feelings for you, one that’s still so strong and inescapable.
And then there’s the thought that you’d known everything all along. You’ve been patient with him, you've been kind and understanding. Was that all because you felt like you had to? Because he’s the son of the people you feel that you owe a lot to?
It’s not that Jungkook doubts your feelings for him, but he wonders if you do. Now that you’re able to make that decision to leave, what if walking away from his family also means you realize that your feelings are tied to that indebtedness, too? How real was it for you? And after you find yourself outside of all this, would you still want him?
The thoughts make his heart break, and this tells him that after knowing everything, he still can’t deny what he feels about you. He still wants you just as much. Maybe the familiarity he always felt was because you are familiar. Maybe the connection was because of a painful past you both share, of a kind of pain you both understand. Maybe the intensity of feelings is a remnant from his childhood, one that’s tied to yours in a serendipitous way.
He’d like to think that even without knowing, you held out for him. You could’ve chosen to leave anytime before he came but you didn’t, and your paths crossed this way and he convinces himself that you were always meant to meet each other, that you were always meant to make up for how intertwined and unfortunate your lives are. You never met then but this time, when you did, it meant so much more. He could only hope that it’s something you hold onto as well, and that when you decide to finally walk away, it doesn’t mean you walk away from him completely, too.
“Kook, I know there’s a lot to think about but you have to get going,” Hoseok disrupts his thoughts. “Your father still wants us at that lunch. I know grandfather would, too.”
“You should go ahead, Hoseok,” Mr. Ri says. “Just make an excuse to your uncle and say I’m helping Jungkook fix up. We’ll head there right away.”
“No, tell him that I know,” Jungkook insists. “If… if he’s always wanted to mend our relationship, he and I have to start being honest with each other.”
“I will,” Hoseok says as he stands up to leave. “Get your head together, alright? You’re gonna be fine.”
Jungkook massages his temples, knowing that he doesn’t have time to get a workout in and rid himself of this terrible hangover. But he tries, as he takes a warm shower and asks Mr. Ri to prepare him a cup of lemon ginger tea and get some ginseng jelly for the ride.
The trip to his parents’ estate starts off quiet, but the thoughts in his head are so loud that the older man asks what else is bothering him.
“How was her time in Busan?” Jungkook asks.
“It was good. She was a shy kid but she found good people she trusted and that meant everything,” Mr. Ri answers. “I visited them often, even when they returned to Daegu. But I stopped once ___ moved back to Seoul after college. I’d ask her about her mother every now and then. It was nice to hear how well they’re doing, and how happy they are with their new family. Min-woo’s a good man and his daughters love Hye-soo and ___ so much. It turned out well for them. When I think about that, it’s really hard not to justify the decisions I made.”
“Will you make them again? If given the chance?”
“If I still think it’s what’s best then, then I would. Sometimes we make decisions because of the other person, not exactly for ourselves. Sometimes that’s how we realize just how much we love them, you know? When their happiness trumps our own.”
Jungkook merely hums. While he doesn’t think he’s at that point with you, he cares enough to want you to have that chance to find your happiness, in whatever form that may be. And if leaving the company is what it takes, then he knows you deserve that and more. It doesn’t change the fact that he wishes you can search for it while being with him, but perhaps it’s better if you find your way back to him instead. He’ll at least know you chose him, and not because you felt like you owed it to him to stay.
They make it to his parents’ estate over an hour late. The guests have arrived and Jungkook greets them before finding his father. When their eyes meet, there’s a look of sadness in the elder man’s eyes. Perhaps it’s understanding; maybe it’s an apology.
His mother gives him a long and tight hug, one that he savors for the first time in a long while. He remained distant from his parents after he decided to pursue further studies and then work in their office abroad. It’s a relationship he’s still navigating. While his mother has always been present and affectionate, Jungkook is the one who stopped reciprocating. It just seemed easier that way, but he realizes that he’s missed her warmth after taking it for granted all these years.
The lunch gathering lasts for a few hours. Jungkook tries to pay attention to the conversations since engaging requires too much from him, especially after the morning he’s had. But his father doesn’t reprimand him this time, and for that, he’s thankful. Hoseok keeps him on his toes though, but Jungkook’s mind constantly wanders towards you. He wonders how you got home last night, if you managed to get some rest, and if you’re spending your time being angry at him or if, by any chance, you’re missing him like he’s missing you.
It’s 5 PM by the time the last guest leaves, and with Hoseok and A-yeong needing to attend a dinner party, Jungkook is left to speak with his parents alone.
“I heard you know the truth now,” his father says as he sits across from Jungkook in the garden. “I’m sorry I kept it from you.”
“Did you intend for me not to know and find out from someone else?” Jungkook asks.
“___ applied to the company with the intention of contributing in a small way,” his father says. “She made it without any say from me and that’s a testament to her skills and capabilities. When we met after her first day, she asked that she not be treated any differently, and I agreed. I stayed true to my word and I kept my distance, but when I heard about how Mrs. Byun treated her, I knew I couldn’t just stand back. I encouraged her to apply for the EA position, knowing that she would be treated well. And with that, she asked me not to say who she is - not to Hoseok, and especially not to you. That’s not how she wants to be known. And I always respected her request.”
“Does it make any difference, son?” His mother asks. “Does knowing who she is to our family change the way you see her?”
“No, but it makes me wonder how she’d seen me all this time,” Jungkook says. “She put up with me despite how I treated her. She was kind even if I was distant. She… she let me open myself up and that’s… that’s why I like her. That's why I asked her to be with me.”
The surprise on his parents’ faces is immediate, but they stay calm, and it’s what prompts him to continue.
“I just hate to think that she suffered all that time because she still felt like she owed us. If you asked her to stay and help me, she wouldn’t have been able to turn you down. And what if… she’s confused her feelings for me for just… gratitude towards you?”
“Oh, my dear son,” his mother sighs, taking his hand as a form of comfort. “We are so sorry that all this has caused you to doubt her sincerity but if there’s one thing we know about ___ is that she’s genuine, and if you felt cared for by her, then she meant all that.”
“Yes, I did ask her to help you, because I knew that if there was someone who could get through to you, it would be her,” his father says this time.
“So you took advantage of her? Because you knew she’d do what you’d ask,” Jungkook huffs.
“I did that because I knew that she would care, that she would understand. Thinking about it now, perhaps I asked for too much,” the elder man shakes his head. “She’s a lot like her mother, and I’ve come to realize that you’re a lot like me. I needed someone like Hye-soo and somehow I just knew that you needed someone like ___. Both of you opening up and finding comfort in each other just happened, I suppose, and that’s not such a bad thing, is it?”
“I don’t know. Because now, she doubts what I feel and I’m not sure about what she feels, too,” Jungkook admits, letting his own insecurities get the better of him. He hates that he’s started to doubt you as well.
“If it matters, I’ve seen how she is with you. She cares about you, she worries about you. And the way you respond to her just means that your heart feels her sincerity, too,” his father responds. “Don’t let anger or fear taint that for you.”
“Aren’t you mad about what happened?” Jungkook wonders. “She’s my assistant and I ended up crossing a line. I kissed her. In my office.”
“Perhaps I should be,” his father hums. “But with her planning on resigning, I suppose you’re already feeling a lot of emotions about that. I don’t want to add anymore. You’re an adult and you know that your actions have consequences. You just have to deal with them now. And don’t ever do that again.”
There’s no anger in his father’s words. In fact, there’s comfort that Jungkook has never heard before. It suspends his worries only for a short moment, as he’s reminded that you indeed plan on leaving. When that is, he doesn’t know. But he’s gonna have to start dealing with your loss just as he needs to deal with his feelings for you. It’s all too complicated; getting together despite what you both feel isn’t that simple. Your happiness comes first. He knows he cares so much that it’s what he wants you to focus on.
“Letting her go now doesn’t mean you have to let her go for good,” his mother tells him. “She’ll choose you if that’s what her heart says. And at least then, you’ll know for sure that she still wants you after everything.”
Jungkook’s parents’ words echo in his mind for the rest of Saturday that he spends in his living room, choosing wine as his companion for the evening. There’s no intention of getting hammered unlike the night before though. The drink calms him down and allows him to have proper sleep this time. He spends the most of his Sunday in bed, thinking about you, then attempting to remove you from his mind.
Not wanting to deal with any more tension, he instructs Mr. Ri that Monday to just drive you straight to the office. Jungkook arrives and sees you stand up to greet him as he walks through the hallway, and he responds with a nod as his own greeting before heading straight to his room.
There’s that feeling again - of missing you, of hoping he could fix things but not knowing how, of wanting to ask you to stay but knowing he has to let you go, and of wishing that when he does, you’ll find your way back to him again. He shakes off the thoughts during that short walk to his desk, feeling himself weaken with every moment that he spends far away from you.
Jungkook takes his seat and sighs as another day starts without his usual routine. Knowing he has no other choice, he pushes on. From his periphery, he sees you glancing at him through the window, and a part of him wishes it’s your attempt at seeing if you could speak with him, maybe ask if you could talk about what happened later on or about what he now knows about you. Or anything, really. He just wants to hear your voice again. Hopefully see your smile. Despite all his doubts about you, the emptiness he feels tells him that nothing’s changed - what he feels for you is real, and he might not know what’ll happen next, but he at least knows that what he wants is to be with you; he hopes he’ll figure out how to do that with you.
He sees you glance at him again and it sparks a bit of hope. That is, until he spots the envelope on his desk, and inside it, your resignation letter.
He tries to act unaffected as he reads what you’ve written. It’s straight to the point, as you narrate your journey in the company, having started as an intern and then working in logistics before finding your footing as the Vice President’s assistant. You list the skills you’ve developed and other things you’ve learned but that you think it’s time to venture into something new and different, noting how you’ll take all your experiences with you in this new stage of your life.
You thank him for his guidance, and he almost breaks towards the end when you mention the Arts Center. You apologize for leaving before its completion, but you’re thankful because it allowed you to appreciate the beauty of things, that it made you understand the value of meaning and connection, and that his passion for it pushed you to find something that you want to be passionate about, too. You’ve given him something, and now he knows that in his own way, he’s given something to you, too.
You type away on your desktop while not-so-discreetly peeking into Jungkook’s office to see his reaction to your letter. Your plan was to resign after the Arts Center was launched, knowing how big of a project it is that needs all of Jungkook’s attention. He can’t be distracted, and a part of you scolds yourself for being selfish about deciding to do this now.
But you also knew that you couldn’t delay it any longer. After what happened last Friday, you didn’t know how you could face him again, especially now that he knows everything. It didn’t feel right to continue on, not just because of your feelings but because you crossed a line - you kissed and did all that in his office. That itself is unacceptable; it almost feels like a betrayal to his family, whom you’ll have to painfully say goodbye to as well.
Mr. Ri visited you yesterday to give you comfort, knowing that you’d choose to go through this on your own again. Jungkook was devastated but was worried about you more than anything, you were told, and somehow that made the decision less difficult but still painful to make. You don’t know if he’ll ever truly understand, especially if finding yourself means letting him go despite the happiness he gives you.
It’s not everyday you find someone you feel so much for, but then again, human beings are complicated - they can want something and be scared of it at the same time; they can have the chance to have it but doubt it all the same. What you feel for him should be enough to dispel your worries about his sincerity but there’s too much going on in your mind at this point. Right now, you just want to get away. With him learning the truth, you suppose he needs time to process all that as well.
You’ll miss him though. You’ll miss everything about this place. But you’ll miss him the most.
Your phone ringing disrupts your thoughts, and your heart races when you hear Jungkook’s voice on the other end.
“Ms. Cho, please come to my office.”
You calm your nerves and find the strength to get off your seat and walk towards him. He’d been expressionless the whole time, and you wonder if he’ll hold off your resignation because it’s terrible timing. Either way, you try to prepare yourself for what’s to come.
But clearly, you didn’t do so enough, as you’re still left speechless when he holds out an envelope for you to take, the sight of his hands that once held you close breaking your heart again.
“I accept your resignation,” he says, his voice low and firm, his eyes not fully meeting yours. “You have a month until your last day but you have two weeks worth of vacation and I urge you to take them before you leave.”
“Thank you, sir,” you manage to say, your voice soft and shaking compared to his. “I… I will.”
“And this is your recommendation letter,” he says, handing you another envelope. “You’ve shown exceptional skills throughout your tenure here, Ms. Cho. Everyone you’ve worked with says so, and I’ve seen that firsthand. I’m sure that wherever you decide to work after this, you’ll be another great asset. And my family wishes you good luck in your future endeavors. Thank you for all that you’ve done for us.”
The words are too formal, too professional for your liking, and this breaks your heart even more. But you suppose there’s no other way to do it. You’re the one leaving; you’re the one who pulled away. After everything that’s happened, you’re the one who walked out to find your happiness when Jungkook needed you the most, and you could only hope that one day, he’ll forgive you for it. That he’ll forgive you for all of it.
“Thank you, Mr. Jeon,” you bow in thanks. “I’ve said it all in my letter but once again, I appreciate everything you’ve taught me.”
You bravely look him in the eyes as he seems to have found the courage to look at you, and the longer you do, the harder it all becomes.
“Shall I commence the process of finding my replacement, sir?” You ask.
“There is no need,” he replies. “I’ve received approval from my father to have Lucas come in as my assistant effective immediately. He’s scheduled to arrive this week, so you can spend the remaining time you have here turning over everything to him. I will announce your resignation to the team before then. You can also begin the offboarding process with HR so that there are no delays.”
“Understood, Mr. Jeon,” you say, the light in your eyes dimming as each second passes by.
“Is there anything else I could do to help you, Ms. Cho?”
There’s a prolonged moment where you and Jungkook just look at each other, his eyes tinged with a kind of sadness that you perhaps mirror, with words swimming in your own heads that neither of you wants to say out loud.
You wish he’d say that he’s okay, that he forgives you, and that he hopes it didn’t have to be this way.
He wishes you’d say that you’re sorry for leaving him, that you’ll be thinking about him, and that you hope you’ll find your way back to him again.
You want to tell him that he’s all you could think about, that you’ll miss him everyday, that you’ll search for beautiful things that are tangible like you said you would, and hope they would lead you back to him.
He wants to say that he’ll look for you everywhere, that he’ll hold onto every good memory you have together, that he hopes you find whatever makes you happy, and that he’ll wait for you until you realize that it could be him.
But the moment passes and then it’s gone. You bow once more and head out the door.
You take your seat and will yourself not to cry. You can’t help it though, even as you press your palms against your ears to drown out the sounds of your own sadness, of your heart’s call of his name even if you’re the one walking away.
You let the tears fall, a reminder that you’d done this, and that for the first time in your life, you’re crying over losing someone, even if he was someone you didn’t have in the first place.
This chapter was EVERYTHING!!!! He needs to be brave and tell her his true feelings 😫 she was ready to cross the line for him but his fears are stinger at the moment 😭 can’t believe we’re almost at the end.
I can’t wait for the next chapter and what you have prepared for these two 🤭 they need to TALK!!!!
Mimi you’re incredibly talented 💕 thank you so much for this chapter 🫶🏻
YOUNG FOREVER @yoonkookieluv - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
